Anal Cream Pie

Being the partner of a knitter, or a wool-widower as I prefer to call it, can have its ups and downs. On the bright side, I get to look at lots of lovely, brightly patterned scarves and socks and get to sit and marvel at the extreme cleverness of my partner.  Top of the list of downs, however, is the fact that our freezer is now stuffed full of wool! We're reliably informed that freezing yarn kills moths dead. Fact! But it also means I can't find the frozen peas and don't know if there are any nut cutlets for tea tonight! Hoo!

I went back to the gym today. I always know that I'm dangerously unfit when I become a little allergic to my own sweat and end up getting all itchy on the tread mill! Still, the feeling you get afterwards is worth the scratching and mind-numbing boredom. I feel alive I tell you. Alive! 

From the gym I trundled off to Dalston for a meeting with Alistair from the Kaleidoscope Trust. The subject of conversation was the release of our charity single. I'm being interviewed on Radio

Northampton about it tomorrow morning and Alastair was giving me a set of briefing notes. All very exciting. 

We returned home from Hackney and went to get our car washed by a group of fabulously chirpy Albanians on the A1. They washed the outside rather beautifully and diligently hoovered and polished inside... All done with beaming smiles and for the same cost as a drive-through car wash in an Esso garage. Now our car squeaks when it drives. And who'd have thought it was that shade of blue?

On the way home the elastic went in my boxer shorts, and I realised they'd dropped down to my knees underneath my trousers. Seconds later I realised that they dropped so far down either side of the gusset of said trousers that I found I'd lost the ability to walk up the stairs to my flat, so had to sort of jump. It was mortifying, really. 

Here's my problem. I can't find proper boxer shorts any more. If I wear these new-fangled, figure-hugging jockey trunk things, I end up getting really claustrophobic. The same sort of panic you get when your head gets stuck in a jumper or between the railings of a garden fence. So until I can find something a bit more old school, I shall be wondering around North London looking like I've had a little accident! 

Double penetration

I'm in Catford. We've just had a marvellously relaxing afternoon watching television with Julie. Nathan's knitting an enormous olive green blanket, and Julie appears to be making a rust-coloured shawl. Nathan's run out of yarn, so there's a full-scale panic going on involving a wool website and two knitters atteto find something identical with which to finish said blankie.

We've watched the X Factor and Downton Abbey. It's good to know my weekend telly is sorted for the next three months! 

I did a morning's work and then got in a panic because I'd not eaten and wanted to tidy the house before we left. I mopped, scrubbed, washed and polished like a dervish in a frenzy before breaking into an awful sweat which made me feel stupidly emotional. I shouted a bit and then was whisked away in a car.

I arrived at Julie's and ate a plate of salad like some kind of rabbity addict... Going low blood sugar without food is such a nonsense! Maybe I shouldn't allow myself to give into it.

Here's an interesting thing. About two weeks ago, I wrote a blog entry entitled "porn songs and ice cream." On a normal day, I would expect about 100 people to read this blog. If I've been doing something interesting, or saying something outrageous perhaps as many as 200 will "tune in", but on that day, almost a thousand people clicked on the link, thereby indicating the power of filth! I find this hugely amusing and, as a result, the keen-eyed amongst you will notice, for the next few days, a little experiment taking place within my blog's titles. This may, or may not bring the reading figures up. 

Of course these new readers will be almost exclusively perverted, and won't bother to read the blog once they realise they're not going to click on it and find rows of lesbian dwarves wearing PVC aprons, but I shall, of course, keep my more loyal readers up to date with the numbers I'm generating.

What fun!

Any suggestions for filthy blog titles will be considered, so feel free to get in touch! 

Bugles

I had a wonderful email today from a lady in Leeds who was writing on behalf of her next door neighbour who'd seen me in the Yorkshire Post. The next door neighbour (whom I've still not managed to talk to her in person) wanted me to know that she had relatives who'd been in the Leeds Pals, and that she had a bugle which had been played by one of them in France which she wanted me to have. She thinks her own relatives would be likely to throw it away if she bequeathed it to them. The thought of seeing and touching a musical instrument with that sort of extraordinary heritage is obviously beyond exciting for me, and if I am able to look after it on her behalf, I shall be utterly honoured to do so.

I decided to wake up when I woke up this morning, and was both horrified and astonished to find myself getting out of bed just before noon. Noon! How slutty is that? I think the last time I got up at noon was when I was a student! I must have been tired.

Sadly I've done nothing but work ever since. I managed to consolidate another 30 pages of notes before my eyes went completely gaga. At least I now feel there's light at the end of this particularly long and dark tunnel.

In the process of consolidation, I came across a letter which I found in the Yorkshire Evening Press archives from 1916. I wrote about it a few weeks ago in this blog, but it touched me so completely, that I thought it might be nice to publish it in full:

 

To kindly disposed friends - I am taking what may seem a liberty in writing this letter to you, I am afraid, but the need justifies the deed, so here goes. I and a few bosom pals are greatly in need of a few musical instruments to make the hours that we are not on duty pass more pleasantly. No one knows except perhaps those who have experienced long, lonely spells how much music in these cases is appreciated. Out here in the firing line, away from all civilians, it is impossible to buy even the most crude instrument, and up to the present, the only music that has greeted our ears has been the whine of a shell or the crash of one of our guns. It is the ambition of my friends and myself to form a small string band, and instruments suitable for the same would be greatly appreciated by us, for we have at least six violinists with us now who are anxious to put their talents to use to make the “hour of waiting” pass more pleasantly. Dear friend, in reading this appeal, if you have anything to offer in the shape of fiddles, banjos, mandolins or any other stringed instruments, will you please remember the boys of one of your batteries. Trusting that some good result will come of this letter, and a few instruments will be the practical answer. Yours sincerely Yorkite.

I would love to know what happened to this group of musicians, whether they were sent any instruments, and moreover, if any of them survived the war. I don't suppose I'll ever know.

Another curious article appeared on Monday 27^th December 1915:

During the past few months an Ashford (Kent) ferret dealer has sent no fewer than 500 ferrets to the troops in Flanders to assist the men in hunting the hordes of rats in the trenches. Rat-catching has become quite a sport with the troops, and in consequence for the great demand for ferrets, the price of them has gone up in the Ashford district from 1s to 5s each.

How bizarre is that?

Hibernation

Fiona's been with us all day today. She sat with Nathan in the sitting room, the pair of them under blankets in a semi-comatose state, watching telly whilst talking about knitting and iPhones. I joined them in the later afternoon but sat, like a good boy, all morning in the kitchen doing my research. At the moment I'm trying to transfer all the First World War notes I've made into a single, logical document which will enable me to find the information I need when I start to write the piece. For some reason the process is taking forever. 120 pages of text read, re-read, edited and placed under fifty or so individual headings. Dull, dull, dull... 

We had lunch in the greasy spoon and then took a lovely walk along Parkland Walk towards Crouch End. The sun's back this week, early enough in the year for it to still feel like summer. The trees are still green.  I think we may have a few weeks before the leaves start to change colour. 

There's not much else to say, really. We dropped Fiona off at St Pancras, came home for some pasta, and I now intend on melting into a sofa and going into hibernation! 

It's been a long old week. 

Women of Iceland

We've got Fiona staying with us at the moment. She's come straight off the train from Paris, which strikes me as being a little too glamorous for words!

I've just been to an exhibition of photographs by my friend Gaby. It was in a beautiful gallery with white washed walls just off Brick Lane, and the whole thing, which was sponsored by Olympus, felt incredibly swanky. There were fancy hors d'oeuvres, glasses of champagne and a slightly eccentric display of parkour.  

The pictures themselves were of inspiring Icelandic women; leading figures from the arts and science living in a country which I'm sure intrigues most of us. The portraits themselves were stunning, but the tantalising views of the landscape in the background behind were something else.

Gabs is a wonderful photographer and I'm thrilled things seem to be going so well for her.

Women of Iceland is at the Loading Bay, Truman Brewery, Brick Lane, E1 6NJ

Landing with a bump

I landed back in London last night with something of a bump. Everyone who walked past me at King's Cross station seemed to be either angry or depressed, and I realised that grumpiness is really part of the make-up of London. In fact, I started to think what an impossible task the manager of that Tesco store in Hackney will have trying to get his staff to give decent customer service.  The majority of Londoners are in such a hurry to be somewhere - anywhere - else that everything else goes out of the window!

So today I've been formatting and sifting through the notes I made in Leeds, whilst simultaneously trying to empty my suitcase, do my washing, and make a start on the last two Pepys Motet linking sequences. For some reason, my hands smell of bleach.

I've also been transcribing a 90-year old Leeds woman singing a song about the Barnbow Lassies, recorded in the early 90s

about six months before she died. It's apparently the song the women used to sing as they filled shells in the factory. I'm astounded she remembered it for the best part of 80 years. Transcribing it was complicated and involved a lot of guess work. It didn't seem to scan particularly well and there were sections where she'd plainly forgotten the melody and opted to make something rather tuneless up whilst focussing on the words. But what a treat it was to hear her voice - her wonderful West Riding accent lilting through.  Just lovely. 

Nathan arrived home from Coventry an hour ago, clasping a manuscript pad from our friend Carrie, who he's been working with for the last couple of days. Carrie had seen the book whilst shopping in Newquay and thought of me. How touching is that? It's a lovely thing and I've decided to use it the very next time I put pen to paper. I could have done with it today, actually. 

Yellow flowers

I am remembering with horror an incident at the premier of my film last Friday when the (female) mayor of the borough (whom I'd been speaking to earlier in the evening) came over to congratulate me after seeing the show. Unfortunately I'd only been introduced to her as "the mayor" and as a result, had no idea of a) her name or b) how to formally address a mayor.

"Alright, Misses?" I said. Like some kind of insane cheeky Cockney. Calling people "Misses" was something I picked up from Shaheen Baig when I used to cast films with her.

"Did you just call me Misses?" Said the mayor?

"Gosh, I'm sorry," I replied, "I assume I should have called you Lady Mayoress."

"Ah no!" she said "Lady Mayoress" would be how you would have addressed my wife if I were a man..."

"So what would I call your husband?" I asked.

"Dead!" she said, with a twinkle. "But otherwise, he'd be my consort."

And out of embarrassment I launched into a monologue about the Clintons, wondering if Bill Clinton would become the "First Man" if Hillary were elected as president. Fortunately I stopped myself from asking what her lover would be known as if she were a lesbian. She plainly already thought she was speaking to an imbecile! 

In my embarrassment, I never thought to ask how tradition dictates that we greet a female mayor. Lady Mayor? Mrs Mayor? Shirley?!

Answers on a postcard, please...

I breakfasted in a little greasy spoon near the market. I've yet to find a cafe in Leeds where I can find a poached egg or somewhere I can sit and write whilst slowly sinking cups of tea. Cafes in Leeds seem to be about the practical aspect of eating rather than relaxing... Or pretending to be a screenwriter.

I spent the morning at the library in the Leeds Armouries museum, looking through an enormous file of material on the Barnbow munitions factory, which proved hugely useful. I think research is always more enjoyable when you already know a fair amount about what you're reading. Very soon I reckon, I'll be an expert! 

I called my Mum, who's actually in York, and discovered that they've already run the piece about the musical in the Yorkshire Post. I can't for the life of me find a copy, but I've already had a couple of emails about it, so someone must be reading! 

From Central Leeds, I took the York train to Crossgates and walked a few miles to the site of the munitions factory on Barnbow Common to meet another local historian called Doug.

The walk was incredibly pleasant and took me right out into the countryside and down a little lane. I stopped for a while outside a kennels, listening to a dog howling what seemed to be the tune to Mission Impossible. The wind was rustling the trees and periodically a train heading to York would sound its horn to indicate it was passing through a nearby level crossing. It was all rather bleak and lonely in a hugely atmospheric way.

It started to rain just as Doug got out of his car, and so our walk around the old factory site was soggy to say the least! 

It's quite an amazing place, however. The factory occupied some 300 acres of land, which has now been returned to nature. Periodically we'd come across half a wall, or a piece of shattered concrete, and Doug would say, "that's where the canteens used to be" or "the single gage train track followed the line of that little brook over there." We'd find the odd twist of ancient barbed wire wrapped around a tree and here and there the evidence of some kind of pavement or earth work.  As we walked, it struck me that there would probably be little difference between this site and what's left of the trenches in Flanders. Nature will always win whatever wars we decide to wage.

The most intriguing and perhaps upsetting part of our walk was visiting the site of the room where 38 women were killed when a shell exploded. Filling room 42 has taken on an almost a mythical status with people who know about Barnbow. A local housing estate, for example, has roads named after the women who were killed, and yet today, the place where they all died is merely scrubland; entirely unmarked and almost inaccessible. I'm not sure I picked up any specific atmosphere there - the entire place feels rather eerie if you ask me - but what struck me were the yellow wild flowers everywhere. I didn't even know what half of them were, but there were lots of different types of flower and all were yellow. Yellow as far as the eye could see. 

And why should this strike me as unusual? Well, the women who died in that room were known as the canaries. All were badly jaundiced as a result of TNT poisoning and their faces were bright yellow. Maybe it's just a coincidence. Maybe the ground itself is still laced with TNT, which I'm told is a yellow colour and that has somehow attracted yellow flowers. Or maybe, just maybe, this is mother nature's way of honouring those brave women  who did so much for their country.