I spent all of yesterday and most of today unsuccessfully attempting to dodge showers. I had two meetings yesterday, and smelt like a wet dog in both of them. There's plainly something wrong with my tumble drier. It doesn't matter how many times I wash my T-shirts, they always smell like biscuits when I start to get hot. I guess it's not the worst smell in the world, but it makes me hugely self conscious. I worked with a woman in a community project once who smelt so bad that, we had to Fabreeze and wash down every seat she'd sat on after she'd left. We used to make notes about where she'd been so that we could take appropriate action! Quite why I felt the need to share that, I've no idea...
I feel sorry for the Tennis Championship at Queen's. By the end of yesterday, the rain had stopped play so many times that I think only one player had made it through to the second round! Every time I switched the telly on, they were playing repeats of cookery shows. Sue Barker's voice would periodically pipe up between programmes, and we'd see a live feed of a rain-sodden tennis court and lots of miserable people sitting underneath umbrellas. Obviously I've started to believe that a hell-mouth is opening somewhere in the world, so the unrelenting rain we've been experiencing of late makes pretty good sense to me. I also feel it's now clear why all these celebrities have been checking out on us. They knew this nonsense was coming...
I note that the BBC is still struggling to come to terms with the fact that the attacks in Orlando were a hate crime, despite the fact that all evidence points to the fact that the bastard who did the shooting was grappling with his own sexuality. Please note that this doesn't mean that these attacks were just a "gay matter." It seems very likely to me that the father of the killer has quite a lot to answer for. His initial response to the tragedy, apparently, went something along the lines of saying "my son had no right to bring violent judgement down on gay people, that is God's duty." Plainly, this lad's upbringing was fuelled by great intolerance, which, in my view, is a form of abuse which is not too far away from physical or sexual abuse. I get incredibly irritated when parents of these mass killers or radicalised religious nut-jobs say they had no idea what was going on. Pay better attention to your kids and bring them up to value peace and tolerance, or face prison, you dick! Look at me preaching tolerance with desperate intolerance!
This evening I went to see Fiona doing a pretty amazing gig as the warm-up to The Anchorist, who are fronted by a sort of Tori-Amos-meets-Paloma-Faith artiste who wore a fabulous auburn floral head dress in her fabulously sleek auburn hair.
Fiona was brilliant, and so so brave, basically performing much of her "Postcards from..." album with just a violin and a multitude of pedals with which she created a series of loops, drones and some extraordinarily atmospheric and scrunchy harmonies. The album is well worth purchasing. It's epically filmic.
Afterwards Fiona stood at the back of Bush Hall signing albums. One chap came up to her looking incredibly nervous and asked if she would sign his. It suddenly made me realise how much courage it takes to ask for someone's autograph, and how so many people in our industry forget this fact when they run out of stage doors with dark glasses on, or treat fans like terrible scourges. There's a horrible sense of entitlement which sometimes descends in these instances, like performers believe it is their right to have fans, but, as Fiona rightly pointed out as the shaking man walked away with a smile on his face; "these people paid for your houses." The lovely Barbara Windsor always impressed me in the way she responded to her fans. I went to a football match at the Arsenal with her once and a young lad came over and asked if he could take her photo: "I was hoping you'd ask me," she said, throwing her arm around the lad and smiling for the camera. And I thought how lovely that was.
Thursday, 16 June 2016
Tuesday, 14 June 2016
Are we being manipulated?
It struck me today that all of us are being manipulated at the moment. All of us. I'm not sure if we should be blaming the media or the politicians, but I'm entirely convinced that the forthcoming referendum has been designed to divide us. In my view there is no way on earth that the European issue should be settled in this manner: A referendum should never be based around taking something away, or presenting people with two options which no one can get their heads around without resorting to general hysteria and panic. If there are genuine economic issues at stake, the experts need to be sorting them out, rather than us from our sitting room arm chairs.
Wherever the truth in the European question lies (probably somewhere in the middle) the fact remains that this country has allowed itself to become divided. Bitterly so. And it's reaching fever pitch. People have stopped posting pictures of kittens on Facebook and are suddenly discussing issues, which ought to be good, but we're all so entrenched in our views that we can't bring ourselves to respect the other side. I'm more guilty of this than almost anyone. A friend of mine today posted with horror that she'd called a complete stranger a "silly bitch" because of her intolerable views on immigrants. People are rowing with their own families. Everything that comes up in the news will suddenly come back round to to Brexit. It's like we've all decided that there are just two tribes in this country and we have to join one or the other to avoid catastrophe.
...And I guess there's nothing entirely new here, except that the battle lines that we've drawn up for ourselves are on new ground. This country is no longer divided into the old-fashioned right and left wings. The new divide is between the cosmopolitans and the conservatives (with a small c.)
The cosmopolitans tend to be younger. They tend to see the benefits of immigration. They are more likely to be atheist and bothered about environment issues. They are forward-thinking have a more global view of the world. They tend to be less concerned about what the other side might call "permissiveness." (Gay marriage, sexual liberation etc.)
The conservatives are older and more inward-looking. They are scared of immigration and are more likely to be religious. They have issues with permissiveness and tend to believe that the future of this country should be based on models from the past.
The Brexit vote, for the first time, divides us exactly along these lines. The Brexiteers (conservatives) are terrified of immigration and convinced that there was a golden British era somewhere between the war and 1974 which no one from the younger generation could possibly ever know about or understand the importance of. This utopia is so golden that all other issues simply float out of the window. The cosmopolitans, on the other hand, scour the Brexit politicians for their views on OTHER issues which matter to them. What kind of a country will we be living in if the Brexiteers win? What's Boris' stance on the environment? On gay marriage? If he doesn't change his mind that is...
A divided Britain, of course, was the central feature of Thatcher's utopia. Unlike Blair, who just wanted to be loved by everyone, she realised it didn't matter if half the country hated her with a passion. Who cared if the miners were starving? They wouldn't have voted for her anyway. Who cared if Liverpool went down the shitter? The Scousers already hated her. She used the mass media and propaganda to promulgate fear and to encourage those who were doing okay under her that she was protecting them from the horrors of communism, or permissiveness (HIV) or state scroungers, or criminals or anything that she knew people were scared of. Exactly what the Brexiteers are currently up to. Just different battle lines.
Of course the big issue is that politics hasn't yet caught up with this new shift in the way that people perceive themselves, which is why both major parties are presently in meltdown. As many traditional Labour voters are in favour of Brexit as Tories are in favour of staying in. We don't have political parties which represent our views any more. Sure, UKIP have more policies which appeal to the conservatives, just as the Greens have marginally more which appeal to the cosmopolitans, but both parties are seen as deeply flawed, somewhat jokey, single-issue alternatives. So almost all of us are presently standing on one or other side of this very tall fence with no leadership whatsoever. The vote on Europe won't suddenly make these differences go away, so British politicians have no option than to decide which side of the fence they want to be in, or else they will continue to be in free fall, and the British people will continue to tear each other apart.
Wherever the truth in the European question lies (probably somewhere in the middle) the fact remains that this country has allowed itself to become divided. Bitterly so. And it's reaching fever pitch. People have stopped posting pictures of kittens on Facebook and are suddenly discussing issues, which ought to be good, but we're all so entrenched in our views that we can't bring ourselves to respect the other side. I'm more guilty of this than almost anyone. A friend of mine today posted with horror that she'd called a complete stranger a "silly bitch" because of her intolerable views on immigrants. People are rowing with their own families. Everything that comes up in the news will suddenly come back round to to Brexit. It's like we've all decided that there are just two tribes in this country and we have to join one or the other to avoid catastrophe.
...And I guess there's nothing entirely new here, except that the battle lines that we've drawn up for ourselves are on new ground. This country is no longer divided into the old-fashioned right and left wings. The new divide is between the cosmopolitans and the conservatives (with a small c.)
The cosmopolitans tend to be younger. They tend to see the benefits of immigration. They are more likely to be atheist and bothered about environment issues. They are forward-thinking have a more global view of the world. They tend to be less concerned about what the other side might call "permissiveness." (Gay marriage, sexual liberation etc.)
The conservatives are older and more inward-looking. They are scared of immigration and are more likely to be religious. They have issues with permissiveness and tend to believe that the future of this country should be based on models from the past.
The Brexit vote, for the first time, divides us exactly along these lines. The Brexiteers (conservatives) are terrified of immigration and convinced that there was a golden British era somewhere between the war and 1974 which no one from the younger generation could possibly ever know about or understand the importance of. This utopia is so golden that all other issues simply float out of the window. The cosmopolitans, on the other hand, scour the Brexit politicians for their views on OTHER issues which matter to them. What kind of a country will we be living in if the Brexiteers win? What's Boris' stance on the environment? On gay marriage? If he doesn't change his mind that is...
A divided Britain, of course, was the central feature of Thatcher's utopia. Unlike Blair, who just wanted to be loved by everyone, she realised it didn't matter if half the country hated her with a passion. Who cared if the miners were starving? They wouldn't have voted for her anyway. Who cared if Liverpool went down the shitter? The Scousers already hated her. She used the mass media and propaganda to promulgate fear and to encourage those who were doing okay under her that she was protecting them from the horrors of communism, or permissiveness (HIV) or state scroungers, or criminals or anything that she knew people were scared of. Exactly what the Brexiteers are currently up to. Just different battle lines.
Of course the big issue is that politics hasn't yet caught up with this new shift in the way that people perceive themselves, which is why both major parties are presently in meltdown. As many traditional Labour voters are in favour of Brexit as Tories are in favour of staying in. We don't have political parties which represent our views any more. Sure, UKIP have more policies which appeal to the conservatives, just as the Greens have marginally more which appeal to the cosmopolitans, but both parties are seen as deeply flawed, somewhat jokey, single-issue alternatives. So almost all of us are presently standing on one or other side of this very tall fence with no leadership whatsoever. The vote on Europe won't suddenly make these differences go away, so British politicians have no option than to decide which side of the fence they want to be in, or else they will continue to be in free fall, and the British people will continue to tear each other apart.
Monday, 13 June 2016
Don't read this if you don't like swear words
It's been an incredibly emotional day. A day of disbelief. A day spent wondering whether the gates of hell are about to open. Llio described it in a text message: "It's like the world is missing a layer of skin today and everything and everyone is red raw."
The day started with a little blast of happiness. I got a message from Jem in New York telling me that Arnold's picture had appeared on the screens in the "In Memoriam" sequence at the Tony Awards. I feel incredibly proud that he has been recognised in this manner, particularly as his biggest career catastrophe actually happened on the hallowed turf of Broadway. His show, Shylock, which would have starred Zero Mostel, sank without trace when the aforementioned actor died in previews.
Within about five minutes of Jem's message, I received a text from Matt Lucas with a YouTube clip which proved there was truth in the rumours which suggest that ABBA reformed for a one-off performance of The Way Old Friends Do at an intimate gig. And there they were together on stage wearing flowing white gowns. Frida's voice appears to have barely changed. Agnetha seemed nervous and a little shaky. But the sight of them performing together for the first time since 1983, made my heart almost almost burst with joy.
The news from Orlando, however, is heartbreaking. It appears one young lad was hiding in the loo for some time texting his mother. I can't even write about it without crying. His mother was helplessly texting back. Then the texts stopped. He was terrified. Terrified. The best part of two days later, the mother is still hoping they'll find him alive. But where would he be? Shot to pieces, that's where, whilst cowering in a toilet cubical texting his mother for comfort. Killed by a fucking coward.
A lot of stuff is being written today about the fact that there hasn't been the same outpouring of love on social media sites as there was after the attacks in France. In fact, baring a number of notable exceptions, the majority of people expressing their sadness on my time lines have been members of the LGBT community. Whether this is a result of sympathy fatigue, or the fact that we don't identify as much with the Americans, I've no idea. I dread to think that it's an indication of the fact that people aren't that fussed when a bunch of gay people are killed. And if you're reading this, don't you dare roll your eyes. The way people talk about immigrants at the moment, as though they're worthless animals, has made me start to entirely lose faith in the human race.
What does seem to be the case is that getting people to acknowledge that this is a homophobic hate crime is tantamount to getting blood out of a stone. Guardian columnist, Owen Jones, stormed out of a Sky News interview last night because the news anchor refused to describe what had happened in those terms. The (w)anchor felt it was important to repeatedly note that the tragedy was a "terrorist attack" against the West. The fact that it took place in a gay club was largely irrelevant. Jones continued, "this is the largest massacre of LGBT people since the Hollocaust. If this had happened in a synagogue we'd undoubtedly be calling it an act of anti-Semitism." The anchor rolled his eyes as though to say "troublesome gays."
Other people are using the tragedy to goad America about its gun laws. These laws will not change. If the deaths of scores of children in a primary school can't make the Americans change their minds, then the death of a load of gay men certainly won't. Also, the American gun laws aren't the REASON why that worthless piece of shit went into that gay club. They're the reason that more people died than were killed at the Admiral Duncan pub when a similar worthless piece of shit full of hatred walked in with a nail bomb. Blaming American gun laws won't make my community feel any safer.
One woman on Twitter decided to use the Owen Jones affair as an excuse to talk about the fact that she thinks he's a misogynist, thereby entirely proving the point that he was making. Donald Trump has used the attacks to score points against Obama and congratulate himself on predicting such an atrocity would happen at the hands of a Muslim (one who was born in the States, but why let the facts get in the way.) None of these arguments make my community feel any safer.
Trying to call homophobia anything other than homophobia tries to pretend that it no longer exists. Yes, we have gay marriage. Yes, we're equal in law, but if that genuinely makes us believe that homophobia is dead then we've failed in our duty to protect my community properly. We can't sweep this attack under the carpet by calling it an attack on all of us, however much that appeases our middle class guilt.
So, this evening I went into central London to the vigil on Old Compton Street in support of the victims' families. I was surprised and hurt that so few of my friends saw this as an important gesture, although I was hugely touched to discover Tina and my old friend JP from university there. Both straight as it happens.
So, it would seem that football fans riot when they get angry, but that the gay community takes hatred and converts into big dollops of beautiful, shimmering love. I don't know how many of us were there. 8,000? 10,000? They released rainbow-coloured helium balloons, we cheered and clapped for two minutes, we fell silent for two minutes and then we cheered and clapped again like our lives depended on it.
The masses departed and left a street party in their wake. Little clusters of people chalked messages on the pavements. The London Gay Men's chorus sang The Way Old Friends Do - the very song which I'd watched ABBA singing this morning. Other groups of people gathered to sing spontaneous songs like Imagine whilst a woman with an iPhone called out all the words before everyone sang them. Newsreader Jon Snow was wandering around chatting to people, loving the atmosphere. He threw his arms around us when he saw us: "I've dined out on your wedding ever since it happened! Let's plot to do something else!" He said...
We had tea with Tina in a little trattoria off Berwick Street. She was very excited to have seen Jeremy Corbyn and Sadiq Khan. Note that it's the LEFT wing politicians who support my community. Was Boris there? Was he f**k! Boris, incidentally, has still not commented on the attack in social media. So if the Brexiteers get in then we can assume the gay community won't be getting much support. Perhaps he'll do a U-turn on gay marriage too. That muppet-haired tit-sack has done a u-turn on everything else.
As the night drew in, the candles on the streets started to glow and shimmer. The police were chatting merrily to the crowd. Their presence wasn't needed for anything other than stopping traffic so that people could cross over Dean Street. God I felt proud to be gay. I didn't just feel proud. I felt enlightened. My community might be scared, but, my God, we're not showing it!
The day started with a little blast of happiness. I got a message from Jem in New York telling me that Arnold's picture had appeared on the screens in the "In Memoriam" sequence at the Tony Awards. I feel incredibly proud that he has been recognised in this manner, particularly as his biggest career catastrophe actually happened on the hallowed turf of Broadway. His show, Shylock, which would have starred Zero Mostel, sank without trace when the aforementioned actor died in previews.
Within about five minutes of Jem's message, I received a text from Matt Lucas with a YouTube clip which proved there was truth in the rumours which suggest that ABBA reformed for a one-off performance of The Way Old Friends Do at an intimate gig. And there they were together on stage wearing flowing white gowns. Frida's voice appears to have barely changed. Agnetha seemed nervous and a little shaky. But the sight of them performing together for the first time since 1983, made my heart almost almost burst with joy.
The news from Orlando, however, is heartbreaking. It appears one young lad was hiding in the loo for some time texting his mother. I can't even write about it without crying. His mother was helplessly texting back. Then the texts stopped. He was terrified. Terrified. The best part of two days later, the mother is still hoping they'll find him alive. But where would he be? Shot to pieces, that's where, whilst cowering in a toilet cubical texting his mother for comfort. Killed by a fucking coward.
A lot of stuff is being written today about the fact that there hasn't been the same outpouring of love on social media sites as there was after the attacks in France. In fact, baring a number of notable exceptions, the majority of people expressing their sadness on my time lines have been members of the LGBT community. Whether this is a result of sympathy fatigue, or the fact that we don't identify as much with the Americans, I've no idea. I dread to think that it's an indication of the fact that people aren't that fussed when a bunch of gay people are killed. And if you're reading this, don't you dare roll your eyes. The way people talk about immigrants at the moment, as though they're worthless animals, has made me start to entirely lose faith in the human race.
What does seem to be the case is that getting people to acknowledge that this is a homophobic hate crime is tantamount to getting blood out of a stone. Guardian columnist, Owen Jones, stormed out of a Sky News interview last night because the news anchor refused to describe what had happened in those terms. The (w)anchor felt it was important to repeatedly note that the tragedy was a "terrorist attack" against the West. The fact that it took place in a gay club was largely irrelevant. Jones continued, "this is the largest massacre of LGBT people since the Hollocaust. If this had happened in a synagogue we'd undoubtedly be calling it an act of anti-Semitism." The anchor rolled his eyes as though to say "troublesome gays."
Other people are using the tragedy to goad America about its gun laws. These laws will not change. If the deaths of scores of children in a primary school can't make the Americans change their minds, then the death of a load of gay men certainly won't. Also, the American gun laws aren't the REASON why that worthless piece of shit went into that gay club. They're the reason that more people died than were killed at the Admiral Duncan pub when a similar worthless piece of shit full of hatred walked in with a nail bomb. Blaming American gun laws won't make my community feel any safer.
One woman on Twitter decided to use the Owen Jones affair as an excuse to talk about the fact that she thinks he's a misogynist, thereby entirely proving the point that he was making. Donald Trump has used the attacks to score points against Obama and congratulate himself on predicting such an atrocity would happen at the hands of a Muslim (one who was born in the States, but why let the facts get in the way.) None of these arguments make my community feel any safer.
Trying to call homophobia anything other than homophobia tries to pretend that it no longer exists. Yes, we have gay marriage. Yes, we're equal in law, but if that genuinely makes us believe that homophobia is dead then we've failed in our duty to protect my community properly. We can't sweep this attack under the carpet by calling it an attack on all of us, however much that appeases our middle class guilt.
So, this evening I went into central London to the vigil on Old Compton Street in support of the victims' families. I was surprised and hurt that so few of my friends saw this as an important gesture, although I was hugely touched to discover Tina and my old friend JP from university there. Both straight as it happens.
So, it would seem that football fans riot when they get angry, but that the gay community takes hatred and converts into big dollops of beautiful, shimmering love. I don't know how many of us were there. 8,000? 10,000? They released rainbow-coloured helium balloons, we cheered and clapped for two minutes, we fell silent for two minutes and then we cheered and clapped again like our lives depended on it.
The masses departed and left a street party in their wake. Little clusters of people chalked messages on the pavements. The London Gay Men's chorus sang The Way Old Friends Do - the very song which I'd watched ABBA singing this morning. Other groups of people gathered to sing spontaneous songs like Imagine whilst a woman with an iPhone called out all the words before everyone sang them. Newsreader Jon Snow was wandering around chatting to people, loving the atmosphere. He threw his arms around us when he saw us: "I've dined out on your wedding ever since it happened! Let's plot to do something else!" He said...
We had tea with Tina in a little trattoria off Berwick Street. She was very excited to have seen Jeremy Corbyn and Sadiq Khan. Note that it's the LEFT wing politicians who support my community. Was Boris there? Was he f**k! Boris, incidentally, has still not commented on the attack in social media. So if the Brexiteers get in then we can assume the gay community won't be getting much support. Perhaps he'll do a U-turn on gay marriage too. That muppet-haired tit-sack has done a u-turn on everything else.
As the night drew in, the candles on the streets started to glow and shimmer. The police were chatting merrily to the crowd. Their presence wasn't needed for anything other than stopping traffic so that people could cross over Dean Street. God I felt proud to be gay. I didn't just feel proud. I felt enlightened. My community might be scared, but, my God, we're not showing it!
Sunday, 12 June 2016
News from Orlando
Waking up this morning to the news that there had been a shooting in a gay club in Florida was not a great deal of fun, particularly when, as the news began to unfold, we learned how horrifying the events had been. There was an awful interview with a woman in a desperate panic who knew her son had been in the club, but hadn't been able to get in touch with him. The likelihood, of course, has to be that he's dead. There will be fifty mothers grieving tonight. That impenetrable bond a gay man has with his mother torn apart fifty times by hatred and religion. We may have come a long way in the field of LGBT rights, but I suspect there will always be people who despise us.
Do me a favour. Don't pray. Don't pray for my community. We don't need prayers. If you want to help, just get out there in the big wide world and make sure homophobia and transphobia is eradicated from your personal circle of friends. If you have kids, explain to them that men can love men, women can love women and that sometimes people aren't born in the body of a gender which suits them, because they sure as hell won't hear this message in fairy tales and Disney films.
The quote which really stuck out today was on the BBC website: "Images show hundreds of Florida residents in long queues as they wait to donate blood and help in the worst mass shooting in recent US history. Gay people in the US are banned from giving blood if they have sex in the last year, but that ban has temporarily been lifted in the Orlando area."
And with that I felt both angry and moved. Angry that gay men aren't allowed to give blood. Moved that people are queuing around the block to do so. Furious that the ban can be lifted temporarily so that gay men can pump their filthy blood into other gay men...
Speaking of violence, the other big piece of news today concerns the dreadful behaviour of football fans in the European Football Championship. We're told UEFA is launching disciplinary charges against Russia for the behaviour of their fans, and that Russia expects to pay a fine. So the Russians have to pay a fine? So what? It's only money. Russia were sanctioned for the behaviour of their fans in all three games they played in Euro 2012. What good did that do? They're still behaving like animals.
Actually what UEFA needs to do is send a national team home for the behaviour of its fans. If that's England, so be it. It sends out a clear and decisive message: Misbehave and the party's over, lads.
We went to the gym this afternoon and Nathan dropped me off in Kentish Town afterwards, which involved passing those two iconic music venues, The Forum and The Bull and Gate, both of which have recently been done up. The Forum still looks suitably grotty, but the Bull and Gate seems to have gone a bit "gastro pub", which I'm not sure particularly fits its vibe as one of London's most important rock and roll haunts. I spent many a night there in the 1990s listening to mates playing in bands; the black walls dripping with sweat and little pieces of loo roll stuffed in my ears because it was all too loud. In those days you used to have to pass through the men's loos to get from the pub to the live room. There would always be this row of men weeing at urinals with everyone else passing through the little corridor behind them. Men, women, children... I'm not sure that would be justifiable in today's world of health and safety!
I went into town this afternoon to meet some of the Brass cast who are currently working very hard to invite agents to the show in the summer. Two of them are students at drama school, so now is a great time for them to be forging links with casting directors, agents and the movers and shakers within the business. They asked me if I would give them some advice. I'm not sure I helped that much, but I think the meeting focussed their minds, which is just as important. It absolutely blasted it down with rain as we sat in our little cafe on Old Compton Street, which made me very worried for the queen and her lovely birthday celebrations. She's rather rocking the neon colours at the moment isn't she?
Do me a favour. Don't pray. Don't pray for my community. We don't need prayers. If you want to help, just get out there in the big wide world and make sure homophobia and transphobia is eradicated from your personal circle of friends. If you have kids, explain to them that men can love men, women can love women and that sometimes people aren't born in the body of a gender which suits them, because they sure as hell won't hear this message in fairy tales and Disney films.
The quote which really stuck out today was on the BBC website: "Images show hundreds of Florida residents in long queues as they wait to donate blood and help in the worst mass shooting in recent US history. Gay people in the US are banned from giving blood if they have sex in the last year, but that ban has temporarily been lifted in the Orlando area."
And with that I felt both angry and moved. Angry that gay men aren't allowed to give blood. Moved that people are queuing around the block to do so. Furious that the ban can be lifted temporarily so that gay men can pump their filthy blood into other gay men...
Speaking of violence, the other big piece of news today concerns the dreadful behaviour of football fans in the European Football Championship. We're told UEFA is launching disciplinary charges against Russia for the behaviour of their fans, and that Russia expects to pay a fine. So the Russians have to pay a fine? So what? It's only money. Russia were sanctioned for the behaviour of their fans in all three games they played in Euro 2012. What good did that do? They're still behaving like animals.
Actually what UEFA needs to do is send a national team home for the behaviour of its fans. If that's England, so be it. It sends out a clear and decisive message: Misbehave and the party's over, lads.
We went to the gym this afternoon and Nathan dropped me off in Kentish Town afterwards, which involved passing those two iconic music venues, The Forum and The Bull and Gate, both of which have recently been done up. The Forum still looks suitably grotty, but the Bull and Gate seems to have gone a bit "gastro pub", which I'm not sure particularly fits its vibe as one of London's most important rock and roll haunts. I spent many a night there in the 1990s listening to mates playing in bands; the black walls dripping with sweat and little pieces of loo roll stuffed in my ears because it was all too loud. In those days you used to have to pass through the men's loos to get from the pub to the live room. There would always be this row of men weeing at urinals with everyone else passing through the little corridor behind them. Men, women, children... I'm not sure that would be justifiable in today's world of health and safety!
I went into town this afternoon to meet some of the Brass cast who are currently working very hard to invite agents to the show in the summer. Two of them are students at drama school, so now is a great time for them to be forging links with casting directors, agents and the movers and shakers within the business. They asked me if I would give them some advice. I'm not sure I helped that much, but I think the meeting focussed their minds, which is just as important. It absolutely blasted it down with rain as we sat in our little cafe on Old Compton Street, which made me very worried for the queen and her lovely birthday celebrations. She's rather rocking the neon colours at the moment isn't she?
Reasons to be cheerful
We went to deepest, darkest Kent today, to a charming little village called Headcorn, which, for the geographically challenged, is the next village along from Leeds. Not Leeds in Yorkshire, you understand. Leeds in Kent. It's where the famous Leeds Castle is. I'm not actually sure Leeds in Yorkshire even has a castle. Anyway, it's rather bizarre to enter a tiny village on a little lane and find a sign which says "welcome to Leeds. Please drive carefully."
Headcorn seems to be nothing but a long row of beautifully maintained Victorian and medieval houses, many of which are gift shops and fancy eating establishments. I don't think you move to Headcorn if you're poor!
We had lunch in a very lovely tea room which offered my parents sandwiches and me a delicious omelette. We sat outside in the garden, bantering with the waitresses, who provided us with a running gag revolving around their pronunciation of the word "three" and its similarity to the word "free." How we laughed!
We went into an antique shop where I found a velvet jacket which fitted me so perfectly I had to buy it. As we left the shop, Vic Reeves walked in with his family. It was plainly the place where all the cool kids in Headcorn were hanging out!
We were in the village to attend my cousin's fiftieth birthday, who was calling his do a "reasons to be cheerful" party. It was a fabulous party. I have seldom seen so many tents and marquees in a single garden. They even had portaloos!
It turns out that a "reasons to be cheerful" party tempts the universe into liberally sprinkling a few bags of glittery irony. My aunt was too ill to attend and various other relatives are at various stages of dealing with diseases. More horrifyingly, as we drove to Kent, Nathan's sister called to say that their uncle had died. He was found this morning by his daughter. I met him about a year ago when Nathan's Dad took us on a tour of his home town of Exeter. He seemed an incredibly friendly and jovial chap who had a particularly wonderful friendship with his granddaughter. I'm sure he will be bitterly missed by everyone.
Cousin Neil, whose party it was, ran a little open mic spot, in honour of our Grandmother who so liked it when her children and grandchildren got up and did a little turn. I was always expected to play The Swan on my 'cello, but today it was lovely to just observe whilst drinking a cup of tea. Neil sang a Billy Bragg song about the A13, pointing out in his opening pre-amble that his cousin, Ben, had written a musical about the A1. The name check touched me. I only have four cousins in the world so it's good to know they take an interest in my work. Neil's three children then took it in turns to sing songs by Adele, Paul Simon, Queen and Bowie. I was rather impressed. It's good to see music permeating down through the generations of our family.
We left at gone 11, and made fairly swift progress home.
And that's that, really. It's nearly 2am, and I can hear a very noisy owl in the trees above the tube station. That surely means it's time to go to bed.
Headcorn seems to be nothing but a long row of beautifully maintained Victorian and medieval houses, many of which are gift shops and fancy eating establishments. I don't think you move to Headcorn if you're poor!
We had lunch in a very lovely tea room which offered my parents sandwiches and me a delicious omelette. We sat outside in the garden, bantering with the waitresses, who provided us with a running gag revolving around their pronunciation of the word "three" and its similarity to the word "free." How we laughed!
We went into an antique shop where I found a velvet jacket which fitted me so perfectly I had to buy it. As we left the shop, Vic Reeves walked in with his family. It was plainly the place where all the cool kids in Headcorn were hanging out!
We were in the village to attend my cousin's fiftieth birthday, who was calling his do a "reasons to be cheerful" party. It was a fabulous party. I have seldom seen so many tents and marquees in a single garden. They even had portaloos!
It turns out that a "reasons to be cheerful" party tempts the universe into liberally sprinkling a few bags of glittery irony. My aunt was too ill to attend and various other relatives are at various stages of dealing with diseases. More horrifyingly, as we drove to Kent, Nathan's sister called to say that their uncle had died. He was found this morning by his daughter. I met him about a year ago when Nathan's Dad took us on a tour of his home town of Exeter. He seemed an incredibly friendly and jovial chap who had a particularly wonderful friendship with his granddaughter. I'm sure he will be bitterly missed by everyone.
Cousin Neil, whose party it was, ran a little open mic spot, in honour of our Grandmother who so liked it when her children and grandchildren got up and did a little turn. I was always expected to play The Swan on my 'cello, but today it was lovely to just observe whilst drinking a cup of tea. Neil sang a Billy Bragg song about the A13, pointing out in his opening pre-amble that his cousin, Ben, had written a musical about the A1. The name check touched me. I only have four cousins in the world so it's good to know they take an interest in my work. Neil's three children then took it in turns to sing songs by Adele, Paul Simon, Queen and Bowie. I was rather impressed. It's good to see music permeating down through the generations of our family.
We left at gone 11, and made fairly swift progress home.
And that's that, really. It's nearly 2am, and I can hear a very noisy owl in the trees above the tube station. That surely means it's time to go to bed.
Friday, 10 June 2016
Painfully trendy chocolate
Here's a little factoid: the UK pop charts were absolutely identical in the weeks that ended 25th December, 1982 and the 1st January, 1983. Not a single song went either up or down. There must be a reason for this, which, if anyone reading is aware of, I would love to know. Perhaps it's because the charts came in on Christmas Day and New Year's Day and no one was in the office to process the information. It's certainly a bizarre anomaly. And why do I know this staggeringly interesting fact? I have a very special (and very shiny) red book which includes every top 40 rundown in chart history. You can flick through it and see the number at which any song entered the charts, and follow it's progress on a week-by-week basis, very much as we used to do when listening to the "Hit Parade" on a Sunday afternoon in the 1980s.
My friend Tammy and I used to walk down to an estate on the edge of Higham where there was a little newsagents which opened on a Sunday. A Sunday! This was totally unheard of in those days. I would buy a copy of Smash Hits magazine, and we'd grab some sweeties and a tin of own brand coke for 10p. On our way back home, we'd go down the rec, and throw the can of coke at each other over a small ditch until it exploded dramatically, which made us howl with laughter. We'd then go back to ours, suffer the end of Sing Something Simple and then listen to the chats. This was the era of Mel and Kim and Bros... I loved Mel and Kim and cheered when their dreadful song That's The Way It Is limped to number 10! I cried bitter tears when Mel died.
So, anyway, I'm dipping into this fabulous chart book and very much enjoying the stats I'm discovering. In 1982, for example, was notable for two songs making extraordinary jumps to number 1 in the charts. Happy Talk by Captain Sensible (who remembers that?) leapt from 33 to number one. And Pass De Dutchie by Musical Youth jumped to the top of the charts from number 26.
I travelled to Old Street to meet Philippa this morning and the two of us sat for the entire day working in a series of cafes. I had letters and emails to write and a big application to fill in, which I spent much of the afternoon on. Unfortunately, when it came to hitting send, the computer froze and took with it every last word that I'd written. Three hours of frantic typing and uploading MP3s for nothing. A little piece of me died forever at that point. It took 2 1/2 hours to remedy the situation tonight.
To cheer me up, Philippa took me on a tour of Shoreditch and Spitalfields. We went into a painfully trendy boutique chocolate factory where they were selling twelve small bars of chocolate for seventy pounds. That's right. Seventy pounds. The chocolate was beautifully packaged and I'm sure it was almost as tasty as a bar of Galaxy, but that's almost six quid a bar! As she whisked me out of the place, Philippa was whispering in my ear: "they're seventy pounds! Shhh now. Don't laugh. Let's leave as quickly as we can..." Who are the mugs who buy that?!
We sought refuge in Spitalfields Market, which is a genuinely lovely place to visit on a Friday afternoon. It's bustling, but not over-crowded, like it can get at weekends, and most of stalls are set out. It's a great place to browse and graze, until, of course, one of the stallholders does the thing when she asks if you'd like any help. I do hate that when I'm shopping. It invariably makes me feel so uncomfortable that I immediately rush in the opposite direction. It must be a sales technique that works. They'd soon stop doing it if it had the same effect on everyone else as it does on me!
My friend Tammy and I used to walk down to an estate on the edge of Higham where there was a little newsagents which opened on a Sunday. A Sunday! This was totally unheard of in those days. I would buy a copy of Smash Hits magazine, and we'd grab some sweeties and a tin of own brand coke for 10p. On our way back home, we'd go down the rec, and throw the can of coke at each other over a small ditch until it exploded dramatically, which made us howl with laughter. We'd then go back to ours, suffer the end of Sing Something Simple and then listen to the chats. This was the era of Mel and Kim and Bros... I loved Mel and Kim and cheered when their dreadful song That's The Way It Is limped to number 10! I cried bitter tears when Mel died.
So, anyway, I'm dipping into this fabulous chart book and very much enjoying the stats I'm discovering. In 1982, for example, was notable for two songs making extraordinary jumps to number 1 in the charts. Happy Talk by Captain Sensible (who remembers that?) leapt from 33 to number one. And Pass De Dutchie by Musical Youth jumped to the top of the charts from number 26.
I travelled to Old Street to meet Philippa this morning and the two of us sat for the entire day working in a series of cafes. I had letters and emails to write and a big application to fill in, which I spent much of the afternoon on. Unfortunately, when it came to hitting send, the computer froze and took with it every last word that I'd written. Three hours of frantic typing and uploading MP3s for nothing. A little piece of me died forever at that point. It took 2 1/2 hours to remedy the situation tonight.
To cheer me up, Philippa took me on a tour of Shoreditch and Spitalfields. We went into a painfully trendy boutique chocolate factory where they were selling twelve small bars of chocolate for seventy pounds. That's right. Seventy pounds. The chocolate was beautifully packaged and I'm sure it was almost as tasty as a bar of Galaxy, but that's almost six quid a bar! As she whisked me out of the place, Philippa was whispering in my ear: "they're seventy pounds! Shhh now. Don't laugh. Let's leave as quickly as we can..." Who are the mugs who buy that?!
We sought refuge in Spitalfields Market, which is a genuinely lovely place to visit on a Friday afternoon. It's bustling, but not over-crowded, like it can get at weekends, and most of stalls are set out. It's a great place to browse and graze, until, of course, one of the stallholders does the thing when she asks if you'd like any help. I do hate that when I'm shopping. It invariably makes me feel so uncomfortable that I immediately rush in the opposite direction. It must be a sales technique that works. They'd soon stop doing it if it had the same effect on everyone else as it does on me!
Waterlow Park
We came to Waterlow Park this afternoon and sat in the extraordinary sunshine, which the weather app on my phone assured me was heavy cloud. A man sat on the bench next to us softly strumming his guitar whilst kids from Channing School were doing handstands within the buttercups. Everything for a moment felt very warm and calm. Until, of course, someone nearby decided to put the person she was talking to on speaker phone and proceeded to start shouting her side of the conversation. We are both agreed that using a speaker phone in public is one of the most anti social things you can do. It's all part of that ghastly "I'm going to live my life the way that I want to, and screw anyone who that might inconvenience."
I then realised that I'm not very good at doing nothing. I got back ache from sitting on the bench, got really fidgety, and then decided to lie down on the grass which was still a bit damp from yesterday's deluge. I suddenly realised at that point that I was lying in an ants' nest and jumped up, having to acknowledge that the enforced stillness wasn't working that well for me. I had started reading a book, however, which Sam Becker found. It's the most amazing glossary of slang and parody songs of the First World War, meticulously collected the same way that all those wonderful men on bicycles in rural areas collated folk songs in the same era. The foreword talks about quite how seriously they took their task, pointing out that we have no idea what Napoleon's armies sang as they marched through Europe, largely because someone hadn't bothered to write it down. I wish, wish, wish that I'd had this book whilst writing Brass. Mind you, it is possible that I would have vanished into a pool of authenticity. Sometimes a writer can be guilty of showing off his knowledge to the exclusion of his audience. There were one or two instances where Sara Kestleman picked me up on authentic terminology I'd used which had no resonance in the modern day. There's no point using a word simply to show off that you know it! In fact, that's the sort of pretentiousness which I have spent my career railing against!
Speaking of railing against stuff, I finally heard back from a foundation in Leeds today who told me they wouldn't be sponsoring our trip to the Somme region, having literally kept me dangling on the end of a string for three months. Every time I contacted them, they told me they'd get back with an answer the following day. They were always waiting to talk to a man called Edward whom I started to suspect was someone's imaginary friend. I'd hear nothing, wait two more weeks, call back again and be told they were still waiting to hear from Edward. Apparently Edward finally spoke today, and Edward, he say no. In fairness I feel he might have said no three months ago. It might have been polite or kind. But I guess giving money to deserving cases is only fun when the deserving case is literally on the ground begging.
So, it's back to the drawing board for the last injection of cash we need to get ourselves off to France. There's £760 left to find! We'll get there! Again, if anyone reading this blog feels like making a tiny donation, please only do so if you've had a good month at work! Or if you're Edward and you've changed your mind!
I then realised that I'm not very good at doing nothing. I got back ache from sitting on the bench, got really fidgety, and then decided to lie down on the grass which was still a bit damp from yesterday's deluge. I suddenly realised at that point that I was lying in an ants' nest and jumped up, having to acknowledge that the enforced stillness wasn't working that well for me. I had started reading a book, however, which Sam Becker found. It's the most amazing glossary of slang and parody songs of the First World War, meticulously collected the same way that all those wonderful men on bicycles in rural areas collated folk songs in the same era. The foreword talks about quite how seriously they took their task, pointing out that we have no idea what Napoleon's armies sang as they marched through Europe, largely because someone hadn't bothered to write it down. I wish, wish, wish that I'd had this book whilst writing Brass. Mind you, it is possible that I would have vanished into a pool of authenticity. Sometimes a writer can be guilty of showing off his knowledge to the exclusion of his audience. There were one or two instances where Sara Kestleman picked me up on authentic terminology I'd used which had no resonance in the modern day. There's no point using a word simply to show off that you know it! In fact, that's the sort of pretentiousness which I have spent my career railing against!
Speaking of railing against stuff, I finally heard back from a foundation in Leeds today who told me they wouldn't be sponsoring our trip to the Somme region, having literally kept me dangling on the end of a string for three months. Every time I contacted them, they told me they'd get back with an answer the following day. They were always waiting to talk to a man called Edward whom I started to suspect was someone's imaginary friend. I'd hear nothing, wait two more weeks, call back again and be told they were still waiting to hear from Edward. Apparently Edward finally spoke today, and Edward, he say no. In fairness I feel he might have said no three months ago. It might have been polite or kind. But I guess giving money to deserving cases is only fun when the deserving case is literally on the ground begging.
So, it's back to the drawing board for the last injection of cash we need to get ourselves off to France. There's £760 left to find! We'll get there! Again, if anyone reading this blog feels like making a tiny donation, please only do so if you've had a good month at work! Or if you're Edward and you've changed your mind!
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