Where To Now St. Peter?

We fancied another pilgrimage and we settled on Peterborough in neighbouring Cambridgeshire, with its epic house of God. While I may be a dedicated heathen, I totally get that back in the days of the great unschooled, the sheer scale and splendour of such colossal erections could keep even the doubters in line. How could mere mortals create such magnificence without the guiding hand of the Almighty? So we jumped on the cross-country ‘Let’s Roll With Pride’ themed train from Norwich.

Peterborough Cathedral was originally founded sometime during the 7th century as an Anglo-Saxon monastery called Medeshamstede. The community thrived until the 9th century before being sacked by pillaging Vikings. To avoid any repeat of that maker-meeting misfortune, the monks enclosed a rebuilt Medeshamstede in thick stone walls, and the settlement became a ‘Burh’ – a ‘fortified’ place. The name ‘Peter’ was then prefixed to honour the monastery’s principal titular saint, and thus Peterborough was born. Or maybe a simpler explanation is that no one could actually pronounce Medeshamstede. Whatever the reason, the abbey church was finally re-consecrated as a cathedral in the 16th century when that old bed-hopping plunderer Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries and pilfered their assets to pay for all those lavish royal weddings and glittering codpieces.

What you see today is mostly 12th-century Norman with a few later Gothic add-ons. As we wandered around, we could hear a heavenly choir rehearsing for an evening concert. The divine sound filled the enormous space – a holy tune amplified by superb acoustics.

A bit of a surprise was the discovery that Mary, Queen of Scots was buried in the cathedral after she lost her head for plotting against the first Queen Elizabeth. Mary got the last laugh, though. The Virgin Queen died childless and Mary’s own son, James VI of Scotland, became James I of England, thus uniting the crowns. James had his mother’s remains moved to Westminster Abbey. The rest, as they say…

Looking around a big pile works up a big thirst so afterwards we decamped to a local hostelry for a few sherries. It was called the Queen’s Head and featured, yes, you guessed it, the Queen’s head – of the second Queen Elizabeth.

Today, Peterborough often gets a bad press but we found it to be a vibrant and entertaining city with colourful characters and mouthwatering global street food. The only minor irritant was the large congregation of ‘Jesus freaks out on the street, handing tickets out for God’, as famously sung by that other great British queen, Elton John, in ‘Tiny Dancer’. But I guess these modern-day evangelical ‘monks’ are only keeping the holy vibe alive. After all, that’s how it all began.

Red Bus Rover

It was our ‘wax’ wedding anniversary last week – sixteen years and counting. We’ve already got enough candles to light a small chapel, so they were off the gift list, and since we’re not part of the huntin’, shootin’, fishin’ set, waxed jackets were out too. So, we went for a celebratory bite instead. Our venue was the Unthank Arms, a traditional boozer in the heart of Norwich’s ‘Golden Triangle’ – a popular residential district west of the city centre. The Unthank is noted locally for top-notch pub grub, and we used to be regulars before we emigrated to the country.

As we tucked into our meal, I looked up and clocked this old enamel sign above the entrance to the loos.  

I’m fairly sure the sign refers to the old 37 bus route in London. Memories of my misspent youth came flooding back. The 37 was my main ride back in the seventies when my dad ran a ‘Bottle and Basket’ convenience shop in South London, making a decent living out of booze and bread. Back then, the 37 bus plied its trade between Hounslow in the west to Dulwich in the south. I rode the 37 to school in Battersea, my Saturday job in Feltham, my youth club in Richmond and my bestie’s gaff in Clapham.

The 37 still runs but the route’s changed since my teen heyday. The iconic Routemasters, famous for their open rear platforms –  just right for jumping on and off at red lights – and the (sometimes hunky) conductor and his clickety-click ticket machine, ding-ding to the driver to move on and ‘move down the bus please, plenty of room inside’ mantra have all been pensioned off, more’s the pity. These days, it’s all-electric vehicles that barely make a sound, bored-stiff drivers and bleep-bleep DIY card readers. More efficient, I’m sure, but unlike the seventies, not much of a ride.

Les Misérables – Not Glum At All

Affectionately known as ‘The Glums’, the spectacular musical ‘Les Misérables’ has been a London fixture for nearly forty years. I’ve seen the West End production twice. I also bought the soundtrack and saw the star-studded and much-praised 2012 film adaptation. So it’s fair to say I’m pretty familiar with the tale and the tunes.

I must confess I was a little nervous as we took our seats to see Echo Youth Theatre’s version of this epic story of love, loss, injustice, rebellion and redemption. The big songs need big voices and a rousing chorus line to stir the soul. I shouldn’t have worried. As a brilliant training ground for young talent, Echo Youth always deliver. I’ve seen most of their recent shows and they’ve all hit the target with top note performances and top-notch production. Without a doubt, this show was their finest – classic and classy, energetic and emotional. And despite the high body count – most of ’em die in the end – we were left feeling elated and all tingly.

The spontaneous standing ovation at the end was richly deserved. Not glum at all.

All images courtesy of the Echo Youth Theatre.

Making Mischief

After a few months of hard graft and long days for the publishing malarky, we indulged in a little retail therapy in Norwich followed by a few sherries in the Cathedral Quarter. Unlike other parts of the city, this area has preserved many of its watering holes – just the thing for thirsty shoppers like us. Our final snifter was in the Mischief Tavern on Fye Bridge Street. The Grade II listed building, which sits alongside the River Wensum, was originally a 16th-century wealthy mercer’s house before tumbling down the social ladder to become a pub for the great unwashed.

In more recent times, the basement of the pub was once the venue for the Jacquard Club, a sixties folk music group which hosted the likes of Paul Simon, Judy Collins, Ralph McTell, Tom Paxton and George Melly. The club was founded by our very own Albert Cooper, our neighbour in the old Co-op warehouse before we escaped to the country to become village people. Known about town as ‘The Man in Black’, Albert sings the blues. He’s quite the local celebrity and even gets a mention in the Museum of Norwich. Albert turned 90 last year.

Remarkably, the pub itself still retains some 16th-century features, one of which is definitely not the rusty old condom dispenser in the gent’s loo.

Rather like the pub itself, the cock sock machine has seen better days. Still, we were served a very tasty bottle of Pinot Grigio at a very palatable price, so we weren’t complaining.

Opening Night

We love a wacky musical and they don’t come much wackier than Opening Night, a brand new West End show from the pen of singer-songwriter Rufus Wainwright. Based on a 1977 film of the same name, the musical stars Sheridan Smith as an ageing has-been who’s lost her mojo and hit the bottle. It’s a familiar, well-trodden Judy and Norma theme. Despite a dedicated fanbase, Rufus Wainwright has been little troubled by commercial success. And I can see why. The score is dissonant, dense and tuneless – a torch song tale without the torch songs.

The production itself is a pretentious mess – shouty, angry and hard to follow, with bizarre staging involving TVs dotted about the auditorium and a large screen above the stage which, from where we were sitting, was largely obscured. We weren’t sure when and where to look – stage or screen – so by the second half we didn’t bother to look at all. The cast made the best of a bad lot and, come curtain call, the audience applauded politely, mostly out of pity, I thought.

Afterwards, as we piled onto the street in need of a stiff drink, Liam said, ‘Well, that was a pile of old shit’. The woman in front of us turned round and said, ‘I’m so glad you said that. It really was shit.’

We drowned our sorrows in Soho.

Now That’s What I Call Acting, Dear Boy

Dustin Hoffman is a famous devotee of the ‘The Method’, where an actor tries to get right under the skin of a character to deliver the most authentic performance. The story goes that, on the set of Marathon Man, he stayed up for two nights to shoot the scenes where his character hadn’t slept for 72 hours. When his co-star, Laurence Olivier, saw the state Hoffman was in, he allegedly quipped, “My dear boy, why don’t you just try acting? It’s so much easier.” The tale is the stuff of legends – and probably not entirely true.

However an actor arrives at a performance, some at the top of their game can just turn it on. Take Emma Thompson’s crying scene in Love Actually when the penny drops about the cheating husband.

And then there’s the ghostly father and son scene in my favourite film of the decade, All of Us Strangers. Here’s a link to the scene on Facebook. Best grab the Kleenex first.

All of Us Strangers

Now That’s What I Call Acting, Dear Boy.

All Good Things…

In late 2008 we jumped the good ship Blighty and washed up on a Turkish beach. For our first year, we dropped anchor in Yalikavak, now a flashy resort with a fancy marina for the filthy rich and high prices to match. But back then it was a sleepy hamlet with a laid-back, bohemian vibe. On our very first evening, we wandered through the empty streets looking for somewhere to eat. It was season’s end and most restaurants were closed and shuttered up for the winter. There was a distinct autumnal chill in the air. We hurried towards the harbour, where we spotted the flickering lights of Le Café, looking cosy and inviting, and when we gingerly pushed open the door, we were greeted by the jovial owner, Davendra. We couldn’t have met a more welcoming host – chatty, helpful and engaging. Le Café became a regular haunt.

Here we are in Le Café in warmer days, chewing the cud as the sun set over the bay. What a setting. We couldn’t believe our luck.

We’d planned to stay in paradise for the duration, but just four years in, we had to cut short our great adventure. Now I hear that after 19 years, Le Café has shut up shop too. All good things must come to an end, as they say, just as they did for us. Thank you, Davendra, for the great food, lifts up the hill and crates of wine at wholesale prices. Wishing you and your wonderful family many good days to come.

From Social Outcasts to National Treasures

London is a gloriously haphazard, jumbled up kind of place where the rich and the ragged sometimes co-exist cheek by jowl. The Boltons in West London is an address for the seriously loaded, thought to be the second most expensive street* in the land – you won’t get much change out of £23 million. Famous former residents include Douglas Fairbanks Jnr, Jenny Lind and Madonna – the queen of pop that is, not of Heaven. And yet, close by is an entirely different Boltons, an imposing late-Victorian pub. It’s a building with a chequered, ever so slightly sleazy history. From the mid-fifties until the early nineties it was a gay bar. But then time was called on the boozy cruising and it was flogged off to be reborn as a faux Oirish theme pub as part of the O’Neill’s chain. Finally, it morphed into a trendy, overpriced gastropub called The Bolton. That didn’t last either. Nowadays, the boozer is down on its uppers – boarded up, forlorn and flaking; the only punters at the bar are squatters.

Back in the late seventies when I was a fresh-faced young gay-about-London Town, I sometimes drank in Boltons. It was a smoke-filled and deliciously seedy den of vice frequented by assorted ne’er-do-wells – rent boys, drunks, druggies, pimps, peddlers and petty thieves – a place to keep a tight hold of your wallet, if not your virtue. Not that I ever rented out, peddled or picked pockets, of course. It was just fun to watch the action, like feeding time at the zoo.

Now I hear that the worthy burghers of Kensington and Chelsea – the local council and my former bosses – have granted the building protected status because as Councillor Cem Kemahli said…

“The recognition of this historic pub as a listed site stands not just as a tribute to its architectural importance but also celebrates its role as a cherished hub within the LGBTQ+ community. The preservation of buildings like this one echoes our history and diverse communities in the borough.”

Blimey. It’s not that long ago when the worthy burghers were trying to get all the local gay venues closed down. From social outcasts to national treasures in just 40 years.

*the UK’s most expensive street is Kensington Palace Gardens in the same London borough, not far away from the Boltons.

An Ordinary Hero

Sometimes real heroes are just ordinary people who do extra-ordinary things. One such ordinary hero was Nicholas Winton who, following the 1938 German annexation of the Sudetenland in what was Czechoslovakia, travelled to Prague to help deal with the ensuing refugee crisis that was overwhelming the city. Aided by a small and very brave band of fellow heroes, together they saved 669 – mostly Jewish – children from the Nazis. It was part of the much broader ‘Kindertransport’ programme across Western Europe which, in Britain alone, saved around 10,000 children – once again, mostly Jewish. But it couldn’t last. The rescue missions hit the buffers once war was declared in 1939. Tragically, many of the children who arrived on Britain’s shores were the only members of their families who survived the Holocaust.

A quiet and humble soul, Nicholas Winton’s story remained untold for 50 years until in 1988 it was finally picked up by a national newspaper and the That’s Life TV show on the Beeb. And now the heroic tale is the subject of a remarkable film One Life, with Anthony Hopkins brilliantly playing Winton in his dotage and Helena Bonham Carter as his formidable mother in earlier years, who ran the show at the London end.

Along with others, we sat through the film in stunned silence and didn’t rise from our seats until after the final credits had rolled. Winton was later knighted for services to humanity and died in 2015 at the grand old age of 106.

Here’s the trailer followed by original 1988 footage from That’s Life.

For the recreation of the That’s Life scene, the audience in the film was made up of the descendants of ‘Nicky’s children’.

“Save a life, save the World,” Winton says in the film. As we left the cinema, I couldn’t help thinking that despite his amazing story of hope, history just carries on repeating itself over and over again.

Beauty and the Beast

Drama and performance can really help young minds build important life skills like confidence, comradeship, communication, cooperation and commitment – and loads of other vital ‘c’s too. But it takes guts and gumption to strut your stuff on the stage in front of a bunch of strangers. Back in my old school days, our annual theatrical offering usually consisted of a few spotty boys in need of deodorant mumbling a few lines from the Bard they didn’t really understand. Thankfully, things have come a long way since then.

Unlike the could-do-better days of my youth, this year’s Hobart High School’s production of Beauty and the Beast attained A+ in the talent and fun department. So much so, the show received an emotional standing ovation at the end, which I’m sure will linger long after the lights and makeup have faded. We know several members of the young cast – Benny, Eva, Jas and Rory. They were all amazing. And as for our very own budding starlet, Alice, in her directorial debut, is there anything this brilliant young lady can’t do?