No Day But Today

The main event of our London jolly was catching a West End matinee, but as we had a few hours to kill beforehand, we decided to broaden our cultural horizons with a visit to the majestic galleries of the British Museum. We kinda wished we hadn’t. The place is mind-blowing. Or at least it would’ve been if we’d managed to get a look-in. Sadly, it was nose to nipple, like rush hour on the Tube. I did manage to snap a few random pics as we squeezed through the Egyptian, Roman and Anglo-Saxon exhibits. Still, it kept us out of the driving rain from Storm Austen.

Back to the main event – the latest incarnation of the rock opera Rent, one of our favourite musicals. Loosely based on Puccini’s La Bohème, the tale features an eclectic troupe of impoverished young arty types in the late eighties struggling against the harsh winds of gentrification in Alphabet City, an avant-garde district of Manhattan. While Puccini laced his opera with consumption, Rent is stalked by AIDS, the kiss of death back then. As the characters try to make ends meet, some meet their end. Despite the misery, Rent isn’t depressing; nor is it sugar-coated. And this production is really out there – loud and proud. Simply staged, simply superb. The (mostly young and trendy) audience agreed.

We polished off the night out and proud with a few commemorative sherries at Halfway to Heaven, the gay bar just off Trafalgar Square, where, twenty years ago, I first caught Liam’s roving eye. The rest, as they say…

What a Ride!

Our birthdays are just a couple of weeks apart, so we tend to do a joint thing to celebrate. It’s become our annual habit. This year, Liam reached his latest chronological milestone – 65 – which used to be the age we fellas would get the state pension. Alas, not so now. Liam has to wait two more years before he receives that king’s ransom, together with his bus pass. So what’s a couple of birthday boys to do to mark the occasion? A London jolly, of course. Because these old gays aren’t ready for the knacker’s yard just yet.

Jolly number one was the London Cable Car, which crosses the Thames back and forth between the Royal Victoria Dock and the Greenwich Peninsula. And, while I’m not entirely sure of the point of it transport-wise, it was quite a ride; especially as brewing winds from Storm Austin started to blow in from the southwest – enough to buffet our gondola and give us the wobbles.

We made it across without dropping off the high wire and, as we descended, an enormous statue came into view, looking like a giant stalking alien from some weird sci-fi film. Safely back on solid ground, we went to investigate. Standing at just over eighteen metres, ‘Demon with Bowl’ is a monumental figure in bronze by Damien Hirst, inspired by ancient Babylonian mythology. To get a sense of its colossal scale, take a look at the image of Liam beneath the statue’s perfectly cast posterior – a pair of demon buns to die for.

My Semicolonic Irritation

Out of the blue, Christine Rosier, a veteran pansyfan from our Turkey days, dropped me a line. We struck up an e-conversation which included trading memories of good times had at the Churchill Arms, a gorgeous Kensington boozer, famous for lip-licking Thai pub grub, OTT summer hanging baskets and a spectacular festive light show at Christmas. Christine lived nearby, and I worked locally. Many times our paths may well have crossed without us ever knowing it.

Christine writes beautifully and evocatively about her life and times and, to get the word out, she joined Substack just over a year ago. Everyone who’s anyone is on Substack these days. It’s the place to be for creative writers and independent voices. Remarkably, Christine has written 52 essays in 52 weeks. To celebrate this amazing achievement she asked me and some others to take part in a bit of fun. We were invited to…

…write something very short – 100 words or less – in the form and language of your choice, and as quirky or silly as you like, about the semicolon; that most ambiguous of punctuation signs…

Quirky or silly? That’s right up my alley. So here it is…

You’d think that, having attended an old-fashioned grammar school founded over 400 years ago by a cousin of Good Queen Bess, I’d know the rules of the game, words-wise. But no, I don’t know what to do with the semi-retired semicolon. I guess I threw a sickie the day it got covered. Am I bovvered? Nah. Let the grammar police clap me in irons. Let the judge hand me down two related sentences; I couldn’t care less. It’s just a semicolonic irritation. And don’t get me started on the Oxford comma.

Turns out my quirky, silly waffle is in lofty company. I’m chuffed. Click on the image to read all about it.

Wrong Dog, Wrong Tree, Wrong Forest

I have commented before about the sting-in-the-tail emails I get from the scaministas, loaded with AI-generated faux flattery about me and my camp old nonsense, and inviting me to this group or that event to discuss my undoubted genius. That initial trickle has since become a daily flood. It’s so tedious. But then I received a pitch from some random trickster called Grace Whitaker who ‘helps coordinate a Christian Faith, Biography & Life Stories reading community’. Grace writes…

“What particularly caught our attention was the extraordinary breadth of your journey—from growing up in Sweetwater, Texas, and attending a Christian college where you met Lacreta, to becoming a minister, earning a Master of Divinity from Yale Divinity School and a PhD in American history, and eventually serving in leadership positions at colleges in California.”

Obviously the wrong Jack – wrong dog, wrong tree, wrong forest. I guess that’s what happens when lazy scammers let AI do all the talking. Though, I must admit I do wonder what the God-fearing Texan Jack would make of this unrepentant British sinner. I’ll leave you with a random image I took during this year’s Norwich Pride – the only ‘church’ this Jack belongs to.

Return to Innocence

Liam and I share a small office in our equally small cottage and, while we toil (in the loosest sense of the word) to keep the bailiffs at bay, we listen to the radio. One particular morning, a song on the morning show sent me hurtling down memory lane, like music often does.

In the summer of 1993, I split from Mike, my partner of 11 years. I was 32. It was the right thing to do, the right time for us both to move on. It was also a time when AIDS was firing on all cylinders. One of the many things that I shall always be grateful to Mike for is saving me from toppling off my barstool during those dark, deadly days. Those 11 years protected me – and him too, I suppose.

What was a newly liberated gay boy with lead in his pencil to do? Roll out his stall again, of course, hoping to attract willing and eager punters to sample his wares. And where’s the best pitch? Amsterdam. So off I sailed with a case full of condoms and a heart full of optimism. I had a ball. And so did some of the likely lads I met on my journey – I hope.

Amsterdam – the Homomonument, Then and in 2023

And one cruisy afternoon of my dirty weekend in a saucy part of town, in an even saucier bar, what song was playing in the background when I ordered my first drink? Yes, you guessed it; the very same track I heard on our office radio. And what was it? ‘Return to Innocence’ by Enigma. Oh, the irony. Great days!

Cue the video…

Aegina Again

The main event on Aegina was recuperation and recharge. Once again, we stayed at the Bamboo Cottage in the lush and leafy grounds of the gorgeous Rastoni Hotel. Our cool and comfy terrace provided the perfect plot for reading, napping and gassing, dealing cards and enjoying a few trips around the Scrabble board, all washed down with cheap and cheerful local plonk. I beat Liam at seven-card gin rummy; he thrashed me at the wordy game. I suspect he cheated by swapping tiles while I was retrieving the wine from the fridge to refresh our glasses. He denied it, of course.

Early evenings were spent wandering around town poking our noses down alleys and browsing for tourist tat. Good-looking Aegina Town is stuffed with handsome pastel-painted neo-classical buildings and pretty churches. Occasionally, though, we’d stumble upon a tumbledown wreck in dire need of some TLC. Liam loves a doer-upper. It sets his pulse racing with ‘what ifs’.

All too soon it was over and it was back to Athens for one final night in the vibrant and captivating city of wisdom. It’s also the city of graffiti. Pretty much everything is tagged. After a while, you just stop noticing. And alongside the fancy bits, some of the buildings are a bit knackered. But we loved it anyway.

We shall return.

Greece Street

Following a couple of sweaty days in frenetic Athens, we caught the fast hydrofoil from the Port of Piraeus to Aegina for a few days of rest and relaxation. After a welcome drink by the harbourside in pretty Aegina Town, we ventured on to our holiday lodgings along a narrow street. Memories of a different time, different place came flooding back.

Like many old Anatolian thoroughfares, Turkey Street was just wide enough for two emaciated camels to pass each other unhindered. This constraint never seemed to trouble the locals but for us, motorcades of Nissan tanks flanked by Vespas on amphetamines made for a testing pedestrian experience. Aided by the now-you-see-them-now-you-don’t pavements, death or permanent disability lurked at every twist and turn of the perilous road.

Turkey Street, Chapter 2

OK, there were no Nissan tanks but there were high-speed Vespas aplenty as we navigated along the now-you-see-them-now-you-don’t pavements, dragging our cases behind. We had to keep our wits about us.

Back in the day, our Bodrum digs were on the corner of what I called Turkey Street and Sentry Lane.

Sentry Lane
Aegina

Mind you, Turkey Street didn’t feature a row of garden gnomes standing guard. Who knew gnomes were popular beyond the gardens of Middle England?

The similarity between Bodrum and Aegina was uncanny. So much so that, for me, the road to our hotel shall forever be called ‘Greece Street’.

Athens, City of Wisdom

Like our first trip to Athens last year, our flight was delayed by an hour. But unlike our first trip, our passage through passport control at Athens Airport was a breeze. It was then déjà vu all the way to the Attalos Hotel, a short and sweaty case-wheeling stroll from Monastiraki Square, once the throbbing heart of Ottoman Athens. And it’s still throbbing today with a milling crowd of many nations. After dumping our belongings we headed straight up to the intimate rooftop bar with its jaw-dropping views of the Acropolis.

Last year we embarked on our very own Greek odyssey, taking in the ancient sites at Epidaurus, Mycenae, Olympia and Delphi. This time was more of a museum vibe. Our morning excursion was to the National Archaeological Museum, a neo-classical pile showcasing the best finds from Greece’s glorious past. There’s so much to see that it’s simply overwhelming.

Nevertheless, we were particularly drawn to the many faces from the past.

And the sculptures of butt-naked blokes went down well too judging by the throng of over-excited onlookers. Some statues had their meat and two veg intact, others not. In more modern times, many a male member was hacked off by buttoned-up curators, and sometimes, rather than being discarded, they were hidden away in secret museum collections. Imagine it, a pick-a-willy drawer in size order.

Of all the stunning exhibits, this was my favourite. Standing at just over two metres tall, the magnificent bronze ‘Jockey of Artemision’ is dated to around 150–140 BCE and was recovered from a shipwreck in 1926.

Our afternoon expedition was to the über-modern Acropolis Museum, nestled at the foot of the famous rock and built to house artefacts found on the citadel and the surrounding slopes, from the Greek Bronze Age to the Roman and Byzantine eras. It is, perhaps, the most beautiful museum I have ever visited. We were politely but firmly discouraged from taking pictures but I sneaked in a few of the ladies of old Athens anyway. I know, naughty Jack.

Having had our fill of ancient Athens, we café-crawled back to our hotel through modern Athens, stopping off at various watering holes along the way with a final snifter in the rooftop bar before our short-hop ferry to Aegina the following day for the next leg of our journey.

Trigger Happy, Jack

We all know that these days, unless you’re a dropout living completely off-grid in a forest clearing somewhere in the middle of nowhere, your personal information will be passed around like a used dish cloth. Regardless of what you do or don’t tick and click, they’ll get you anyway. But what fancy algorithm thought I’d be remotely interested in this?

Yet Another Greek Intermission

Yet again, I’m off-air as we perk our pansies in Greece. While we’re away resting our weary old carcasses, here’s another random selection of images that caught my eye from both home and away. As usual, it’s a crazy mix. My favourite is the picture of the chair lift and mini funicular railway we stumbled across in lovely Lakka on Paxos as we made our way to the town beach. It leads to and from an old fella’s house who parks his mobility scooter at the bottom. Genius! Who needs a carer when you can do it all yourself? Shame it wouldn’t work on our twisty cottage stairs.