Missing You Already!

I first met Clive Smith a few weeks into our first year of secondary school. My very first memory was him doing a skit of ‘The Fenn Street Gang’ – some of you oldies may remember the seventies sitcom. He was doing all the voices, mostly female I have to say. It was hysterical. I liked him instantly. A theatrical life beckoned.

We travelled together through our teenage years – birds of a feather, you could say. And what adventures we had.

There were the incredible school trips – all the way to Russia by train then back by sea on an old Soviet rust bucket. We shared the boat with a girl’s school from Scarborough and attempted to chat up the lasses – really, who were we trying to kid?

Then, a couple of years later, there was Transylvania – not many people go there. Sadly we never got to see Dracula’s Castle but we did see an awful lot of snow-capped mountains and tedious communist-era architecture. Yes, amazing trips. Not many schools put on that kind of show. How lucky were we? And I’m sure this is where Clive acquired his wanderlust. Who could forget the tale of a young Clive sailing up the Irrawaddy to smoke dubious substances with the locals. Not me; I never let him forget it.

But it was the afternoons in the front room of Clive’s home in South London I remember and treasure the most – gossiping and talking schoolboy sex to a soundtrack of Elton, 10cc, Alice Cooper and Bowie – lots of Bowie – oh, and way too much Roxy Music for my liking.

In the late seventies, Clive came to see me at work in Habitat on Chelsea’s King’s Road. He had something to tell me. ‘I’m gay,’ he announced. He’d come out to me next to a stack of trendy crockery in the middle of the shop floor. ‘No, you’re not,’ I replied. ‘I’d know if you were.’ Shows how little I did know.

For years after, Clive was always my Christmas Day guest of choice. Best thing was, veggie Clive always brought his own nut roast. How we laughed over the Coronation Street board game he brought one year. No we didn’t. It was rubbish.

Clive’s greatest attribute was his loyalty, to me certainly, even when I didn’t always deserve it. Typically, he was the first to visit me and Liam in Turkey – no mean feat out of season – and the first to drop by when we moved to the middle of nowhere in Norfolk, house-warmer in hand. It was a bottle of port. He knew us so well. He always kept in touch through time and distance. That was his talent.

I’d known Clive for nearly half a century and, for nearly half a century, we debated and argued, bitched and joked, fell out and fell in, laughed and cried, shared secrets and naughty thoughts.

We may have bickered for nearly fifty years but for nearly fifty years we also loved, more like brothers than friends. And that’s what counts in the end. So all I can now say is, ‘Missing you already.’

Clive died suddenly and without warning from a cardiac arrest on 16th January 2020. He was 58.

2019 and All That

It’s funny how things turn out. At the start of 2019 we were loft-living city-style, happy as pigs in the proverbial. By the end, we’d escaped to the country surrounded by the stuff, all quite by chance. Our best laid plans for a move to God’s own county were consigned to the recycling bin. And, my old girl reached her own milestone – turning 90 and still on the fags.

These twin themes were writ large in Perking the Pansies this year. There’s a lesson there somewhere. Also featuring in the top ten were a couple of fairy films, a fine but imperfect city and steely celebrations by the pansies still perking after all this time. Ladies and gents, please give it up for…

The Only Gays in the Village | Beware of Mad Cows | Thursday’s Child Has Far to Go | Monarch of the Hill | Rocket Man | The Shiny Shrimps | So Far So Good | Norwich – Irresistible and Imperfect | Unlucky for Some | The Last Dance

As usual, popular classics were of the more salacious kind. For the third year running, Gran Canaria, Sex Emporium from 2012 was the most read blast from the past. And the most clicked image was those naughty but nice boys with their big oars from Catching Crabs

Shame on you.

Happy New Year to one and all.  All we hope for in 2020 is some sunshine. It’s been pissing down virtually every day since we moved.

A Cottage Christmas

It’s Christmas Eve and we’re stopping home this year to soak up the village vibe. Thank you to Mr Marks and Mr Spencer for the superior festive fare. It’s not that Liam can’t cook – he’s actually rather good (me, on the other hand…) but after a few sherries down the local on Christmas Day, I fear a killing in the kitchen, and not in a good way. So best to minimise the risk with pre-prepared grub. After all, as the slogan goes…

“This is not just food, this is M&S Food.”

And who am I to argue?

God rest ye merry gentlemen, ladies and all those in between.

You Gotta Have Faith

Despite the decidedly mixed reviews, we threw ourselves into the festive spirit by seeing ‘Last Christmas’, starring among others, the fabulous Emma Thompson (who also co-wrote the screenplay). Set to the music of the late, great George Michael and Wham!, it’s a bitter-sweet quick-witted story of tragedy and hope. It’s a very British film with very British humour which, perhaps, doesn’t always travel. We laughed and we cried – a good sign of a good time in my book.

A rom-com with a subplot for our dark times, there’s a twist in the tail which I really didn’t see coming. And anyone who can make George Michael’s glorious but sometimes gloomy lyrics work romantically is a genius. Despite the bah humbug-ers, I’ve a feeling it’ll become a Christmas classic.

It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

The north folk round these parts take Christmas very seriously. The pretty sisters of Loddon and Chedgrave are decked out in their best festive livery and we’ve had fairs and fairies, themed evenings and evensong, Santa and his servants, mulled wine and warm bitter and a host of other merry romps. The villagers have gone to town for good causes, including the homeless of Norwich. Even a stuffed wild boar’s head at a local pub has got into the spirit of the season.

But the biggest bauble must go to local neighbours who’ve created a winter wonderland in their front garden. Completely mad and totally marvellous.

Christmas Past

Christmas Past

While we’re away in the Canaries sharing cheap Spanish plonk with the rest of the antique gays, here are a few images of Christmas just past to be going on with. As if you’re not over it already!

The Favourite

The Favourite

New Year’s Day took us to the movies to see The Favourite, a saga of love, rivalry and power, based loosely on the intimate relationship between a sickly and brattish Queen Anne (the last of the Stuarts) and a scheming Svengali-like Lady Sarah Churchill. We anticipated a restoration-style bawdy romp as promised by the trailers and pre-publicity. Instead we got a suffocating tale of court intrigue that plodded on for an age. Bawdy it was, with ripe language, racy dialogue and a few scenes which left little to the imagination. But, on the whole, the film was more darkly disturbing than black comedy, accompanied by a clanging score sounding like a death knell. Despite some great lines, superb acting (Norwich’s very own Olivia Coleman as the volatile queen definitely deserves a handful of gongs), palatial sets, evocative period detail, lavish costumes and gravity-defying wigs, the experience left us punch-drunk. We needed a drink afterwards.