The advantages of joining the club at Cinema City are free tickets and 10% off at the bar, both of which are guaranteed to drag us out into the drizzle. Our latest freebie at the flicks was the musical blockbuster, ‘Les Misérables,’ adapted from the all-conquering stage musical. Les Mis follows the fortunes of on-the-run ex-con, Jean Valjean, ducking and diving his way to redemption from the final defeat of Napoleon in 1815 to the abortive Paris uprisings of 1832. Anyone who is familiar with the Victor Hugo tale will know the misery of the revolting masses is relentless. The film slaps on the despair with a technicolor trowel from the epic opening act right through to the desperate insurrection of the final scenes. The historic ex-Royal Naval College (now university) at Greenwich is used to great effect as the grand backdrop to the bloody revolution. I presume the lofty burghers of Paris didn’t provide the right tax breaks to the production company.
The complicated score of Les Mis requires pipes of semi-operatic quality and it was entertaining watching various Hollywood divas straining to hold a tune. Apart from Russell Crowe’s flat notes, on the whole it wasn’t half bad, and Anne Hathaway’s exquisite performance as the luckless Fantine was a tear-jerking revelation. The film is 2 ½ hours long which befits one of the longest novels ever penned. The Glums canters the distance well enough. Misery was never so much fun.
Safely home after almost a week of festive overload, we uncorked a bottle and nested on the sofa to watch ‘Climbed Every Mountain’ on BB2. Liam is rather obsessed with ‘The Sound of Music’ and can recite the entire film note-for-note and word-for-word. It’s on the job description of all gay men of a certain age. To end the season with a flourish, we expected a sugar-coated, feel-good soft focus trip up and down the pristine piste. We got a dirty Alpine avalanche exposing a nation in denial, a dysfunctional family and a bi-polar singing ex-nun who never was. To pour weed killer on the edelweiss, the Von Trapps didn’t climb any mountain or ford any stream to escape the evil clutches of the nasty Nazis. No, they caught the 5.30 express to Italy. The truth, as they say, should never get in the way of a good story. It was the cruelest of blows; I fear Liam will never recover. 
The excessive festive recess started with a Soho reunion: old friends, cards and kisses, secret Santa tat and drunken frolics. It’s a Yuletide tradition of our own making. The next day, Liam and I had a parting of the Christmas ways, he to his folks, me to little sis. ‘Twas the season to be separated when love and duty called. Supermum sis cooked up an all-the-trimmings banquet for a small tribe. The ten ton turkey was the size of an ostrich and took two of her strong lads to haul the big bird into the oven. Plates were perched on every surface and piled high with just-right tastiness. I don’t how she does it. There was just one minor fly in the ointment. A kitchen frisk uncovered a sprout-less cupboard. Trifling recriminations were muttered over the sink, but it suited me just fine, not least because it avoided a windy afternoon with my old mother bringing up the rear. As usual, I didn’t lift a finger. My sister never lets me. I always offer, honestly I do, but my pleas fall on dismissive ears. She always makes me feel like a treasured guest. Brimming glasses of wine appeared from nowhere and a hot water bottle was slipped into my pit while my back was turned. Liam joined the fray on Boxing Day, sporting an elf hat and dragging his bulging sack of filthy goodies from Ann Summers. ‘Rude and Lewd’ could be our family motto and Liam raised the tone with willy-wares, booby prizes and lick-me-quick licentiousness. I could show you the photographs but I fear a call to Social Services might be the outcome. Priceless. 
Perking the Pansies 