Author: Jack Scott

Imagine the absurdity of two openly gay, married, middle aged, middle class men escaping the liberal sanctuary of anonymous London to relocate to a Muslim country. I chronicled our exploits with the mad, the bad, the sad and the glad in a blog for the whole world to ignore. Then came the book which became a critically acclaimed best seller. Its success opened out a whole new career for me, firstly as an author, and now as an indie publisher. Who'd have thought it? Certainly not me. In June 2012, we ended our Anatolian affair and paddled back to Britain on the evening tide, washing up in Norwich, a surprising city in eastern England, then to the wilds of Norfolk as the only gays in the village. I’m sometimes nostalgic for our encounters with the hopeless, the hapless and, yes, the happy go lucky. They gave me an unexpected tale to tell and for this I thank them.

Care in the Community

Many gym bunnies get a kick out of it. Apparently, pumping iron can pump the endorphins too, the brain’s feel-good neurotransmitters. After a decade on the treadmill, I can’t say I’ve ever noticed my mood improve. The truth is, I go to the gym because I have to – doctor’s orders – and not because I want to. Following our move to the village, Liam and I joined the community gym. It’s a small but perfectly formed facility housed in the pretty annex of our local library. We used to belong to a more industrial strength torture chamber in town, encircled by beefy blokes in tattoos and tight togs getting down and sweaty. Our community gym is a more sedate affair with a mostly mature crowd trying to dodge the Grim Reaper – us included. I call it my care in the community.

Keeping the gym going is a constant hand-to-mouth exercise. A grant from the local council helps with running costs, but money is always tight and this requires imaginative ways to raise some dosh. Cue the recent 12-hour cyclathon. On one of the hottest days of the year, 21 members took part. And yes, that’s Liam doing his bit (bottom left).

If you look really closely you can just make out my knee behind him. I was there for moral support.

Images courtesy of Loddon Community Gym.

Must Try Harder

QuickBooks is a handy accountancy package used by many small businesses and sole traders like me so it’s not that surprising that scammers target their users. Scamming is a highly profitable business – a digital plague bringing ruin and misery to so many. But really, when it plummets to this level of stupidity, it’s a miracle that anyone gets conned.

0/10 for language, spelling, grammar, punctuation and the wrong currency. Must try harder.

Postcard from Ithaca

Sleepy Frikes on the idyllic island of Ithaca was simply sublime – serene and restorative. The peace was broken only by the ringing of goat bells in the surrounding hills and wind chimes singing in the breeze. There was one exception, though. Some excitable sprogs commandeered the pool and did what excitable sprogs do everywhere – splash and scream – while their parents buried their heads in their tablets. Mercifully, it was just for the one afternoon.

I always thought Tom Conti’s fake Greek accent in Shirley Valentine was way too much until I heard our poolside barman speak. Young Luca’s deep and rich dulcet tones sent a dribble down the spine. No wonder Shirley dropped her knickers.

Lazy days basking at the pool were followed by an evening stroll down to the tiny harbour for eats and treats. Food was gloriously no–fuss – hearty, fresh and generous, and all washed down with robust local wine.

We made only one excursion during our stay – to the cute hilltop village of Stavros for huge portions and a quick gander around the fancy Orthodox church. There we witnessed a devout young lass kiss each icon in turn and an old girl in widow’s weaves gossiping with God on her phone.

And then came the tempest. Greece has endured a biblical summer season – heat, fire and flood – with devastating consequences. Storm Daniel – the most deadly and costly Mediterranean cyclone ever recorded – rolled over Ithaca trapping us in a harbourside taverna. Locals feared the worst as they rushed about battening down the hatches. ‘Best order another carafe,’ Liam said. And so we did.

In the event, we got off lightly. Tragically, this can’t be said for other parts of Greece – or, a few days later, for Libya.

Last Pub Standing

It’s often been said that old Norwich town once had a pub for every day of the week and a church for every Sunday. But as we discovered on our recent Hidden Street Tour with The Shoebox Experiences, there were, in fact, over 600 pubs within the city walls. Come chucking-out time, the streets ran yellow with the piss from the pissed. The distressed city burghers tried several ways to stem the flood, all of which met with limited success until some bright clerk came up with the clever idea of paying pub landlords to install loos. And so the public house toilet was born.

Most of the pubs have since closed but enough remain for a good night out and, after our tour, we visited one of them – Last Pub Standing – the last of 58 watering holes that once stood along King Street.

It’s a popular, friendly and well-appointed tavern, and first up on the stag do circuit judging by the gangs of jolly young gentlemen parading past our table. One particular group were farmer-themed in cloth caps, jeans and braces. A bearded farmhand dropped down beside us. He asked me to adjust the floppy strap on his dungarees and invited us to join the party. I happily gave his strap a quick tug but declined his offer of extras. We knew joining the boys out on the lash would only lead to ruination – and pissing in the street, probably.

You’ve Gotta Pick a Pocket or Two

We first heard about one of Norwich’s secrets in the local rag and decided to give it a whirl courtesy of The Shoebox Experiences. It just so happens that under their community hub on Norwich’s Castle Meadow lies a tantalising fragment of a bygone street dating back to the 15th century. What lies beneath is Castle Ditches, once a narrow warren of medieval lanes and alleys skirting Norwich Castle mound, a place where jobbing weavers and their broods were born, lived, worked and died – with their looms and their livestock.

As we descended to the old street level, our charming guide, Ollie, took us back through time with his captivating and comical tales of yesteryear. In the medieval era, the rag trade made Norwich rich, and the area boomed. But by the time of the steam age, traditional weaving had been killed off by the industrial mills of the North and the city had reinvented itself with a brand-new trade – making money, lots of it. Castle Ditches became a pig-stinking slum where no respectable Victorian lady would venture; so the fine and upstanding burghers of the city decided to cover it over with a new road – out of sight and out of mind, so to speak. Castle Meadow was born, turning Castle Ditches on its head – top floors became ground floors, ground floors became cellars.

That wasn’t quite the end. The Ditches lived on for a while longer as the city’s crime-riddled red-light district – think Nancy turning tricks for the drunks after closing and the Artful Dodger picking a pocket or two.

All but one of these images of the sunken street are courtesy of The Shoebox Experiences. My own photographic attempts were a little bit rubbish.

Coincidentally, as I was writing about our time down under, this old painting of Castle Ditches popped up on Faceache. It was found in a shop in Norwich. Amazing!

The Shoebox Experiences run a number of city tours. All profits go to their social enterprise which has a mission to create supportive environments for people to connect. Their Tipsy Tavern Tour sounds right up our alley.

Take a Walk in My Shoes

I gloriously misspent my youth trawling the sleazy dives of many of the world’s great metropolitan sin bins – London, Amsterdam, Paris, New York and Los Angeles among them – and cruising the hedonistic no-holes-barred gay fleshpots of Europe – Ibiza, Sitges, Gran Canaria, Mykonos. My dance card was rarely empty and I had a ball. But, there comes a time when the spirit is no longer willing and the flesh is in bed by midnight.

These days, a gentle week around a cool pool with a good book, a glass of something local and Liam by my side is what gets the pulse racing. Let me take you on a walk through laid-back Frikes, our latest tranquil bolthole, a cute village on the northeast coast of the pine-dressed Greek isle of Ithaca.

Courtesy of JustGreece.com and Jorgos Nikolidakis

Director’s Cut

I’m off-air while Liam and I are perking our pansies on Ithaca. Thankfully, Odysseus’ fabled isle has escaped the terrible wildfires that have torched Southern Europe – and now Hawaii and Tenerife – and brought destruction and misery to many, and death to some. Let’s not kid ourselves, the future’s buggered. Our next-door neighbour and his partner were caught up in the devastating firestorms that hit Rhodes last month and were forced to flee their hotel to sleep in a school playground. They made it back in one piece, I’m pleased to say.

So while we’re here…

…I’ve chosen some random photos that didn’t make the grade, blog-wise, during the past year and ended up on the cutting room floor.

And this is my personal favourite, spotted on the underside of a loo-seat lid on a train to London. It brightened up a dull journey. Who doesn’t appreciate a little toilet humour?

In the Footsteps of Odysseus

According to Homer – the ancient bard that is, not Simpson – it took Odysseus ten years to make it back to his gaff on Ithaca following the Trojan War. Clearly the legendary and less than heroic hero had a truly terrible sense of direction. But I guess an epic just isn’t an epic unless it’s an endless gods-given obstacle course designed to test the mettle of your everyday sweaty beefcake in strappy sandals. We, on the other hand, should make it in just a few hours, gods-willing and assuming the wildfires don’t get there first. I’ll keep you posted.

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.

Norwich Pride 2023 – a Celebration of Youth

It’s been a dribbly July and more rain had been forecast to drench Norwich Pride. Contrary to the weather pundits, old Ma Nature decided to give us all break and the sun shone on the crowd of many colours who piled into the city for Norwich Pride 2023. All life was there, from the newly hatched to old farts like us – truly reflecting our diverse universe. And with our marching days behind us, once again it was humbling to watch the long chorus line of young people putting it out there, happy and proud. I reckon we’re in safe hands.

I’ll let the photos do the talking…

We were content to wander through the rainbow throng and settle down to a bottle or two at the Forum to soak up the vibe and take in the cabaret. Watching a talented dance troupe of young girls strutting their stuff to Lady Gaga’s ‘Born This Way’ MC’d by a drag queen gladdened the heart. Yes, we really are in good hands.