Sage stuffing

It was still dark when I got up this morning. I thought that opening the wipe-clean curtains in my Travelodge room would help matters, but it didn’t. I stumbled around a great deal and fell headfirst into the bath. A car arrived to take me to BBC Newcastle, where I was being interviewed on the breakfast show. I’ve no idea what I said. These things tend to fly past and I was holding my eyes open with matchsticks.

Later in the day we went back into Newcastle centre to do some more filming. People seemed a bit chirpier. The sun was shining and glinting on the snow, and everything looked absolutely glorious under the cornflower blue sky. We roamed about the Metro system looking for people who might be interested in singing a few lines of music for us. The experience was, once again, catastrophically embarrassing, but because people seemed happier to be on the trains, we got a great deal more in the can. I’ve still not seen much of that famous Geordie wit and hospitality, however, but in these temperatures, I suppose it's hardly surprising. I've been quite grumpy, too.

We ended up emerging into a charming market near the Monument. Every stall sold the most incredible looking food; each one originating from a different country. I chatted to Spanish, French, Dutch and Jamaican stallholders before the skies opened again and we were forced to run back into the Metro looking like snowmen.

We went to The Sage in Gateshead to talk to them about their involvement in the project. They are the BBC's official partners for this musical, but the meeting was distinctly underwhelming. When we first chatted to them, they seemed genuinely excited about the project, giving us lists and lists of their ensembles that they felt sure would love to get involved. Today's meeting was with a bloke who told us repeatedly how busy he was and that he couldn't promise a single one of their ensembles would want to get involved because their rehearsals might clash with ours! I do hope that our meeting at least semi-rekindled his interest in the project. The Sage is such an extraordinary building and it looked particularly wonderful today...

Back at the Radio Station, I took a call from a lady who wanted to know if she could use a photograph I’d taken of Derren Brown for a TV documentary about him, which was hugely flattering, particularly when she pointed out that Derren himself had requested the photo be used. They've also offered to pay for it, which is, of course, totally unnecessary, but a lovely bonus.

So, England will not be hosting the 2012 World Cup. It’s probably a controversial thing to say, but it would, no doubt, mean another huge chunk being taken out of Arts budgets, so I can't bring myself to feel too sad. It also means that there’s now the glimmer of hope that people might actually start producing art for other purposes than in association with sport. I’ve never understood why sport and the arts are lumped into the same governmental bracket. It strikes me they are more diametrically opposed than home and foreign affairs! Perhaps we finally have to acknowledge a) that England can’t play football, b) that the world doesn't care and c) that the England brand is at an all-time low. I long for the day when we can celebrate our beautiful country without feeling shame - or talking about football.

Sunday 2nd December 2010 was a Sunday and Pepys woke up with a crashing hangover; “My head not very well, and my body out of order by last night’s drinking, which is my great folly.” He ate a leg of mutton with his wife, but the sauce was too sweet, so he threw all of his dollies out of the pram and refused to eat anything but the bone marrow. I have no idea what bone marrow is in relation to a pig or a deer, or whatever mutton is, but it sounds absolutely disgusting.

Fluffy balls of polystyrene

I'm in Newcastle and it’s f****ng freezing! The streets are covered in thick ice and recently it started hailing little soft balls which could easily have been those polystyrene things you shove inside bean bags.


My train journey up lasted two hours longer than it should have done. We charged through the home counties, where the fields were merely dusted with a pleasing sprinkle of icing sugar, but as soon we'd got into the North Midlands all hell started to break loose. Yorkshire was a mess. The train station in York itself was under feet of snow and it was falling from the sky like fluffy yoghurt pots. As we got further north, the snow was so thick I started to wonder if anything could ever shift it.

All the way up, the train driver had to keep testing his breaks, which meant people were careering up and down the carriages with their little-something-extras from the buffet car.

I arrived in Newcastle and immediately had to film a piece for Look North, which I found myself presenting. My first encounter with the Metro was not under the best of circumstances. Unfortunately, I was asked to interview some of the passengers, which is my absolute idea of hell. People seem to find it very difficult to believe that I'm shy, but I find the experience of entering someone’s private "public" space cripplingly embarrassing. Everyone was freezing cold and apart from a group of extremely cheerful young ladies, nobody wanted to talk. The camera came out and I could feel the hostility coming towards me in waves. It wasn’t at all what I was expecting in Newcastle, but I had to keep telling myself that if I’d tried to pull the same stunt on the tube in London, someone would have throttled me before I’d got a decent interview. I’m told on a pleasant day, the Metro is a very chatty kind of place - as are, apparently, the Geordies. I just wanted the earth to swallow me up!

We walked back to my Travelodge through the gloriously icy darkened streets. I slid down one hill like someone on skis, and know it won’t be long before I fall flat on my arse, probably very publically, more than likely on film!

Life in Newcastle staggers on, however. They’re certainly more resilient up here. People drive much more carefully than they do in London and there seem to be fewer accidents on the streets. Quite a number of trains into the main station had been cancelled, and some of the bars within had closed early. There were very few people on the streets, but all the shops and cafes I passed were business as usual.

I've now returned to the hotel and shall spend the evening in my room, which is actually bordering on being slightly cold, but it’s so much warmer than I’ve been for the past 10 hours that life feels good.

December 1st 1660, and Pepys woke up to discover his maid, Jane had put some of his belongings in the wrong place. In a passage that demonstrates one of the more unpleasant aspects of his character Pepys writes; “I took a broom and basted her till she cried extremely, which made me vexed, but before I went out I left her appeased.” No doubt by giving her one of your special little kisses, eh Samuel?

There followed a day of drinking, gossiping, drinking, eating venison pasties and then more drinking; “after a pint of wine I went home, my brains somewhat troubled with so much wine, and after a letter or two by the post I went to bed.”

He meets us at the lift waving his walking stick

I woke up this morning to discover Highgate under a blanket of snow. As I left the house, I realised the snow was very wet under foot, and decided it wouldn’t stay around for long, so immediately ‘phoned Nic to ask if she wanted a walk around Abney Cemetery in Stoke Newington.

I drove there and arrived ridiculously early, so busied myself sending letters and looking for a pair of Wellington boots. I’m off to Newcastle tomorrow, where the snow is apparently ridiculous, so want to make sure I’m as prepared as I can be.

Nic was well. We ate lunch in a cafe on Church Street. It was all a bit organic for my liking; own brand cola, tepid baked beans which arrived looking like cat food, bread which I could only swallow with gulps of water – and the cafe was freezing cold. Nic was given the wrong plate of food entirely! The staff, however, were incredibly polite! At the end of the meal, Nic paid, which was lovely of her and we set off for a stroll around the cemetery.

The snow had started falling again by this stage, and it was getting more and more intense. We met up with a couple of Nic’s friends who were doing a photo shoot for an album cover. The artist, Vashti, was dressed in nothing but a black tutu and a tiny lacy top. I couldn’t feel my toes. Heaven knows how she must have been feeling!

Nic was given the task of holding an umbrella over the photographer to protect the camera but after about 20 minutes, it got a bit too intense for everyone, and we all went our separate ways.

I drove back home through a blizzard, dumped my Wellingtons in the kitchen, and hurtled into Central London to drop off the collar studs, which I'd fortunately managed to find yesterday. For some reason they were nestling in our bed – on Nathan’s side. I think he must have slept on top of them for two nights without realising. Talk about the Princess and the pea... or not.

Oxford Street was as miserably crowded as ever, and the central line from Tottenham Court Road was about as horrible as tube trains get. I took it to Liverpool Street and then walked to the Barbican to see the world premier of Badenheim 1939, by Arnold Wesker. It is a devastating and haunting piece about blind optimism in the face of adversity. It was wonderfully acted by the students at Guildhall, extraordinarily staged, and, though it pains me to admit it, the music was spot on!

Sir ‘Nold was there, and did a Q and A beforehand. It upset me to see him looking considerably less robust than he had when we last met just over a year ago. He now walks with a stick and is suffering from the early stages of Parkinson’s, which makes travelling into London intimidating. This makes me sad. Arnold is my mentor. He spotted me when I was at drama school, and we wrote our first piece together when I was just 22. He intimidated me in those days. I looked up to him and soaked up everything he told me like a sponge. We used to drive across the country together, trying to whip up interest in Letter to a Daughter. During those long car journeys he taught me Jewish folk melodies and I sang English folk songs to him. He told me endless stories about the theatre world in the 1950s and 60s. The days when everything was politicised and the Workers Revolutionary Party under Redgrave and De La Tour ruled the roost. The days when theatre mattered.

I arrived with him and his wife, Dusty. I went up to a woman who was holding programmes (all of which said Wesker's name in large letters) and said "I'm here with Arnold Wesker, is there anyone here to greet him?" The woman sucked her teeth at me before saying; "who's that then?" "He wrote the play" I said. She sucked her teeth again; "what was his surname?"

He may no longer be a household name for the younger generation, but he knows how to write a play!

I congratulated Arnold and left. I wanted to be on my own to contemplate the final image of the piece; thirty young people carrying suitcases and musical instruments rushing into a cloud of white smoke; the flames of the gas chambers turning them instantly into silhouettes.

I left the theatre and snow was falling from the sky and swirling around the City skyscrapers like ash.

On a balcony in New York, it's just started to snow
He meets us at the lift, like Douglas Fairbanks waving his walking stick
But he isn't well at all
The buildings of New York look just like mountains through the snow


Just being alive
It can really hurt
And these moments given
Are a gift from time
Just let us try
To give these moments back
To those we love
To those who will survive


And I can hear my mother saying
"Every old sock meets an old shoe"
Isn't that a great saying?
"Every old sock meets an old shoe"
Here come the Hills of Time

(Kate Bush, Moments of Pleasure)

On the last day of November, 1660, Pepys was horrified to learn of the King’s plan to pay sailors with “tickets”. These glorified IOU's were being offered because there was no money to pay up front. It was hoped that the navy boys would be lured into accepting these essentially worthless pieces of paper by promises of incredibly high rates of interest. Pepys, being a man of great integrity, realised the tickets would only temporarily solve the problem. Money still needed to be found to pay the sailors – but now with a great deal of interest. Sadly, Charles II had less integrity. By 1667, these tickets, which in many cases still hadn't been paid, were causing mayhem and mutiny. The Navy was on its knees and the Dutch were sailing merrily down the Medway!

Pointless stations

There's a tube strike today and many stations across London are closed. A woman with a voice like nails on a blackboard was sitting opposite me on the Central line earlier. She wanted to get off at Chancery Lane and was shrieking at anyone who'd listen; "if the tube's going through the station, I don't see why it wouldn't just stop." I think she'd slightly missed the point. There'd be no point in striking if it didn't cause disruption.

For my part, I'm thrilled! I've been all over London today, and sat on lovely empty carriages and whizzed through all those pointless stations like Goodge Street and St Paul's. My journey times have been halved. I reached Tottenham Court Road this morning in record time. Perhaps this strike will introduce people to the joys of walking!

Unfortunately, as I was exiting the tube earlier, a woman from London Tonight stuck a camera in my face. "What do you think of the tube strike?" she asked. "I think it's marvellous!" I replied "I've made it to my destination in half the time, and Oxford Street is empty!" She laughed. I walked away, wondering if my hat looked silly on camera!

I was less thrilled, however, to discover that I might have lost the studs from the shirt I hired from Moss Bros for the premier. I had no idea what they were for or where they went, so decided to leave them somewhere safe. Unfortunately, I've no idea where this was. I've been given 24 hours to find them or I lose an undisclosed amount from my deposit.

I retire from this blog entry, quoting an article I read in the Metro this morning, which upset me greatly. Many of us often feel as though we're up against it and the world is a tough place, but there's always someone worse off...

A paralysed man who is living in a tent by a canal said yesterday he had given up on life and was waiting to die, as temperatures dropped below freezing. Homeless Mark Payne became stranded by a lock in Oxford when his wheelchair got a puncture. The 52-year-old then refused to move. 'I'm just going to stay here and let nature take it's course,' he said. 'To be honest, I wish I was dead now. If they find my body, they'll cremate me and I won't have to wake up any more.' Mr Payne turned down offers to take him to a hostel but said he had accepted food and a tent from concerned passers-by last week. He added: 'I never knew people could be so kind.'

Poor Mr Pepys woke up 350 years ago to discover a “great deal of foul water come into my parlour from under the partition between me and Mr Davis [his neighbour].” He immediately went next door to report the problem, and Mr Davis promised to try and do something about it as soon as he could. Perhaps in an attempt to move the conversation away from matters faecal, he proceeded to announce that thieves had attempted to break into his house the previous night, which freaked Pepys out good and proper.

The world became a wonderful place again when he received his first quarter’s pay; “and do bless Almighty God that he is pleased to send us so sudden and unexpected payments of my salary so soon after my great disbursements. So now that I am worth 200l again.”

That’s alright, then. But with all those thieves around, we’ll have to hope our hero put all this money into a well-locked chest!

My own choir

It must be freezing cold outside. There's still frost on the trees and the sun, which is the colour of golden syrup, is really low in the sky. It's nearly 4pm and I've done nothing but sit on my sofa underneath a rug, whilst watching the telly. I’m waiting for Nathan to get back from his rehearsal for Just So and then we’re going to bed down with a nice stir fry.


I'm currently toying with the seed of an idea, which is to create my own ensemble. I love my career. I love creating works for very specific ensembles in very specific corners of the world, but I also have to acknowledge that there often isn’t the potential for what I write to be performed again, and that's an incredibly important part of being a composer. I've never had anything published, for example, and that upsets me.

I've therefore decided to try and form a 16-voice choir, who will specialise in singing documentary compositions; works which are based on actuality, but could also be easily adapated for and performed by any choir. I would write much of the repertoire, but we’d also perform other work that fits the brief; even if this involves performing music by Purcell, for example, within the context of what was happening in the world at the time. I’d want the ensemble to be gifted singers, all able to perform as soloists, but with voices which have the capacity to blend as a chorus as well as being able to convey the emotion central to the works we perform.

In theory it all sounds incredibly exciting, but no doubt it will involve a great amount of hard word as I try to track down singers who want to join me on the journey. I’ve even thought about the first work I’d write for the ensemble; a choral piece based on letters written during the two world wars.

They say money breeds money, and on November 28th 1660 was Pepys received two large payments amounting to a mini-fortune of around 40l, which keen readers will remember was about the sum total of his worth at the start of the year. He was also thrilled to discover that his salary at the Navy office had been okayed by the treasury, so the money would continue to roll in at least for the time being. Unsurprisingly, there was much praising of God etc... Pepys was never happier than when earning huge sums of money!

Brighton Rock

I am sitting in a car, heating blaring out on full, heading back from Brighton, which could well be the coldest place in the world right now!

What's very odd for me is that I have nothing to do for the next few days, and this makes me almost panic! Still, there's nothing like the bitter cold to numb your mind and make you forget everything, including your own name!

We have come to Brighton with our American friends Adam and Leon. Whenever Adam comes to the country, we try to take him on a road trip somewhere either typically English, or quirky and unique.

Despite the cold, Brighton was wonderful. The lanes were crammed full of things we all wanted to buy, we had fabulous food in a pub and a brilliant time on the pier, where we ate the finest doughnuts I've ever tasted. I also bought a toffee apple, which was disappointingly furry. I opted not to get involved with the rides at the end of the pier, and instead stood and watched the chaps whizzing about on THE most terrifying looking contraption, which took them 100 feet into the air before plummeting them towards the pier at a terrifying speed. Apparently the view from the top; Brighton twinkling in the night sky, was extraordinary, but the wind was so biting they thought they were going to die of hypothermia!

350 years ago Pepys got stuck in a traffic jam of carts and horses caused by a terrible incident of 17th Century road rage, which led to the death of a footman!

It didn't seem to bother Pepys too much, for he dined very comfortably with the Sandwiches before heading off to the theatre whilst his wife went to a christening. Pepys rarely bothered himself with things like christenings and weddings. Perhaps they were considered feminine pastimes.

He arrived home late at night, and remembered with horror, that he'd left his boy Wayneman in Whitehall with strict instructions to remain there until he returned. He was therefore grately relieved when the boy took the initiative to make his way back to the house, no doubt cursing his employer with every frozen footstep of his journey!

Triumph!

Yesterday was a triumph. Believe it or not, the first time all 40 singers had performed together was during the performance at 6.30. We’d had a run at 5pm with 39 of them, but the last singer rushed rushed through the doors just as the audience was arriving! Everyone looked incredible, having dressed fabulously, yet appropriately for their style of their singing. We had early music singers in 17th Century corsets, opera singers in fabulous frocks, musical theatre performers in black tie and sequins, the Navy boys in full uniform with swords, Magdalene College chaps in university robes and folkers wearing garlands of corn in their hair. Everyone looked so wonderful and colourful and acted their way through the music beautifully. There was one moment, whilst the gospel choir were singing “we to a little house on the Bank Side and saw the fire grow” when I swear they were seeing the fire itself in a giant arc engulfing the City on the other side of the water. All the performers shone – every single one of them.

The full choirs

It was our coup de theatre that seemed to get most people excited. At the end of the second movement the choir went from standing in a clump in front of the audience to standing in a circle around them. We performed the last movement therefore in complete surround sound. This dissected the music – and gave it space, so that people could really hear the choirs working as individual units within the whole sound. It was very exciting as well for people in the audience to have at least one group of singers within touching distance.

Benjamin and the Navy Boys

It was an utterly engaging experience for the audience. When a choir dresses in black, and buries their heads in their score, the audience become passive observers and might as well be watching the performance on a television. If the choir in front of them is dressed in a riot of colours and every face is contorted with the emotion of every line, then they're dragged, kicking and screaming into the experience. Of course, this approach won’t work for everyone. Some people love to sit in an audience with their eyes closed, allowing the music to wash over them and I suspect these people might have been rather freaked out by our performance.

Katherine from the "trebles" choir

That said, most of the audience genuinely seemed to love it. So many people rushed up to me afterwards, and there's been a steady stream of emails all day today. A lady even came up to tell me she brought news from God, who's apparently been lighting fires for me for the past ten years and wanted me to know that I had a very bright future ahead. It was a lovely thing to be told, but I hope she wasn’t trying to blame me for the Great Fire of London!

After the performance, I was presented with a bottle of champagne by the church, a wonderful hat from the Navy Boys and a programme signed by everyone. All items I shall cherish forever... until I drink the champagne, that is.

Oranges and Lemons was a triumph as well, and it was fabulous that so many people came back to perform the work. We were also joined at the last moment by my very dear friend, Tash, who performed in orchestras with me when we were children.

Add to this, an audience filled with deeply loving friends and family, all of whom seemed genuinely thrilled to be sharing my happiness. My Mother said this morning how astonishingly loyal my friends are. Philippa was in floods of tears, Meriel and Roy were on their feet afterwards, cheering, as were the two Matts. Edward and Ellen sent wonderful text messages. And the choir itself, peppered with people I've known for years, and of course my brother singing in Oranges and Lemons. It was engulfing and overwhelming and I felt like the luckiest man alive.

To answer the question posted on my blog yesterday, yes, a CD IS being cut of 5 of the movements of the work, which the church is going to sell for something like £15. If you'd like a copy, email me at ben@benajmintill.com and I will forward the details to the necessary people. In the meantime, if you'd like to hear our recording, you can go to www.benjamintill.com/pepysmotet. Pour yourself a nice cup of tea, find a pair of headphones, and allow the music to pull you in. I’d love to hear your thoughts.

It’s a double bill tonight on the Pepys diary front because I was so drunk last night when I came to write my blog that I could barely remember how to sign into my account.

Sunday 25th November 1660 and Pepys was doing a tour of many of the churches in the City of London. He visited his parents and found his mother very ill and suffering from her bladder and kidney stones.

Monday 26th November 1660 and Pepys dined at home with his father; “who seems to take much pleasure to have a son that is neat in his house.” He spent the afternoon in the Navy office and then went to the pub, where he talked about poetry, returning home to discover that Sir William Batten’s wife had called in on Elizabeth, the first visit she’d ever made, which pleased Pepys very much because it was another indication that his wife was being accepted into society.