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.

What Have I Done to Deserve This?

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.

Gay Paree, Ooh La La!

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.

Okay, You, One Sentence Should Do It

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.

It’s a Fair Cop, Guv’nor

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.

Image courtesy of ‘The Bay’
Image courtesy of ‘Murder in Paradise’

Nowt as Queer as Folk

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.

Flirty Birds and Pesky Pests

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.

Chedgrave Common

Sometimes, Big Boys Do Cry

We binge-watched the third and final series of Big Boys on Channel 4, having been hooked from the very first episode of series 1. A semi-autobiographical account of the university years of writer and comedian Jack Rooke, Big Boys follows his journey from freshers’ week to graduation. As if coping with teenage angst and social awkwardness isn’t enough, Jack is also dealing with the agony of his father’s tragic death from cancer and exploring his own sexuality. The real Jack is both writer and narrator.

BAFTA nominated and featuring a rich tapestry of vivid characters, the sad-happy comedy deftly weaves together challenging themes of grief, coming of age, mental health, suicide and sexuality with a beautifully light touch, making us belly laugh one minute and well up the next. It’s rude, lewd and pulls few punches.

Jack’s touching relationship with his mother is one of the show’s many incredible highlights. Here’s a small taste from series 1. His coming-out confession halfway through the clip gets me every time. Because, sometimes, big boys do cry.

Bridget Jones – Like Catching Up With An Old Pal

It’s been nearly a quarter of a century since Renee Zellweger first climbed into her big knickers and staggered across our screens as the hapless, plonk-swigging, accident-prone Bridget Jones looking for love. And I’ve been with her every misstep along the way. By episode three, Bridget finally got her man – spontaneous standing ovation and massive round of applause – only to find him snatched away by this fourth and final instalment, Bridget Jones, Mad About the Boy.

Now a widow and single parent of two, Bridget hides her crippling grief behind a brave face for the sake of the kids and her own sanity. Staring at a future alone, she dips a reluctant toe into the dating pool all over again.

With more pathos and less slapstick this time round, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house – because we all want Bridget to get a second chance at a happy ever after.

As before, Rene, the Oscar-laden, mega-talented Texan, delivers the best home counties accent since Gwyneth Paltrow in Shakespeare in Love. And the excellent supporting cast, many of whom have been by Bridget’s side from the very beginning, is crowned by a fantastic turn by Hugh Grant as the scoundrel Daniel Cleaver. Like a good wine, Hugh Grant just gets better with age.

Here’s the trailer…

Some people are a bit sniffy about Bridget, but as Sarah Carson wrote in the I Paper,

I pity the Philistines who do not adore Bridget Jones. How joyless their lives must be, how poor and lonely, not to find in her diaries solace and wisdom and some of the most shrewd understanding of people and society since Jane Austen.

Ok, a tad harsh, but I see her point.

For me, the joyful reunion with Bridget was like catching up with an old pal over a drink or three.

Shrek – Everyone’s Pet Ogre

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Drama and performance can really help young minds build important life skills. But make no mistake, it takes guts and gumption to strut your stuff on stage in front of a bunch of strangers.

Hobart High School have a proud history of giving us the old razzle dazzle with a feast of young talent. This year’s offering – Shrek, the Musical, a fantastic tale of love conquering all from a kingdom far, far away – was up there with the best of ’em. How apt it was that we saw it on Valentine’s Day.

We knew some of the young cast. Jas and Benny were splendid. And a very special mention must go to Rory in the title role. He strutted his stuff with huge confidence, enthusiasm and the most convincing Scottish accent this side of Dundee. Well done, Rory.

Another Game of Trumps

Back in 2016, the people at Displaced Nation asked me and a few others about the election of Donald Trump. Now that MAGAmouth has his dainty little hands on the keys to the White House once again, I’ve been looking back at my reaction. This was my take at the time…

I first heard about Donald Trump’s victory on the morning news here in Britain. It was a wake-up call, but after Brexit, not entirely unexpected. I think we all know that both outcomes are a symptom of something deeper and more socially corrosive. There are a lot of people out there who feel marooned in poverty with little hope of rescue, including members of my own family. So it was okay to bail out the bankers but not the steelworkers? Really? If I was a praying man, I’d be on my knees hoping that Trump will be less incendiary in office than he has been on the podium, but I wouldn’t bet my shirt on it. Stoking up the darkest fears of those at the bottom of the heap is what got him elected. How a man born to enormous privilege can possibly understand the worries of the common man or woman is beyond me. But then I don’t understand the appeal of former merchant banker Nigel Farage, either.

So here we go again, another white knuckle ride on the magic roundabout of make-believe with Don the Con. But this time a posse of kiss-his-arse social media moguls and assorted tax-dodging billionaires are hanging on to his coat-tails. I wonder why?