A few months back, my old girl turned ninety and we threw her a bit of a do. Family and friends pitched up to make a fuss and shower her with gifts of cards, cash, flowers and scratchcards – she’s always liked a flutter. Sadly, she only won a tenner. Just as the party was drawing to a close, an old friend – or rather an old flame – of mine videoed us smooching on the dance floor. I thought I’d lost the footage but have just found it on my smarty pants phone. Mother looked suitably regal in the girly crown I picked up from the Pound Shop. I see my bald patch is getting bigger.
Category: Ageing
You’re Never Too Old
Normally at the gym I’m encircled by beefy blokes in tattoos and tight togs getting down and sweaty with weights and pulleys, squats and presses – an orgy of exertion. Only the high-octane musak drowns out the clanging and grunts. This week, though, was different. An elderly couple – in their seventies I guessed – ambled to the row of exercise bikes which are my torture implements of choice. While I watched from a discreet distance, he helped her onto a seat, carefully placed her dainty feet on the pedals, tightened the restraints, pressed the button and selected a mild resistance for her workout. She began cycling while he rested on an adjacent bike, holding her handbag. After about ten minutes, he helped her from the bike and they toddled off together, arm-in-arm. No words were spoken. It was as if they were one. I was incredibly touched by the scene. Let’s hope Liam and I will be the same in years to come.
Thursday’s Child Has Far to Go
Once upon a time a long time ago, a pretty girl from a small Ulster town was swept off her feet by a dashing young squaddie in a smart uniform and a devilish twinkle in his eye. Army life on the move quickly followed with babies dropped in married quarters here and there – Ireland, Germany, Malaysia, England, Malaysia (again). Sadly, her military man died young – way too young – and the pretty girl soldiered on alone as a single mother. She recently turned ninety and we had a bit of a do. Apart from being a little mutton and frail, Thursday’s child has still far to go. As they say in the Emerald Isle…
The older the fiddle, the sweeter the tune.
I inherited my Father’s devilish twinkle. I just hope I’ve inherited my Mother’s genes.
The kids 
The grandkids 
The great grandkids 
Husbands and partners 
Wives and partners 
Old friends
SAD Season
When the big skies of Norfolk are low and dreary, the only remedy for seasonal affective disorder (SAD) is an emergency injection of sunshine. Happily, we don’t actually suffer from SAD but hey, any excuse for a holiday. And we thought we’d better get a trip under our belts before a hard Brexit brings the sky falling in. So we’re off to Gran Canaria for a bit of fun in the sun. To call Gran Canaria, with its cheap thrills and even cheaper men, a bit of a gay cliché is an understatement. And the icing on the cake is our stay at a men-only bungalow complex, one that tends to attract the slightly older gentleman. We’re expecting saggy arses, ravaged faces, walkers and a defibrillator on standby behind the bar. Liam intends to amuse himself by counting the liver spots round the pool. We should fit right in. Now that’s what I call sad.
Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice
Liam is mended enough to return to work (at a doctor’s surgery, ironically). Broken ribs are a nasty business and it’ll be months before he’s fully repaired. In the meantime, he’s popping the pills to get him through the day (and particularly the night). It reminds me that, during our midriff years, we need to do what we can to keep ourselves match fit for the future. No one wants poor health to spoil their twilight years. At my annual MOT last year, the quack told me to watch my glucose levels or I’d be on the road to diabetes town. This stark warning spurred me on to move more and eat (and drink) less. Twelve months on, I’ve dropped over a stone and my glucose levels are almost back to within normal range. So it’s a little less sugar and spice and everything nice – except for Christmas, of course, when all bets are off.
Wine, Willies and My Golden Years
Fewer and fewer people can be bothered to go to an actual shop, buy an actual card, write an actual greeting, slip it into an actual envelope, write an actual address, stick on an actual stamp and pop it into an actual post box. When I say it like that it does like a bit of a palaver, doesn’t it? Instant messages, instantly sent on instant social media is the modern way. I’m fine with that. I do it too. I’m a thoroughly modern Millie. But who would deny the pleasure of a dull slap on the mat when the postie’s been?
It was my birthday recently; nothing special – just another year closer to the edge. A few of my nearest and dearest did bother to go to an actual shop, buy an actual card, write an actual greeting, slip it into an actual envelope, write an actual address, stick on an actual stamp and pop it into an actual post box. And what actual theme emerged? Wine, willies and my golden years. As the old nursery rhyme goes…
And the child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.
That’ll be me, then.
One Foot in the Grave
There’s one evergreen Christmas custom in the Scott-Brennan household that gets rolled out every year – thumbing through the Radio Times for festive televisual treats. Liam likes nothing more than ringing his must-sees with a red felt-tip pen. It’s a quaintly old-fashioned ritual in today’s online, on-demand era. The magazine, first published in 1923, has a loyal but ageing following. I wonder how long it will be before both go the way of the dodo. The advertisers know this too, judging by the loose leaflets that drop from the magazine pages – funeral plans, will writing services, equity release schemes and special furniture for special needs. It’s enough to make me think I’ve already got one foot in the grave. On the other hand, those rise and recline chairs do look comfy.
Top of the Pansy Pops 2017
Perking the Pansies has recently passed its seventh birthday. It’s quite a milestone, I think. Most personal blogs are lucky to make it beyond the terrible twos. I still write it because I still enjoy it and I’m chuffed that enough punters still pop by to catch up on my news and views, rants and rambles. You make a fading fairy very happy. As it’s the turn of the year, it’s top ten time once again. So, ladies and gents, and those who are both, neither or someone in between…
The glitter ball goes to (drum roll please):
And the runner up is:
The top two promised smut but delivered something altogether more innocent. I do hope visitors weren’t too let down, but this does demonstrate the value of a good headline, the ruder the better or so it seems. The also rans are an eclectic pick ‘n’ mix of danger and disability, dotage and death, beards and biography, civic history and doing the right thing.
The Story of Norwich | John Hurt, RIP | Life After My Saucepans | Praying for Time | A Message from My Husband | That Sinking Feeling | Seven Signs of Ageing | I Beg Your Pardon
Sticky Fingers and Sticky Knickers
Tits with Chicks
The Story of Norwich
Life After My Saucepans
A Message from my Husband
In these social media-obsessed times, the most shared post was Home Sweet Home, an image-rich homily to little ol’ Norwich, published while Liam and I were away livin’ the vida loca, Greek-style.
And the most popular old post in 2017?
Happy New Year to one and all.
Gay Britannia
If you are LGBT, 16 or over and living in the UK, Her Maj’s Government wants to know about your experiences of living in our always green but not always pleasant land. The National LGBT Survey should take no more than 15 minutes to complete. It’s a bit tick-boxy but you won’t be identified and you can add comments at the end. This was my two-penneth worth…
I’m one of the lucky ones. I came out in the seventies when only the few came out. I was fine with it, my family were (mostly) fine with it and I’ve faced surprisingly little direct or obvious discrimination. But then, I grew up in London so I was hardly the only gay in the village and worked in sectors that were accepting or at least tolerant. I stuck two fingers up at the bigots and the hypocrites and did what I wanted because it wasn’t anyone else’s business. Ironically, I do wonder what will happen should I need to go into care towards the end of my life. Will I be forced to shuffle back into the closet?
Our voices must be heard because, despite the enormous progress of recent decades, bigots still feed at the bottom of the pond. As an example, take the reporting of this year’s Norwich Pride by our local rag, the Eastern Daily Press. The coverage was full of hope and celebration. Some of the reactions to it from anonymous trolls hiding behind their silly handles were not. I was particularly taken by the observation from some Nazi called thefastestfox1…
Degenerate, selfish behavior from a small minority with no thought for the long term existence of the human race not to mention the waste of tax payer’s hard earned money.
Don’t degenerates pay tax then? Nobody told me. Can I get a rebate? For my sins, I was going to spit back but someone called Silver Machine got there before me.
But enough about you, this is meant to be a discussion about the article, do keep up.
Ridicule is the perfect response.
So, what’s 15 minutes out of your life? The closing date is the 15th October 2017 so get clicking here. No, you won’t earn Tesco’s Clubcard points or the chance to win a lifetime subscription to Grindr but you just might make a difference. Speak now or forever hold your peace.
The Seven Signs of Ageing
I don’t mean Olay Total Effects or any of the other magic potions promising to hold back the ravages of time. No, I mean the seven signs as they apply to a middle-aged ex-pretty boy who knows he’s got fewer years ahead than behind. I was reminded of my impending decrepitude when trying to grab a rogue sock evading capture at the back of the washing machine. The sock nearly won. So there it was, my first sign of ageing – stiff in all the wrong places.
But what of the others? Well, in no order of priority…
The only time I get to wear a suit these days is at funerals. This in itself is no bad thing. If only I didn’t have to replace it every year to keep up with my expanding midriff.
I used to sleep like a Brothers Grimm princess. I even slept through an earthquake in Bodrum once. These days I get caught short mid-slumber. And I’d rather sit to pee than stand.
My memory of yesteryear used to be as sharp as a drag queen’s stiletto. Nowadays, I never forget a face but names often defeat me. And sometimes I go into a room and can’t remember why.
As I grow older, my farts get louder (and more frequent). Thankfully, following through is still as rare as a gay bar in Tehran.
I reached puberty sooner than most and my hirsute legs were a source of great adolescent pride. Now I constantly moult. Sweeping up short and curlies from the bathroom floor has become a daily chore. What’s left is rapidly turning silver.
Liberal tolerance was my mantra for decades and accepting (though not always respecting) differing opinions was the price I paid. Now I shout at the box when some ill-informed twat spouts rubbish. I have become a grumpy old man and I rather enjoy it.
Sound familiar?
Despite stiffness, middle-age spread, nocturnal bladder weakness, fading memory, noisy flatulence, grey pubes and a serious bout of the grumps, I’m content with my lot. Unlike Olay’s fanciful brew, happiness is something you can’t bottle and sell at Boots. But then I’m yet to suffer from the eighth sign of ageing – erectile dysfunction. Now that would burst my bubble.