Nobody Likes a Slack Ring

A couple of years back, Liam lost his wedding ring. He knew not how, he knew not where. He got really upset about it, but these things happen. We put it down to his increasing decrepitude. On the other hand, as I’d put on a few pounds since we got hitched, my ring was so tight that I needed loads of lube to extricate it from my finger. So we decided to replace both rings and, at the same time, renew our vows. But who can recall what words were said all those years ago? I can barely remember what I said yesterday; I’d be next to useless in a police interview. It’s just as well we kept a copy in the loft alongside the rest of our matrimonial bits and bobs, odds and sods.

Unlike our first time around – a bit of a do with our nearest and dearest – the new ‘I dos’ were a low-key affair. Just the two of us with a bottle of bubbly as our witness.

More recently, diabetes came a-calling, and I was under doctor’s orders to fight the flab. I’ve got family form – both of my brothers are diabetic. So, it was okey-dokey doc, and chef Liam swung into action with his low-carb cookbook. And boy, he really knows his way around a sun-kissed tomato. Hey pesto, I’ve dropped a stone and a bit, and diabetes is no longer knocking – for the time being at least.

But there’s been an unexpected side effect to my new regime. My second ring is now so loose that it flies off in the shower. It’s a bit of a Goldilocks moment – ring one is too tight, ring two is too loose. Let’s hope that ring three will be just right. Because nobody likes a slack ring.

Happy 18th wedding anniversary, Liam.

Perky Daffodils

Ringed by wonky tombstones, our pretty village church sits on top of a small hill. Called ‘All Saints’ – to cover all the holy bases – the unassuming little building is an eclectic blend of eras – Norman, Georgian, Victorian and modern. The Norman bell tower features a rare folksy thatched roof, and the east window is rumoured to be from Rouen Cathedral, picked up for a song following the French Revolution.

Our micro-cottage nestles at the foot of the hallowed mound, and I pass by the church when popping out for rations. Now and again, I take a stroll around the fir-lined graveyard and while away some me time on a memorial bench. I’m no God botherer, but I find it soulful and restorative, a welcome distraction from a scary world. And now spring has finally sprung, the sight of perky daffodils glowing in the afternoon sun is pretty restorative too.

The Palladium of Drag

I recently stumbled upon this delicious titbit – pun intended – on Faceache about drag life at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern way back in the sixties. Click the image to see the clip.

One of my old witterings from 2015 came flooding back. At the time I wrote:

“I’m sure I’ve been here before.” So said my mother after she took a sip of her brandy and coke and looked around the large smoke-filled room. It was 1980 and I was stepping out with Bernie, a salesman from Somerset. We were treating my mother to a night of slap, sequins and perversion at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern, South London’s premier drag pub. As it turned out, her feelings of déjà vu were spot on. In the swinging sixties, she and my soldier dad had slipped out from the barracks on the other side of the river to catch an act or two.

Déjà Vu, 21/09/15

My own debut at the infamous cabaret venue was in the late seventies before the interior had a radical facelift and the curved bar running down the middle was ripped out. As you can see from the footage of the terrible turn miming badly to a 1969 Clodagh Rodger’s smash, it was used as a catwalk by the jocks in frocks to preen, prance and mince up and down. Happy-clappy punters would rescue their pints before they were high-kicked into the crowd by an unguided stiletto. And, after one too many sherries in the dressing-up cupboard, the act might trip over their heels and do an impromptu stage dive.

Since then, much of old Vauxhall has been tarted up in glass and steel and the boozer itself was at serious risk of being replaced by yet more fancy flats. That was until Historic England stepped in and listed (ie protected) the building because…

…the building has historic and cultural significance as one of the best known and longstanding LGBT venues…

And, I’m glad to report that the RVT, as it’s now known, is still going strong with the slap, sequins and perversion.

Image Courtesy of RVT on Facebook

The Faceache footage from the RVT’s page was itself lifted from an old TV documentary called ‘What’s a Girl Like You…’ at the British Film Institute Archive – the world’s largest. The broadcast was billed as a “scintillating look at the 1960s drag renaissance” and named the venue the “palladium of drag”. It’s well worth a look. Click the image to find out more*.

*People outside the UK may not be able to view the the documentary. It’s a broadcasting rights thing, I guess!

A Load of Bowls

The sedate game of bowls has ancient roots going way back to the time of the pharaohs. Nowadays, the Brit variety is traditionally associated with carefully manicured greens, well-versed etiquette and the grey herd in their virgin white togs. But in recent years, this most genteel of sports has attracted fresher blood, none more so than our own Chedgrave Bowls Club. After a period of decline, the club was newly invigorated with the young and the bold in their trendy multi-coloured livery and a thirst for glory.

Come a sunny summer’s day, we occasionally pop along to watch them play an end or three. While we don’t really have the first clue what’s going on, it’s a pleasant way to spend a warm afternoon with a couple of G&Ts – ice and a slice. And I get to wave my pom poms about, much to the disapproval of the tut-tutting traditionalists.

Nevertheless, the game remains a bastion of gentlemanly (and gentlewomanly) behaviour. Or does it? Not according to author Melvyn Clark. He’s written a risqué exposé called Fun, Sex and a Load of Bowls which is partly inspired by the real-life events of his own days on the green. His book is so “saucy”, he said, that his publisher had to “calm it down”. It makes me wonder if there’s a lot more than tea and crumpets going on in our local bowls hut. I might stick my head round the door next time we’re passing, just to check. Because, it’s just not cricket.

Flirty Birds and Ruffled Feathers

After a relentlessly dull and drizzly winter – unseasonally wet even for these notoriously showery islands – the sun finally poked through the low cloud and the mercury started to rise. It’s almost time for the annual garden nip and tuck and to call in the chimney sweep. Let’s hope it’s not a false dawn. Mother Nature can be a fickle mistress, and the old girl has been in a filthy mood of late.

Right on cue, flirty birds are feeling horny, pumping up the volume during the morning squawk. Light sleeper Liam was woken by a particularly lively gig. Curious to know what had ruffled his feathers, he took to his handy phone app to identify the culprits. It turned out to be a mixed choir of woodpigeons, jackdaws, moorhens, robins, redwings, and collared doves, with solos from a hooting tawny owl and a rat-tat-a-tatting woodpecker.

Redwing
Jackdaw
Woodpecker
Woodpigeon
Robin
Moorhen
Collared Dove
Tawny Owl

I, on the other hand, could sleep through a hurricane and didn’t hear the chirpy, chirpy, cheep cheep.

Cue the completely unrelated 1971 number 1 from the Scottish band Middle of the Road. Thanks for the memory.

There’s Still Life in the Old Blog Yet

When I started this blogging lark way back in October 2010, life in pansies HQ was a different place – different house, different town, different country. Remarkably, the blog took off almost immediately – a bit of a sell-out tour, in fact. It led to that book followed by that sequel and the rest, as they say…

When Liam and I packed up our drag in our old kit bags and paddled back to Blighty on the evening tide, I expected Perking the Pansies to wither on the vine like some dried-up old fruit. But this dried-up old fruit soldiered on, posting regularly but less often. And despite the radical change of scene and my doomster predictions, my random ramblings have continued to pull in the punters with respectable viewing figures. This is particularly gratifying these days with the rise of TikTokers and podcasters, when traditional blogging is a bit old hat.

Just recently, though, my hits surged to dizzying heights – stats for January alone have exceeded those for the whole of 2025.

When numbers unexpectedly swelled in the past, it was because a particular post struck a chord or had been featured elsewhere in the blogosphere. But this time round, the renewed interest in my camp old nonsense is more random, spread across a host of old witterings with no discernible pattern. I know not why. I shall simply bask in the glory – while it lasts. Because it won’t.

Wuthering Heights – Wild and Windy, Moody and Broody

What better way to spend Valentine’s Day than a love story at the flicks? So that’s what we did. But this wasn’t any old love story. Oh no. This was the latest cinematic reimagining of Emily Brontë’s epic novel Wuthering Heights, as sweeping as the desolate Yorkshire landscape it’s set against. This new version was produced, written and directed by the multi-talented Emerald Fennell, and her take on this Gothic classic has divided opinion. Some purists see it as too far removed from the written word. Yes, Fennell does play fast and loose with the original plot – as have others before her. Nevertheless, the intense, obsessive and destructive love which lies at the heart of this timeless tale had us hooked from the very first scene, touching and disturbing in equal measure. This was no lightweight Barbara Taylor Bradford Sunday night period mini-soap. We were glued to the screen all the way to the very bitter end.

Drop-dead gorgeous Margot Robbie and the sex-on-legs Jacob Elordi strut and sizzle, bonk and bristle, utterly convincing as the doomed lovers, Catherine and Heathcliff. It’s hardly a spoiler alert to say it doesn’t end well. The supporting cast is excellent too. A special mention has to go to both the location – the wild and wuthering moody moors of God’s own county – and a stonking soundtrack that struck the right broody note.

Here’s the trailer…

The Ferrow Brothers

Another remarkable little gem lifted from the Queer Norfolk Archive at Norwich’s Millennium Library is the astonishing story of the Ferrow sisters of Great Yarmouth who became the Ferrow brothers. Census records reveal they were born in 1922 and 1924, registered originally as Marjorie and Daisy and then re-registered as Mark and David. Mark medically transitioned in 1939 at 17 and David a year later – both with full parental support. “Though we have been girls, we have both felt men at heart,” Mark said at the time.

Their story received quite a lot of press coverage, including this piece in the Daily Herald.  

Remarkably, in stark contrast to today’s polarised and often spiteful debate, the coverage was largely positive or, at least, neutral, perhaps because there were much bigger things to fret about, like a looming world war and an existential threat. In fact, Mark did his bit during the blackout and received a commendation for bravery in civil defence – because heroes come in many colours.

Mark also became an artist of distinction. His painting of former England cricket captain, David Gower, was hung in the National Portrait Gallery.

Image credit: Leicestershire County Cricket Club

David Ferrow followed in his father’s footsteps as a Great Yarmouth bookseller and went on to marry. He was well-known and well-liked around town; a bit of a local icon.

Mark died in 1991 and David in 2006. As I said, astonishing.

Cue YouTube…

Cottage Ladies

Until modern times, the status of women was Bible-clear – to love, honour and obey – with a particular emphasis on obey. Women had little say and precious few rights, no better than chattels passed from father to husband. The rule makers didn’t see women as sexual beings who had their own drives and juices, so it’s no surprise that girl-on-girl action has never been illegal. Naturally, despite their blinkered menfolk, lesbian life did exist, of course, but it was a hush-hush affair of furtive fumbles behind firmly locked doors, laced with shame and guilt. Well, it was for most, but not for all.

Born into an aristocratic Quaker family in 1795, Anna Gurney broke the sapphic mould and got away with it. A great philanthropist, the formidable Anna founded a local school decades before state education was introduced, campaigned for the abolition of slavery and became the first female member of the British Archaeological Association – and these are just some of her many achievements.

And, Anna lived openly and guilt-free with Sarah-Maria Buxton – they referred to each other as their “faithful and beloved partner” – in Overstrand, a small village on the north coast of Norfolk. Apparently, they were referred to as ‘cottage ladies’, a wonderfully British term for cohabiting so-called ‘spinsters of the parish’. The couple are buried alongside each other in Overstrand Church. I guess the vicar didn’t bat an eyelid.

Way to go, Ladies!

With thanks to the Queer Norfolk Archive at the Millennium Library in Norwich for this delicious titbit.

He’s Behind You – Again

This year’s winter has been more or less the usual tedious diet of dull and damp. So what better way to blow away the blues and lift the spirits than a festive pantomime, cross-dressed in glamour and glitter, sequins and smut? This year, we’ve rather overdosed on the panto lark with three – yes three – shows. First up was our annual pilgrimage to the daddy of all pantos at the London Palladium. The latest star-studded camp-fest was Sleeping Beauty, fronted, as usual, by the dowager queen of the double entendre, Julian Clary. As expected, the Palladium’s (and Julian’s) 10th anniversary show was lavish, lewd, and with a plot as thin as a Christmas twig. It was fabulous.

The magic continued with a thoroughly village affair – Cinderella, from the local Loddon Players in their 50th anniversary year. Fun and frolicky with talented turns, foot-tapping tunes and dazzling drag, it was the perfect antidote to the drizzle outside. It’s great to see community theatre flourishing in our small corner of the world.

Finally, panto season came to an X-rated close with the uber rude One Eyed Willy from the Adult Panto Company. The leave-the-kids-at-home show was a no-holes-barred (literally) belly-laugh romp bringing a ripe meaning to that time-worn panto phrase ‘he’s behind you’. Total filth, and we can’t wait for next year’s saucy spectacle.