Top of the Pansy Pops 2025

Yes, folks, it’s that time again when I look back at another year of my missives from the sticks. The most popular broadcasts of 2025 have a distinctly nostalgic feel, with the leader-board dominated by anniversaries and commemorations, righting wrongs, resurrected traditions, memory lanes and old haunts, and topped with a trip to the seaside.

Numbers-wise, Perking the Pansies enjoyed the best year since 2014, so there’s still some life in the old blog yet. Blimey!

Oh, I Do Like to Be Beside the Seaside

What better way to spend a sunny spring afternoon than a trip to the seaside? We’d never been to Southwold, the classy resort on the Suffolk coast because, without our own wheels, it’s a bit of a trek. So an equally classy neighbour took pity on us and offered to take us. We had a…

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Idyllic Ithaca – the Return

It’s taken quite a while but we’ve finally recovered from our frolic-filled sojourn on Ithaca. For our second expedition, we were accompanied by a couple of fellow village people who added an extra helping of spice to the mix. We had a ball. We haven’t laughed so much in years. It was well worth the…

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Nowt as Queer as Folk

Ours is a quiet little village where little happens except for occasional (but mercifully rare) low-level anti-social behaviour – like bored teens on the wacky baccy and cheap cider mucking about down by the river. But there’s one misdemeanour guaranteed to get everyone’s blood boiling – dog poo. Man’s (and woman’s) best friend is big…

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Turkey Street with Bettany Hughes

People who know me know that I love an old ruin. Nothing gets me going more than a pile of ancient tumbledown stones. When I can’t visit ’em, I watch programmes about ’em on the box. And few TV pundits get the sap rising better than classical scholar Bettany Hughes. Buxom Bettany flits and flirts…

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End of a Vera

I am bereft. After 14 series over 13 years, we’ve just watched the final two episodes of Vera, featuring the dishevelled and irascible detective from the fictitious Northumberland and City Police Force, played with great panache by the wonderful Brenda Blethyn. Based in and around England’s most northerly county, Vera blends the gritty streets of…

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Okay, You, One Sentence Should Do It

Our double anniversary has sneaked up on us again – 19 years since our eyes met across a busy West End gay bar fit to bursting with a gossipy after-work crowd, and 17 years since we got hitched. This year, we’ve decided to push the boat out and paddle down the Seine. Yes, we’re off…

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Lest We Forget

We joined the enthusiastic crowd of locals gathered on Church Plain in front of the Loddon War Memorial to celebrate the 80th anniversary of VE Day – the end of the Second World War in Europe. The organisers did a splendid job. So too did the kids from the local primary school who serenaded us…

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Happy Birthday, Perking the Pansies

“In the beginning there was work and work was God. After 35 years in the business, the endless predictability made me question the Faith. Liam, on the other hand, was neither bored nor unchallenged but was routinely subjected to the ephemeral demands of a capricious boss, a soft and warm Christmas tree fairy with a…

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LGBT Armed Forces Memorial – No More Shame

Last month, His Maj, King Charles, dedicated the first national memorial honouring LGBT armed forces personnel, 25 years after the ban on LGBT people serving in the military was lifted. Before this, those who were – or who were thought to be – gay or transgender were subjected to interrogation and discharge, a brutal and utterly needless…

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Dwile Flonking

A couple of summers ago, I wrote a tongue in cheek piece about Dwile flonking, a notorious East Anglian pub game involving two teams of twelve players, each taking a turn to girt (dance) around the other while attempting to avoid a beer-soaked dwile (cloth) flonked (flung) by the non-girting team. Imagine my amazement to…

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Once again, a five-year-old tongue twisting post about a game old bird fit for the pot took centre stage – all thanks to the magic of AI. In fact, it’s currently the most popular post of all time. Blimey!

I’m Not a Pheasant Plucker

When I put food out for the birds, I don’t expect a big fat pheasant to waddle along and scoff the lot. Bold as brass it was. Where’s the pheasant plucker when you need him? I feel a tongue twister coming on. I’m not the pheasant plucker, I’m the pheasant plucker’s mate, And I’m only…

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And what was the most popular image of the year? Drum roll please…

This image of John Garner and me from our first holiday together – to Majorca. Anything that keeps alive the memory of an extraordinary young man is fine by me. As I once wrote in a book…

I remembered John cuddling a weeping stranger at London Pride after the red balloons had been released, each one commemorating someone who had died of AIDS. I remembered John buying a McDonald’s Happy Meal and handing it, without a word, to a beggar on the street. I remembered John helping a drunken tramp to his feet because he’d fallen over and cut his face. I remembered his quick wit and winning smile that lit up my life.

Perking the Pansies, Chapter 15, Jack’s Guardian Angel

Happy New Year to one and all. If I were the praying kind, I’d be straight down on my knees wishing for a lot more peace, goodwill and glad tidings in 2026.

Extra-Special Christmas Guests

Liam and I had intended to enjoy an intimate Christmas dinner for two with all the trimmings. But, at the very last minute, we binned boring old traditions and invited a few of our closest friends to the table to drink us under it. But who were they?

To our right sat multi-Michelin starred potty-mouthed celebrity chef, Gordon Ramsey – lusty and dry, with a hint of ripe language. On our left flowed the nation’s favourite talk show host Graham Norton, whose witty white got our tongues wagging. Next to Graham at our festive table sat the multi-gonged crooner Gary Barlow, whose let it shine rosé hit the right note. Finally, the undisputed superstar of the show was every gay boy’s pet pop princess, Kylie Minogue, with her pretty-in-pink plonk that we just couldn’t get out of our head. By bottoms up, we were swaying to Kylie’s very first Christmas number 1 – XMAS.

Our debut celebrity Come Dine With Me show was top of the plonks. But, blimey, this lot know how to put it away. I guess that’s the pressure of fame. Cheers!

Where Love Lives

This Christmas, as is our habit, we’re looking forward to calorific grub, artery-hardening afters and pick ‘n’ mix snacking, washed down with a barrel of posh plonk (all courtesy of Mr Marks and Mr Spencer) and seasoned with a little peace on Earth. The last one seems to be a rare commodity these days; we can only hope for a bit more comfort and joy. Whatever Christmas means to you, may your day be merry and bright.

I’ll leave you with the John Lewis Christmas TV ad, the cream of the crop this year. It gets me every time. Best grab the Kleenex.

Love Actually

Christmas is almost upon us, and it’s a big deal for local businesses trying to make a few extra shillings before the January slump. As regular readers know, Liam and I like a drink or three, so we do our bit to keep the hospitality sector afloat – it’s our patriotic duty. One of our favourite city watering holes is the Gardener’s Arms (known by most punters as the Murderers), a traditional ale house stuffed with old-world charm, oak beams and exposed brickwork. The pub has a deliciously dark past – hence the nickname – and it’s usually our last port of call before we stumble onto our bus back to the village.

To drum up a bit of business, last year the jovial pub landlord posted a video on Faceache – a fantastic spoof of a scene from Love Actually, one of the nation’s favourite festive films. And it’s been posted again this year. Click on the image below. The video is a bit rude, so best move on if you’re easily offended…

Alternatively, watch it on YouTube…

If you happen to be passing the pub, be sure to pop in for a few sherries and admire the murder theme posted on the walls (Dr Crippin, Lizzie Borden, Bonnie and Clyde, Ruth Ellis, to name but a few). And the yuletide windows are pretty good too.

Hair Dos and Don’ts

On a trivial note, the thing that intrigued me about the guinea pig kids I ‘interviewed’ a couple of weeks back was the boys’ hair dos. They tended to fall into two cuts, style-wise – all swept front and centre, or flapping about behind. The front loaders resembled an alpaca, whereas the back flappers were a real blast from the past.

Yes folks, just when I thought it was safe to go back into the barber’s for my number 2 crop, the dreaded mullet is back in town, but with a fancy salon makeover. Not quite the floppy locks of Andre Agassi that bounced across the Centre Court at Wimbledon (before they all fell out). No, modern mullets are…

“… a more blended and refined version of the classic style, often incorporating fades and layers for a more textured and sophisticated look.”

The born-again hair don’t was confirmed on a recent festive frolic in old Norwich. We found ourselves surrounded by mullet-crowned students out on the lash, often accessorising their vintage cuts with a new twist on seventies-style clone-zone tashes and nineties-era baggy trousers – a kinda cross-decade mashup. Best bin the skinny jeans, then.

Guinea Pig Kids

Strolling through our hamlet, you could be forgiven for thinking it’s one sprawling retirement village with more mobility scooters than you could shake a walking stick at. We don’t see too many teens milling about the sleepy streets and kicking their heels. Recently, though, I had a chance to get up close and personal with a bunch of 15 and 16-year-olds – nothing pervy, of course – when I volunteered to conduct one-to-one mock interviews at our local school. I gave up my proper job way back in 2008, so I don’t know who was the more nervous, them or me.

Despite our collective nerves, my guinea pig kids were delightful – well turned out, warm, smart and engaging. It was a chance for them to try out their presentation skills before moving to the next stage of their studies. I was impressed most by their ambitions; less butcher, baker and candlestick maker, more firefighter, engineer, medic and – get this – child psychologist. I really enjoyed the experience, and I hope that having old bones like me as their guinea pig wasn’t too traumatic for them.

Dogging in the Dark

Our little Victorian cottage sits at the top of a semi-rural lane which meanders down to the River Chet, with wood, scrub and marsh all around. You’d think, living where we do, our nights would be as silent as the graves in the churchyard next door. Not a bit of it. Even in the depths of winter, we keep our bedroom window slightly ajar and so our country slumber is often serenaded by a cacophony of sounds from the wild things hereabouts. The song of the tawny owl is both soothing and soporific, whereas the screaming of the horny foxes is eerie and bone-chilling. And then there’s the rustling of small rodents as they feed, out of sight of predators. But most recently, a loud barking has been added to the choir.

At first we thought it was a lost dog – our four-legged friends are as popular as mobility scooters around these parts. But it turns out the barking is the call of a randy muntjac deer cruising for a bit of lovin’ in the boggy thicket. An adult muntjac deer is the size of a labrador and sounds a bit like one too.

We have two species of small deer around us – the muntjac and the Chinese water deer, neither of which is native to these islands. Both were imported from Asia by toffs in waxed jackets – for their sprawling country estates. Inevitably, some escaped into the wild and bred like rabbits. And so it’s all dogging in the dark for these horny creatures – just like the human variety in copses and clearings, lay-bys and car parks up and down the land.

Muntjac
Chinese Water Deer

In a Galaxy Far, Far Away

I’ve never understood the enduring, almost religious appeal of sci-fi and superhero stuff – the comics, the blockbusters, the video games, the whole alternative universe. Ok, I admit I did enjoy the original Star Wars trilogy and loved the sixties Batman with Adam West as the camp caped crusader in budgie smugglers (I wonder why?). But that was back when I was young and easily aroused. These days, I much prefer a whodunnit – even better if it’s set in a quintessential caramel-coloured English village with a mad vicar with murder in mind.

But we were reminded how big the ‘super-verse’ has become when the circus came to town for Comic Con 2025 at the Excel Centre in London’s Docklands. Our East End digs for my 65th birthday extravaganza were occupied by a battalion of young superhero lookee-likees. A trio of dressed-up Star Wars jedheads joined us in the lift. As the doors began to close, one cried out, ‘Shit, I’ve left my light sabre behind!’ Down in the lobby, we were faced with a speeding bullet of supermen in full caped garb, rushing – though not flying – out the door, with Captain America and Darth Vader bringing up the rear.

Still, I guess it’s all good clean fun for the young and the young at heart. Much healthier than being seduced by the dark side of cybercrime, county lines, street gangs or religious fruitcakes.

Dancing Queens No More

As our birthdays are just two weeks apart, each year Liam and I tend to mark them together. Nowadays, as befits our budding dotage, our jollies resemble more of a pensioners’ outing than the bop-til-you-drop of our yesteryears. 2025 also marks me reaching my latest chronological milestone – 65 – so Liam planned some fancy ticklers to get me in the mood. First on the menu was a glass of overpriced plonk in a Canary Wharf wine bar followed by a surprise dinner date with family. We dined on Italian, washed down with copious amounts of gossip and scandal – naughty but nice!

 The next morning Liam took me up this…

… for a full-on full English with a show-stopping view at the Sky Garden. Perched on top of the Leadenhall Building – affectionately known as the Walkie Talkie – the Sky Garden is London’s highest public green space, with panoramic views of the city. It was a gorgeous crisp day with the sun hanging low in the wispy blue, so our snaps aren’t all that. But you get the picture.

After breakfast, we wandered through the City in a vain attempt to burn off the calories, passing ‘the Monument’, the enormous column commemorating the Great Fire of London of 1666, and then across the Thames to Southwark – pronounced suth-erk – via London Bridge. We strolled along the busy Queen’s Walk, passed HMS Belfast and through Hays Galleria before crossing back into the City via Tower Bridge.

Our final destination was St Katharine Docks, immediately downstream from the Tower. Once part of the Port of London, the docks have since been repurposed as a place to work, sleep, shop and sup, centred around an upmarket yachting marina. After a quick gander, we found a place to sink a bottle and watch the world sail by.

Afternoon drinking can be exhausting even for these two old lushes, so it was back to our Westferry digs for a kip. We had to be fresh and fragrant for the main event, which was…

This was our second visit to the breathtaking ABBA Voyage, located by the deliciously named Pudding Mill Lane Station. Our debut performance was in 2023 as part of a birthday bash for the good wife of our local pub’s (now ex) landlord. Back then, we wiggled about like has-been dancing queens to the ageless ABBA classics. This time round we booked comfy seats in the auditorium. This old codger has finally hung up his dad-dancing shoes, much to the relief of all those around. Well, I don’t want to put my back out.

LGBT Armed Forces Memorial – No More Shame

Last month, His Maj, King Charles, dedicated the first national memorial honouring LGBT armed forces personnel, 25 years after the ban on LGBT people serving in the military was lifted. Before this, those who were – or who were thought to be – gay or transgender were subjected to interrogation and discharge, a brutal and utterly needless witch hunt that ruined countless lives. Ironically, in the past when the nation faced an all-too-real existential threat – a couple of world wars – the top brass didn’t care less where you stuck it so long as you kept your mouth shut and didn’t frighten the horses. We were all cannon fodder back then.

The memorial in bronze, at the National Memorial Arboretum in Staffordshire, takes the form of a crumpled letter featuring words from those affected by the ban, with the words ‘pride’ and ‘solidarity’ highlighted.

Here’s what the Beeb had to say about it…

The memorial is especially poignant for me, not just because I’m an ex-forces brat who was born in an army barracks, or that I am a great believer in natural justice and fair play for all. It’s also because, in the early nineties, I met Duncan, a dashing young former naval officer who was forced to walk the plank simply for being gay; another irony given the senior service used to be described as ‘rum, bum and the navy’. Even Churchill said something similar.

Duncan didn’t take it lying down. Oh no, he joined three other ‘dishonourables’ and took the UK Government to the European Court of Human Rights. Against all odds – including a hostile press and the pissed off powers that be – they won. Soon after, much to the horror of a few fuddy-duddy generals and bearded rear admirals, the ban was overturned.

Here they are then and now, with Duncan on the left…

Of course, it wasn’t just the four gay crusaders who made it all happen. There was a small army of supporters bringing up the rear. And the rest, as they say, is LGBT history. My history.