I have pretty much spent the entire day with other people. I did a morning of work before Philippa and my god daughter, Deia, came up to Highgate to meet me for lunch. We ate at Papa Dels. A nice plate of pasta. Then Philippa went up to the Village to have her teeth whitened whilst I took Deia back to our house to do some crafting.
I like crafting. We made crowns out of wire and then coated them with papier-mâché made from different coloured tissue papers. One for Deia and one for Deia's sister, Silver. We had a lovely, messy time, and I thought the crowns looked really rather good at the end. I am so paranoid when dealing with young people, however. I spent about half an hour coating all the wire with layers of masking tape in case any of the joins had sharp edges!
It was a lovely day, so I stuck some sun cream on Deia's face and arms and we took ourselves to Highgate Woods for a walk and a lollipop. We played I Spy and I showed her the tree stump where the bumble bee nest used to be. We walked into the cafe in the middle of the wood via its little garden and were instantly confronted by about eight enormous black dogs. Each seemed more enormous and blacker than the one before. I'm really not a natural parent. It didn't strike me that the dogs might frighten little Deia who was about the same height as one of them! It was only when I turned around to open the gate that I saw she was trying to keep as far away from them as possible with a slight look of panic in her eye. I asked if she was okay. She pretended to be brave.
We walked across the glade to the wonderful adventure playground in the wood, which I'd obviously never explored before. It's full of rope swings, wooden climbing frames and zip wires. And who should be walking past with his son, Flynn, but Mr James Fortune. We had a wonderful time together, swinging and sliding, and catching up on old news. James has terrible hay fever at the moment, which made me realise that Nathan hasn't been as bad as usual this year. That's what you get for a crappy summer!
Philippa arrived with teeth gleaming like sticks of chewing gum. Actually, she looked fabulous. I was assuming they were going to make her look like something from The Only Way Is Essex, but her teeth looked subtly white and very healthy. Now I want to have my teeth whitened!
The crew departed at about six, and, at just gone seven Harrison from the cast of Brass came over for a natter about his exciting forthcoming finals project which is related to Brass. We ate pasta for tea and it was only when I started tucking in that I realised it was my second pasta dish of the day!
Thursday, 7 July 2016
Wednesday, 6 July 2016
Oh no she better don't
I went into Muswell Hill today to buy some crafting materials for my god daughter and found myself, for no particular reason, in the Pound Store up on Colney Hatch Lane. There were a group of school girls in there, wondering which sweeties to buy. One of them turned to her friend and said the most extraordinary thing; "aren't you even getting nuffink?" I thought about the sentence for some time before realising that it actually just about makes sense! It's right up there with Ru Paul's classic line, "oh no she better don't!"
I spent the rest of the day filling in forms, snatching a few moments here and there to play the piano. I'm working on the accompaniment to the song from Em which Emma came round to sing on Monday. We're performing it at the MMD writers' cabaret in two weeks' time. It's quite nice to get my fingers around the old ivories again. My piano playing tends to improve dramatically when I bother to play regularly. I'd still like to be a lot better. Maybe that should be my Autumn resolution? An hour's piano practice every day...
We went to the gym this evening, and then ate a stir fry in front of the Murray match, most of which went down my top because I couldn't take my eyes off the telly. Tennis players are like machines aren't they? The level of fitness they demonstrate is quite extraordinary. Murray and Tsonga played for four and a half hours! I can't think of many other sports which require that high a level of fitness. I realised half way through the last set that I care about British players doing well in tennis more than I do pretty much any other sport. I don't really know why that should be, but it's always been the case. Have I ever played tennis myself? I wouldn't know where to begin! I remember once trying to use a tennis racket to protect myself from a rain storm during a games lesson at school. Well, more to the point, I remember the laughter from all of my friends!
I spent the rest of the day filling in forms, snatching a few moments here and there to play the piano. I'm working on the accompaniment to the song from Em which Emma came round to sing on Monday. We're performing it at the MMD writers' cabaret in two weeks' time. It's quite nice to get my fingers around the old ivories again. My piano playing tends to improve dramatically when I bother to play regularly. I'd still like to be a lot better. Maybe that should be my Autumn resolution? An hour's piano practice every day...
We went to the gym this evening, and then ate a stir fry in front of the Murray match, most of which went down my top because I couldn't take my eyes off the telly. Tennis players are like machines aren't they? The level of fitness they demonstrate is quite extraordinary. Murray and Tsonga played for four and a half hours! I can't think of many other sports which require that high a level of fitness. I realised half way through the last set that I care about British players doing well in tennis more than I do pretty much any other sport. I don't really know why that should be, but it's always been the case. Have I ever played tennis myself? I wouldn't know where to begin! I remember once trying to use a tennis racket to protect myself from a rain storm during a games lesson at school. Well, more to the point, I remember the laughter from all of my friends!
Tuesday, 5 July 2016
An argument about class
I worked my way through an online application all day today. On and on it went. It was one of those applications which has a character count. I'd write an answer in the box, try to save it, and then be told it was 300 characters too long, regardless of how many characters too long it actually was. I'd cut a few lines, hit save, and then be told what I'd written was 300 characters too long again. Ah!! Periodically, of course, the computer would crash entirely, and then I'd have to reboot and start again. I sort of don't mind: to persist, you've got to be really desperate for funding, and nothing in life should come too easily.
So, Nigel Farage has resigned has he? I'm not sure what he's up to, but it's bound to be something awful. His gurning ecaf will pop up again just when we think it's safe to go back into the water. He'll no doubt take himself on a grand tour of European countries, using his Charisma, Uniqueness Nerve and Talent to encourage crypto fascists to rip the continent apart from the inside. Imagine your SOUL purpose in life being to destroy something? What a hideously negative outlook that silly bastard must have on the world. I have to say, I find it astonishing, but not entirely surprising, that the entire lot of those naughty school boys who instigated this dreadful referendum have scarpered like a bunch of cherry knockers. Lob the hornets nest into the next door neighbours' garden and then blame it on someone else. They'll be forced to clear up the mess up whilst you go to the back of the bus to plan your next practical joke.
To me the bizarre thing is how everything that's happened in the last two weeks seems to have been distilled into an argument about class. How typically British! If one more person accuses me of being a champagne socialist or a bleeding heart liberal from London, I shall have them buttered and set to music! I am bored, bored, bored of people with chips on their shoulders telling me that people like me don't listen to people like them. I'm a comprehensive school boy from a Midlands town. I was hardly born with a silver spoon in my mouth! I can't afford a house. I don't have a pension. All my clothes have holes in them. But did I place my trust in a bunch of public school wankers? No! Johnson and Farage are surely quintessential examples of the people we're accusing of being elitist and disinterested in the plight of the poor. I just don't get it. It's the greatest irony for me in all of this. It's not like the out campaign was led by a gloriously charismatic socialist. It's Nigel Farage, not Keir Hardie! And now he's dicked off and STILL no one seems to want to acknowledge that they were duped. What will it take? These people aren't interested in playing a part in the future of this glorious new post-Brexit Britain. What does that tell you?
I was was at Bank Station earlier on when, yet again, a major tube line went down, leading to a build up of people on the station platform which became so dangerous that I was forced to make a run for it. It was boiling hot and they started making announcements to say that the next train we'd be able to board would be in half an hour. It's at moments like this that all Londoners become aware of how vulnerable we are. One crowd surge. One detonated bomb and we're nothing but a name on a sooty plaque which is taken down when a station gets refurbished and never re-instated. And people say we have it so easy in London. All that money they spend on us just to stuff us into tiny little spaces, trying to remain dignified whilst we sweat the makeup off our faces and the gel out of our hair, the stench of BO and halitosis permanently wafting under our noses. A journey which should have taken half an hour, took 70 minutes. Distance travelled: six miles.
So, Nigel Farage has resigned has he? I'm not sure what he's up to, but it's bound to be something awful. His gurning ecaf will pop up again just when we think it's safe to go back into the water. He'll no doubt take himself on a grand tour of European countries, using his Charisma, Uniqueness Nerve and Talent to encourage crypto fascists to rip the continent apart from the inside. Imagine your SOUL purpose in life being to destroy something? What a hideously negative outlook that silly bastard must have on the world. I have to say, I find it astonishing, but not entirely surprising, that the entire lot of those naughty school boys who instigated this dreadful referendum have scarpered like a bunch of cherry knockers. Lob the hornets nest into the next door neighbours' garden and then blame it on someone else. They'll be forced to clear up the mess up whilst you go to the back of the bus to plan your next practical joke.
To me the bizarre thing is how everything that's happened in the last two weeks seems to have been distilled into an argument about class. How typically British! If one more person accuses me of being a champagne socialist or a bleeding heart liberal from London, I shall have them buttered and set to music! I am bored, bored, bored of people with chips on their shoulders telling me that people like me don't listen to people like them. I'm a comprehensive school boy from a Midlands town. I was hardly born with a silver spoon in my mouth! I can't afford a house. I don't have a pension. All my clothes have holes in them. But did I place my trust in a bunch of public school wankers? No! Johnson and Farage are surely quintessential examples of the people we're accusing of being elitist and disinterested in the plight of the poor. I just don't get it. It's the greatest irony for me in all of this. It's not like the out campaign was led by a gloriously charismatic socialist. It's Nigel Farage, not Keir Hardie! And now he's dicked off and STILL no one seems to want to acknowledge that they were duped. What will it take? These people aren't interested in playing a part in the future of this glorious new post-Brexit Britain. What does that tell you?
I was was at Bank Station earlier on when, yet again, a major tube line went down, leading to a build up of people on the station platform which became so dangerous that I was forced to make a run for it. It was boiling hot and they started making announcements to say that the next train we'd be able to board would be in half an hour. It's at moments like this that all Londoners become aware of how vulnerable we are. One crowd surge. One detonated bomb and we're nothing but a name on a sooty plaque which is taken down when a station gets refurbished and never re-instated. And people say we have it so easy in London. All that money they spend on us just to stuff us into tiny little spaces, trying to remain dignified whilst we sweat the makeup off our faces and the gel out of our hair, the stench of BO and halitosis permanently wafting under our noses. A journey which should have taken half an hour, took 70 minutes. Distance travelled: six miles.
Rotten!
It was back to the grindstone with a vengeance today: osteopathy, gym, songwriting, form-filling... I spent hours trying to make sense of the Arts Council's new application system. Talk about separating the men from the boys. I thought I was in an episode of the Krypton Factor! I have seldom seen a more confusing or badly laid-out website! I'm told it was made in Canada.
It's been suggested that I shouldn't run on the tread mill at the gym any more. Apparently it's much better to run through the streets because there's a forward motion with on-street running which counter-balances the up and down pounding motion, which is the thing which is bad for my back, and the thing you get a lot of on a treadmill. Actually, I reckon sitting on our sofa at home is mostly the reason why I have a bad back because it makes my spine fold up on itself in a weird way. Anyway, I used the cross-trainer at the gym. It bored me rigid.
There's not a lot more to be said about today. I had lunch in the local spoon and stuffed Quorn mince into Yorkshire puddings for tea.
The lovely Emma Barry from the original cast of Brass came over tonight to sing through a new song I've written for my musical, Em, which she's going to sing at a cabaret. Her sight reading is phenomenal. It helps that she has genuine perfect pitch, but her rhythms are spot on as well. It genuinely felt like a scene in one of those films where a singer gets handed a manuscript and is able to perform the number without making a mistake. I half expected her to put the music down half way through the song and finish up with a huge dance routine. It was quite extraordinary.
I took her home to St Albans this evening. Bizarrely, it's only half an hour's drive away from Highgate which is a heck of a lot closer than a lot of my friends who live in London. We got in the car and were immediately almost knocked out by the stench of rotting strawberries. I had packed Nathan a little Tupperware box of strawberries to take with him to his Uncle's funeral today. They'd been left over from his birthday and were a little bit fizzy when I packed them, but he plainly left them in a hot car to go royally off. The smell of rotting strawberries is a singular one. A bit farty. Extremely sweet. And very, very pungent. We drove with the windows open, but by the time I'd parked the car in Highgate again at the end of the trip, the smell was as strong as it ever had been. I'm not quite sure what to do. I once worked with a girl whose car always smelt of mildew and leeks. I never knew whether to mention it or not. Perhaps I'm destined to become one of those people!
Sunday, 3 July 2016
Brexit the Opera
I have cabin fever. I have sat on my arse on the sofa all day watching Wimbledon. My back hurts and I want to have a purpose in life again. I have sat doing very little for far too much of this year. It. Must. Stop.
I have been a-debating on Facebook. I don't really know why I post stuff on social media. I'm just preaching to the converted. Today's major bug bear has been with the people who are currently trying to claim that marching against Brexit is somehow undemocratic because a democratic process suggested we leave Europe. Surely one of the very cornerstones of democracy is demonstration? Both words surely have the same Greek origin: demos, meaning people? If the Suffragettes had gone along with the will of the people would we have votes for women? Come on! I am no more ready to accept Brexit now than I was before the vote happened.
But enough about Brexit. I've been typing nonsense about it all day.
I was very excited to learn that our wedding was broadcast on Finnish TV today. I had a very lovely tweet from a lady with a beautiful smile called Veera telling me as much. I can't really imagine what the Fins will make of the vox pops featured in the film with party leaders who no longer exist, however. I found it hugely distasteful that the decision was made, without our consent, to put messages in the show from Milliband and Clegg - particularly as they placed them over the top of one of my songs! When I watch that moment in the film, I cringe. I didn't actually much like any of the messages of support from famous people except those from people who actually know us. Sure, it was kind of fun in a campy sort of way that Olivia Newton John sent us a message, and you could argue that the majority were actually sending messages to the whole LGBT community, but politics and celebrity is a deeply transient world, and I knew instinctively that the inclusion of those messages would instantly date the film. Love is universal and timeless. People always talk to me about the duet that our mothers performed. No-one knew the song, or our mothers before the show was aired, and yet he impact that it had was remarkable.
Speaking of musicals, I was very touched to read an open letter to Sir Cameron Mackintosh sent by one of the 2014 cast of Brass. Nate, who wrote it, played a part which no longer exists in the piece, and this year is performing in the lead in one of the NYMT's other shows, Spring Awakening, but, on Friday, as everyone was talking about the Battle of the Somme, he took the moment to suggest to Cameron (and one assumes anyone else who read the open letter) that he might like to see the 2016 production of Brass. It was a beautiful letter, which I will quote in full, because I found it very moving. He is a singular and remarkably mature young man who I have no doubt will go far in our industry. This is what his letter says:
Dear Sir Cameron,
I write to you as a young person with a passion for musical theatre. I am 17, and, until a few years ago, knew very little about The Great War. I did however know the entire score of Les Miserables and a great deal about the French Revolution!
100 years ago today, 19,240 brave young soldiers were killed as they went over the top at the Battle of the Somme. In 2014 I was privileged to be an original cast member with the National Youth Music Theatre in Benjamin Till's musical Brass which told the story of the Leeds Pals and the Barnbow Lassies. For the first time in my life I understood the significance of the Great War and the importance of the words Lest We Forget. I visited the Somme and stood where they stood, I commemorated the young soldier my character was named after, I connected with the men who never lived to have the opportunities I have. I will not forget.
Like every other Musical Theatre student I have seen pretty much everything there is to see. I eat, sleep, breathe music. Like every other Musical Theatre student I can't wait for you to bring Hamilton to our shores next year. The next generation of Musical Theatre goers will embrace the story of America's Foundling Father Alexander Hamilton in the same way we embraced Les Miserables. I would like to thank you for the wonderful musical that has shaped my future.
I would also like to invite you to come and see Brass at the Hackney Empire this summer. I am not in the cast this year but I will be in the audience supporting this incredible piece of theatre that tells the moving story of the Battle of the Somme through Benjamin Till's beautiful and haunting score. I think it is time we celebrate and commemorate our own history and share this amazing story so that my generation will understand how vital it is that we never forget.
Thank you so much
Nathanael
Writing this out in full now seems to have temporarily broken the writers' block I have been suffering from for the last few months. For the first time in a long time I am going to take myself to the piano to do some writing. And no, I am not going off to write Brexit the Opera!
I have been a-debating on Facebook. I don't really know why I post stuff on social media. I'm just preaching to the converted. Today's major bug bear has been with the people who are currently trying to claim that marching against Brexit is somehow undemocratic because a democratic process suggested we leave Europe. Surely one of the very cornerstones of democracy is demonstration? Both words surely have the same Greek origin: demos, meaning people? If the Suffragettes had gone along with the will of the people would we have votes for women? Come on! I am no more ready to accept Brexit now than I was before the vote happened.
But enough about Brexit. I've been typing nonsense about it all day.
I was very excited to learn that our wedding was broadcast on Finnish TV today. I had a very lovely tweet from a lady with a beautiful smile called Veera telling me as much. I can't really imagine what the Fins will make of the vox pops featured in the film with party leaders who no longer exist, however. I found it hugely distasteful that the decision was made, without our consent, to put messages in the show from Milliband and Clegg - particularly as they placed them over the top of one of my songs! When I watch that moment in the film, I cringe. I didn't actually much like any of the messages of support from famous people except those from people who actually know us. Sure, it was kind of fun in a campy sort of way that Olivia Newton John sent us a message, and you could argue that the majority were actually sending messages to the whole LGBT community, but politics and celebrity is a deeply transient world, and I knew instinctively that the inclusion of those messages would instantly date the film. Love is universal and timeless. People always talk to me about the duet that our mothers performed. No-one knew the song, or our mothers before the show was aired, and yet he impact that it had was remarkable.
Speaking of musicals, I was very touched to read an open letter to Sir Cameron Mackintosh sent by one of the 2014 cast of Brass. Nate, who wrote it, played a part which no longer exists in the piece, and this year is performing in the lead in one of the NYMT's other shows, Spring Awakening, but, on Friday, as everyone was talking about the Battle of the Somme, he took the moment to suggest to Cameron (and one assumes anyone else who read the open letter) that he might like to see the 2016 production of Brass. It was a beautiful letter, which I will quote in full, because I found it very moving. He is a singular and remarkably mature young man who I have no doubt will go far in our industry. This is what his letter says:
Dear Sir Cameron,
I write to you as a young person with a passion for musical theatre. I am 17, and, until a few years ago, knew very little about The Great War. I did however know the entire score of Les Miserables and a great deal about the French Revolution!
100 years ago today, 19,240 brave young soldiers were killed as they went over the top at the Battle of the Somme. In 2014 I was privileged to be an original cast member with the National Youth Music Theatre in Benjamin Till's musical Brass which told the story of the Leeds Pals and the Barnbow Lassies. For the first time in my life I understood the significance of the Great War and the importance of the words Lest We Forget. I visited the Somme and stood where they stood, I commemorated the young soldier my character was named after, I connected with the men who never lived to have the opportunities I have. I will not forget.
Like every other Musical Theatre student I have seen pretty much everything there is to see. I eat, sleep, breathe music. Like every other Musical Theatre student I can't wait for you to bring Hamilton to our shores next year. The next generation of Musical Theatre goers will embrace the story of America's Foundling Father Alexander Hamilton in the same way we embraced Les Miserables. I would like to thank you for the wonderful musical that has shaped my future.
I would also like to invite you to come and see Brass at the Hackney Empire this summer. I am not in the cast this year but I will be in the audience supporting this incredible piece of theatre that tells the moving story of the Battle of the Somme through Benjamin Till's beautiful and haunting score. I think it is time we celebrate and commemorate our own history and share this amazing story so that my generation will understand how vital it is that we never forget.
Thank you so much
Nathanael
Writing this out in full now seems to have temporarily broken the writers' block I have been suffering from for the last few months. For the first time in a long time I am going to take myself to the piano to do some writing. And no, I am not going off to write Brexit the Opera!
Saturday, 2 July 2016
Solidarity March
I've just spent the day at an anti-Brexit march and feel a lot happier as a result. There's something rather healing about being surrounded by people who share your views. You can rant and rail and no one tells you to get over yourself! I understand there's even a dating app for the 48% of us who voted remain!
A group of us met at the top end of Oxford Street at 10.45am. I'd put out a Facebook post which was answered by all sorts of people from very different stages of my life. Tammy Cooper (now Palmer) was there with her husband and son. Tammy and I went to school together and have known each other since I was 13 and she was 11. We used to attend a Spiritualist church in Rushden as impressionable sixth formers. Nat and Nic were there. We met as students doing a show in the 1995 Edinburgh Festival. Nat brought her Mum, who had made a series of spectacular placards, which, as we arrived, she was adorning with swear words. "Tory scum" "F**k Brexit!" There were people from my drama school, my ex, Daniel, his partner, Matthew, and their two kids, Tina, and various friends of friends...
We were held for some time on Park Lane. I think someone must have been addressing the front of the crowd because cheers kept rolling through the crowd like vocal Mexican waves. A huge number of people were plainly gathering behind us. People were getting very frustrated with the BBC website who were woefully underestimating numbers in their reporting of the demonstration. There were so many people in one place that all the phone networks started going down.
I have to say that throughout this nonsense, I've been bitterly disappointed by the BBC's reporting of events. They always demonstrate this ludicrous desire to report things from both sides - usually in the form of somewhat inane "vox pops." There's always one person arguing for, one against and one who hasn't yet made their mind up. I don't give a shit what a gurning idiot thinks about Brexit. I want to know what the experts say. Even today, the BBC felt the need to report an individual's tweet who described the 100,000 marchers as "having a tantrum" about the result. Later on, the BBC's report ceased to mention that this was an individual's tweet and started reporting the tweet under the guises of "critics of the march claim..."
What was particularly charming about the demonstration were the number of home-made placards that were being waved in the air by marchers. Often with these demonstrations, organisers have had the time to print out thousands of posters, so everyone ends up holding the same image, but today's crop were all unique, and all demonstrated a great deal of wit, thought and effort: "I can't live if living is without EU." "Pulling out doesn't stop people coming" "Cymru am byth YN Ewrop" "I have a Euro-vision" "No Brex please, we're British" "Gisela Stuart, we won't forget what you've done..."
The crowd sang ABBA (the lyrics to SOS are particularly prescient) and the chorus to Hey Jude: "na na na na na na na, E U!" The feeling was upbeat and peaceful. Every time a bus full of tourists drove past the march, particularly buses with European number plates, everyone erupted into great cheers. People were polite, even when a ghastly bunch of Essex slappers on a hen-do in the "Big Smoke" rushed through the crowd screaming "out out out" and giggling like a load of slags.
At that moment, a trumpeter walked through the crowd playing Ode to Joy, so we turned away from the stupid women and sang our hearts out instead. On the entire route of the march I only saw two policemen, with the exception of a large cluster standing outside Downing Street, where the marchers stopped and started chanting "shame." That was about as aggressive as it got.
Spin, from the cast of Brass appeared in the crowd at one point. It was lovey to see him. This was his first demonstration. He was too young to vote in the referendum but he wanted to make his feelings felt and had come into London from Hampshire with his sister.
Tammy works for a prominent charity who are apparently deeply worried about the referendum result, which apparently looks like it might be catastrophic for elderly people in terms of dementia research and funding for carers. She's been looking at the results in terms of which people in which age group were most likely to vote which way. The "old old" category - those who remember the war - overwhelmingly voted in favour of remaining whilst, unsurprisingly the "we're-alright-Jack" baby-boomers voted overwhelmingly in favour of Brexit. It seems that the young voters let the side down by not actually voting!
My parents sent me an email this morning which helped me to process what's been going on in my mind of late and made me understand why it is I've been feeling quite so sad and let down. They wrote about one of their friend's daughters, a professional singer, who broke down in tears performing a solo version of the hymn "Dear Lord and Father" in a recent concert. She was suddenly struck by the appropriateness of words like 're-clothe us in our rightful minds' and 'forgive our foolish ways' and was overcome. What my Dad wrote next struck a massive chord with me: "She realised then that she'd lost her identity. Like you she was raised a European."
And suddenly I understood everything. My parents raised me to think of myself as European, to value Europe as much as I value Britain. My Mum skimped and saved to take us on holidays to Germany and Austria so that we could practice our German. We didn't go to beaches. We didn't chase the sun. We went to celebrate European culture, and more often than not, I was encouraged to go native! I was raised to think that my life might well be spent in Europe. Not as a tourist, or a sun-seeking retiree, but as worker standing shoulder to shoulder with my European siblings. Both my brothers ended up doing just that. These values are so ingrained that I genuinely can't get my head around why anyone would view Europe in another way. I don't even understand what this "independence" means that people are so obsessed with. Whether it's Brussels or Whitehall making decisions, you're still having decisions made for you, and if people took general elections as seriously as they did this referendum, we probably wouldn't be feeling like we are being ignored by politicians!
At Hyde Park Corner, a group of people were standing wearing T-shirts which said "I'm an immigrant, and I'd like a hug." It was rather moving to see them being hugged by marcher after marcher. If nothing else has come out of this mess, it's the fact that we all need to be more vigilant. However scared we are of doing so, if we witness racially-motivated attacks on the street, be they physical or verbal, we have an absolute duty as human beings to make sure we a) report them and b) stand up for the person being attacked. We're not yet in 1930s Germany but we are skating perilously close. "History never repeats itself. Man always does." It's very interesting to note that Hitler was a great fan of the referendum. Far right parties always are. The general population, particularly in a period of financial instability, can alway be relied on to demonstrate quite astonishingly intolerant views in the privacy and anonymity of a voting booth.
The highlight of the demonstration for me was watching a group of ten year-old children standing on the base of one of the statues on Whitehall, screaming "what do we want? EU! When do we want it? Now!" I don't know where their parents were, but I should imagine they would have been feeling incredibly proud. If this catastrophe politicises the young, then at least one good thing has come from it.
I was somewhat horrified by a drag queen who was wandering around the demonstration wearing next to nothing. Every time someone tried to take his photo, he said, "one pound for a pose or a selfie." Very distasteful, I thought. You're there to show your solidarity, not to make money.
We eventually snaked our way to Parliament Square where lots of speeches and things were taking place, none of which we could hear. It was rather odd to be standing underneath Big Ben in the middle of a traffic-free street whilst it chimed 3pm.
We crossed over the Thames and had a sneaky cocktail sitting outside a cafe in Waterloo. Well, I had a sneaky pot of tea. Natalie had a Piña Colada.
We left our placards in an alcove outside Waterloo Station. We felt passers by might like to read the messages. We also thought it might be fun for a Brexiteer to smash them up angrily. Anger is, after all, the currency of the Brexit camp as firmly demonstrated by a woman who wrote some awfully aggressive comments on Tina's Facebook post. When I checked this woman's Facebook page it was a mass of deeply offensive jokes about women in burkas.
I finish with a little story. I met a lady today whose husband was a prominent Europhile. Sadly her husband died fairly recently. When the Brexit verdict came, she told me she literally had no one to talk to about it and merely went to a park and sat on a bench and cried: "cried so that no one would notice, of course," she said. My heart broke for her.
A group of us met at the top end of Oxford Street at 10.45am. I'd put out a Facebook post which was answered by all sorts of people from very different stages of my life. Tammy Cooper (now Palmer) was there with her husband and son. Tammy and I went to school together and have known each other since I was 13 and she was 11. We used to attend a Spiritualist church in Rushden as impressionable sixth formers. Nat and Nic were there. We met as students doing a show in the 1995 Edinburgh Festival. Nat brought her Mum, who had made a series of spectacular placards, which, as we arrived, she was adorning with swear words. "Tory scum" "F**k Brexit!" There were people from my drama school, my ex, Daniel, his partner, Matthew, and their two kids, Tina, and various friends of friends...
We were held for some time on Park Lane. I think someone must have been addressing the front of the crowd because cheers kept rolling through the crowd like vocal Mexican waves. A huge number of people were plainly gathering behind us. People were getting very frustrated with the BBC website who were woefully underestimating numbers in their reporting of the demonstration. There were so many people in one place that all the phone networks started going down.
I have to say that throughout this nonsense, I've been bitterly disappointed by the BBC's reporting of events. They always demonstrate this ludicrous desire to report things from both sides - usually in the form of somewhat inane "vox pops." There's always one person arguing for, one against and one who hasn't yet made their mind up. I don't give a shit what a gurning idiot thinks about Brexit. I want to know what the experts say. Even today, the BBC felt the need to report an individual's tweet who described the 100,000 marchers as "having a tantrum" about the result. Later on, the BBC's report ceased to mention that this was an individual's tweet and started reporting the tweet under the guises of "critics of the march claim..."
What was particularly charming about the demonstration were the number of home-made placards that were being waved in the air by marchers. Often with these demonstrations, organisers have had the time to print out thousands of posters, so everyone ends up holding the same image, but today's crop were all unique, and all demonstrated a great deal of wit, thought and effort: "I can't live if living is without EU." "Pulling out doesn't stop people coming" "Cymru am byth YN Ewrop" "I have a Euro-vision" "No Brex please, we're British" "Gisela Stuart, we won't forget what you've done..."
The crowd sang ABBA (the lyrics to SOS are particularly prescient) and the chorus to Hey Jude: "na na na na na na na, E U!" The feeling was upbeat and peaceful. Every time a bus full of tourists drove past the march, particularly buses with European number plates, everyone erupted into great cheers. People were polite, even when a ghastly bunch of Essex slappers on a hen-do in the "Big Smoke" rushed through the crowd screaming "out out out" and giggling like a load of slags.
At that moment, a trumpeter walked through the crowd playing Ode to Joy, so we turned away from the stupid women and sang our hearts out instead. On the entire route of the march I only saw two policemen, with the exception of a large cluster standing outside Downing Street, where the marchers stopped and started chanting "shame." That was about as aggressive as it got.
Spin, from the cast of Brass appeared in the crowd at one point. It was lovey to see him. This was his first demonstration. He was too young to vote in the referendum but he wanted to make his feelings felt and had come into London from Hampshire with his sister.
Tammy works for a prominent charity who are apparently deeply worried about the referendum result, which apparently looks like it might be catastrophic for elderly people in terms of dementia research and funding for carers. She's been looking at the results in terms of which people in which age group were most likely to vote which way. The "old old" category - those who remember the war - overwhelmingly voted in favour of remaining whilst, unsurprisingly the "we're-alright-Jack" baby-boomers voted overwhelmingly in favour of Brexit. It seems that the young voters let the side down by not actually voting!
My parents sent me an email this morning which helped me to process what's been going on in my mind of late and made me understand why it is I've been feeling quite so sad and let down. They wrote about one of their friend's daughters, a professional singer, who broke down in tears performing a solo version of the hymn "Dear Lord and Father" in a recent concert. She was suddenly struck by the appropriateness of words like 're-clothe us in our rightful minds' and 'forgive our foolish ways' and was overcome. What my Dad wrote next struck a massive chord with me: "She realised then that she'd lost her identity. Like you she was raised a European."
And suddenly I understood everything. My parents raised me to think of myself as European, to value Europe as much as I value Britain. My Mum skimped and saved to take us on holidays to Germany and Austria so that we could practice our German. We didn't go to beaches. We didn't chase the sun. We went to celebrate European culture, and more often than not, I was encouraged to go native! I was raised to think that my life might well be spent in Europe. Not as a tourist, or a sun-seeking retiree, but as worker standing shoulder to shoulder with my European siblings. Both my brothers ended up doing just that. These values are so ingrained that I genuinely can't get my head around why anyone would view Europe in another way. I don't even understand what this "independence" means that people are so obsessed with. Whether it's Brussels or Whitehall making decisions, you're still having decisions made for you, and if people took general elections as seriously as they did this referendum, we probably wouldn't be feeling like we are being ignored by politicians!
At Hyde Park Corner, a group of people were standing wearing T-shirts which said "I'm an immigrant, and I'd like a hug." It was rather moving to see them being hugged by marcher after marcher. If nothing else has come out of this mess, it's the fact that we all need to be more vigilant. However scared we are of doing so, if we witness racially-motivated attacks on the street, be they physical or verbal, we have an absolute duty as human beings to make sure we a) report them and b) stand up for the person being attacked. We're not yet in 1930s Germany but we are skating perilously close. "History never repeats itself. Man always does." It's very interesting to note that Hitler was a great fan of the referendum. Far right parties always are. The general population, particularly in a period of financial instability, can alway be relied on to demonstrate quite astonishingly intolerant views in the privacy and anonymity of a voting booth.
The highlight of the demonstration for me was watching a group of ten year-old children standing on the base of one of the statues on Whitehall, screaming "what do we want? EU! When do we want it? Now!" I don't know where their parents were, but I should imagine they would have been feeling incredibly proud. If this catastrophe politicises the young, then at least one good thing has come from it.
I was somewhat horrified by a drag queen who was wandering around the demonstration wearing next to nothing. Every time someone tried to take his photo, he said, "one pound for a pose or a selfie." Very distasteful, I thought. You're there to show your solidarity, not to make money.
We eventually snaked our way to Parliament Square where lots of speeches and things were taking place, none of which we could hear. It was rather odd to be standing underneath Big Ben in the middle of a traffic-free street whilst it chimed 3pm.
We crossed over the Thames and had a sneaky cocktail sitting outside a cafe in Waterloo. Well, I had a sneaky pot of tea. Natalie had a Piña Colada.
We left our placards in an alcove outside Waterloo Station. We felt passers by might like to read the messages. We also thought it might be fun for a Brexiteer to smash them up angrily. Anger is, after all, the currency of the Brexit camp as firmly demonstrated by a woman who wrote some awfully aggressive comments on Tina's Facebook post. When I checked this woman's Facebook page it was a mass of deeply offensive jokes about women in burkas.
I finish with a little story. I met a lady today whose husband was a prominent Europhile. Sadly her husband died fairly recently. When the Brexit verdict came, she told me she literally had no one to talk to about it and merely went to a park and sat on a bench and cried: "cried so that no one would notice, of course," she said. My heart broke for her.
Nit comb
I went into Muswell Hill today to buy some paper and a printer cartridge. I was also looking for nit comb! Readers who are aware of the fact that I use Pritt Stick to stiffen my moustache will not be at all surprised to also learn that, after chatting to Nathan's best mate Philip, I've started using a nit comb to comb my moustache! The closely-packed teeth are very good for getting between the hairs and exfoliating the skin underneath! The thing about men is that they don't often discuss beauty tips and grooming, so the small number of tit-bits you do receive along the way are golden!
Anyway, I managed to lose my last last nit comb in France, so thought it might be time to buy a new one from the chemist. The lovely lady in the shop asked whether she could help me, and I asked if she had a nit comb. She was, I suspect, Spanish, and probably hadn't come across the term before. "A comb?" "Yes, for nits..." "Nit?" She looked bemused and took me to a little stand selling brushes. "No, I mean a comb... For nits... Like Nitty Nora!" I pointed at my head assuming she'd know I was pouting at imaginary nits rather than just my hair! "You don't mean lice?" She said. "Yes! I said, triumphantly..." "Lice!" She ran off and reappeared, proudly holding a bottle of Prioderm. That's a remedy for lice for those reading this blog who don't have children!
An old lady was sitting grumpily in the corner of the chemist. There's always an old lady sitting on a chair in a chemist isn't there? I assume they're always waiting for prescriptions, or just taking the weight off in a corner of the world which smells familiar to them. (Usually of lavender water and Pears soap.) Anyway, this old dear was listening in to my conversion. She looked at me, rolled her eyes, and, in an uncannily sardonic impersonation of Maggie Smith in Downton said, "bloody hopeless." I felt the need to explain to her that I didn't actually have nits and that I wanted the comb for my moustache. Well that tickled her, let me tell you. She found it so amusing that she nearly fell off her chair laughing!
Anyway, after a great deal more pointing and miming, I'm now the proud owner of a brand new nit comb and my moustache looks lustrous. Like a fox covered in pepper.
...So today marks the 100th anniversary of the Battle of the Somme. Funnily enough, I woke up at 7.30am this morning, which was a little weird. I promptly fell asleep again, forgetting the significance of that particular time. The news (which I watched for the first time since long before the referendum) has been filled with moving images from Thiepval in France, or Theepvall as one of the BBC reporters called it. He was from Northern Ireland where gay marriage still isn't legal, so I guess he can't help not having a broader view of the world. You'd think someone might have had a quiet word, though.
Anyway, it's rather impossible to comprehend that it's now exactly 100 years since the most miserable day in the history of British military, and that there is no-one left in this world who remembers how it felt to go over the top. When I was young there were a fair number of veterans still alive. I used to write to a First World War soldier when I was a teenager, and there were plenty of old boys who used to shuffle out onto the market square in Higham on the 11th November. Then one by one they left us...
What I didn't know until today is that the symbol for remembrance in France is the blue cornflower which is particularly lovely because the cornflower is my second favourite flower after the poppy. Imagine having a list of favourite flowers! For the record, my third favourite is the sunflower. Anyway, there was a wonderful moment in the Thiepval ceremony this morning when thousands of poppies and cornflowers poured from the ceiling of the enormous monument.
In the UK, Manchester seems to have been given the monopoly on remembering the many Pals battalions who were decimated by the Somme. There were ceremonies in Leeds, but they weren't mentioned on the national news. I was rather touched to see, all over the country, volunteers in WW1 uniforms, simply standing around in train stations and public places, sending out a heart-warming message that those brave, foolhardy Tommies are still walking amongst us.
I have cut together a little video about our trip to the Somme Region last Sunday. It was all shot on mobile phones, so doesn't have the beauty and finesse of the films the BBC made about our trip which are currently doing the rounds on various regional news programmes, but they are very atmospheric, and very representative, I hope of the uniqueness of the occasion. This film isn't just about the young cast trying to get their heads around the enormity of the battle, but also about them thinking practically about how they can use what they've learned in Brass.
If you have a chance to have a look, I'd love to hear your thoughts. It's about fifteen minutes long.
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=oDDP2YQX7fM
Anyway, I managed to lose my last last nit comb in France, so thought it might be time to buy a new one from the chemist. The lovely lady in the shop asked whether she could help me, and I asked if she had a nit comb. She was, I suspect, Spanish, and probably hadn't come across the term before. "A comb?" "Yes, for nits..." "Nit?" She looked bemused and took me to a little stand selling brushes. "No, I mean a comb... For nits... Like Nitty Nora!" I pointed at my head assuming she'd know I was pouting at imaginary nits rather than just my hair! "You don't mean lice?" She said. "Yes! I said, triumphantly..." "Lice!" She ran off and reappeared, proudly holding a bottle of Prioderm. That's a remedy for lice for those reading this blog who don't have children!
An old lady was sitting grumpily in the corner of the chemist. There's always an old lady sitting on a chair in a chemist isn't there? I assume they're always waiting for prescriptions, or just taking the weight off in a corner of the world which smells familiar to them. (Usually of lavender water and Pears soap.) Anyway, this old dear was listening in to my conversion. She looked at me, rolled her eyes, and, in an uncannily sardonic impersonation of Maggie Smith in Downton said, "bloody hopeless." I felt the need to explain to her that I didn't actually have nits and that I wanted the comb for my moustache. Well that tickled her, let me tell you. She found it so amusing that she nearly fell off her chair laughing!
Anyway, after a great deal more pointing and miming, I'm now the proud owner of a brand new nit comb and my moustache looks lustrous. Like a fox covered in pepper.
...So today marks the 100th anniversary of the Battle of the Somme. Funnily enough, I woke up at 7.30am this morning, which was a little weird. I promptly fell asleep again, forgetting the significance of that particular time. The news (which I watched for the first time since long before the referendum) has been filled with moving images from Thiepval in France, or Theepvall as one of the BBC reporters called it. He was from Northern Ireland where gay marriage still isn't legal, so I guess he can't help not having a broader view of the world. You'd think someone might have had a quiet word, though.
Anyway, it's rather impossible to comprehend that it's now exactly 100 years since the most miserable day in the history of British military, and that there is no-one left in this world who remembers how it felt to go over the top. When I was young there were a fair number of veterans still alive. I used to write to a First World War soldier when I was a teenager, and there were plenty of old boys who used to shuffle out onto the market square in Higham on the 11th November. Then one by one they left us...
What I didn't know until today is that the symbol for remembrance in France is the blue cornflower which is particularly lovely because the cornflower is my second favourite flower after the poppy. Imagine having a list of favourite flowers! For the record, my third favourite is the sunflower. Anyway, there was a wonderful moment in the Thiepval ceremony this morning when thousands of poppies and cornflowers poured from the ceiling of the enormous monument.
In the UK, Manchester seems to have been given the monopoly on remembering the many Pals battalions who were decimated by the Somme. There were ceremonies in Leeds, but they weren't mentioned on the national news. I was rather touched to see, all over the country, volunteers in WW1 uniforms, simply standing around in train stations and public places, sending out a heart-warming message that those brave, foolhardy Tommies are still walking amongst us.
I have cut together a little video about our trip to the Somme Region last Sunday. It was all shot on mobile phones, so doesn't have the beauty and finesse of the films the BBC made about our trip which are currently doing the rounds on various regional news programmes, but they are very atmospheric, and very representative, I hope of the uniqueness of the occasion. This film isn't just about the young cast trying to get their heads around the enormity of the battle, but also about them thinking practically about how they can use what they've learned in Brass.
If you have a chance to have a look, I'd love to hear your thoughts. It's about fifteen minutes long.
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=oDDP2YQX7fM
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