Category: Britain

No Going Back on Going Back

‘In the beginning there was work and work was God. After 35 years in the business, the endless predictability made me question the Faith.’

I wrote those words on the 8th October 2010, the opening sentence of my debut post on a brand new blog about a couple of silly, cynical old queens who decided to jump the good ship Blighty and wade ashore to Asia Minor as gay semigreys (or is it semigays? No, that would be those who dip in and out). For a minority report, the blog’s done rather well. Now there’s a book. That’s done rather well too. Remarkable. Both crept up behind us without hint or herald. Maybe we should have listened to the early advice of our playground peers and kept our backs to the wall. Too late now.

We planned to stay in Turkey for a good few years, slowly descend into memory loss and erectile dysfunction disguised by a haze of alcohol, then paddle back to Blighty for the liver transplant and wait for the Grim Reaper’s call. Sadly, it’s not to be. I’d like to do author things and keep the pennies (and believe me I do mean pennies) rolling in. I can do neither in Turkey. There’s another reason. An important reason. There are pressing family issues that cannot be ducked or delayed. If you have read the book you will understand:

“One day, our Turkish adventure might be curtailed. We were prepared.” (Chapter 12)

That time has come.

Where will we be laying our hatboxes next? Well, there’s a clue in the picture below. Hint – it’s not in Soho.

Where is this?

Thank you Turkey for breaking the umbilical cord between wages and lifestyle. Thank you Turkey for giving me the time and space to write. Thank you Turkey for handing me a story on a plate. We hope one day to return. But, for now there’s no going back on going back.

Perking the Pansies2 (464 x 700)The photo above is a picture of one of the great cathedrals of England but where is it? Answer correctly for the chance to win* a signed copy of Perking the Pansies, Jack and Liam move to Turkey. Submit your answer by commenting on this post.

*The winner will be chosen at random by Liam from correct entries submitted before 4th March 2012. Comments containing entries to the competition will not be published until after this date so no cheating. The book will be shipped free to the winner to any address in the UK or Turkey. Delivery elsewhere (Mongolia, the dark side of the Moon, etc) may incur charges depending on the cost. Those who already know the answer are banned (we know who you are).

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In the Beginning

And the Winners Are…

Norwich?!

Adele Cut Down at the Brits

We watched the Brits. Naturally, Adele won best female artist and best album. She’s the most successful singer to emerge from Blighty in years. It’s a pity the show’s producers saw fit to interrupt her acceptance speech which was cut down to just a few hasty words. Now, I’m not into the Hollywood gush but a few rushed ‘thank yous’? Presumably the programme was over-running. So what? Let it overrun.

It Gets Better

I’m back on my soap box again. Think of me as resident ranter at Speaker’s Corner on a Sunday afternoon. I’m rapidly becoming a single issue bar-room bore. The mast I’ve nailed my colours to is homophobic bullying in schools. It’s not clever, it’s not on, it must stop. I’ve banged on about this tishoo ishoo a couple of times now – the tragic death of Jamey Roddemeyer and the inspirational Stand Up and be Counted video. Now I give you It Does Get Better by the L Project. The It Gets Better campaign began across the pond and has now invaded Blighty’s shores. The L Project (that’s L for Lesbian by the way) is a group of lovely lasses who’ve come together (forgive the pun) to highlight the plight of the young through the medium of music. They’re fabulous and so is their song. It’s become a hit. There aren’t many countries in the world where a track with such an overt message would catch the popular imagination. Watch it here and watch it right ‘til the end. You might even cry. And If you like it why not buy it?

Parlez-vous Polari?

As my regular pansy punters know, I’ve just done a gig for the Polari Literary Salon at London’s Royal Festival Hall. I was in the company of a fine cast of literati – Rebecca Idris Hugh Mulhall, Max Wallis, Catherine Hall and Tiffany Murray. The chorus line was made up of friends and regular pansy characters – Nancy, Murat, Clive, Ian, Matt and Philip. I calmed myself with a quick wine stiffener in the Green Room before I climbed the stage to perform against a sumptuous backdrop of The London Eye and Palace of Westminster. I’m not sure who was the more nervous, Liam or me. Despite the tummy terror, I didn’t fluff too many of my lines. I was well received by the enthusiastic audience and I’m eternally grateful to the wonderful and gifted Paul Burston who made it all possible.

Written in the Stars

The frosty flurry in old London Town soon turned to sloppy slurry. Sunday was our day of rest away from commitments. We decided to do what we rarely do these days – a West End jolly, just the two of us. It was a strangely alien experience. The Sunday evening stalwart – Jivin’ Julie’s karaoke night for the hairy marys down the Kings Arms (or Kings Arse, as it’s affectionately known) was a shadow of its former self. The fat crowd has thinned to just a few old fairy faithfuls. We ventured to Comptons, the pivot around which gay Soho revolves, to find it bereft of punters except for a few lonely tourists, northern fag hags in mountainous heels and Russell Grant. Sadly, cuddly Russ hasn’t managed to keep the weight off following his stint as housewive’s choice on Strictly Come Dancing. I bet he didn’t see that coming in the stars.

All the bars told a similar sad and sorry tale. Was it the long recession or the wind chill that kept the boys under the duvet? Perhaps it was neither. Restaurants were buzzing away to the sound of glasses clinking and tills cher-chinking. Perhaps the crowd has moved on to pastures new. Perhaps the pubs should lower their beer prices. We joined the throng at an eaterie and supped Rioja into the small hours.

The Big Chill

Our trip to Blighty was blighted by the big chill. Before our exodus, I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I’d experienced snow in London with its urban microclimate. In fact, three of our four last winter tours have been a white out. Perhaps global warming really is pushing the Gulf Stream out of kilter. What next, winter fairs on a frozen Thames? Shocking. Fortunately, we landed at Heathrow just before the weather closed in. Two years ago, we were diverted to Cardiff by a light dusting at Gatwick.

Once on land, we trundled off through town to celebrate the half century of an old friend and watched the arctic flurry from the comfort of an Islington restaurant. As the winter wonderland of bobble hats and woolly scarfs scurried past the window, a wonderful warmth enveloped us like the Ready Brek halo. Glory be to the god of central heating.

Marriage Equality – Much I Do About Nothing

Marriage equality for same sex couples is a hot topic in the States and many other parts of Christendom right now. As the pendulum of liberal public opinion swings towards reform, the religious reactionaries advance ever more bizarre notions for opposing the right of consenting adults to choose whom they wish to marry. It’s in the Land of the Free where the debate (if debate is the word) is at its most venal. An unholy axis is scaring the horses and the old folk with talk of a disintegrating society and the fall of America. The do as I say and not as I do Catholic Church is wielding its considerable power and marshalling its congregation; right-wing American politicians seeking the highest office in the land talk of paganism and a vomiting God; and crazy pastors across the Bible belt warn of Old Testament fire and brimstone and the End of Days. These strange bedfellows all agree that it’s the thin end of the satanic wedge. What next? Pet-wedding perverts? Marriage is between one man and one woman, they say, sanctified by God for the purposes of procreation. How do they know? Because it says so in the Bible, stupid. Actually, the Bible says a lot about marriage – about forced wedlock, polygamy and concubines. It supports all of them. Bible-bashers have selective memories.

Rather than take a trip on the merry-go-round of fables and myths, it might be more illuminating to take a look at history and absorb some hard facts. Until relatively recently, marriage was primarily a property contract. In most societies, girls were the chattels of their fathers; wedlock simply transferred ownership from father to husband. There’s a clue in the word ‘lock’. Often, the contract was transacted within the extended family in order to consolidate assets or preserve clan cohesion. It was generally best to keep it within the family. At the top of the social heap, marriage was a political device to forge alliances, strengthen authority and maintain dynastic power. The rich would oil the marital wheels with generous dowries and the poor might secure a slave bride through war. Women were booty. Like goats. The consent of the unfortunate (and often underage) girl was not required. The wife could get a raw deal; the goats might be treated better. If a woman failed in her primary role to provide male progeny, she could be replaced, supplemented or worse. None of this sounds particularly honourable or pious to me. Nor has this depressing state of marital affairs been consigned to the history books. It’s alive and thriving in many primitive corners of the modern world.

The spawning argument hardly holds water either. It’s an obvious biological fact that marriage is not required to have children. People don’t suddenly become fertile because they’ve been blessed by the shaman. Breeding is like falling off a log and we’ve been at it like proverbial rabbits since our distant ancestors crawled out of the primordial soup at the dawn of time. When Fred Flintstone first clubbed Wilma over the head and dragged her by the hair into his cave to make Pebbles, he didn’t need a holier-than-thou clergyman to stick his oar in.

Just recently, on my side of the pond, a top dog collar in the Church of England jumped on the wedding bandwagon. The Archbishop of York claims that the democratically elected Parliament of Britain has no right to change the definition of marriage. I think His Grace will find that the British Parliament has the right to do as it pleases. England got rid of meddling priests when they pissed off Henry the Eighth. Hell hath no fury like a tyrant scorned. Despite what the Archbishop may think, the meaning and interpretation of abstract concepts often evolve over time through intellectual inquisition and discourse. There was a time when the Church taught us with absolute God-given certainty that the Earth was flat and sat at the centre of the Universe. Woe betide anyone who disagreed. Stoke the bonfire and burn the heretics, they used to say. Fortunately, we now know differently. We discover and we evolve. Our religious establishments would do better to concentrate their energies on addressing the problem of empty pews and unheard sermons. Ironically, the Church of England would find it far more difficult to operate without the growing number of gay vicars in its ranks.

For an unreconstructed liberal and an unabashed secularist like me, this is a fundamental equalities issue. It’s also a love thing; and love, above all other things, is at the core of the Christian message, is it not? As far as I’m aware, no religious organisation will be forced to conduct religious ceremonies for same sex couples if they object. So, let’s just calm down and grow up.

Read all about Jack and Liam‘s life in a Muslim country

Perking the Pansies Book Trailer

It’s done and dusted. My World Book Tour across four continents has finally come to an end. The stage lights have dimmed and the sequins have been packed away for another day. I’m knackered even though I’ve not shifted from the sofa. Was it a sell out? No idea. Have I sold copies of the book? Certainly. To celebrate the end of the tour, I’m releasing my very first book trailer. BAFTAs here we come. Grab yourself some popcorn and a fizzy drink, sit back and watch:

Now to my acceptance speech…

Please extend a massive hand to the talented and generous supporting cast, stars in their own right, who took a back seat and let me take centre stage to strut my stuff.

Fittingly, the tour kicked off in my foster land with Soldier, Solder at a place in the country with rustic old sapper Archers of Okçular.

Next stop was a flying visit to the motherland for our London gig at cosmopolitan Aussie Gidday from the UK with Gidday from Turkay.

The third show, AussieBum was presented Down Under at A Life Less Ordinary with the far from ordinary Russell.

A long virtual night flight took me across the Pacific to the Eureka State – California – for Perking Across the Pond on Lick the Fridge courtesy of gifted wordsmith and family man, Jared.

My second Californian date was a camp inquisition on the pink sofa with the absolutely fabulous Impossibly Glamorous.

No time to dawdle. It was back on the virtual trail to Old Constantinople for a gig on the sharp and witty Istanbul Stranger telling my Yankee Tales, continuing the American theme.

Daft planning took my back Stateside to Provincetown in New England to be entertained by M’lady and the puppets review Perking the Pansies at cross-cultural Slowly-by-Slowly, no strings attached.

I flew the virtual transatlantic red eye for the Continental European leg of my tour. First stop, a chat of the This Morning sofa with my inspirational publisher, Jo Parfitt in the Low Countries.

Next up a trek across the Pyrenees to a campsite somewhere in southern Spain for my Trailer Trash show with the impossibly healthy Helen from Helen’s European Journey.

This was followed by another Dutch gig at Adventures in Expatland with the blogger with the big heart. She entertained us with Pansies Oh So Successfully Perked.

Safe on home soil saw me facing the questions again from the lovely Natalie at the top notch Turkish Travel Blog.

Last and certainly not least, my final interrogation was by Roving Jay on the Bodrum Peninsula Travel Guide. Jay pins me down with questions about Bodrum.

Thank you to one and all, for letting me loose on your blogs, for the Facebook posts and likes, stumbles, tweets, retweets and mentions. Your support is heart-warming. Thank you also to those who followed me around my virtual world. Now the fun really starts…

By the way, would you like to buy my book?

Greats of Great Britain

Old pal Philip and his partner David are cheesemongers in St Margarets, Southwest London, just across Old Father Thames from Richmond. Their pongy shop is called Yellowwedge Cheese and it’s weathering the recessionary storm remarkably well considering. If you’re in the area pop in and sample their smelly wares. Philip also writes an excellent food blog called What’s for Tea Tonight, Dear?

Yellowwedge was voted best new retailer at the British Cheese Awards 2008, named in The Times Top 10 cheese shops in Britain for 2010 and 2011, and listed in the top 5 cheese shops in Britain in 2011 by lovefood.com. Gongs are good. It’s a great way to raise the profile and earn a wedge. Now they’ve entered their cheese emporium into the Great Exhibition Awards with Greats of Great Britain. They need all the votes they can get so why not do them a small favour?

Need persuasion? Maybe this will convince you:

Every Little Helps

Book Tour Intermission

Liam and I spend most of our festive time in Blighty apart. It is our habit. He dispenses TLC to his folks while I tour the Capital like Elizabeth the First dumping myself on various friends and family. Two experiences stick in my mind.

I joined Liam at his folks for a couple of nights and helped with the festive shopping. Picture it – Tesco’s, Christmas Eve, 2011. A cast of thousands weaving over-laden shopping trolleys through the heaving aisles like bad-tempered dodgem drivers. Their faces gave the game away – London during the Blitz. The frayed staff wore festive plumage and forced smiles, praying to the Baby Jesus for closing time. It was as merry as Christmas Day at the Queen Vic.

We shuffled our way along the mile-long till queue, manoeuvred the unfamiliar hire car out of the bumper-to-bumper car park and snaked back to the house, emptied of festive joy. After we packed away the calorific goodies, I stepped outside the front door for a cheeky cigarette. I spotted a corpulent covered lady in Horn of Africa robes wander down the road towards me. A young boy skipped along at her side singing Jingle Bells. She smiled as she passed. That simple, single act of cheer recharged my yuletide spirit. I stepped back inside to recharge it further, courtesy of my father-in-law’s bottle of Jameson’s.

Have you checked out the cheery book?