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.
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 find out that the Locks Inn Community Pub, a gorgeous country tavern in the parish of Geldeston, has resurrected the boozy ‘sport’ as a trial of strength between the north folk (Norfolk) and the south folk (Suffolk) of old East Anglia. The Norfolk pub sits on the north bank of the River Waveney looking down on Suffolk on the south side.
Alas, we didn’t find out about it until afterwards and don’t know the result but I hope the merry folk made it a good clean fight. Okay, what I really mean is I hope Norfolk flonked our rivals into the dirt. And don’t even ask about the turnip tossing.
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 with a medley of wartime songs made famous by forces sweetheart, Vera Lynn.
On the very first VE Day, millions took to the streets for a monster party which was followed, no doubt, by a monster hangover. It’s hard to imagine the immense sense of relief that must have been felt on that momentous day by those who’d lived through six long years of conflict. And also the immense sadness for those who didn’t make it. There are few people still alive today who have direct experience of that terrible war. And soon there will be none.
‘Jaw, jaw is better than war, war’ is a famous Churchill misquote from the Cold War. But with so many hot wars burning around us and the disturbing rise of nasty fright-right nationalists, I wonder what those brave souls died for. Lest we forget? Tragically, I think we have.
On a much lighter, brighter note, the good burghers on Loddon Town Council have compiled a fantastic history trail of local WW1 and WW2 sites hereabouts. It’s a fun and fascinating glimpse into all our yesterdays.
The renaissance of the iconic Battersea Power Station and its surroundings isn’t the only radical regeneration along the old Thameside rust belt. Virtually the entire south bank from Grosvenor to Vauxhall Bridges has been transformed by new fancy offices and posh flats along Nine Elms Lane. At the Vauxhall end once stood Market Towers, a typically seventies block with the Market Tavern on the first floor. It was added for the traders who fancied a pint or two after a hard day’s graft shifting spuds and sunflowers at the nearby New Covent Garden Market*.
Come the weekend, though, an altogether different trade was transacted. The pub doubled up as a gay bar, particularly popular on a Sunday afternoon because the boys just loved to booze and cruise after Sunday prayers. I should know, I was one of them. I misspent many an afternoon there during the nineties and noughties. As did Jean Paul Gaultier during his Eurotrash years. But I was never tempted to try my hand in the very ugly and very derelict Nine Elms Cold Store next door. Many a randy lad came a cropper cruising its dark and dank corridors. Plunging down an unlit crane shaft was not good for anyone’s health. Ironically, it was built on part of the 17th-century Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, which had pleasured Londoners for over 200 years. Both Market Towers and the Cold Store are now gone, swept away by redevelopment. Ah, the memories.
Alongside the ribbon of luxury riverside high rises sits the HQ of MI6, the UK’s spymasters, as featured in a number of James Bond films. And not far away is the new, fortress-like US Embassy, which looks like it sits on a lazy Susan. No doubt, both buildings are bristling with various top-secret ways to detect and deter, disrupt and destabilise. Is their proximity to one another just a coincidence? I wonder. Let’s hope they’re keeping us safe from Tsar Pukin and his deadly cronies.
MI6US Embassy
*The old Covent Garden in Central London is now an uber-busy tourist hotspot, so you won’t find Eliza Doolittle flogging flowers and warbling ‘Wouldn’t it be Loverly’ on the steps of the Royal Opera House.
We like a spectacular view, and they don’t get much more spectacular than the view of old London Town from the top of one of the chimneys at Battersea Power Station. Back in the day, the coal-fired turbines lit a quarter of the city. But by the eighties, dirty old King Coal had been deposed by cleaner (though not clean) energy. Fully decommissioned by 1983, the magnificent building – one of the largest brick structures in the world – fell into near ruin. That was then.
This is now. The building has risen from the ashes, phoenix-like, repurposed for the modern age as an upmarket playground for the well-heeled. The magnificent turbine halls have been restored and are now stuffed with posh shops and designer eateries, with price tags to match. Take your plastic, you’ll need it.
The cathedral to power is the centrepiece of a Thameside renaissance along a lengthy stretch of the once-destitute riverbank. We alighted at the brand spanking new Tube station to an avenue of fancy flats, no doubt obscenely priced and not meant for ordinary folk. As we passed, we spotted a gang of hunky modern-day steeplejacks in hi-vis, hanging around and rubbing their shammies.
We were there for the main event, to ride Lift 109 up that chimney for that view. And we weren’t disappointed. With hardly a cloud in the sky, we could see for miles and miles. It was amazing. Liam had planned on whistling Chim Chim Cher-ee from Mary Poppins as our egg-shaped glass conveyance emerged from the stack, but he got distracted by the jaw-dropping wow factor, much to the relief of our fellow riders – and me.
I do get some weird and not so wonderful spam emails. We all do. It goes with the territory, I guess. Many are littered with schoolboy errors – sloppy punctuation, terrible grammar and lazy formatting. And some also promise riches only a fool would refuse/are too good to be true (delete according to level of gullibility) like this one…
Mrs. Maria Elisabeth Schaeffler, a German business magnate,Investor and philanthropist. I am one of the owners of Schaeffler Group . 25 percent of my personal wealth is spent on charity. And I also promised to give the rest of 25% away to individuals this year 2025. I have decided to donate 4,800,000.00Euros to you.
If only I’d known about this before our trip to expensive Gay Paree. A few extra Euros stuffed into my bum bag would have come in very handy.
The thing is, Maria Elisabeth Schaeffler really is a German business magnate. I wonder if the good lady knows about all this funny business going down in her name?
And then, as if things couldn’t get any weirder or less wonderful, this fake news dropped into my spam folder…
Really? Do I look like a bible belt trumpeteer or a redneck devotee of that other total fruit loop, the malodorous Musk? What have I done to deserve this?
That leads to a very tenuous link to the Pet Boys’ 1987 hit with the late, much-lamented Dusty Springfield. I was a huge fan of them both back in the day.
Well done to the Boys for giving Mary O’Brien one last crack of the whip.
We had a ball in Paris for our double anniversary. It was my first trip to the City of Light since 2003, and I’d almost forgotten just how drop-dead gorgeous it is. Back then, I was wandering along the side of the Seine taking in the view when Lindsay Wagner – yes, I do mean ‘The Bionic Woman’ – cycled past. Since then, the whole cycling malarkey has really taken off. The locals, young and old, big and small, have hopped on their bikes with typical Gallic gusto, and many of the wide avenues now have dedicated cycle lanes. Best keep your wits about you.
We chose well, hôtel-wise, a distinctly quirky and deliciously personal boutique B&B in the Marais District. Our innkeeper’s mother had a pair of French poodles which spent their days curled up on the bottom two steps of the trés élégant staircase like flokati scatter cushions. I was amazed no one trod on them, particularly after a few sherries. Ok, I mean I’m amazed we didn’t tread on them after a few sherries.
This trip, we didn’t sight see – been there, done that, bought the fridge magnet. Besides, the weather was way too good to spend time on high-brow pursuits. Instead, we people-watched in pavement cafés. Unlike many big cities these days, everyday people still live in the centre of Paris and it was fascinating to observe ordinary Parisians going about their business weaving through the wide-eyed camera-clicking set.
Our favourite watching spot was opposite the gloriously industrial-looking Pompidou Centre – or Popadom Centre, as Liam likes to call it – which looks like someone’s gone a bit mad with a giant Meccano set.
Much over-priced plonk was consumed and I got a touch of sunburn. Parisian waiters have a reputation for rudeness. This is something I’ve not experienced either this time or before. A smile and a few words of schoolboy French can help oil the wheels and fill the glass.
So, no Eiffel Tower or the Mona Lisa and no Arc de Triomphe or Sacre-Coeur. But there was one must-see: Notre Dame Cathedral. Lovingly rebuilt, with no expense spared after the devastating 2019 fire, Our Lady has risen from the ashes reborn and renewed. We just had to take a peek, along with the thousands of others. It was well worth the very long queue.
The old girl looks magnificent. And yes, we bought another fridge magnet.
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 to gay Paree for a gay old time. For these gay old timers, this means a gentle stroll along the handsome boulevards and a big slice of café culture rather than painting the town pink in our disco pants. Our tush shaking days are long gone.
In the meantime, I stumbled across this old Faceache post written by him indoors to mark our seventh anniversary. Liam was challenged to say it all in a single sentence and he did it in style. He wrote…
Seven years ago we met in that bar in Trafalgar Square, shared that Sloppy Giuseppe and over-priced Pinot Grigio, argued about the bill, eventually went Dutch, courted for months like a pair of 1950s Catholics (for heaven’s sake), collapsed out of exhaustion into the world of jiggy-jiggy (terribly messy but strangely exciting), fell madly in love, got married (nice suits), moved in together (delicious scandal), watched the curtains twitch (mostly nets), gave up everything sensible and moved to Turkey (what was wrong with Spain?), fell in-and-out-and-in-and-out of love with an extraordinary (no, challenging, misogynistic, homophobic, primitive and God was it cold – okay I loved it) place, you writing ‘that’ book, ‘that’ book getting critical acclaim and big sales (cha-ching) but ‘that’ book largely ignored by those close to us (discuss?), coming back to look after our own (good call), becoming poor, well poor-ish (bad call), discovering the great city of Naaaarwich (nuff said), having more jiggy-jiggy (apparently unnatural, but terribly good with central heating and an injection of Radio 4 LW), re-discovering UK culture like a long lost friend but afraid to tell the expats how wonderful it was in case it came across as boastful (fine line), you becoming ‘properly’ recognised as a ‘proper’ writer (hurrah!) not to mention radio star (OMG), me re-learning Bach fugues (they are SO hard to play, even harder than Mozart, you really have no idea how my fingers ache), both of us weeping like candles at the latest Cinema City flick (okay, mostly Dame Maggie and thank God for the discounted tickets and blood-warm Merlot at the bar), getting over-excited about that converted railway carriage in miles-from-nowhere (yes, I could wash my bits in a sink with a view like that), improvising those make-shift nappies during the messy norovirus days (thank you Blue Peter and Morrison’s super-padded 2-for-1 kitchen towels, we owe you), people-watching at the Playhouse and longing to be young (clearly, we need to avoid Death In Venice comparisons here), gasping at Bonnie Langford’s amazingly flexible crack (and boy, can that Dolly can write a tooone) but most of all, keeping our focus, always, on making sure our glass is resolutely full. I’d say it’s been an extraordinary seven years, husband.
As my regulars know, I love an old-fashioned whodunnit. I’m still grieving over the loss of Vera. I’ll get over it eventually, as the pain fades with time. Besides, I can always rekindle my ardour by watching the repeats on a loop. My fondness for crime shows may stem from my brief but passionate dalliance with a cute detective sergeant from Greater Manchester Police many moons ago. Our eyes met across a smoky gay bar on Gran Canaria. But that’s another story.
However, one must-have aspect of a murder mystery has always baffled me. Those mugshots pinned to the incident board. Where the hell do the bobbies in blue get them from? It’s not like the prime suspect is likely to pop their best swipe right pic in the post with a note attached saying It’s a fair cop, guv’nor. It’s the biggest mystery of all.
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 business round these parts, as evidenced by the constant procession of dog walkers passing by our gate during daylight hours. It’s like a pooch beauty pageant at Crufts. That’s what we get for living on the Wherryman’s Way*, just crapping distance from the River Chet. I sometimes think some Norfolk people care more for their animals than the fruit of their loins. That’s country folk for you.
The Wherryman’s Way by the River Chet
Most owners pick up after their charges and dispose of the doggy doings in the various poo bins scattered about the place. Woe betide anyone leaving it steaming by the wayside. Getting caught short risks a verbal onslaught. Making a quick getaway risks being named and shamed online.
Bizarrely, some folk take the trouble to pick up the poo and place it in a plastic bag but then hang the bloody thing on a tree branch like a Christmas bauble. Why? Beats me. As they say up North, “There’s nowt as queer as folk”.
*The Wherryman’s Way is a 37-mile long walking trail that meanders from Norwich to the coast at Great Yarmouth.
Spring is springing, bulbs are sprouting, the sap is rising and mating season is in full swing. The dawn squawk is dominated by flirty birds in the mood for a little lovin’, and love nests are being adorned with clumps of moss ripped from our cottage roof. I guess our feathered friends are doing us a favour, but it’s hard to appreciate that while I’m sweeping up the downy green slime-bombs carelessly dropped all over our front yard.
And after a five-year gap, the moles are back once more to slaughter worms and decimate our lawn. There are reckoned to be as many as 40 million moles in the UK, and judging by the mini-mountains of mole hills poking up through every patch of open ground hereabouts, it seems like most of ’em live in Norfolk. We’ve been tracking their relentless march beneath the nearby playground and our neighbours’ gardens, and now the tell-tale signs of excavation have appeared along one of our garden fences.
Last time, I counter-attacked with organic repellent and coffee grains. This time, I’ve gone all hi-tech with a German-engineered sonic spike. Apparently, moles are virtually blind and extremely sensitive to sound and vibrations. The spike emits sonic pulses and a high-pitched buzz to piss off the pesky pests.
The jury’s out on whether these fancy devices actually work, but so far so good. We’re keeping everything crossed. Come a summer sizzler and sunny wine time, we don’t want the BBQ toppling into a mole hole and sending under-cooked bangers rolling off the grill.
Perking the Pansies 