Category: Britain

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.

Buddy, Can You Spare a Dime?

Homelessness is a complex issue, and there are so many reasons why someone might find themselves without anywhere to live. But we live in a rich country and I can’t help thinking that the scourge of homelessness is worse than it needs to be. I’m not given to petty envy. I’ve nothing against the wealthy as long as their wealth has been honestly acquired and they pay their dues instead of squirrelling it away in various tax havens. As for tax dodging billionaires, how much money can any one person possibly spend on themselves in a lifetime? As Francis Bacon – the 17th-century former Chancellor of England, not the famous artist – allegedly said:

“Money is like muck, no good except it be spread.”

But, more positively, there is help available to those who both need and seek it, at least there is in Norwich. I recently picked up this Pathways Norwich signposting leaflet.

Is it enough? Is it ever? Sleeping rough must be tough at any time of year. Imagine how much rougher and tougher it gets as winter cloaks the streets. I know Christmas can be expensive and many people struggle to pay the bills but, buddy, if you can spare a dime, please do.

Whatever Christmas means to you, wishing you and yours a warm, dry and peaceful yuletide.

Getting the Abbey Habit

We interrupted our recent theatrical pilgrimage to old London Town to have a gander around Westminster Abbey. Regular viewers will know I’m a sucker for an old ecclesiastical pile, and King (and Saint) Edward the Confessor’s ‘West Minster’ is arguably the most famous ecclesiastical pile in the realm. Generally thought to have been founded in the mid-10th century as a Benedictine monastery, the church was rebuilt by the saintly king about 100 years later to serve as his royal burial chamber. What Edward the Confessor actually fessed up to is anyone’s guess.

Following the Norman victory at the Battle of Hastings in 1066, William the Conqueror (or ‘the Bastard’ as he was affectionately known) was crowned King of England at the abbey on Christmas Day that same year; just to make sure everyone knew the old bastard was now in charge. Extended and remodelled down the centuries, the church has been the site of royal coronations ever since. The 14th-century coronation chair sits behind bars to prevent we plebs from getting above our station.

The abbey’s Gothic splendour soars heavenwards while history drips from every statue and every stone. As well as being the most famous house of God in the land, it’s also the most popular. The crowds were too much, particularly when trying to catch a fleeting glimpse of the first two undisputed Queen Regnants* of England – the first Mary and the first Elizabeth – half sisters, one Catholic and one Protestant at a time when you had to pick a side. These two old queens – one Catholic and one Protestant – inched and jostled past the tombs. Of the 16 or so other monarchs buried at the abbey, the tomb of Mary, Queen of Scots is perhaps the most poignant, given her life and times.

*That is, a queen reigning in her own right rather than a queen through marriage to a king.

Mary Queen of Scots
Mary I
Elizabeth I

The list of the dead and commemorated is a veritable who’s who of Britons past: a galaxy of big brains – Newton, Hawking, Darwin; a symphony of composers – Purcell, Vaughan Williams, Elgar; a company of luvvies – including Laurence Olivier; and a society of dead poets and writers – Chaucer, Byron, Lewis Carroll, Dylan Thomas, DH Lawrence, et al.

There is also a parliament of politicians – many either forgotten or best unremembered.

And, lest we forget, the abbey also contains the grave of the Unknown Warrior, commemorating the terrible slaughter of the First World War. It’s the only floor stone on which it’s forbidden to walk. Be warned. Lest you forget.

It’s Showtime!

For our two-day birthday bonanza in old London Town, we hit the theatrical jackpot with a double bill of top-drawer shows. First up – The Curious Case of Benjamin Button – is a foot-tapping bundle of heart-warming folksy fun, despite the strange and, at times, bleak plot of a man born old who gradually regresses to a babe in arms. Based on a short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald, the tale is relocated to a Cornish fishing village at the turn of the last century. Unique, funny, charming, fast-paced and complex, the entire ensemble remains on stage throughout – singing, dancing, swapping instruments and characters in a dazzling display of talent. At its heart, Benjamin Button is a moving tale of love against the odds, and it’s a triumph.

Images © Marc Brenner

Talking of love against the odds, second up was Moulin Rouge, based on Baz Luhrmann’s iconic 2001 boy-meets-girl basque-and-knickers glitterfest. The show was our emergency stand-in for the cancelled performance of The Devil Wears Prada, Elton John’s new musical. Lavish, brilliantly staged, slick, bawdy and addictive, the disappointment of missing The Devil evaporated within minutes of us taking our seats. Superbly delivered to a clever karaoke mash-up, including (ironically) Elton’s Your Song, I have a feeling in my water that this spectacular high-octane, all-singing, all-can-canning tale of consumption and doomed love in a Parisian garret will run and run. Ooh la la!

Images courtesy of The Piccadilly Theatre

The Good Old Days

We’ve all heard the tedious line about how the good old days were so much better. It’s said by those who yearn for a bygone era of stiff upper lips, Sunday church and honour on the cricket field, a time when the buttoned-up knew their place and respected their betters. Of course, the reality for many was very different – backstreet abortions, cold water slums, consumption and rickets. And let’s not forget; the love that dares not speak its name could get you banged up. Oh, the smug joy of seeing the past through rose-tinted glasses. Sounds like a nasty dose of false memory syndrome to me.

But then I saw this on Faceache and started to wonder if maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

If this is genuine, it must be from an American rag. New-fangled miracle machines like dishwashers were but a pipe dream in post-war, bombed-out Britain. But I am drawn to the notion of a doting homemaker who never complains and whose only function in life is to service my every need. If only I could get Liam to ‘fix his makeup’ and ‘put a ribbon in his hair’ just before I get home after a hard day at the office. And ‘be a little gay’ to give me a well-earned lift.

Fat chance. I should have slipped ‘obey’ into our marriage vows. He calls me his ‘little gay’.

In Sickness and In Health

It’s been a year since my old girl died. She was 93, but even though she was frail and a bit mutton – well, a lot mutton – in many ways she was blessed. She lived a long, eventful life and she kept her marbles right up to the end. Others are not so lucky. There can’t be many people, directly or indirectly, untouched by the cruelty of dementia. Even though science and wealth have kept the Grim Reaper at bay, our minds often can’t keep up, and it’s miserable. The Big D must be particularly tough for the wives, husbands and partners of the sufferers. There are no happy endings, just ’til death do us part.

But all is not lost. Dementia is gradually revealing its dark secrets, and with light comes reward – earlier diagnosis, better treatment and maybe a cure one day. The trouble is, it’s a hard slog and it all takes cash. The Alzheimer’s Society here in the UK are currently running a TV ad campaign called The Ultimate Vow to raise awareness. It shines a light on the everyday struggles of couples living with dementia. It’s brilliant and it made me cry.

We give not just for others but also for ourselves.

Meat and Two Veg

Continuing with the gym junkie theme from last week. Given my aversion to unnecessary movement and a low boredom threshold, I keep myself amused at the gym by reading a newspaper. My daily rag of choice is the I (I for Independent). I know buying an actual printed newspaper is rather old-fashioned these days but I like thumbing through the I. It’s an easy read – a digest of the news with minimal preaching. I’m way too set in my ways to be told what to think. The paper regularly features surveys of various everyday activities, and one that stuck in my mind recently was about washing – pertinent when getting all hot and bothered on an exercise bike. Apparently, 34% of Britons don’t wash their meat and two veg when showering. Listen up, lads. No one likes cheesy wotsits in the bedroom.

Images courtesy of Loddon Community Gym.

Right on Target, Right on Price

It’s well known that these little islands have some of the toughest gun laws this side of the Milky Way. It’s possible to legally own a gun but for very specific reasons only – down on the farm, for example. There’s pretty much universal consensus in support of strict gun control. People don’t want to see nutters and ne’er-do-wells wandering around their local supermarket with semi-automatic weapons. As a result, gun-crime is mercifully negligible. But this doesn’t stop lazy spammers targeting me with this:

I realise the message was auto-generated from a dodgy mailing list with my name on it – there’s no actual person thinking “I wonder if Jack fancies some bargain bucket bullets today?” What really alarms me is that, if I did keep an illicit pistol under my pillow, I could massacre 50 people for the princely sum of just 21 pence a shot. Frightening.

Bloody-Minded Brits

I’ve always had a fu*k ’em attitude to authority, particularly the do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do hypocrites. You know the kind of thing: politicians preaching ‘family values’ while knocking off their secretaries on the side or hellfire priests touching up the altar boys in the vestry. I’m glad to say that sheer bloody-mindedness is a glorious national trait. And one that goes back centuries, judging by the bawdy carving high in the rafters of Hereford’s medieval All Saints Church. Hidden for centuries, it only came to light when a new gallery was added for a café. The gentlemen reclining in anticipation is now in full view of the chattering flat-white coffeeholics below. Well, it’s certainly something to talk about over the Victoria sponge.

Obviously, as a ‘family values’ site, our randy man’s family jewels have been pixilated. But, be honest, you want more, don’t you? Check out the naughty bits here. Sadly, we’ll never know what pissed off the carpenter. And as it’s Norwich Pride today, I rather hope it’s…

“We’re here, we’re queer, so fu*k you!”