Category: Britain

God Save the Queen’s Head

Once upon a time, too many years ago, I was a shop boy on Chelsea’s trendy King’s Road. Days on the tills and nights on the tiles were the best probation for a young gay man about town. Back then, I pulled quite a crowd in a small local saloon appropriately called ‘The Queen’s Head’ along the even more appropriately called ‘Tryon Street.’ It was a time when safe havens for happy homosexuals were few and far between and the pub provided a venue for people from all walks of life to meet and natter over a sweet sherry with the promise of more. Out of necessity, the gay scene was a great social leveller. The lord and the navvy would mingle happily without deference or embarrassment. What you were trumped who you were. This is when I served my apprenticeship and why kissing arse has never been my style. These days, the gay scene has been commercialised, internationalised and diversified beyond recognition with big business chasing the pink pound, leading to the decline of the little boozers away from the main drag with their no-frills bonhomie. Such is the case for the Queen’s Head, probably Britain’s oldest gay pub, with a pink lineage stretching back to the buttoned-up Fifties. It no longer draws in the punters from far and wide and relies too heavily on an aging crowd who, like me, are in constant danger of permanently dropping off their bar stools. Takings are down.

The inevitable happened. Developers stepped in with plans to convert the building into luxury flats. Time to make a killing. After all, this is Chelsea, a place with some of the most expensive real estate on the planet. Locals were having none of it, gay and straight alike (and those in between). There was a groundswell of opposition supported by a well organised petition. I signed it for old time’s sake. I’m glad to report that the wise burghers of Kensington and Chelsea (my old employers) saw the writing on the wall and turned the planning application down. The pub has been saved – for now.

I’m not one of those old fairy farts who bleat on about how much better it was back in the day. It wasn’t. Many (if not most) gay people lived in fear of prosecution, exposure, blackmail and violence. I’m glad the scene is out of the closet and on the high street. However, next time I mince down the King’s Road, I’ll definitely be popping into my old trolling ground for a pint or two. Why don’t you join me? If the gay community really does have a culture worthy of the name, the Queen’s Head is surely part of it.

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The Big Bang

fireworks2We approached the New Year’s celebrations with the best gay-boy-about-town intentions. At first, we planned to bop ‘til we dropped at The Loft, Norwich’s premier gay club (okay, Norwich’s only gay club).  This idea was soon swapped for a more sedate saunter to our favourite watering hole, The Birdcage, an intimate über-fashionable bar with a metrosexual vibe. The evening started in style with a leisurely bite and a bottle. After polishing off our second Pinot Grigio Blush, we paid the bill and wandered down the cobbled street. We peered through the dripping window of the pub. It was crammed with animated revellers. A line of youthful punters in identical skinny chinos queued at the door. Liam and I looked at each other with a can’t-be-arsed expression and, without a word, we tottered off home, arm in arm. I thought I was letting the side down until I gave a round-robin ring to my London life friends. One was watching Graham Norton, the second was catching a film on Netflix and the third was watching Julie and Julia on DVD. All were nesting on the sofa with their respective partners. Age has crept up on all of us. Like the sudden arrival of grey pubes, we didn’t see it coming. I don’t mind too much. Just like the Virgin Queen, I survived the slings and arrows and have entered my golden age. Elizabeth Tudor was no virgin either.

Every cloud, as they say, has a silver lining. If we had danced the night away in the company of trendy nippers barely out of short trousers, we would have missed the pyrotechnic gig on Auntie. With the exception of the brief and barely disguised party political broadcast on behalf of the Tory Party, the heart-stopping show stopper had us on the edge of our pews. See for yourself…

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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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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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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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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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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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.