A Mancunian double bill

Apologies for the tardiness of this post. Believe it or not, I couldn’t find a single place with wireless technology in Manchester...

03.03.12 (4pm)

I’m on my way to Manchester. I’m officially sick and tired of train journeys. I need to spend a little time nesting at home again. I also need a lie-in. I need a day off. I need to lose weight. I need a massage. I need therapy.

A group of lads on a stag do are in the same carriage as me. They’re being deliberately noisy. They’re coming to Manchester to let their collective tightly-gelled hair down and they don’t care who knows it. They keep pressing some kind of alarm button and they’re doing laddy banter, talking about “fat birds” and “big norks” and all manner of tragic nonsense. When men go on the prowl in a pack they tend to turn into cavemen. One of them keeps shouting “word up”- every 30 seconds. If I was sitting any closer I’d defenestrate him. One is laughing like a little girl – a tiny little girl with special needs. The rest of the laughter sounds really false; like Claudia Winkleman on Film 2012.They’ve started on the cans of beer. I keep hearing the familiar “schhhtuzzz” as another one is opened. By the time they head out on the town tonight, they’ll be rat-arsed and too drunk to pull. They’ll stand outside a pub; one hand holding a pint of beer, one hand in the pocket of their neatly ironed jeans. They’ll feel increasingly angry with the word as their surroundings start to spin. Someone will make a drunken pass at a girl with too much makeup, and not enough clothing and there will be a fight in my hotel whilst I’m trying to sleep.

The girl opposite me is very pretty, but she sounds like Raquel, that used to be on Corrie. I wasn’t aware that people actually spoke like that. Does Sarah Lancashire do any acting these days? She was good.

I’ve been trying to do some work on the train, but the seats are really uncomfortable when you’re not at a table. There’s nowhere to put my legs and the heating is too hot. The carriage smells of cabbages.

The theme of Ellen’s 40^th birthday is black and white. I guess if you’re going to theme a party, it’s good to do something generic like that. I’ve decided to wear shaving foam in my hair. It’s something I saw Philip Sallon doing once, and it looked quite cool, but I’ll probably make it look really stupid. I did joke with Ellen that I might come as my favourite black person. “Who’s your favourite black person?” she said, and I pulled the first comedy name I could think of out of my head, “Robert Mugabe,” I said. She laughed like a drain, “PLEASE come as Robert Mugabe. You’ll make my birthday if you come as Robert Mugabe, with the dodgy glasses and everything.” But I couldn’t bring myself to. He may look like a complete tit, but he’s one of the vilest creatures on this planet.

Very soon the train will pass quite close to Hattersley and I shall wonder how all the people up there are doing. I remembered last night a rather funny encounter with a chap called Maurice, who lives on the estate and is currently trying to write a book about its history. We talked about how unlucky Hattersley had been, and how the outside world tended to perceive it as quite a dangerous place. “Well,” he said, proudly, “here’s a fact. There have actually only been 6 murders on the estate in the 50 years since it was built.” Six murders sounded quite a lot to me, but then a thought occurred to me; “but surely the moors murderers count for most of those?” “Oh” he said, “I counted them as one.” “But what about Harold Shipman?” I said. He laughed. “No one knows how many people he killed, so I haven’t included that business at all!”

350 years ago, Pepys sat down and wrote a strict list of rules for his future spending which he bound himself to “in the presence of God.” Not quite sure how he managed that. In a church? Was God summonsed? I’m sure he was quite disheartened at the news of the day, which was that parliament had decided to tax every chimney in England. Two shillings per year. I wonder how many chimneys Pepys had...

04.03.12

Last night I went to Ellen’s 40^th birthday, which was in a beautiful boutique hotel – a former school house - somewhere near Granada television in Manchester. A group of us met before the event to sing through a special song we’d prepared; a version of I Know Him So Well, with alternative words by Pete, Claire and Jim about Ellen’s colourful and often chequered past.

As promised, I wore shaving foam in my hair. I thought it looked quite cool, like something from Red Dwarf, but everyone at the rehearsal assumed I was part way through the process of dying my hair with some kind of mousse. They probably thought I was vainly trying to get rid of a few grey hairs before seeing a bunch of friends from university whom I hadn’t clapped eyes on in years.  When I appeared at the do with the shaving foam still there, I think people were more perplexed than impressed!

The party took place on the roof terrace of the building. You could see the cobbled streets on the set of Coronation Street from one side. Everyone was given a glass of champagne as we arrived, including a table of old ladies celebrating a 60^th birthday, who’d stumbled up to the roof bar, and were nothing to do with us. I bet they couldn’t believe their luck.

Apart from the old lady imposters, everyone was dressed in black and white, and looked astonishingly glamorous. Some wore tuxes. Nic Harrison wore a beautiful retro dress. Helen’s lipstick looked like a delicate heart painted onto her face. There were mime artists, and silent movie actors, the tallest hats and the most beautifully-tailored suits. Ellen had her hair twisted into a chignon, like some kind of alluring 1960s film star. She looked a picture.

Because Ellen is a writer on Corrie, there were all sorts of actors and directors and telly people floating about. I had a lovely chat with a writer from Shameless who lives a stone’s throw away from Hattersley. His wife was planning to take their daughter to a trampoline class at the Ken Ward sports centre on the estate this morning.

I think I also met Jonathan Harvey, who’s the big cheese at Corrie. He’s the man responsible for writing the seminal film Beautiful Thing. I introduced myself to a Liverpudlian with a friendly face, who I thought was probably Harvey, but he made the classic error of not saying anything but “nice to meet you” when I held out my hand to introduce myself. I plainly couldn’t have asked him what he did for a job, because he assumed I already knew. I think it was him, because I once saw one of his plays at the Hampstead Theatre. The actor Andrew Lincoln told the audience in a Q and A afterwards that he’d based his rather extreme performance on the writer. The man I introduced myself to last night acted a bit like Andrew Lincoln’s character!

There were a few chilling blasts from the past including one girl who I hadn’t seen for 18 years. She stumbled around the party, getting more and more plastered, and every time I came within a few yards, I was forced to dart in the opposite direction because I couldn’t think of anything but really inappropriate things to say to her. When we were students she always seemed a bit edgy. We didn’t have anything to say to each other then, and she still had that same look of torment in her eye; the weird steely glare of a woman trying to control her demons.

But there were some lovely surprises as well. I had a long chat with Pete, a very dear friend from college days, and his beautiful wife, Rachel. The other Pete and the other Rachel both seemed very content as well. I think we can all feel rather proud of the people we became now that the chaotic ash clouds of youth have cleared.

Watching over the proceedings all evening was Ellen’s Dad, who died very suddenly about three weeks ago. His framed photograph sat at the bar all night and we raised a toast to him half way through the evening. His last words, apparently, were “give us another glass of wine” before he fell asleep on his wife’s shoulder and never woke up again.  I can think of no better way to go.

Star of the night was Ellen’s sister, Katie, who delivered an extraordinary speech which was brilliantly prepared, hysterically funny, and deeply touching. There’s plainly a serious stroke of genius running through the Taylor family.

350 years ago, Pepys, Elizabeth and Sir William Penn went walking in Moorfields. It was murky and cold, and they walked for quite some time. On the way home they went to The Pope’s Head to eat “cakes and other fine things.” It sounds like the perfect end to a wintry day. I ate a muffin to celebrate!

Angelberk Thumpletit

...And so we find ourselves lumbered with the foolishly named Engelbert Humperdinck as our entry for the Eurovision Song Contest. I don’t know who he is. I suspect my parents would even consider him to be old-fashioned. He sang that awful song “Please release Me.” He was awful in the 1960s. We’re told he’s from Leicester, although Wikipedia reliably informs me that Arnold George Dorsey was actually born in Madras, India. One wonders why he chose the silly name. I’m not interested enough to actually find out. The whole business is desperately tedious. The British public haven’t had any sort of say in the matter. A group of execs from the BBC with no interest or love for Eurovision obviously sat around a table to brainstorm an artist who might represent us. They started with the big names – all of whom said no – and then they went further and further into the past for “has-been/ never-was” inspiration. The job of writing the song goes to one of the fifteen thousand people who claim to have written “You’re Beautiful” with James Blunt. He’ll obviously not try very hard to write something decent, because he’ll no doubt hate Eurovision and think it would be a waste of a decent song. One wonders also why his CV is pinned on a ditty (which he co-wrote) ten years ago. Has he not had a hit since? Anyway, the result of all this is frighteningly obvious... Humperdinck, botoxed and glowing with fake tan, gets lumbered with an expensive sub-Amy Winehouse number, and Europe, yet again, laughs at us. The ONLY thing you need to know about Eurovision these days is that you’ll only win if you go in it for the right reasons... We haven’t gone in with the right reasons since 1998 - the year after we last won.
 

As a dirty protest to this ghastly news, I squirted toothpaste all over the sink whilst shouting “die Tinkletwat, die!”

Does anyone else share in my dismay that it’s already March?

And what of Pepys 300 years pre-eurovision? Well, he spent the morning chatting to Elizabeth in bed, telling her that they needed to lead a more frugal lifestyle. The incentive? Pepys was currently worth about 500l... but if he were to become worth 2000l, he’d buy a coach and horses, and they could lord it over everyone in London!

A lilac shag pile

I don’t know which was worse on my journey up to Newcastle; the rancid woman with a hangover sitting opposite me, who sighed and sweated and buried her face in the table in a bid for sympathy, or the two ghastly middle-class children who’d obviously been brought up to believe they were not just the centre of their mother’s world, but the centre of every last human in the world’s world. Sometimes I think there’s a lot to be said for allowing children to sit in prams under trees, completely unattended for long periods of time! It’s the best way to teach them that the world fundamentally doesn’t care. You earn respect, you don’t demand it. There’s nothing worse than the whinnying “eha eha eha” of a child who’s only crying to get their own way. Children like the irritating little brats on the train, grow up into rancid ladettes like the sweat-box opposite me, who believes the world should feel sorry for her because she went out on the town last night and got rat-arsed. If you’re going to sweat the stench of white wine, go and sit in someone else’s carriage...

The sun breaking through the mist was a glorious accompaniment to my journey north. As we travelled up through the home-counties, I was treated to some of the most spectacular scenes I’ve ever witnessed. The gently undulating fields, semi-silhouetted, shrouded in mist like a piece of batik held up to a lamp.

I had the mortifying experience of having to do an interview with Radio York whilst sitting on the train. I had offered a pre-record, but they seemed intent on my speaking live. I went to the vestibule of the train, but it was way too loud, so was forced to do the deed in front of everyone in the carriage. Big, confident, excited voice. Mortifying. To make matters worse, the phone predictably cut out about one second into the interview, and by the time they’d called me back, the presenter seemed to be all flustered. I must have spoken for all of ten seconds before things very wisely got wrapped up. Miserable. Thankfully I didn’t swear when I was cut off. At least not out loud. Everyone on the carriage was staring.

A lovely lady at Euston Station got the day off to a really good start this morning by helping me out of a pickle. I’m going back to Manchester on Saturday to celebrate Ellen’s 40^th birthday, and blithely bought myself an advance train ticket some weeks ago, thinking the event would start later than it did. I actually don’t know what was going through my mind when I chose that particular train. Anyway, I thought I’d at least see if I could change the ticket without having to take out a bank loan, and the lovely lady behind the counter went above and beyond the call of duty to, not only change my ticket, but do so for no extra cost whatsoever. Isn’t that just lovely? Thank you, Mrs Lady.

I’ve been in Newcastle all day. It was a balmy spring day; which seems to be my experience every time I visit the city. The crocuses were out on the heath next to the BBC buildings; a thick purple and white shag-pile carpet, wrapped tightly around a line of trees. Helen, who met me from the station, said she’d been studying the crocuses up-close and noticed two single yellow flowers in the sea of lilac. She said she imagined them hatching from their bulbs and thinking; “what’s all this then? Why are we this garish colour? We look ridiculous compared to our mates.” I loved the fact that this thought had occurred to her.

The meeting at the BBC went well. We talked about all sorts of fun things and I played them the Hattersley film, which seemed to go down incredibly well. I noticed a few tears being subtly flicked away by a gentleman who shall remain unnamed...

We went for lunch in a wonderful little cafe in a residential area to the North West of the BBC buiding. It’s apparently considered to be a bit of a dive by Newcastle standards, but I was really taken with it. Rows and rows of clean Victorian houses stretching up and down hills. Intriguing little Indian shops and launderettes. Lots of green space. It reminded me of parts of Crouch End and Hyde Park in Leeds.

I woke up this morning with my teeth locked together; a strong indication that I’m stressed. It’s difficult to know what to do about it, because it’s stress caused by having too much work to do, which is a stress I’d far rather have than the stress of loneliness or the stress of feeling like a failure. The life/ work balance is really complicated, isn’t it? At the moment, in order to live as a composer, I have to take on slightly too many commissions, because I can’t afford to live on the amount I’d be paid if I did a more realistic amount of work.

For those who are interested, Tyne Daley – who it turns out was Lacy off of Cagney and Lacey - was extraordinary as Maria Callas in last night’s show. I can’t recommend it highly enough.

350 years ago, Pepys went to see Romeo and Juliet, the first time it had been staged in London since before the interregnum. He hated the experience. The actors were ill-prepared, and he thought the play itself was pretty rubbish. I love the fact that Pepys doesn’t really rate Shakespeare.

Cagney and Lacy

We're on our way into town to watch Cagney and Lacy playing Maria Callas. I've no idea what to expect, but my old mate Diane is in the cast, so it ought to be good! I hope Cagney and Lacy arrive on stage wearing bat wing jumpers and knee-high boots!

I was up with the lark this morning to get to the South Bank for a meeting about The Space. It was quite a fancy do with all sorts of BBC and Arts Council types rubbing shoulders with representatives from the various exciting projects which have been selected for The Space. It's incredibly exciting. We're all taking a massive dive into uncharted waters. There were a few whingers in the crowd; obviously being awarded a large sum of money to create an unique piece of art isn't enough for some people. Penny and I just felt grateful to be there and proud that the London Requiem already seems to be one of the projects which has piqued people's interest. 

I bloomin' love the Arts Council. They have funded my projects more than any other institution aside from the BBC and I sometimes wonder if anything decent would ever happen in our industry without them. 

We had sandwiches for lunch. A waiter stood behind a giant platter serving them out and I was nearly hugely impressed. He said "all the meat sandwiches are on the right hand side of the table." "So everything else is vegetarian?" I asked. "Yes," he said, "unless you count tuna as meat." Umm?! There's this weird believe which seems to be filtering through society at the moment that you can call yourself vegetarian if you eat fish. Does a tuna have a face? Yes! Do tuna fish have mothers? Yes! Then tuna does not feature in a vegetarian diet. There's even a word for vegetarians who eat fish. Pescetarians. Though quite how one spells the word I've no idea! 

No news from Pepys 350 years ago. 1662 wasn't a leap year. February 29th is a funny old concept isn't it? Happy birthday to all the 10 year olds who are secretly 40 today!! 

BOO to PRS

I did a morning’s work on the Fleet Singer’s composition, before being engulfed by the London Requiem... Hundreds of emails came dancing into my inbox; all manner of stuff pertaining to arts-based projects in graveyards, and other projects which have nothing to do with graveyards, but everything to do with death. If I wasn’t depressed before reading them, I was afterwards. Sadly, we still have a small amount of fundraising to do to make sure the live performance of the Requiem in September goes smoothly, and I don’t know if I have the head-space to deal with two separate quests for money. Obviously my absolute priority has to be the recording; it has the potential to dramatically change the direction of my career, and it’s the thing that has the power to leave a legacy that will never be deleted. That said, we have to fund the live performance or we’ll end up looking very silly indeed. Somewhere within the murk and gloom of fundraising bids and too many emails are the two commissions that I have to complete by the end of April... If only I were superman!

There’s really not a great deal else to say. I spent the day today applying to the Arts Council for some help with the requiem, because, for the umpteenth time in my career, the man from PRS, he say no! I don’t know what you need to do to get money out of the PRS foundation. I can only assume that their entire system is either based on a series of backhanders awarded to “favourites” or a misleading set of guidelines about what they actually want to fund. Perhaps they’re more interested in avant garde music. Maybe they don’t like community projects, or perhaps they claim to have larger sums of money than are actually available. They turned down Oranges and Lemons, The Pepys Motet, The York 800 project, Metro: The Musical, and now the London Requiem. All of these projects were picked up and funded elsewhere, so it’s not like they were invalid or just a bit crap. PRS always refuses to give feedback about the application process, so everything feels a little murky in complete contrast to the Arts Council which is always very open and honest about what it funds. Hurrah for the Arts Council... Boo to PRS!

I went to the gym and now I feel sick. But look at the Requiometer...

350 years ago, and Pepys’ boy, Wayneman, forgot to wake his master up as early as he’d requested. Pepys decided to whip the lad as punishment, which seems a tad unjust.

He needed to be up early to visit the Duke of York and present him with a “fine” map of Tangiers which had been drawn by a Swedish companion of Lord Sanwich’s. The Duke seemed much taken with his gift, and spent ages, in Pepys’ company, staring at it. Pepys returned from Westminster to find his clerk, Thomas Hater, had taken delivery of half a year’s salary. Pepys, flushed with wealth, and good to his word, asked for a cane, and took his boy into one of the upper rooms of the Comptroller’s House “towards the garden” and “there I reckoned all his faults, and whipped him soundly, but the rods were so small that I fear they did not much hurt to him, but only to my arm, which I am already, within a quarter of an hour, not able to stir almost.” Well, I’m tempted to say it serves him right for being so genuinely horrible.

Ten thousand

I made a start on the music side of my commission for the fleet singers today. It's always a bit weird when you sit down at a piano and realise you're starting from scratch. There are always a number of false starts; myriad things you can do to put off the inevitable. The room looks messy, so you tidy up a bit, make the bed, make a cup of tea... You stare at the piano for a few moments, run your finger through some dust and then play a chord or two. You realise with horror that they're from the last piece you wrote and that muscle memory has taken your fingers there. You play a few more chords. They're too avant garde. You're writing for amateur singers, not computers. More chords. Too cheesy. Didn't you use that progression before? More still. These ones are hackneyed, but surely the beating heart of a popular song is often the use of a recognisable chord progression. Perhaps this one's been done to death, you think... Mostly by you! And so the thoughts continue. A splurge of activity. An ostinato. A rush of adrenaline as you scribble things down before forgetting what it was that sounded so good. It won't do, but it's a start. The key is to make a start... 

There are now marks on a piece of manuscript paper. Until I start the next composition, I will never have to sit in front of an empty manuscript again!

I received an email this morning which informed me that the fundraising for the requiem has now reached £10,000, which feels like a very important milestone. Another five and we can begin the process of recording. 

I went into Shoreditch today to meet the good folk at Rich Mix, who are the partners for our live Requiem project. All sorts of exciting things are going to be happening throughout the ten-week period leading up to the live performance: from debates to dance events inspired by the music. It's almost bewildering to think how much creativity the work will generate. 

En route to Rich Mix, I went to see Philippa and Deia at the Childhood Museum in Bethnal Green. What a fabulous place! The first display cabinet I looked at was filled with Fisher Price toys; a hospital, a farm and the Fisher Price High Street, which made me want to scream with excitement. There were Weebles too, in their original boxes and all manner of exciting toys that I'd longed for as a child, including Mr Potato Head and a Girl's World! How I longed for a Girl's World! How the writing was on the wall!

The visit ended at the craft tables, which are covered with pots of pens and scissors and glue and vats of ripped up pieces of crepe paper. It was like being at junior school again, when Helen Dent and I used to closely guard the one unusual-coloured pencil in the class room. It was a shade of maroon, and no one else was to learn of its existence. At the end of each day we'd take it out of the pencil tray and hide it behind the radiator! 

350 years ago, Pepys had the mother of all rows with his composition tutor, which ended with Birchensha storming out of Pepys' chamber... It's so much better in Pepys' own words;

"I, finding that he cries up his rules for most perfect (though I do grant them to be very good, and the best I believe that ever yet were made), and that I could not persuade him to grant wherein they were somewhat lame, we fell to angry words, so that in a pet he flung out of my chamber and I never stopped him, having intended to put him off today, whether this had happened or no, because I think I have all the rules that he hath to give."

Wood smoke

We've come to Thaxted for the day. It's been a wonderful tonic, filled with great food, lovely sunny walks across the fields, and hours of doing nothing but sitting on a comfy chair by the fire with a glorious mug of tea in my hand. Sadly no one thought to actually light the fire, but I'm sure if we had, the blissfulness of the moment would have sent us into a coma.

I stuck my head out of the front door earlier on and the whole town smelt of wood smoke, which has to be one of the greatest aromas known to man.  The air was incredibly still and the moon was glowing magically in the sky; the merest silvery crescent flanked by Venus and Saturn.

My great friend, Tash came to stay last night, and we talked late into the night whilst eating silly biscuits. We were both students at the Northamptonshire music school and she's now a teacher there, which is a hugely comforting thought. The good work continues. We talked for hours about old times and what an important role the school had played in our lives. The council have now pulled funding from the music service (who cares, as long as the rich remain rich), so, as of September, it's becoming a charitable trust. I sincerely hope its work will be able to continue long into the future. 

350 years ago, Pepys spent the morning with his music tutor, Mr Birchensha, working on a setting of Davenant's poem, "This Cursed Jealousy. What is it?" After dinner, Pepys took himself on a trip to various establishments in the City to settle a number of debts. He had decided to get his accounts in order within a few days, fearing he'd over-spent in recent weeks. I know how he feels!