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.

A Night at the Rock Opera

RentLiam’s birthday is coming up so I treated him to a night at the rock opera. Players from local not-for-profit entertainment company, Mixed Voice, were strutting their stuff at the Playhouse Theatre trying their hand at ‘Rent.’ It may be a bit of a gay cliché but Liam loves a musical and ‘Rent’ is a musical he loves. Loosely based on Puccini’s ‘La Bohème,’ the tale focuses on an eclectic troupe of impoverished young artists and musicians in the late Eighties struggling against a bitter wind in Alphabet City, the once avant-garde (but now ruthlessly gentrified) district of Manhattan. While Puccini laced his opera with consumption, Rent is stalked by AIDS, the kiss of death back in the day. As the characters try to make ends meet, some meet their end. Despite the misery, Rent is neither depressing nor sugar-coated. But it is tough to stage and perform. A hugely complex, multi-layered score is punctuated by irregular rhythms, constantly changing tempos and complex harmonies which, if poorly delivered, could be a total dog’s breakfast. I had wondered if the cast would pull it off. Well, they pulled it off with some polish, receiving a well-deserved standing ovation. Even a normally reticent Liam leapt to his feet wanting more. Shame there wasn’t an encore.

 

Postscript

Methinks Mixed Voice liked the review:

Last of the Summer Wine

Last of the Summer Wine

Jo Jack and LiamFor a glorious tail-end to summer, the flip flops were dusted down and the shorts were washed out for a final flourish and a sunny bite with my publisher Jo Parfitt, the tour de force who is Summertime Publishing. Jo was passing through the county, visiting her folks before she sets sail on her latest expat expedition, this time to Malaysia. Jo treated us to a gastro-pub lunch at the Orange Tree in Thornham, on the north Norfolk coast. It was an unmissable chance to cruise through the bread basket of England during harvest time while it’s still above sea level. Thornham is a picture-postcard hamlet dripping with money, converted barns and upmarket holiday lets, the kind of place featured on those minor-channel relocation programmes like ‘Escape to the Country.’ Liam loves to watch these shows but since we don’t quite have half a million stashed away in an off-shore piggy bank, watching is all we ever get to do. The pub grub was delicious and Jo was delightful, as were her splendid parents who popped along for a glass. While Jo is sipping Singapore Slings on her latest posting, she’s asked me to join her small cohort of trusted confidantes, a huge complement and a nice little earner. So, to Ms Parfitt, I thank you. To Summertime authors, if your Kindle file goes tits-up, on my head be it.

Beanz Meanz Heinz

Beanz Meanz Heinz

Beanz Meanz HeinzI’ve held £300 in Premium Bonds for decades. I’ve had them so long, they’re probably worth half what I paid for them. It’s sod’s law: my numbers never come up. Then there’s the Lotto. I’ve never won so much as a tenner. To make matters worse, I’ve bought so many losing scratch cards over the years that I’m personally responsible for the felling of a small copse. Still, I’m happy to do my Good Samaritan bit for lost causes. It’s my civic duty. The Victorians endowed schools for paupers, I gamble. It’s the modern way. My one consolation is that I may have been unlucky in Lotto but I’ve been lucky in love.

Ever since we moved back to Blighty, I’ve entered every bleedin’ competition going, composing slogans to promote low-fat baked beans for the weight-watching generation who can’t be arsed to exercise, OMO whiteness for working scrubbers, breakfast bars for coffee-on-the-go bores and energy-saving vibrators for tight-fisted lonely hearts – whatever it takes to stave off a stint in the work house. One thing’s for sure. There’s no point selling my tired old carcass in the personals column of the local rag. These days, I can’t give it away.

Let’s Hear It for the Boys

Let’s Hear It for the Boys
Sis and her boys
Sis and Her Boys (and Dan’s Fragrant Girlfriend, Grace)

My sister rang with glad tidings about her boys. She has four (not counting her saintly husband –  sis and I are very alike so believe me he is).  First born, Dan the man, has got himself a cracking new job with prospects and a pension. Second in line, brainy Jack, has just received a sparkling set of exam results. Third sprog, brawny Tom, is now playing semi-professional football at the tender age of 15 (they groom ‘em ever younger these days). But what of Josh, the baby of the clan? Well, he moves up a gear to secondary school next month and is showing quite a lot of promise himself in the kick-about stakes. Who knows? In a few years, we might have two players in the top flight. Time to pop our corks and toast to a comfortable dotage of wine and song. Remember, boys, we are your favourite uncles.

Chuffed to Bits

9781904881643-Perking the Pansies COVER.inddI try hard not to over-promote my books here on my personal blog. I reckon that most readers have either bought the bloody things or aren’t going to. But today I can’t help myself. Just when I begin to think that Perking the Pansies is reaching the end of its shelf life, I get bowled over by the reviews added to Amazon. In the last week I’ve received two new five star reviews. I quote:

“A big thank you to Jack Scott for making me smile on virtually every page.” More…

“Jack Scott’s prose frolics along exposing with defining brilliance ‘the sorts’ we all meet and want to avoid with every fiber in our bodies whilst abroad.” More…

So it seems the book’s still got legs. I’m chuffed. Thank you.

Don’t Give Up the Day Job

Don’t Give Up the Day Job

jack-the-hack-_writingtipsMore of my inane ramblings on writing…

Unless you’re tapping into that trust-fund set up by your dearly departed maiden aunt (the one everyone knew was a lesbian but no one mentioned it) or have a partner who doesn’t mind indulging you (that’ll be me, then), don’t give up the day job just yet.

More…

Putin’s Law

Putin

With the introduction of a vaguely worded law in Russia banning the promotion of homosexuality to minors (i.e. the very mention of it will attract a sliding scale of fines and repeated violations may result in a stint in the clink), the chattering classes have called for a boycott of the 2014 Winter Olympics in Sochi on Russia’s Black Sea Coast. The idea is to give Tsar Putin and his Russian Orthodox cabal a good kick up the arse. I can’t see it amounting to much. After all, the soccer World Cup circus will be coming to town in Qatar in 2022, a gulf state with a less than sparkling record on human rights of any kind and we seem happy to do brisk business with a host of nasty little regimes around the globe. Let not conscience get in the way of the beautiful game or making a few shillings. The new Russian Law is similar in word and intent to the much-hated Section 28, enacted by the Thatcher Government in 1988 and only abolished in 2003 (now being reintroduced through the back door in some self-governing schools – along with creationism, no doubt). Section 28 was a vicious little side swipe from the Iron Lady’s handbag, tossed in to appease the swivel-eyed loons out in the shires. It was largely ineffectual in the real world and I’m hoping against hope that punitive Putin’s decree will go the same way. But then, Russia isn’t Britain.

pink triangleSo what can be done? I have huge admiration for the two Swedish athletes, Emma Green Tregaro and Moa Hjelmer, who painted their nails the colours of the rainbow while competing at this year’s World Athletics Championship in Moscow. It was a subtle rebuke but still caused quite a brouhaha. Nice one, ladies. How about Winter Olympians displaying the pink triangle (on their nails, a fake tattoo on their hands, whatever)? Personally, I think this would send a more powerful and historically resonant message. The pink triangle was the badge that gay people wore on their ragged uniforms in the death camps before the Nazis herded them into the gas chambers (just as Jews wore the Star of David and other ‘enemies’ of the state had their own emblems). Simple, effective and very televisual. Just a thought.

Gorillas I Missed

Gorillas I Missed

I really ought to stay in more. Every time I stroll through the streets of Norwich, I trip over yet another big butch simian in glorious Technicolor. There’s a Guy hanging around on every corner. To make matters worse, I recently started to notice smaller window display versions in shops. All in all, there are probably more silverbacks in Norwich than in Rwanda (well, maybe not but you get my drift). So here are a few Gorillas I missed in my earlier post. The last ape in the montage looks enigmatically over at the Out of Africa store opposite which feels kinda appropriate. I was also rather taken with the little guy dragged up for Norwich Pride with a rainbow flag sticking out of the top of his head. So, my friends, give it up for Gay the Gorilla and his mates with their coats of many colours.

You might also like Gorillas in Our  Midst

P.S. No more Gorillas, I promise.

Phil Starr, Drag Star

Phil Starr, Drag Star

Phill StarrWhen I did a piece on Ruthie Henshall’s Norwich gig a while ago, I slipped in a little anecdote about my pipe cleaning days and a drag queen called Dockyard Doris. This sent me on a trip around You Tube to find old footage of the lovely Doris. I discovered a few clips but none worth showing to your nan. While I was digging, I stumbled across some old recordings of Phil Starr. Warm memories came flooding back of simpler days when a real belly laugh was easier to come by. Phil Starr was an old school drag queen comic with impeccable timing and a closet-full of shaggy dog stories, each with a witty twist. Cutting but never cruel, Phil started his career in the Fifties and played to packed pubs right up to his sudden death in 2005 at the age of 73. I saw Phil sprinkle his fairly dust in the East End and Brighton. I laughed so much, it hurt.

I’ve picked out one example for your delectation. It’s rude, just a little bit crude and not at all PC. Change channels now if you’re easily offended.

Dispirit of the Dance

Spirit of the Dance

Liam dragged me along to the Theatre Royal to see Spirit of the Dance, a cross-cultural burlesque with a strong Celtic twist. It may be an international smash, seen by over ten million people, but I’m afraid I wasn’t terribly impressed. The enchantment of Irish country dancing is in the regimental coordination and parade ground precision. One wrong step and the spell is broken. Sadly, there was quite a lot of wrong footing going on by the mismatched little and large chorus line. The lighting was so poor, they might as well have been barn dancing and when they got to the fake Folies Bergère routine, I’d lost the will to live; more can’t can’t than Can Can. Added to this, the score sounded like it had been run up on a Roland in a shed. I didn’t see too many people shelling out for the CD during the mercifully long interval. A stout tenor with a Jagger-swagger was rolled on now and again. Why? His voice was fine but it added nothing to the show and just got in the way. And, hasn’t Nessun Dorma rather been done to death? Norwich audiences are very forgiving but, every time he strutted on stage, you could hear the groans from the herd of grey. His face didn’t fit and neither did his baggy tux. Riverdance it ain’t.