Category: Britain

Buttoned-Up Britain

By common consent, Fifties Britain was a grim, buttoned-up time of austerity, grinding poverty, back-street abortions, bomb craters, back-to-back slums and hard labour for the love that dares not speak its name. People left their doors unlocked because they had nothing worth nicking. Suffocating social conformity and knowing your place ruled the barren and humourless post-war roost. Woe betide the unmarried girl who found herself in the family way or the boy caught with his willy in the wrong hands. Moral outrage came with razor-sharp teeth – rebel at your peril. It took the Swinging Sixties to loosen the corsets and un-stuff the shirts. Or did it? Take a look at this hilarious piece of 1951 social history from British Pathé News. Presumably shown in picture houses up and down the realm, it’s the campest thing I’ve seen all year. I wonder if any of these boys were caught with their willies in the wrong hands?

Thank you to I Should Be Living in Bora Bora for finding this little gem.

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Grey Britain?

Dear Old Blighty

Ten Reasons to Ban Gay Marriage

The airwaves are full of noise about the Government’s proposals to permit same-sex marriage here in old Blighty. Whereas the original intention was to legalise civil marriage only, the Cameroons are now speaking as one voice about allowing those religious institutions that wish to conduct religious ceremonies to do so. I suspected this would happen. The original proposal was discriminatory and could easily have been challenged in the courts. Religious marriage is not for us, but for those that want it, fair enough. A church wedding can be a high-camp affair. Think period costumes, flying buttresses, dreaming spires, gold finery and swaying incense, the full production number. Come to think of it, the promise of a gay gig at the Abbey might well swing it for me.

It’s been made crystal clear that no priest, imam or rabbi will be legally obliged to do anything against their beliefs. Nevertheless, some of the dusty old men in frocks and dodgy hats are spitting fire and brimstone from the pulpits (mostly to an empty crowd) and a cabal of reactionary old Tories is talking about the end of civilisation as we know it. Now, civilisation as we know it is threatened by all sorts of things (environmental meltdown, the proliferation of nuclear weapons, a chronically unstable Middle East, etcetera, etcetera) but giving people the right to get hitched to the person they love isn’t one of them. The ever-sensible Canucks introduced same-sex marriage in 2005 and last time I checked, the lights were still on in Canada. Just ignore the silly nonsense and get on with it, I say. Then perhaps, the Government can turn its full attention to things that really matter to everyone – jobs, education, health, proper help for those who need it and sorting out the dismal state of the British economy.

On a  lighter note, the splendid Bitten by Spain sent me this satirical piece. It appeals to my sense of low wit and sarcasm. It has a Yankee bent but a universal message.

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wedding ringsMuch I Do About Nothing

Same Sex Marriage in the UK

Suited and Booted

Now that our frivolous semi-retired life among the lotus-eating emigreys of the Aegean is behind us, I thought I’d mark the transition with a major makeover. Not me, of course (far too late for that). Regular readers will have noticed that the blog is now dressed in more sober attire. Backtobodrum commented:

“I have to comment that your blog now looks very organized and serious. Have you two gone back to wearing suits and ties?”

It’s an interesting observation because, in a way, we have. Liam’s got himself a part time job doing something with data. So much for giving up the wicked world of the waged but needs must when the Devil drives. The demon in this case is the continuing slide in Turkish interest rates. It’s a pre-emptive strike. We’re spending more or less the same here as we did in Bodrum, but we need to stitch the little hole that first appeared in the family purse a couple of years back. Working part time enables Liam to plug the gap and to meet his family obligations (the main reason we came back to Blighty). It also enables me to make a proper go at this writing lark (the other reason). When I get the film deal, Liam will be released from paid labours and return to his main function in life – sorting me out and peeling me grapes.

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Every Little Helps

Money, Money, Money

Vox Pop

What’s happened to British TV news and current affairs broadcasting? It seems to be terminally afflicted with the desperate need to solicit the views of the man on the Clapham omnibus. Emails, texts and tweets flood in from all corners of the realm from the poorly informed. How does this add to the sum of all knowledge? Writing a letter to the Times is one thing but invading my living room uninvited through the flatscreen is something different entirely. I want my news from the trained and knowledgeable. Where’s Kate Adie in flak jacket and pearl earrings when you need her? Why not just be done with it, move the whole circus to the local pub and let the bar room bores run the show?

Busted Flush

What is it with British plumbing? I’ve never lived anywhere in Blighty with good enough water pressure to provide a decent douche. Don’t you just loathe a limp spray? Norwich is no different. Okay, the house is 370 years but that’s no excuse in this day and age. I’m old too, but my own water works do a decent enough job. My little winkle sprinkles with much more umph. I’m feeling nostalgic for our fireman’s hose of a spray in Bodrum. It was strong enough to pin an unsuspecting nude to the tiles. Mind you, that was only when the water was actually on. For the dry shifts, we kept a bucket by the basin for a quick whore’s wipe. My one consolation is that, come the mould season, we won’t have viral spores breeding across the bathroom ceiling like a medieval plague.

Our wimpy water works also extended to the porcelain. The lacklustre flush was barely enough to deal with even the most modest log. Emergency assistance was delivered by engineer Maurice who parachuted in from the Smoke for the weekend. His talented hands fiddled with my ballcock and, hey presto, Niagara Falls. His labours were rewarded with a large glass of white, followed by several more (but that’s another story).

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The Mould Season

Emigrey Spongers

Crappy Snaps

Crappy Snaps

With the wonders of cutting edge digital photography, it’s supposed to be virtually impossible to take a bad snap. Just aim and click, right? Wrong. I’m rubbish. Sometimes, though, there’s a little unexpected magic among the discarded litter on the cutting room floor. I was clearing out the camera the other day and came across these images from our February trip to London. The images are of the London Eye taken from inside the Royal Festival Hall. Neither of the pictures has been retouched. It shows what fun you can have with a wobbly wrist.

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Edge of Glory

Parlez-vous Polari?

Seaside Special

Seaside Special

On those rare occasions when the sun comes out, the wildlife of Blighty flocks to the coast like migrating wildebeest. Not one to buck the national trend, Liam poked his toe out of the front door and decided a day trip was on the cards. He had Cromer in mind, a seaside resort on the north Norfolk coast. The town was in carnival mood and Liam fancied his chances in the knobbly knees contest. To my ear, Cromer sounds like it should be north of the border not north of Norwich. Half an hour across the flatlands, we reached our destination. An hour later, we managed to find somewhere to park. Cromer is a dainty and neat little place serving up the time-honoured seaside fare of battered fish, non-dairy ice cream, snotty sea food and cream teas on doilies. The town was packed to the rafters with day trippers getting in the way of these gay trippers. A bracing wind blew in from the bleak North Sea and crazy bathers braved the chilly waters. We were a long way from the fierce Meltemi Wind or the warm waters of the Aegean. The elusive festival was nowhere to be seen. Slightly dejected, I took Liam and his prize-less knees to the pub for a drink. I ordered a glass of white at the bar. The burly barman dressed in a riot of freshly-inked tattoos (just like the skies, tattoos are big in Norfolk) was having none of it. “We don’t sell wine by the glass,” he said in his farmer’s twang. The scary regulars stared on as they supped pints of the usual (whatever that was). That was that. Time gentlemen, please. As we headed back to the car, I caught a glimpse of a large fading poster flapping in the wind. Jimmy Cricket was the star turn at the end of the pier show. I thought he’d long since dropped off his perch. Perhaps it goes to prove that old jokers never die, they just go to Cromer. That’ll be me, then.

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Summer Winds

Jack’s Titanic Tale

Thank You, Mitt Romney

We leapt off the train from Norwich at Stratford (the main gateway to the Olympic Games). It was busy but not uncomfortably so. There was no sign of the much anticipated transport gridlock that has dominated the news for months. We jumped on a bus to the penthouse pad overlooking the stadium and took our seats for the biggest show in town. As I had hoped, it was a mesmerising salute to British polish, quirkiness, individuality and diversity – funny, moving, creative, self-deprecating, inclusive, mildly subversive with tongue jammed firmly in cheek. The eccentric cultural cabaret was infused with subtle (and not so subtle) political messages to the great, the good and the incompetent both at home and away. It mattered little to me that much of the humour might have been lost on the globally bemused. It was worth all the money just to get the first lesbian kiss ever broadcast on Saudi TV. After much reticence, all but a few diehard cynics now seem to have risen to the occasion and finally taken the Games to their hearts. There’s a real buzz in the air, a buzz you can feel, taste and see. I think we have Mitt Romney to thank for this. His ungracious remarks about London’s readiness to stage the Games have galvanised opinion. No one likes a bad-mannered, bad-mouthing guest in their house, do they?

I give you one of the many highlights from the show – HM becomes a Bond girl. I hope our German friends weren’t too miffed by the Dambuster’s theme. Naturally, Her Maj was as inscrutable as ever.

Let the Games Begin

Let the Games Begin

Roll up, roll up. Love it or loathe it, the Olympic circus has come to town. Uniquely, London is the only city to have hosted the over-bloated jamboree three times – 1908, 1948 and now 2012. Ironically, given the current double dip recession, it was the 1948 beano that was called the ‘Austerity Games’ as it was held barely three years after the end of the Second World War;  a grim time when Blighty was bankrupt, on rations and in the red to our generous Yankee cousins. Remarkably, the debt was only finally settled in 2006.

At the 11th hour, it hardly matters whether the 2012 Olympiad will be a monumental waste of taxpayer’s cash that will put London in hock for decades or a monumental celebration of civic renaissance that will leave an enduring legacy. I know the site of the Olympic park well. Before the transformation it was a polluted post-industrial shit hole. I think it was worth winning the Games just to see the smug smile being wiped off former President Chirac’s arrogant face when London pipped Paris into second place. Did you manage to get tickets? Me neither. We have a plan B. We’ll be watching the opening ceremony from a balcony overlooking the stadium. It pays to have a dear old friend with a posh penthouse in the right part of town. Last time, the Middle Kingdom presented an epic spectacle of precision and uniform behaviour from a cast of thousands. This time, I’m hoping for something a little less regimented with a little more panache, diversity and individuality. A few gongs in the bag would be nice too.

To commemorate the start of the Games I give you the British diving team being sexy:

Pontin’s Happy Campers

The final leg of our budget trip was four nights at Pontin’s, Pakefield  – seventy quid each, half board. Both Liam and I are well-acquainted with the holiday camp experience from our proletarian childhoods and, more recently, from my mother’s 80th birthday bash at Butlin’s. Whereas Butlin’s has raised its game to compete with the costas, Pontin’s has remained faithful to its Hi-Di-Hi roots. There have been some concessions to the modern era – our bunker in Pirouette Park came with hot water and electricity – but the rest of the offer was distinctly old hat. Accommodation came in terraced rows of jerry-built chalets reminiscent of a prisoner of war camp or a sleazy middle America motel. We felt like fugitives on the run from the Feds. Higgledy-piggledy pebble-dashed facilities were battered and tattered. Canteen times were fixed and uncompromising. Food was hearty rather than wholesome with a strong whiff of time-honoured old school dinners. There was a floppy salad bar and a sign warning the punters that “these trays may contain traces of food.” Or was that nuts? We avoided the healthy option and headed straight for the stodge slopped up onto mini plates by fiercesome-looking dinner ladies. On day two, I was unceremoniously ram-raided by a blue rinse armed with a killer Zimmer trying to get to the jelly before anyone else. In the interests of personal safety, we didn’t dare go for seconds. Oh, happy days.

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