It would appear to be my fourth wedding anniversary, and I’m in Manchester. More specifically, I’m in a Travelodge in Northwich in Cheshire. Life can be terribly glamorous!
I’m here, today and tomorrow, to edit my Em films. I flung the dates into my diary in January without really thinking about the fact that they would clash with my own wedding anniversary. It would be really lovely to be at home today with my husband, but we’ve said we’ll have a terribly fancy takeaway meal tomorrow when I’m back. And we’ve got the weekend...
There have been a couple of congratulatory messages posted on Facebook, which have been lovely to read. There’s a general “time flies” theme to most of them, but actually, it feels like a decade ago! So much has happened since, including Brass, Em, Nene, Beyond the Fence, three trips to America, releasing three albums...
This time, four years ago, Nathan, his sister Sam, and I were probably getting into a taxi and traveling up to Alexandra Palace. It was unseasonably warm, and all the blossoms and flowers were out. Alexandra Palace was flying the rainbow flag, which we found hugely moving. We took photographs of ourselves holding a big bouquet of flowers which had very kindly been sent to us by the performer Katie Melua. We’d also just opened a card from Michael Stipe, lead singer of R.E.M. It was all terribly surreal.
I remember walking into the space and seeing how beautiful they’d made it look. Just for us. It was possibly at that point that we realised what was happening. I think, up until then, it had felt like we were rehearsing for some sort of theatre show. But arriving in the space suddenly made us realise we were actually getting married.
And the rest is history...
What I do feel very angry about is that they’ve chosen this date to exit the EU next year. March 29th was a day of great hope and unity: the day that gay men finally had the chance to get married. How dare that grotesque cow May turn it into a day of separation and anger?
It’s all go at the moment. It’s amazing what a nice, relaxing trip to the countryside will do to you. I’ve basically done nothing but rush about missing meetings since arriving back here. It’s like I suddenly can’t manage my diary any more. You take your foot off the merry-go-round for a single second and you are sent hurtling off into the abyss.
I think I have rather too much to do. I have to start planning 100 Faces, and there’s an abnormal amount of work to do on that. Unfortunately, it’s proving a little tricky to get the story out to the Jewish press who are, necessarily, somewhat focussed on reporting antisemitism within the Labour Party at the moment. It’s not a new story, and I’m surprised leaders within the Jewish community have put up with it for so long. It’s always been my major concern with Jeremy Corbyn. The last general election was dreadful. I had to choose between a homophobe leader of the Lib Dems, and an antisemite leader of Labour.
Anyway, the other thing I’m trying to do is release the Em album. There’s press releases to write and send out. Being forced to release two projects simultaneously is always complicated. Half the time, you want to send information to the same people, but can’t because people can rarely get their heads around someone promoting two projects simultaneously unless they’re actors who happen to have two films being released at the same time, which, for some reason, people seem to understand.
So, I’ve had a shower, and my free cup of Travelodge tea, and two Weetabix which I ate from a mug because I couldn’t find a bowl for sale in the local Co-op. This Travelodge doesn’t have a restaurant, so I bought my own food with me to avoid a dreaded “breakfast box.” On second thoughts, it’s not really the best place to be on a wedding anniversary!
Thursday, 29 March 2018
Wednesday, 28 March 2018
West Sussex
I’m back in London after a somewhat magical trip out to West Sussex. It was Michael’s birthday yesterday and one of the people from Shul very kindly offered him the use of their spectacular county abode. It’s one of those houses that you only really see on films. The most beautiful grounds lined with daffodils and primroses, a little lake, an entire barn dedicated to table tennis, snooker and table football, and a glorious indoor pool. We were staying in the gatehouse, a timber-framed barn conversion on the edge of the grounds. It was a wondrous place, with implausibly high ceilings. The owner, Toni, is a hugely generous soul who plainly knows she has a beautiful second home and wants to share it with people she knows will benefit from it. I felt immensely privileged to be there.
It really was just a day of relaxing. We played pool and then swam all morning. There was a wonderful jacuzzi which pummelled away the stresses of London. We sat on a roof terrace and ate a lunch of bread, soup and cheese whilst the Spring sunshine warmed our faces. We were profoundly lucky with the weather. Had Michael’s birthday been today, we would have been huddled indoors listening to the roar of rain hurtling down on the roof. But yesterday was the first official day of Spring, and, for some reason, the weather seemed to agree.
A last-minute fit of pique saw us taking ourselves off to Devil’s Dyke in the afternoon. The house is essentially in the middle of nowhere, but, because the address was West Sussex, until I looked at a map, it hadn’t occurred to me that we’d be just a half hour drive from Brighton.
Devil’s Dyke is a very impressive spot. It’s a deeply atmospheric ravine which slices through the Southern Downs. It was one of those Victorian destinations which, at one stage, featured a vertiginous and rickety-looking cable car which dangled perilously above the valley. With the Victorian inclination to faint at the drop of a hat, I’m pretty sure it would have been a somewhat hopeless proposition for most of the people who dared to get on board.
We walked along the rim of the ravine, making ourselves absolutely parched in the process. We passed a little farm at one stage which had a cafe in it on every day other than Mondays. It was a cruel blow. A cream tea would have made the day perfect.
The light was spectacular. At this time of year, the grass takes on metallic hues which the treacle-coloured sunlight turned into something from a 1970s photograph! It was all very delightful.
In the early evening we popped into Brighton. Blink, and you’d have missed us. It was a quick stroll down the Laines and a hot cross bun in a little cafe where the early evening light streaked through a wooden window. We were back in West Sussex by eight for another swim and a lovely meal in a pub which smelt of wood smoke.
For me, this is what getting out of London is all about. As we re-entered the pollution and mayhem this morning, I realised I’d started to cough rather badly. Proof, if proof were needed, that we’re all screwed in this city!
It really was just a day of relaxing. We played pool and then swam all morning. There was a wonderful jacuzzi which pummelled away the stresses of London. We sat on a roof terrace and ate a lunch of bread, soup and cheese whilst the Spring sunshine warmed our faces. We were profoundly lucky with the weather. Had Michael’s birthday been today, we would have been huddled indoors listening to the roar of rain hurtling down on the roof. But yesterday was the first official day of Spring, and, for some reason, the weather seemed to agree.
A last-minute fit of pique saw us taking ourselves off to Devil’s Dyke in the afternoon. The house is essentially in the middle of nowhere, but, because the address was West Sussex, until I looked at a map, it hadn’t occurred to me that we’d be just a half hour drive from Brighton.
Devil’s Dyke is a very impressive spot. It’s a deeply atmospheric ravine which slices through the Southern Downs. It was one of those Victorian destinations which, at one stage, featured a vertiginous and rickety-looking cable car which dangled perilously above the valley. With the Victorian inclination to faint at the drop of a hat, I’m pretty sure it would have been a somewhat hopeless proposition for most of the people who dared to get on board.
We walked along the rim of the ravine, making ourselves absolutely parched in the process. We passed a little farm at one stage which had a cafe in it on every day other than Mondays. It was a cruel blow. A cream tea would have made the day perfect.
The light was spectacular. At this time of year, the grass takes on metallic hues which the treacle-coloured sunlight turned into something from a 1970s photograph! It was all very delightful.
In the early evening we popped into Brighton. Blink, and you’d have missed us. It was a quick stroll down the Laines and a hot cross bun in a little cafe where the early evening light streaked through a wooden window. We were back in West Sussex by eight for another swim and a lovely meal in a pub which smelt of wood smoke.
For me, this is what getting out of London is all about. As we re-entered the pollution and mayhem this morning, I realised I’d started to cough rather badly. Proof, if proof were needed, that we’re all screwed in this city!
Sunday, 25 March 2018
Counting steps
I’m presently on my way back from singing in the synagogue choir. I decided to walk down the stairs at Holland Park tube. It gets the blood flowing. There’s always a sign at the top and the bottom of the staircases in tube stations which says how many steps there are. As one of those people who almost obsessively counts things, I’m often horrified about how off the mark the step counts actually are. That said, Holland Park correctly advertises 123 steps, so I’m not sure why I’m recounting this story!
I think I’m right in saying that Covent Garden tube is the deepest of all the stations on the London Underground, and therefore is the one with the largest number of steps: one hundred and ninety three, if Wikipedia is to be believed. I discovered this to my cost, as a teenager, on my first trip to London without parents. I came here for the day with school friends, Tammy and Natalie. We’d have trained it down from Bedford. I can’t remember anything about the day other than that it was my idea to exit the station via the stairs. I still have a photograph of the girls looking incredibly grumpy - about half way up! They were furious with me.
I think we went shopping in Oxford Street. I have a vague memory of going to Top Shop by Oxford Circus and being astounded by how big it was. I’d never seen a shop so large. I was such a hick from the sticks!
Singing in shul went by without major incident. There were two singers there who I didn’t really know, one of whom was a bit of a stickler when it came to the pronunciation of Hebrew. He picked me up on something I was singing, and I felt slightly embarrassed.
We were performing some repertoire from the “Blue Book”, which is the Orthodox Jewish equivalent of Hymns Ancient and Modern. The book was collated and published in the 19th century but, unlike its Christian equivalent, it’s never been updated. This is an issue for several reasons, the first of which is to do with the page layout. In order to conserve space, those paper-conscious Victorians made the decision to cram the words in all over the place, none of which are below the bass line, which makes sight-reading near impossible. The other issue is that the pronunciation of certain Hebrew words has morphed over time. Many o’s (but not all) have become a’s and t’s occasionally migrate to s’s. So the task of the chorister becomes that much more difficult.
Passover starts on Friday, so we were also singing repertoire associated with this festival, one of which had been arranged by a former cantor at the synagogue who was a little, shall we say, slap-dash with his writing. The arrangements he turfed out were always very poorly executed: badly-voiced and confusingly laid out on the page. I once picked him up on the fact that he hadn’t written any words below the bass line, despite the bass part singing entirely different rhythms to the rest of the ensemble. “What would you like me to sing here?” I asked. “Sing what you want” he answered snappily, “I don’t care.” I can’t remember what I said in response, but it was plainly incendiary as it rapidly escalated into an argument where he petulantly felt the need to point out that he wasn’t being paid to do the arrangements which, of course, was like a red rag to a bull for me. A self-respecting composer should do their best regardless of whether they’re being paid. If choristers are handed a hot mess of a score, then they will be unwilling, and, in fact, unable to perform to a high standard. And so it came to pass today with his dreadful arrangement, which descended into chaos because the music gave us no clues about what it wanted to sound like!
I think I’m right in saying that Covent Garden tube is the deepest of all the stations on the London Underground, and therefore is the one with the largest number of steps: one hundred and ninety three, if Wikipedia is to be believed. I discovered this to my cost, as a teenager, on my first trip to London without parents. I came here for the day with school friends, Tammy and Natalie. We’d have trained it down from Bedford. I can’t remember anything about the day other than that it was my idea to exit the station via the stairs. I still have a photograph of the girls looking incredibly grumpy - about half way up! They were furious with me.
I think we went shopping in Oxford Street. I have a vague memory of going to Top Shop by Oxford Circus and being astounded by how big it was. I’d never seen a shop so large. I was such a hick from the sticks!
Singing in shul went by without major incident. There were two singers there who I didn’t really know, one of whom was a bit of a stickler when it came to the pronunciation of Hebrew. He picked me up on something I was singing, and I felt slightly embarrassed.
We were performing some repertoire from the “Blue Book”, which is the Orthodox Jewish equivalent of Hymns Ancient and Modern. The book was collated and published in the 19th century but, unlike its Christian equivalent, it’s never been updated. This is an issue for several reasons, the first of which is to do with the page layout. In order to conserve space, those paper-conscious Victorians made the decision to cram the words in all over the place, none of which are below the bass line, which makes sight-reading near impossible. The other issue is that the pronunciation of certain Hebrew words has morphed over time. Many o’s (but not all) have become a’s and t’s occasionally migrate to s’s. So the task of the chorister becomes that much more difficult.
Passover starts on Friday, so we were also singing repertoire associated with this festival, one of which had been arranged by a former cantor at the synagogue who was a little, shall we say, slap-dash with his writing. The arrangements he turfed out were always very poorly executed: badly-voiced and confusingly laid out on the page. I once picked him up on the fact that he hadn’t written any words below the bass line, despite the bass part singing entirely different rhythms to the rest of the ensemble. “What would you like me to sing here?” I asked. “Sing what you want” he answered snappily, “I don’t care.” I can’t remember what I said in response, but it was plainly incendiary as it rapidly escalated into an argument where he petulantly felt the need to point out that he wasn’t being paid to do the arrangements which, of course, was like a red rag to a bull for me. A self-respecting composer should do their best regardless of whether they’re being paid. If choristers are handed a hot mess of a score, then they will be unwilling, and, in fact, unable to perform to a high standard. And so it came to pass today with his dreadful arrangement, which descended into chaos because the music gave us no clues about what it wanted to sound like!
Thursday, 22 March 2018
100 Faces
I appear to be staggering across London with a massive backpack and a suitcase, upon which is stacked two incredibly heavy cardboard boxes. Ah! The life of a Quiz Master! The boxes contain pens and reams-upon-reams of paper. I have perilously attached them to the suitcase with gaffer tape. They are wobbling. Any moment now they’re going to topple off the top and there will be a pencident involving six hundred biros spinning across the tube station floor. Someone will trip. I will be sued. I can sense it all coming.
I had my second injection to inoculate me against the HPV virus today. Most women are given the injection whilst they’re still at school, but it’s something they don’t tend to inoculate men against, except, I’m told, in Australia. There are reasons for this to do with cervical cancer, but there’s compelling evidence to suggest that the HPV virus isn’t a lot of fun in a man either. In fact, I believe it’s responsible for my cousin’s cancer. So, anyway, the gay community, with our propensity to visit sexual health clinics for regular MOTs, make perfect guinea pigs for things the government are thinking about rolling out, and, because I don’t want warts and can’t spell “human papilloma”, I said “yeah!”
The injection hurts a bit! It goes into the muscle at the very top of your arm. That said, I loved my doctor. She was quirky and a lot of fun to chat to.
Last night, I went to a very lovely evening sponsored by UK Jewish Film. It was here that I learned that I have been awarded the prestigious Pears Short Film Fund. Readers who have known me for some time will remember that I made a film for the BBC in the North East called 100 Faces. The premise of the film is very simple. There are 100 Faces belonging to 100 people who are born in every year for the last 100 years. I made the film in 2012, which is within the lifetime of this blog, so feel free to read back over my accounts.
Anyway, I have long felt that 100 Faces didn’t make enough of a splash. It’s a beautiful film, but it was only screened by the BBC in a very small area of the county. In more recent years, as many readers of this blog will be aware, I’ve been dipping my toe into the murky waters of my Jewish ancestry and have very much enjoyed meeting the community I’ve discovered. It occurred to me, about a year ago, that a brand new version of 100 Faces, featuring some of the wonderful, diverse, mystical, fascinating, funny and vibrant Jewish people I know to exist, could be a deeply moving and hugely inspiring film.
British Jewish people, it strikes me, are never really allowed to shout about themselves in the way that American Jews really do. When did we last see a Jewish family on Eastenders for example? Was it Dr Legg? He died years ago!
Scratch the surface and most people’s idea of a Jewish person is either someone with a hat and ringlets, a sort of Maureen Lipman figure who makes chicken soup and can’t let go of her children, or a dark, underground network who control the media. That’s when we’re not using any debate about Jewish people to condemn the perceived human rights abuses happening in Israel.
When do we ever stop to think about the difference between Reform and Liberal Jews? Or the difference between Orthodox and Haredi? Or Ashkenazi and Sephardi? When do we celebrate the fact that same-sex couples can get married in at least fifty percent of British synagogues. That’s gay men marrying in a British place of worship. This is a forward-thinking community.
And it seems that the wonderful jury for the Pears Fund agreed. I am making the film. My quest to find 100 Jewish people of 100 Ages begins tomorrow. Please wish me luck.
And if you’re Jewish, and reading this, whether you’re religious or entirely atheist, please do get in touch.
I had my second injection to inoculate me against the HPV virus today. Most women are given the injection whilst they’re still at school, but it’s something they don’t tend to inoculate men against, except, I’m told, in Australia. There are reasons for this to do with cervical cancer, but there’s compelling evidence to suggest that the HPV virus isn’t a lot of fun in a man either. In fact, I believe it’s responsible for my cousin’s cancer. So, anyway, the gay community, with our propensity to visit sexual health clinics for regular MOTs, make perfect guinea pigs for things the government are thinking about rolling out, and, because I don’t want warts and can’t spell “human papilloma”, I said “yeah!”
The injection hurts a bit! It goes into the muscle at the very top of your arm. That said, I loved my doctor. She was quirky and a lot of fun to chat to.
Last night, I went to a very lovely evening sponsored by UK Jewish Film. It was here that I learned that I have been awarded the prestigious Pears Short Film Fund. Readers who have known me for some time will remember that I made a film for the BBC in the North East called 100 Faces. The premise of the film is very simple. There are 100 Faces belonging to 100 people who are born in every year for the last 100 years. I made the film in 2012, which is within the lifetime of this blog, so feel free to read back over my accounts.
Anyway, I have long felt that 100 Faces didn’t make enough of a splash. It’s a beautiful film, but it was only screened by the BBC in a very small area of the county. In more recent years, as many readers of this blog will be aware, I’ve been dipping my toe into the murky waters of my Jewish ancestry and have very much enjoyed meeting the community I’ve discovered. It occurred to me, about a year ago, that a brand new version of 100 Faces, featuring some of the wonderful, diverse, mystical, fascinating, funny and vibrant Jewish people I know to exist, could be a deeply moving and hugely inspiring film.
British Jewish people, it strikes me, are never really allowed to shout about themselves in the way that American Jews really do. When did we last see a Jewish family on Eastenders for example? Was it Dr Legg? He died years ago!
Scratch the surface and most people’s idea of a Jewish person is either someone with a hat and ringlets, a sort of Maureen Lipman figure who makes chicken soup and can’t let go of her children, or a dark, underground network who control the media. That’s when we’re not using any debate about Jewish people to condemn the perceived human rights abuses happening in Israel.
When do we ever stop to think about the difference between Reform and Liberal Jews? Or the difference between Orthodox and Haredi? Or Ashkenazi and Sephardi? When do we celebrate the fact that same-sex couples can get married in at least fifty percent of British synagogues. That’s gay men marrying in a British place of worship. This is a forward-thinking community.
And it seems that the wonderful jury for the Pears Fund agreed. I am making the film. My quest to find 100 Jewish people of 100 Ages begins tomorrow. Please wish me luck.
And if you’re Jewish, and reading this, whether you’re religious or entirely atheist, please do get in touch.
Tuesday, 20 March 2018
Er ner mer sner
Highgate is still under a bit of snow. It was a fairly surreal moment when I drove back from Peterborough yesterday to find piles of virgin snow on the steps up to my front door.
I was back home at 8.30am, which was also bizarre. I’d got up at 6 to drive to an interview in Winchester which was frustratingly cancelled because of the bad weather. I’d only actually managed about three hours’ sleep after the adrenaline rush of the Peterborough Cathedral experience, and had the interview been cancelled the night before, I’d have been able to have a lie-in and breakfast with my family.
In the end, I went for lunch with Michael in Brook Green, a rather charming, and very quiet largely Victorian residential area which runs between Shepherd’s Bush and Hammersmith. We had pizza and salad, which has to be one of my most favourite food combinations. So, actually, the day was salvaged and became very pleasant.
I was back in Highgate in the early evening, just in time for another tip-down of snow. Driving along the North Circular with snow rolling in circles around me was a somewhat epic, film-like experience. The snow in Highgate was glinting magically in car headlights and street lights. All weather manages to look rather romantic in Highgate. Particularly mist, which makes the village look like something from a Sherlock Holmes novel. Not that I’ve read a Sherlock Holmes novel. I’ve actually only read ten novels in my life. Most of them by George Orwell.
Today was all about admin. Admin and more admin. I had long a list which I slowly worked my way through. I didn’t feel I’d made much of a dent on it, but I did do all the paper work related to officially releasing the Em album on all the online sites, which was a weight off my mind.
Nathan arrived back from the Edinburgh yarn festival last night with absolutely no voice. He can only whisper. He’s gone and got himself a dose of laryngitis, which is ironic because he looses his voice every time he goes to that particular festival. The last time was because he shouted so much during the ceilidh! I felt incredibly sorry for him as it’s his favourite yarnie hangout and not having a voice definitely compromised his ability to enjoy himself.
I was back home at 8.30am, which was also bizarre. I’d got up at 6 to drive to an interview in Winchester which was frustratingly cancelled because of the bad weather. I’d only actually managed about three hours’ sleep after the adrenaline rush of the Peterborough Cathedral experience, and had the interview been cancelled the night before, I’d have been able to have a lie-in and breakfast with my family.
In the end, I went for lunch with Michael in Brook Green, a rather charming, and very quiet largely Victorian residential area which runs between Shepherd’s Bush and Hammersmith. We had pizza and salad, which has to be one of my most favourite food combinations. So, actually, the day was salvaged and became very pleasant.
I was back in Highgate in the early evening, just in time for another tip-down of snow. Driving along the North Circular with snow rolling in circles around me was a somewhat epic, film-like experience. The snow in Highgate was glinting magically in car headlights and street lights. All weather manages to look rather romantic in Highgate. Particularly mist, which makes the village look like something from a Sherlock Holmes novel. Not that I’ve read a Sherlock Holmes novel. I’ve actually only read ten novels in my life. Most of them by George Orwell.
Today was all about admin. Admin and more admin. I had long a list which I slowly worked my way through. I didn’t feel I’d made much of a dent on it, but I did do all the paper work related to officially releasing the Em album on all the online sites, which was a weight off my mind.
Nathan arrived back from the Edinburgh yarn festival last night with absolutely no voice. He can only whisper. He’s gone and got himself a dose of laryngitis, which is ironic because he looses his voice every time he goes to that particular festival. The last time was because he shouted so much during the ceilidh! I felt incredibly sorry for him as it’s his favourite yarnie hangout and not having a voice definitely compromised his ability to enjoy himself.
Sunday, 18 March 2018
Peterborough’s Neeeeeen
Yesterday found me braving the snow and heading up to Peterborough for the final performance of Nene. It was a magical and very special day.
The journey up was far less complicated than I’d imagined. There was a good covering of snow on the car when I started my journey. It’s that rather strange icy snow which has been falling lately: the sort of powdery snow which gets everywhere, yet doesn’t seem to make anything particularly wet. It simply brushes off surfaces. I used an Enya CD to scrape it off all the windows and then went on my merry way, listening to Em on the car stereo. It sounded good. I felt excited.
By the time I’d reached Peterborough there was no sign of this second Beast from the East. In fact it was sunny. Freezing cold, but sunny.
The parents had booked us all into a hotel in the centre of the city, and we had a light lunch in the bar before heading out for a stroll. Peterborough, it turns out, is a rather lovely place. My only real experience of it in the past was waiting for trains at the rather uninspiring station and going there for shopping-cum-skating fun as a teenager. For some reason it was my form at school’s preferred away day, and we never ventured further than the soulless shopping complex.
Imagine my surprise, therefore, to find that the city has a medieval square, quite a lot of which is intact. And the cathedral is something else! It’s quite low-level and French-looking. There’s no massive spire or tower, but it’s profoundly beautiful. The ceilings are exquisite, carved from stone and wood. I don’t really know why it’s not better known. I don’t think there are many people in this country who would think to list Peterborough Cathedral alongside York, Canterbury and Lincoln. I’m not even sure that most people know that Peterborough even HAS a cathedral.
It’s actually the burial site of Catherine of Aragon. My Mum had popped in the previous day and stumbled upon a woman at her tomb, weeping and wailing. It’s astounding how figures from the past can generate such hysteria.
The cathedral also once housed the body of Mary Queen of Scots, which felt rather appropriate as one of the sequences in Nene is a setting of a poem that Mary wrote in Fotheringhey, shortly before her execution.
I met some of the young people who were going to be singing. The music school has been hugely careful about sharing out which school does which concert, and this performance favoured schools from the north of the county, Rutland and Cambridgeshire, but I was a little sad not to have my posse from Higham Ferrers junior school there. They sent me a card after the Albert Hall production with a picture of them all. It sits proudly on my mantle piece.
Nemo, the bath-tub water sculpture, which has become something of a talisman for the piece, wasn’t actually being featured in this performance, but had come to the cathedral to keep us company. It was lovely to see him again.
Brother Edward and Sascha arrived and we had a little walk around the city. Edward bought himself a “healthy” smoothie with grains and soya milk and all sorts of horrors inside. It tasted like the mushy relic of a Weetabix bowl and sawdust, and it had the aftertaste of raisins. Literally ghastly. It also caused an unpleasant row in our hotel bar when we were asked to lose the drink or leave. Charming for residents, we thought...
The concert itself has imbedded itself in my mind as a series of little snap shot.
There was a queue when we arrived which snaked out of the cathedral all the way into the market square. I didn’t feel grand enough to skip it, so, because it was cold, I walked up and down to see who was there. Little Michelle and Ben, Debbie, Tash, two of the Angelas I went to school with... it was a joy to see them all.
Seating was unreserved, so there was a bun fight going on. I was more than a little relieved that four seats at the front had been set aside for me. Enough for my guests Debbie, her husband Chris, and my Mum. Sitting on the front row is always a bit of a double-edged sword. You feel rather on display!
The first half included a contemporary dance piece performed by a group from Peterborough, which I found noble and impressive, yet a little bewildering. I wasn’t sure what expression to wear on my face.
The County Youth Choir, on the other hand, were extraordinary. Debbie, Brother Edward and I were all founding members of the group in 1990, and all three of us oscillated between being hugely moved and highly proud. They performed Sleep by Eric Whittaker with almost breathtaking precision. Sitting in the front row, was a surround-sound experience. It was like we were wearing the choir as a warm cloak!
There was a disconcerting, giant bronze Jesus on a cross hanging above our heads. The cross was red, which meant the holes in Jesus’ eyes were glowing like some sort of devil. I kept looking up and wondering if anyone else had noticed this particular fact, or whether the sculptor had meant it to be like that!
I was a little disappointed to see so few lads in the performances. None of the dancers were boys, girls far outweighed boys in the massed choir, and even the percussion ensemble had more girls than boys. This, in an era where much is being made of the need to have more women in music.
There was a tremendous moment at the start of the concert when Peter Smalley, who was presenting, told the children in the mass choir that they could wave at their families in the audience. I turned around to look down the nave of the cathedral at the audience - all seven hundred of them - to witness a sea of waving hands. I don’t know why I found the sight so moving. Perhaps because it meant that I’d brought families together through my music and given them memories to cherish.
I was interviewed before the performance of Nene. I don’t actually remember what I said. I had wanted to suggest that Peterborough be re-annexed by Northamptonshire. It was, after all, part of the county until 1974. I’m not sure that would have gone down any better than my insistence that Nene be pronounced Nen, the Northampton way, rather than Neen, the Peterborough way!
The performance itself was really wonderful. I think the orchestra played it better than ever before, and, of course, that booming cathedral acoustic was generous. Some sequences really landed. Mary Queen of Scots’ poem reverberated around the space like something sent from heaven. The sequence about the ghostly hunt was also suitably chilling. It actually describes a haunting in the cathedral itself and I told the choir before that if they sang it really loudly, we might encourage the ghosts to come back!
It’s a curious space which doesn’t exactly lend itself to performance. The choir and orchestra were a good thirty meters away from the front row of the audience, and we could only just see the conductor and a few bows moving about. There were screens in the space which showed us close-ups of the action, but, it wasn’t quite the visceral experience of Derngate or the Albert Hall. It was more wistful. Distant. Which sort of worked. I hope the audience towards the back of the space were able to hear enough of what was going on.
After the piece finished, I was engulfed by lovely people wanting to shake my hand and have their programmes signed. People were incredibly kind about the piece. Most used words like inspiring, filmic, epic...
It was probably the performers themselves coming up to me afterwards which was most gratifying. Many wanted to tell me the chord progressions they’d loved most. One lad said there was a passage which always made him smile no matter what sort of mood he was in. And many thanked me for including the sequence with a lad singing about his love for another lad. I think the section genuinely spoke to many of them and, for that alone, I felt hugely proud. One had a six coloured rainbow on the back of his phone which he told me his parents didn’t approve of. I felt sad.
The evening ended back at the hotel with Tash, Debbie, Chris, Anthony and the family. A wonderful night.
The journey up was far less complicated than I’d imagined. There was a good covering of snow on the car when I started my journey. It’s that rather strange icy snow which has been falling lately: the sort of powdery snow which gets everywhere, yet doesn’t seem to make anything particularly wet. It simply brushes off surfaces. I used an Enya CD to scrape it off all the windows and then went on my merry way, listening to Em on the car stereo. It sounded good. I felt excited.
By the time I’d reached Peterborough there was no sign of this second Beast from the East. In fact it was sunny. Freezing cold, but sunny.
The parents had booked us all into a hotel in the centre of the city, and we had a light lunch in the bar before heading out for a stroll. Peterborough, it turns out, is a rather lovely place. My only real experience of it in the past was waiting for trains at the rather uninspiring station and going there for shopping-cum-skating fun as a teenager. For some reason it was my form at school’s preferred away day, and we never ventured further than the soulless shopping complex.
Imagine my surprise, therefore, to find that the city has a medieval square, quite a lot of which is intact. And the cathedral is something else! It’s quite low-level and French-looking. There’s no massive spire or tower, but it’s profoundly beautiful. The ceilings are exquisite, carved from stone and wood. I don’t really know why it’s not better known. I don’t think there are many people in this country who would think to list Peterborough Cathedral alongside York, Canterbury and Lincoln. I’m not even sure that most people know that Peterborough even HAS a cathedral.
It’s actually the burial site of Catherine of Aragon. My Mum had popped in the previous day and stumbled upon a woman at her tomb, weeping and wailing. It’s astounding how figures from the past can generate such hysteria.
The cathedral also once housed the body of Mary Queen of Scots, which felt rather appropriate as one of the sequences in Nene is a setting of a poem that Mary wrote in Fotheringhey, shortly before her execution.
I met some of the young people who were going to be singing. The music school has been hugely careful about sharing out which school does which concert, and this performance favoured schools from the north of the county, Rutland and Cambridgeshire, but I was a little sad not to have my posse from Higham Ferrers junior school there. They sent me a card after the Albert Hall production with a picture of them all. It sits proudly on my mantle piece.
Nemo, the bath-tub water sculpture, which has become something of a talisman for the piece, wasn’t actually being featured in this performance, but had come to the cathedral to keep us company. It was lovely to see him again.
Brother Edward and Sascha arrived and we had a little walk around the city. Edward bought himself a “healthy” smoothie with grains and soya milk and all sorts of horrors inside. It tasted like the mushy relic of a Weetabix bowl and sawdust, and it had the aftertaste of raisins. Literally ghastly. It also caused an unpleasant row in our hotel bar when we were asked to lose the drink or leave. Charming for residents, we thought...
The concert itself has imbedded itself in my mind as a series of little snap shot.
There was a queue when we arrived which snaked out of the cathedral all the way into the market square. I didn’t feel grand enough to skip it, so, because it was cold, I walked up and down to see who was there. Little Michelle and Ben, Debbie, Tash, two of the Angelas I went to school with... it was a joy to see them all.
Seating was unreserved, so there was a bun fight going on. I was more than a little relieved that four seats at the front had been set aside for me. Enough for my guests Debbie, her husband Chris, and my Mum. Sitting on the front row is always a bit of a double-edged sword. You feel rather on display!
The first half included a contemporary dance piece performed by a group from Peterborough, which I found noble and impressive, yet a little bewildering. I wasn’t sure what expression to wear on my face.
The County Youth Choir, on the other hand, were extraordinary. Debbie, Brother Edward and I were all founding members of the group in 1990, and all three of us oscillated between being hugely moved and highly proud. They performed Sleep by Eric Whittaker with almost breathtaking precision. Sitting in the front row, was a surround-sound experience. It was like we were wearing the choir as a warm cloak!
There was a disconcerting, giant bronze Jesus on a cross hanging above our heads. The cross was red, which meant the holes in Jesus’ eyes were glowing like some sort of devil. I kept looking up and wondering if anyone else had noticed this particular fact, or whether the sculptor had meant it to be like that!
I was a little disappointed to see so few lads in the performances. None of the dancers were boys, girls far outweighed boys in the massed choir, and even the percussion ensemble had more girls than boys. This, in an era where much is being made of the need to have more women in music.
There was a tremendous moment at the start of the concert when Peter Smalley, who was presenting, told the children in the mass choir that they could wave at their families in the audience. I turned around to look down the nave of the cathedral at the audience - all seven hundred of them - to witness a sea of waving hands. I don’t know why I found the sight so moving. Perhaps because it meant that I’d brought families together through my music and given them memories to cherish.
I was interviewed before the performance of Nene. I don’t actually remember what I said. I had wanted to suggest that Peterborough be re-annexed by Northamptonshire. It was, after all, part of the county until 1974. I’m not sure that would have gone down any better than my insistence that Nene be pronounced Nen, the Northampton way, rather than Neen, the Peterborough way!
The performance itself was really wonderful. I think the orchestra played it better than ever before, and, of course, that booming cathedral acoustic was generous. Some sequences really landed. Mary Queen of Scots’ poem reverberated around the space like something sent from heaven. The sequence about the ghostly hunt was also suitably chilling. It actually describes a haunting in the cathedral itself and I told the choir before that if they sang it really loudly, we might encourage the ghosts to come back!
It’s a curious space which doesn’t exactly lend itself to performance. The choir and orchestra were a good thirty meters away from the front row of the audience, and we could only just see the conductor and a few bows moving about. There were screens in the space which showed us close-ups of the action, but, it wasn’t quite the visceral experience of Derngate or the Albert Hall. It was more wistful. Distant. Which sort of worked. I hope the audience towards the back of the space were able to hear enough of what was going on.
After the piece finished, I was engulfed by lovely people wanting to shake my hand and have their programmes signed. People were incredibly kind about the piece. Most used words like inspiring, filmic, epic...
It was probably the performers themselves coming up to me afterwards which was most gratifying. Many wanted to tell me the chord progressions they’d loved most. One lad said there was a passage which always made him smile no matter what sort of mood he was in. And many thanked me for including the sequence with a lad singing about his love for another lad. I think the section genuinely spoke to many of them and, for that alone, I felt hugely proud. One had a six coloured rainbow on the back of his phone which he told me his parents didn’t approve of. I felt sad.
The evening ended back at the hotel with Tash, Debbie, Chris, Anthony and the family. A wonderful night.
Thursday, 15 March 2018
The minging generation
I saw a poster today for a cleaning product (at least I assume that’s what it was for) which simply said “microwave ming?” I assume the poster was asking passers by if we felt that our microwave ovens were smelly, dirty, or, as we might have said when I was at university, “minging.” I haven’t heard the word shortened to “ming” for many years. “That thing mings!” we’d say, or “that is ming!” If you were feeling particularly fancy, you might have said, “that’s ming-de-mong-de-wacky-de-honky.” Don’t ask me why!
Anyway, it suddenly struck me that I’d never seen the word “ming” written down in any other context than Chinese dynasties and fancy vases. Seeing it on the billboard really took me back. But do the kids still refer to things as ming? Or is this an example of an advertising person trying to hit on a wave of nostalgia from the much-maligned and utterly inconsequential Generation X, who have had their babies now and are now obsessing about the mess their soon-to-be-teenaged-children are leaving everywhere?
I’m ashamed to admit that my generation hasn’t really offered a great deal to the world. Our talented people were silenced by moguls like Simon Cowell and replaced with pretty people who briefly captured the zeitgeist, generated money for the generation above and then disappeared from sight. Our politicians created Brexit and then pretended nothing was wrong. We can’t afford houses of our own. We don’t have proper pensions. All we’ve really got to offer the world is a mass market for cleaning produce! Perfect.
Anyway, it suddenly struck me that I’d never seen the word “ming” written down in any other context than Chinese dynasties and fancy vases. Seeing it on the billboard really took me back. But do the kids still refer to things as ming? Or is this an example of an advertising person trying to hit on a wave of nostalgia from the much-maligned and utterly inconsequential Generation X, who have had their babies now and are now obsessing about the mess their soon-to-be-teenaged-children are leaving everywhere?
I’m ashamed to admit that my generation hasn’t really offered a great deal to the world. Our talented people were silenced by moguls like Simon Cowell and replaced with pretty people who briefly captured the zeitgeist, generated money for the generation above and then disappeared from sight. Our politicians created Brexit and then pretended nothing was wrong. We can’t afford houses of our own. We don’t have proper pensions. All we’ve really got to offer the world is a mass market for cleaning produce! Perfect.
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