Eating words

At certain times in life, we are forced to eat our words. Last night I listened to the Eurovision song by Engelburt Humperdinck, and feel forced to acknowledge that it’s probably one of the best entries for the competition the UK has had in recent years. The key change is a bit splashy, and there are a few unnecessary high notes at the end of the song, which are made the more grotesque by Humperdinck doing the 1970s thing of pulling the mic away from his mouth, but the song - and Humperdinck’s performance - has a dignity to it. It’s quite a sad, haunting song, a million miles away from the mid-tempo ballad I thought he’d be given. I predict a top ten placing; possibly about 8^th, although Fiona pointed out today that he’s made the cardinal gaff of saying that the song is a “grower” which may not appeal to people on the first hearing. Does he not understand the concept of the competition? The UK doesn’t get to appear in a semi-final and benefit from the exposure that this event naturally gives a song.  People will hear it for the first - and only time - on the night itself. It doesn't have time to grow. It’s also quite a bummer that Humperdinck is performing first. Unless the song immediately jumps out, and everything else pales into insignificance by comparison, we're on a hiding to nowhere. As far as I’m concerned if you’re on before 8^th, it’s all over.

I think this year Serbia have it in the bag. This is a country which knows how to play the Eurovision game.

1 - Artist who’s performed before and done well (aka "Eurovision Royalty") – tick.

2 -  A lilting folk vibe with a powerful instrumental break where a beautiful violinist gets to play a melody over heavy drums – tick.

3 - Unnecessary key change - tick.

4 - A curious folk instrument which looks like a cross between a flute and a bamboo stick – tick.

Sweden will also do well. They’ve got a curious Kate Bush-type performer, who sings through her hair, looks a bit Inuit and does all sorts of crazy Capoeira-type movements. If she genuinely sounds like she does on the recording when she’s singing live, and doing all the bizarre movements, she’s going to be very popular, because she has a very affecting voice, and a hypnotising look. As my brother says, “Sweden are owed  win...” The politics of Eurovision can be a little like the Oscars.

I also predict top ten placings for Ireland and Russia, for all the wrong reasons. Don't get me started on Russia. Six elderly, very silly, toothless crones, who sing out of tune and dress in some random region's National Dress. If they were singing a heartfelt lullaby, they might stand a chance of being quite moving. Sadly, they're singing some oompty poompty shite, which, frankly, I could have farted more successfully.

So there you have it,  early doors Eurovision Song Contest tips. It is by no means a strong field this year.

Saturday 22^nd March, 1662, and Pepys worked at the office all morning. Saturday was obviously not a day for going shopping and getting slaughtered in those days. In the afternoon he took a barge down the Thames with both Sir Williams to examine some ships. There was a very fine meal on deck, and a multi-gun salute - for no reason, by all accounts. Everyone was, we’re told, exceedingly merry, and Pepys drank himself silly. He got back to the office to find that William Griffin, the housekeeper of the building had left the door unlocked. Pepys very nearly punished him by steeling the carpet, but called him up instead and told him off royally.

Compositional cul-de-sac

I’m shattered. I'm afraid this blog is not destined to make any sense whatsoever. Nathan has just got home from work and demanded that I take the evening off. I downed tools at 8pm, but had thought I might write till 10 tonight because the muse wasn’t exactly with me today. In fact, I’d go as far as to say she was taking the mick, pushing me down a variety of compositional cul-de-sacs, which always ended at the same boring semi-detached house with net curtains blocking the view inside. You can tell from the clumsy metaphors I’m choosing that things are not good!
 

I took a few hours off in the early afternoon to spend time with Fiona who got back from the States today. It was great, as ever, to see her. She watched the Hattersley films, we caught up on the last three months and then walked in the spring sunshine up to Highgate Village to pay in some cheques. Isn’t March 21^st officially the first day of spring?

The trees outside our front windows are beginning to show signs of life. There’s a tiny little bud on the end of every twig on every branch. Within a week or so, they will be a riot of lime green, and our view of Alexandra Palace will vanish for another year. One of the deeply satisfying aspects of living in Highgate is the amount of green space up here. There are two woods, several parks and a heath within spitting distance. The trees I’ve just mentioned line the little cut that the tube is built into. They are tall, strong trees, filled with squirrels and bird’s nests. I merely need to glance out of the window to know what month we’re in. My view goes from vibrant green to deep evergreen, to red, orange and yellow before finally melting into dark brown. My own little seasonable rainbow. Deep down, I’m a bit of a rural lad, so it provides me with a necessary injection of nature!

Pepys spent much of the day in Whitehall 350 years ago, and drank wormwood ale in a tavern close to the house of Lords, “which doubtless was a bawdy house, the mistress of the house having the look and dress.” A bawdy look and dress? Wow!

Pepys went to his former master’s house to find his wife, but discovered that she, and Lady Sandwich, had already eaten their dinner. Pepys ate with the servants instead. Funny the difference a few years will make; three years ago, he’d have been lucky to do anything other than eat with servants. Pepys returned home to discover his serving boy, Wayneman, had fallen sick with the same ague that his maid had been suffering from. Getting dangerously close to plague-time...

Are you a creative?

We were up with the lark in Manchester this morning and were speeding down the M6 towards London before 9am.

We stopped for beans on toast at Sandbach Services, which has to rank amongst the worst service stations in the world. It’s pokey and ludicrously expensive, although it looks as though its undergoing some kind of face lift at the moment. There were giant holes in the ceilings with dangerous-looking wires poking out all over the place and a giant sign very proudly announced that a McDonalds is on its way. What a relief. Proper food at last!

Nathan dropped me off at Hangar Lane from whence I skedaddled to White City, or Shite Shitty as I like to call it, for a meeting at the BBC. Penny and I were being introduced to our mentor for The Space, a lovely chap called Jonathan, who directs the television content for much of the Proms season each year. I liked him enormously and feel very excited to be working with him on the project. I think I might get to shadow him when he does his work, which could be a very interesting learning opportunity.

I got a little lost in the rabbit warren of buildings to the East of television centre and was forced to stop a friendly-faced lady to ask which of the buildings was the one the BBC staff called White City. She was very helpful, and after I’d thanked her, she started to gush, "ooh how lovely...” she said, “look at you! Are you a creative?" I was wearing a cloth cap, but wasn't aware that I was looking particularly arty. A few seconds earlier, for example, a chap had walked past with a violin strapped to his back, but she didn't feel the need to say anything to him! This was the BBC, a veritable hub of creativity. Surely she sees people in cloth caps all the time, even if most of them are actors in period dramas! Perhaps I've started to emit a sort of creative power, which hypnotises anyone who stares into my Bambi-like eyes. Or maybe she simply thought I was a Blue Peter Bring and Buy sale.

My mind keeps flitting back to the joy of last night, and I continue to feel immensely proud of what we all achieved. Nathan says he thinks I sailed quite close to the wind with the speech I made. Apparently encouraging a group of people to resort to civil disobedience if the local council continue to ignore them, is not necessarily what’s expected or appropriate at a film premier. Try telling that to Vanessa Redgrave!

Pepys worked hard all day 350 years ago and subsequently didn’t find much to write about. His closing remark reminds me that he’s a man after my own heart: “My mind in good ease when I mind business, which methinks should be a good argument to me never to do otherwise.” It always feels much better when you’ve done a good day’s work.

Rock on!

I'm sitting in an Alice in Wonderland inspired tea rooms on Richmond Street in Manchester. It feels like a rather surreal place to be drinking tea at 10pm, but then again it's been a very surreal day.

I woke up in North Wales and was on a hill over-looking Hattersley by lunchtime.

Today was the day the good folk of Hattersley got to view our film for the first time. Paul organised a mini-premier in the community centre and the place was absolutely rammed with excited people who couldn't wait to see themselves in the film.

It was such a moving experience for us to watch the film surrounded by Hattersley people in the very community centre where the films were made.

The response was great. I could feel waves of emotion coming from all directions, and was thrilled that the people in the films got to feel like proper stars for the night. There were whoops and cheers and plenty of tears.

I made a little speech, and urged everyone in the crowd to keep fighting for what they're owed when their beloved community centre gets knocked down in the summer.

They'd laid on a proper fancy buffet with cakes and crisps and little sandwiches, and we sat for a few hours after the screening feeling incredibly proud of what we'd all achieved. I spent some time talking to Sheila, who features prominently in Charlie's film singing "Just like the Ivy." She turns 79 on Tuesday but says she has no one to celebrate with. "Aren't you married?" I asked. "I was." "Did you not have children?" "I had four beautiful boys," she said "but they all died at birth. The last one lasted eighteen hours." She smiled wistfully, her eyes began to prickle and my heart broke.

And here we are, back in Manchester City Centre, in a curious coffee shop,  with big smiles on our faces, feeling chuffed to pieces and ready to move on to the next adventure. Nathan is knitting a pair of socks. Rock on!

Pepys' diary entry 350 years ago was all about his uncle's estate in Brampton. The whole issue of his Uncle's will had dragged on to the extent that I'm sure even Pepys himself was bored witless!!

PS - we've got a really cool hotel room, which only cost £40! Look! It's even got a spa bath.

1960s heyday

I’m in North Wales. It’s Nathan’s niece’s 20^th birthday, and Mother’s day, which I’m reliably told should always be known as Mothering Sunday to include those who are mothers in all but name.

The journey over here seemed to take forever, and not just because I was driving. There’s that section of the M1 which seems to have moved slightly further north every time I travel on the motorway which restricts cars to 50 miles per hour. It lasts forever, and no one ever seems to be doing any work on it. We stopped at Watford Gap; a soulless place. I like it less with every ridiculous face lift it gets. I wish I’d seen the place in its 1960s heyday. If you watch the classic film Charlie Bubbles, there are sequences shot at Newport Pagnell services, and it looks atmospheric, glamorous and intriguing. When the service stations on the M1 first opened, the restaurants had full waitress service. People from Northamptonshire used to drive there for a fancy meal, or a cup of tea in the middle of the night – unheard of in those days.

We had lunch in The Castle; a pub on the A41 outside Market Drayton which does fabulous home-cooked food. I had a vegetarian lasagne and the biggest pudding in the world. Celia’s Ron paid for the lot, which was hugely generous, as about 8 of us were eating. He’s a good man, that man. There was a table covered in little potted primroses by the door and any mother who passed through the pub was encouraged to take one home with them.

I found out today that the A41 goes all the way from Marble Arch to Birkenhead. That's a long way for a road very few people have heard of!

We went back to Nathan’s sister’s house in Penley where I ate a dry roasted peanut and pickled onion sandwich for the first time since I was about 13 years old. Don’t knock it till you try it. I’d forgotten quite how good they taste – although they’re almost impossible to eat daintily.

I got my dates muddled up last night because I posted my blog after midnight. Yesterday’s Pepys news was actually meant for today. Fortunately, the 17^th March 1662 was not an epic day for Pepys. He worked, he went to The Exchange to see what was going on in the world, came home for his supper and read before bed. No wonder I forgot to read the entry!

Agues

Today started rather badly. Nathan was running late for a singing gig in Crewe and, just after leaving the house, called to ask where to car was. “Where I parked it” I replied, “on the single yellow lines at the end of the alleyway.” I think at that stage we both realised what had happened. The car had, once again, been towed away by Haringey Council. And why? Because they’d changed the parking regulations on one side of our road without sending out any information to local residents. A simple parking ticket would have done, but they get £250 when they tow a car away, and if the regulations have recently been changed, with nothing but a tiny sign to say as much, it’s rich pickings because hundreds of car owners will be unaware of the consequences of parking in their usual spots. It makes me sick. Councils will do anything to make a fast buck these days. £250 feels like a ridiculously large amount of money. We don't have it, but I’m not going to fight it. I nearly went mad fighting the council last time.

I worked all day, and sat at the kitchen table drinking cups of tea whilst my eyes spun in circles around the ever-changing, never-ending pages of manuscript. I’m sure I'm going slightly mad.

Fortunately, brother Edward arrived in the evening with Sascha, to take me out for an Italian meal in Highgate. We had such a lovely time, such wonderful conversations, although Zizzi, where we ate, is really bad when it comes to vegetarian options. They insist on using grana pedano cheese (made with rennet) in all the dishes that would be vegetarian in any other restaurant. I spoke to the waiter, who held his hands up and said the management were aware of the problem, and had already started looking into the idea of using a vegetarian hard cheese instead. Gret news for the future, but it didn't help me in the present, so I left my morals at the door and ate the cheese. Sometimes the only way forward is to lower your standards. I eat Polo mints and jelly. I wear leather shoes. I've watched a bull fight. I’m sure I’m regularly fed vegetable soup with meat stock in it. Sometimes I even eat my own nails...

Tuesday 18^th March, 1662, and Pepys was worried about his father in Huntingdonshire who had an “ague”, which may or may not have been life threatening. It wasn’t. He lived for another 20 years. I love the concept of an ague. Everyone had agues in those days. I’m going to start having agues – once I’ve worked out how to pronounce the word... Aig, Aug, Arg?

Bad beer

Mary Byrne – or Tesco Mary from X-Factor fame – appeared on This Morning today singing what she described as “Shirley Bassey’s version of As Long As He Needs Me.” How astonishing to be so incapable of taking a song and making it your own, that you have to acknowledge another performer instead of being able to say, “I’m performing my own take on As Long As He Needs Me... from Oliver."  It’s bad enough that her album is nothing but covers, but doing a cover version of a cover version is like releasing something that was recorded in a karaoke booth at bowling alley.  It just goes to show how fast these pieces of shit are generated and thrown out to make a fast buck. Frankly, I would be ashamed to be Mary Byrne. A few hours in a rehearsal space with a decent MD and I'm sure they could have come up with something much more interesting. For the sake of a little bit more time, and a few extra pennies. It makes me sick. This is exactly the sort of nonsense that needs to stop being made.

I ache all over and need to stop working. I'm writing at a speed which is almost making my head explode. I need to stop and take stock but don’t have this luxury. Even if I manage to write as much as a minute of musical material on the Fleet Singers composition every day, I will still not have enough material to hand over in a month and a half’s time. It’s a sobering thought.

My friend Abby texted me this afternoon to tell me some very bad news. Sam Hiller, the young man who sang counter tenor in the early music choir on The Pepys Motet, died in the early hours of yesterday morning. No one yet knows what happened to him, but I’m told he was out with friends the night before, having a lovely time and making plans for the future. The man had a very beautiful voice and the world will miss him very badly.

March the 16^th, 1662 was a Sunday, and Pepys spent the morning “going from one church to another and hearing a bit here and a bit there," which seems a very bizarre thing to have done. He spent the afternoon walking around St James’ Park, which he said was now “very pleasant.” The King and Duke of York were also present, having, apparently come to see their “fowl play.” One assumes they kept fancy geese and things on the lake there. The Duke was civil towards Pepys, which made him feel very good about himself.

Pepys and Elizabeth went to Sir William Penn’s house for supper. Pepys felt there was something wrong with Sir William and his family, who were obviously putting on a show, but looked “discontentedly.” Pepys knew “not what ail(ed) them”. He had a small cold beer, which made him ill, and he was forced to go outside to vomit. Perhaps the Penn household was being slowly poisoned by bad beer!?