We’ve seen a bunch of films over the last year – some good, some less so. But none have been as powerful as Hamnet. This no-holes-barred historical drama chronicles a pre-fame William Shakespeare: his teenage courtship with the older Agnes Hathaway (AKA Anne), their shotgun wedding after he knocked her up, and their early family life with their three sprogs – two daughters and their son, Hamnet.
Hamnet died at the tender age of 11. The film, based on a novel by Maggie O’Farrell, is premised on the notion that back in the day, Hamlet and Hamnet were interchangeable names, and so Hamlet, the Bard’s great tragedy about the doomed prince of Denmark, was inspired by his own profound grief. Is this true? We shall never know, but it’s an intriguing thought.
The film leaves little to the imagination in its depiction of how grim life was back then – cold, wet, dirty and short. And the fact that little is known about Agnes gives licence to the writers to inject a little hubble, bubble, toil and trouble (to misquote Macbeth) into her reimagined white witch persona. Shakespeare in Love, it ain’t.
The performances by Jessie Buckley (Agnes) and Paul Mescal (Will) are stellar, and it’s odds on the film will be lavished with gongs galore. It’s already picked up Best Film and Best Actress (for Buckley) at this year’s Golden Globes. And Buckley is red hot favourite for the Oscars. But for me, the real standout performance is from Jacobi Jupe as the boy Hamnet – a remarkable young star in the making. And how can he fail with a luvvie name like that?
Our yuletide revelry was crowned with a trip to the Great Yarmouth Hippodrome, Britain’s last remaining circus building, for their ‘Christmas Circus and Water Spectacular’. And spectacular it was too, with gravity-defying flying acrobats, trapeze artists spinning around a giant hoop without a safety net for comfort, and a grand finale of Busby Berkeley babes bringing the show to a fantastic watery close.
The show was followed by a mini pub crawl with our fellow festive revellers. We managed to down a few sherries in Yarmouth’s best dive bars, including one partially boarded-up establishment where we were offered a couple of knock-off air fryers. I was almost tempted.
Our final pit stop was the Blackfriars Tavern with its bewildering range of award-winning real ales and ciders. As CAMRA’s* National Cider Pub of the Year 2025, we had high hopes of a warm welcome on a chilly day. But, instead, we got the cold shoulder from the miserable landlord and his missus. I’ll leave it to a recent one-star review to tell it as it is.
“Very unwelcoming staff with a strong whiff of arrogance. Thank you for making us feel not worthy of treading the same carpet as you.”
The beer mat sums it up too. The po-faced pint pullers can be as rude as they like, but punters must remain saintly at all times. So before anyone could say ‘bugger off’, we buggered off.
We saw in 2026 with a proverbial bang at a house party thrown in style by two of our favourite village people. It was a banter-filled evening of merriment, with never-empty glasses, great grub and terrific company. As the midnight hour approached, Big Ben chimed in the New Year and we all crossed hands for an exuberant, if well-oiled, rendition of ‘Auld Lang Syne’. Thank you to our generous hosts with the most; you know who you are.
The following day, nursing the first hangover of 2026 (one of many to come, no doubt), we watched London’s epic New Year’s fireworks display – the largest in Europe – on the BBC iPlayer. As usual, the Mayor put on a spectacular pyrotechnic extravaganza of shock and awe. ‘How do they do that?’ said Liam.
London had a vital story to tell and it came through loud and clear – a profound message of fairness and inclusion in troubling times, a city of hope and a place for everyone – the perfect antidote to the flag-shaggers who diminish us all. Amen to that. Cue the video…
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!
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…
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…
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…
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…
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…
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…
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…
“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…
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…
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…
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!
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…
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Perking the Pansies 