Category: Bars & Restaurants

Ask for Clive

An ‘Ask for Clive’ poster recently appeared on my Faceache feed. Why ask for Clive? Living in our semi-rural bubble, we’re a bit out of touch with the big bad world beyond our fields of burnt gold. So I did some digging. It turns out that ‘Ask for Clive’ is an amazing nationwide campaign working with pubs and other venues to promote inclusion and provide safe spaces for LGBT people. It started with a sticker and a simple idea. Now thousands of supporters have joined up to stamp out hate and make inclusion a reality. It’s a welcome and much-needed antidote to today’s toxic politics supercharged by the rise of far-right nutters who, given half a chance, would lock us back into the closet – or worse.

Coincidentally, Clive also happens to be the name of my oldest friend who died suddenly in 2020. I think my Clive would be chuffed to see his name associated with an inspirational anti-hate campaign.

Ironically, adopting the name ‘Clive’ also now serves up a massive dollop of dark humour, an entirely unintended nod to ‘Tip Toe’, Russell T Davies’* recent psychological thriller which took gay bashing to a whole new, deeply disturbing level – a portent of things to come if we don’t watch our backs. If you’ve not seen it, Clive is the mad baddie you definitely wouldn’t ask for. The first episode features a lynching. We couldn’t watch the finale; it was simply too much.

* Russell T Davies is the supremely talented writer of the original pioneering Manchester-based ‘Queer as Folk’ series and the ground-breaking AIDS-era drama ‘It’s a Sin’, both for Channel 4, among many others.

How Did Henry Get His Hampton Court?

What’s a couple of loose-end gay boys to do on a hot and cloudless summer’s day in old London Town? Pub or palace? We tossed a coin. Tails for the pub, heads for the palace. Her Maj won, so off we went to visit the glorious Hampton Court Palace, which graces a pretty stretch of the River Thames, upstream from Richmond. It was Liam’s first time whereas I’m an old pro – I first visited as a wide-eyed lad.

Construction of the magnificent pile started in 1514 by Cardinal Wolsey, Henry VIII’s Lord Chancellor. For seven years Wolsey lavished vast sums, building a palace to match his ego and rival anything in Rome. Clever and ambitious, the so-called ‘butcher’s son’ from Suffolk rose through the ranks to a position of power second only to the King himself. However, for most, being in Henry’s orbit was as precarious at it was profitable. And being his chief minister was the most precarious of all. Top dog Henry, the old letch and all-round shit, was a notoriously demanding and unpredictable boss who always got his way. A fall from favour could cost you your head – literally.

When the cunning old cardinal’s Machiavellian ways failed to secure a papal annulment for Henry’s marriage to Catherine of Aragon, he sensed his days might be numbered. So he gifted Hampton Court to Henry as an expensive bung in a desperate attempt to save his own skin. It didn’t work. He was arrested anyway – on trumped-up charges of treason – but died horribly from dysentery before he found his too-clever-for-his-own-good head on the block.

And that’s how Henry got his Hampton Court.

These days, the Palace has a split personality, with a 17th-century Versailles-inspired extension grafted onto the Tudor carcass

We worked up quite a thirst wandering through the gates, galleries and grand halls, chambers, chapel and wine cellar. So obviously, after the palace came the pub.

We spent a sultry evening watching the sun set over Old Father Thames and mingling with the jolly young boozers supping outside the parade of riverside ale houses by Richmond Bridge. Cheers!

Sun, Fun and the Footie

We’ve finally recovered from our latest Hellenic odyssey to pretty Paxos and the Venetian glory of Corfu Old Town. While old Blighty baked under cloudless skies, we basked in Greek heat around a warm pool topped off by ouzo-fuelled steamy evenings of mirth and hot gossip with our travel companions. Thank you, you know who you are. A memory to savour was watching England beat Norway at the footie. We joined the rowdy crowd of many nations squeezed into cafés along the Liston, Corfu’s iconic Parisian-inspired arcade. Business was brisk as the drinks kept clinking and the tills kept ringing. Let’s not dwell on England’s later defeat by Argentina.

As for the rest, I’ll let the snaps do the talking…

Thanks to ‘Linda’ our official royal photographer for most of the pics.

Given the scorcher at home, I fretted that our little plot might wilt in the relentless heat. I needn’t have worried. Our neighbour did a splendid job with the watering can. Thank you!

The Best Place to Live in the UK

Good old Norwich has been crowned the best place to live in the land for 2026 by The Sunday Times. Judges heaped praise on the city for its ‘historic character’ and ‘urban buzz’. No shit, Sherlock. Those in the know have known that for years. It was something that slapped us about the face when we first paddled up the River Wensum back in 2012.

As I wrote for the Visit Norwich City of Stories website back in the day…

And that’s how it happened. One heady afternoon in the garden of the Playhouse Theatre Bar, Jack and Liam found somewhere new to lay their hats. An offbeat, theatrical, cosmopolitan, romantic, open-minded and open-hearted place set beneath the true-blue skies of Norfolk. Norwich, a surprising city. A place to live and a place to start living.

We may now have moved 10 miles out for a semi-rural quieter life, but we still regularly hop on the bus into town to soak up the vibe – because we’re not dead yet.

You can read my full piece here…

Jack and Liam Move to Norwich

Or dip your toe in…

The Palladium of Drag

I recently stumbled upon this delicious titbit – pun intended – on Faceache about drag life at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern way back in the sixties. Click the image to see the clip.

One of my old witterings from 2015 came flooding back. At the time I wrote:

“I’m sure I’ve been here before.” So said my mother after she took a sip of her brandy and coke and looked around the large smoke-filled room. It was 1980 and I was stepping out with Bernie, a salesman from Somerset. We were treating my mother to a night of slap, sequins and perversion at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern, South London’s premier drag pub. As it turned out, her feelings of déjà vu were spot on. In the swinging sixties, she and my soldier dad had slipped out from the barracks on the other side of the river to catch an act or two.

Déjà Vu, 21/09/15

My own debut at the infamous cabaret venue was in the late seventies before the interior had a radical facelift and the curved bar running down the middle was ripped out. As you can see from the footage of the terrible turn miming badly to a 1969 Clodagh Rodger’s smash, it was used as a catwalk by the jocks in frocks to preen, prance and mince up and down. Happy-clappy punters would rescue their pints before they were high-kicked into the crowd by an unguided stiletto. And, after one too many sherries in the dressing-up cupboard, the act might trip over their heels and do an impromptu stage dive.

Since then, much of old Vauxhall has been tarted up in glass and steel and the boozer itself was at serious risk of being replaced by yet more fancy flats. That was until Historic England stepped in and listed (ie protected) the building because…

…the building has historic and cultural significance as one of the best known and longstanding LGBT venues…

And, I’m glad to report that the RVT, as it’s now known, is still going strong with the slap, sequins and perversion.

Image Courtesy of RVT on Facebook

The Faceache footage from the RVT’s page was itself lifted from an old TV documentary called ‘What’s a Girl Like You…’ at the British Film Institute Archive – the world’s largest. The broadcast was billed as a “scintillating look at the 1960s drag renaissance” and named the venue the “palladium of drag”. It’s well worth a look. Click the image to find out more*.

*People outside the UK may not be able to view the the documentary. It’s a broadcasting rights thing, I guess!

Glitter, Glamour and the Glums

Our yuletide revelry was crowned with a trip to the Great Yarmouth Hippodrome, Britain’s last remaining circus building, for their ‘Christmas Circus and Water Spectacular’. And spectacular it was too, with gravity-defying flying acrobats, trapeze artists spinning around a giant hoop without a safety net for comfort, and a grand finale of Busby Berkeley babes bringing the show to a fantastic watery close.

The show was followed by a mini pub crawl with our fellow festive revellers. We managed to down a few sherries in Yarmouth’s best dive bars, including one partially boarded-up establishment where we were offered a couple of knock-off air fryers. I was almost tempted.

Our final pit stop was the Blackfriars Tavern with its bewildering range of award-winning real ales and ciders. As CAMRA’s* National Cider Pub of the Year 2025, we had high hopes of a warm welcome on a chilly day. But, instead, we got the cold shoulder from the miserable landlord and his missus. I’ll leave it to a recent one-star review to tell it as it is.

“Very unwelcoming staff with a strong whiff of arrogance. Thank you for making us feel not worthy of treading the same carpet as you.”

The beer mat sums it up too. The po-faced pint pullers can be as rude as they like, but punters must remain saintly at all times. So before anyone could say ‘bugger off’, we buggered off.

*Campaign for Real Ale.

Love Actually

Christmas is almost upon us, and it’s a big deal for local businesses trying to make a few extra shillings before the January slump. As regular readers know, Liam and I like a drink or three, so we do our bit to keep the hospitality sector afloat – it’s our patriotic duty. One of our favourite city watering holes is the Gardener’s Arms (known by most punters as the Murderers), a traditional ale house stuffed with old-world charm, oak beams and exposed brickwork. The pub has a deliciously dark past – hence the nickname – and it’s usually our last port of call before we stumble onto our bus back to the village.

To drum up a bit of business, last year the jovial pub landlord posted a video on Faceache – a fantastic spoof of a scene from Love Actually, one of the nation’s favourite festive films. And it’s been posted again this year. Click on the image below. The video is a bit rude, so best move on if you’re easily offended…

Alternatively, watch it on YouTube…

If you happen to be passing the pub, be sure to pop in for a few sherries and admire the murder theme posted on the walls (Dr Crippin, Lizzie Borden, Bonnie and Clyde, Ruth Ellis, to name but a few). And the yuletide windows are pretty good too.

Postcard from Athens

Our flight to Athens was delayed by an hour but was otherwise uneventful. However, once landed, there was a tortuous slow shoe shuffle to passport control which stole another hour. Thanks for nothing, Brexiteers. By the time we got to baggage reclaim at the end of a seemingly endless series of travelators, our holiday chattels were the last cases riding the carousel. It made me wonder what we would do if, whether by accident or by design, someone were to walk off with our smalls. Let’s hope I never get to find out.

Greek summers are famously hot, hot, hot and Athens is top of the weather charts – swelter-wise. That’s why we chose June rather than August for our classical tour. We didn’t reckon on an early record-breaking trans-continental heatwave with the mercury hitting the low forties. Mercifully, the modern metro train that whisked us into town was air-conditioned.

The first pit stop on our Greek odyssey was in the Monastiraki neighbourhood – once the heart of Ottoman Athens – centred around a busy square, rammed with shops and stalls selling everything from junk to jewellery and places to eat, drink and make merry while watching the world go by. Liam even took to filming what looked like a fun-filled folk dancing display, only to discover it was a pro-Palestinian rally.

Athenians seem particularly keen on graffiti, which adorns pretty much everything – some of it artful, most of it not. We felt that if we stood still for long enough, we’d get spray-painted too. And we’d been warned about pick-pockets. But despite the bustle, the blistering heat, the ugly tags and the artful dodgers, the area had a real urban buzz that we found irresistible.  

The splendid Attalos Hotel, a short case-wheeling stroll from Monastiraki Square, was our lodgings for the night. The staff were friendly and obliging and our room was cool, cosy and comfortable. But most welcoming of all was the intimate rooftop bar with its truly amazing views. Yes, that’s the Acropolis as the backdrop.

Even though we were city centre supping, the drinks bill didn’t break the bank, particularly as our delightful barmaid gave us last orders on the house. Yamas!

Dwile Flonking

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.

Totally flonking bonkers.

Spuds, Spies and Something for the Weekend

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.

*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.