Christmas Eve at Norwich cathedral

It was after Peterborough that the clouds started to break up, giving the day it's first real feel of light. While the sky still had the threat of rain , the monotone grey that sucks at the soul was lifted. Wind turbines stalk the horizon and for the first time today it feels like I'm finally on my way somewhere. Which in a lot of ways is what I could say sums up my year (although that won’t finish up in Norwich).

The train is about to arrive at Ely which has an impressive cathedral, the second of three cathedrals visible on the journey; after the functional Peterborough, and before the grand Norwich. Ely is one of those places that comes out of no where and stuns you with nothing short of awe, even if the town has an Argos. The cathedral is  distinctive with it's odd shaped towers and impressive masonry. If you want to study medieval architecture you can’t go far wrong here.

While I made this trip from Mansfield to Norwich many times on both the train and car many times before, this is my third trip on Christmas Eve. It feels like it is starting to become a Christmas traditional, even the family sat opposite are the same as last year.

My connection with Norwich is tenuous at best. Looking to find a football team different to my friends and it was the East Anglia side with a plucky sense of adventure, that went to the Olympic Stadium in Munich and won that captured my attention. There has of course been more lows than highs since then, but here I remain. Celebrating a last second draw against Huddersfield felt almost as exciting as the win at Wembley months later.

It is not just the football that I admire about Norwich, as someone with an interest of medieval history (the real thing, not the Game of Thrones borefest), there is plenty to be taken in by Norwich. For this was a medieval city of some repute. The fact that Helen Castor starts at least one episodes of her documentary series Medieval Lives in the city shows how important the place and people were.

It is two of this periods buildings that still dominate the the Norwich skyline, the castle still looks grand as ever; being out of the way has it's advantages and didn’t suffer the fate of castles like Nottingham or Newark. It is now a museum and give a good account of not just Norwich but Norfolk as a whole.

It was here that I first heard the story of Saint Edmund, the saint of East Anglia and for a time patron saint of England. He was the victim of Viking raids, defeated he was tied to a tree, shot through with arrows and decapitated and dumped in a forest. When his kinsman went to find his body they were called by a wolf who was guarding Edmund. Or something along those lines. No records from his reign have survived, his legend has helped make him the patron saint of wolves, kings and pandemics.

This year there seems to be less need to hit the shops, more by accident that organisation on my part. It means I have more time to visit the cathedral than usual. The place has a quite buzz at this time of year. There are services to get ready guest to great and as a casual visiter like myself can slip in a wonder without aim.

It is a shame that I will be leaving before the Christmas service as buildings are built for the kind of show that will take place. Religious or not it is hard not to admire such an event.

When walking down to the cathedral there was the most almighty of downpours, but now sat in the building I have come all this way, light is flooding in through the high windows. The few stained glass panels are spreading light like a kaleidoscope.

The seats are filling up with anticipation. People are either reading books or magazines. While others sit and chat or quietly reflecting. The murmur of people talking is starting to make the walls echo. The odd excited child can be heard.

The best place to look in a cathedral is up. It seems self evident when you consider the nature of the building is to look upto not just God but the people who built the place. A Norman church built with French stone it is imposing now as it must of been to the people who saw it when it was first completed.

The cathedral was started in 1090, replacing a Saxon settlement in a way that would have excited town planners even today. The fact it has been here for over 900 years is a wonder. Even more so is it doesn’t seem to have suffered the same amount of set backs as some other cathedrals and is probably why is is one of my favourites.

That isn’t an easy claim to make. However when I have taken friends and family they have been just as impressed. This did include trying to find the oldest piece of graffiti with a couple of friends; which Flog It tried to make out was quite difficult.

One of the most famous people associated with the cathedral is Sir Thomas Erpingham. He was a Norfolk nobleman during the uneasy period at the end of the fourteenth century and the start of the fifteenth. He is perhaps best known from William Shakespeare’s play Henry V where he was a trusted part of Henry's army.

One of the gates is named after the bearded gent. It also contains a small statue of Sir Thomas knelling in prayer. He is even buried somewhere in the cathedral, although no one is exactly sure whereabouts.

In the end I am starting to get in the way, although no one says so. One of the cathedral staff even invites me to stay for the service. I however have a train to catch, and just as the singing of songs would be getting underway.

I take one last walk around the building and slip out into the cloisters still looking up. The sun is back out before it is due to set. The walk to the railway station is done in a kind of mournful silence, but I know I'll be back and as I cross the River Wensum I look forward to seeing this old city again.

What kind of day has it been

“You’d think we’d get loads of famous people through here. To be honest I can’t say I’ve heard of many. We had the king through here the other the other week.”

“Really” I didn’t really know who she was talking about but I thought it was only polite, especially to someone putting makeup on your face, probably best to humour them. After all you didn’t want to look an idiot on T.V., “Stephen Fry?” I asked, after all who gives off more of an impression of royalty in the dumb?

“Yeah that’s the guy. Really charming. I’d really like Danny Dyer just once, but Mr Shakespeare won’t let him. There is never anybody good on this show. I know who you are you were on that celebrity Ready Cook weren’t you? I’d heard this before, I’ve got that sort of face people think they recognise by can’t place.

“Sorry I’ve never been on it. I’ve been on this show about a dozen times. I always ask for you.” This was yet another platitude.

“Oh you are silly we’ve never met” I had been modest and had been a regular on the show for five years and shoe had done my makeup every time. But no one remembers me. Not that I mind sometimes you want to walk down the high street without people gawping, asking if you are the bloke off the telly or just harangued with nothing but abuse that people pass off as banter.

“I was on Celebrity Mastermind maybe you saw me on that?” I didn’t expect her to have seen it she was probably always drunk by seven. It’s like you’ve got to be drunk to be interesting, maybe it’s why pub quizzes are so popular.

“That’s it! You were the one that got that question wrong, the one about Peter Andre. My friends thought you were really stupid. I mean who doesn’t like Peter Andre. He is so lovely and smart. Such a good dad.” As if she had ever met him. Know the lengths of this show was going towards dumbing down he she probably had.

No one ever remembers the winners of these celebrity shows though. Not that I’m though. Those who do know me, know me for having an opinion. It does mean that people listen though I suppose. Not that this woman would ever have the faintest idea of what I was talking about even in I explained it with diagrams. She was now wearing that expression that she was thinking about something complex on how to improve more or less the only arts show on television her manifesto would have included Neil Buchanan on every week as an expert on paintings and stuff.

“That Russell Brand he is smart isn’t he? The way that he uses all those long words as well. He know politics as well, and really funny. Such a nice man. We have him on here all the time and he always remembers my name and takes the time to get to know you. He should be mayor of London or Prime Minister or something.” So she remembers charmer Brand but not an intellectual like myself.

“You never know, stranger things have happened.” I had to cut her off before she said something about Jeremy Clarkson being just as good a choice. That was all I ever heard in pubs. Some big hairy geezers saying “don’t get me started on that climate change bollocks.” As if they have participated in years of research on the subject.

“Yeah I’d vote for him any day of the week. He is good so looking as well. I like how I get to make sure his chest hair is looking lush.”

Your job does have its upsides then? That should change the subject for a bit.

“I guess so.” She said with a glumness that suggested she was thinking of something deep and meaningful. “They probably want to ship it out to India.”

“That would be a shame.” Sometimes it’s just easier to let these comments go by, as correcting it takes too much time, time that you will never get back, but bugger it. “How would they…”

“Three minutes Matt” A voice belonging to the studio runner had come to rescue.

“Well it was nice meeting you.” I got up from my seat taking the tissue out of my shirt collar when the make-up woman stopped me.

“Missed a bit” she said pulling the chest hair I had out with what felt with the force of a tornado. It took the breath out of me and if it was for the impatient runner I would have taken a minute to gather my thoughts.

“There he is,” said a familiar voice coming from around the corner, Liz Brydon, she had been the presenter of the review show we were about to do for years. I don’t have many friends in television but if I had to choose my closest it would have to be Liz, “we thought you had got lost.”

“Nah, I was just being physically assaulted by your make-up person. So what have you got lined up for us tonight Liz?” When I usually asked this question she would go through the line-up that showed her real passion for the show, however trivial.

“Yeah she is a bit hands on but if we sacked her Brand would be on the warpath, and you know how he gets when the people are being oppressed.”

“That doesn’t sound good.” This didn’t elicit much of a response and I thought I knew why. You’re going to be talking about Andy van Gust’s new film aren’t you?”

“Look,” Liz said in a tone that was eminently defensive “it wasn’t my idea. You know it’s important and we can’t not cover it. “

“Shit, I was only joking. You know I can’t promise to be on my best behaviour.”

“THIRTY SECONDS” a voice rang out. The small whispers of the production team fell silent like soldiers on night duty.

“Good evening and welcome to Review Weekly, on tonight’s show we will discuss the new work of Graham Kindrick’s new provocative painting, we will get reaction to comments by author Janice Mangle who says all classic literature isn’t worth printing on toilet paper.

“But we start with a review of Andy van Gust’s new film. The Belgian director is no stranger to controversy. Joining ne to discuss this Matt Trangle.” I sank in my seat a little.

“Yes it’s a polemic on the way that we treat child stars in modern society and how they can’t be considered to have grown to be serious acts until they have sexually matured.”

“But to depict Tintin the buy reporter having sex with a Dutch hooker is going a bit too far, is it not?”

I knew she would start with this. You would think a friend would ease you in. I did admire her professionalism, but this film was pure filth.

“Some think it was tastefully done. I’m not one. I know Tintin is depicted as being in his late twenties, but the scene was just inappropriate to even discuss on a programme like this with a sophisticated audience.” I really wanted to lay into the film and the work of van Gust, I knew I was being baited. The new producer had wanted to bring a new audience to the show, this meant more confrontation and I didn’t want to play his games.

“Was it the fact that Snowy was involved?” Liz was really going for it. She wanted to tell the audience about the worst type of bestiality imaginable.

“It was just plainly wrong and how it got past the censors I have no idea.” I could sense what was coming next. I was going to accused of double standards.

“You’ve been a long-time advocate of for less interference from the censors.”

“Yes I have…” What I meant was those warnings before a film that say things like ‘contains scenes of a sexual nature’ or ‘contains mild peril’ ‘or contains language that may offend.’ I didn’t get a chance to say this though.

“Don’t you think that’s hypocritical of you to say that this film needs greater censorship?”

The sensible thing would have been to counter this with my reasoned argument. There is a point in all of that we all snap, and reason fails us.

“What do you say about that...” The question mark hadn’t even metaphorically left her mouth, she didn’t get to finish her sentence but had every right to finish our friendship when I rose from my chair and pushed her to the floor. There was no going back. Everyone just seem to pause. The rush of panic prompted everyone into action. The producer run onto the set and helped Liz to her feet. The production team scurried about looking busy but not catching my eye.

I realised myself from my mic and just wondered out of the studio and into the street. A thin layer of mist filled the air. The sound of cars ejecting a spray of rain from the roads whizzed by oblivious to the nature of my gloom. I had effectively ended my career, and live in front of tens of people.

The shrill shriek of drunks sounded out like seagulls scavenging for food. The full effect of the street lights were more prominent against the darkening sky. The sound of a mobile phone working its way through some obscure symphony began to get louder until I realised it was my own. I looked at it and it was my agent.

“What the fuck was that Matt?”

“Hello” I said in response. I was punch drunk and I didn’t need the lecture that was to follow. “I’ll have a pepperoni pizza with mushrooms and extra pizza.”

“Stop pissing about.” My agent was getting fed up of my antics, ever since I said the Italians were lazy every last one of them. Of course it was taken out of context, everything is. That’s why is makes such good copy in the papers.

“Where the bloody hell are you? Meet me at Victoria, you know the usual place.” Unfortunately I did, he had a small place in the country for his clients to get away from things for a few days, to get their head down and straight. Then when the press had moved on to a new victim he released you back into the public. It was my turn to go there and face the music. I just hoped no one recognised me now.

I’d seen him do this to others and they were never the same after. Some went off the rails even more and he got rid of them or they bucked their ideas up and made him a lot of money.