Category: Christmas & New Year

Bah! Humbug!

bah humbug1I’m no scrooge, really I’m not. The piggy bank may have dropped a few pounds since my days as a senior bean counter, shuffling a pile of papers from one side of my desk to the other then back again, but we can still afford to spend a farthing or two on our nearest and dearest. We just can’t thrash the plastic to make the grand gesture any more. Britain may be finally emerging from the longest and deepest recession since the Great Depression but our days of austerity are permanent (that is, unless Liam’s Lotto numbers come up). It’s fine. We don’t mind. It’s our choice. Let’s face it, I could always stop mucking about with this writing lark and get a proper job.

Anyway, don’t you think festive fever is a bit OTT these days? I’m not one of those old farts down the pub who will bore you with their sad Victorian tales of home-sewn Christmas stockings stuffed with two walnuts and a satsuma – very A Christmas Carol.  No, I got a Dalek suit, a Hot Wheels racing set, an action man with all the butch accessories and enough Dinky toys to run Port Talbot (admit it, you thought I played with Barbie dolls, didn’t you?). It just the whole commercial juggernaut seems to start earlier and earlier and by the time the baby Jesus pops out, I’m ready to chuck my lot in with the Devil. That’s why I just love this glorious ad from posh Knightsbridge department store, Harvey Nichols (superior by far to their more famous neighbour, Harrods, only spitting distance away). It’s a breath of fresh air. 

The video was first picked up by the lovely Aussie Kym at Gidday from the UK.  Ta!

Old Posts Never Die

tamponsReaders of Perking the Pansies tell me that I’ve laid down some vintage posts in my time. They very kindly don’t mention the dross. Search engines and their secret algorithms have also been generous and thankfully, the blog is up there in the rankings. Still, it was a surprise when I received an out-of-the-blue comment from Rhona who stumbled across a guest post from August 2011 called Turks and Tampons. Rhona was having a periodic Turkish crisis and wrote:

Jack, I thought you might be amused by the fact that I found your blog via this post. I was on my first trip to Turkey (Gulluk) with my daughters when without going into detail we found ourselves in need of tampons…..problem! I googled ‘tampons in Turkey’ and there you were lol. But there also was this: tamponcrafts. Enjoy!

I certainly did enjoy a deep trawl through the wonder that is Tampon Crafts – a thousand and one things to do with Lil-Lets. Who knew that Tampax Pearls was so versatile? As Christmas is coming up, I’ve got Liam knocking up a nativity scene for the mantle piece. The Baby Jesus has never looked so absorbent.

Follow Every Rainbow

sound of music2Safely home after almost a week of festive overload, we uncorked a bottle and nested on the sofa to watch ‘Climbed Every Mountain’ on BB2. Liam is rather obsessed with ‘The Sound of Music’ and can recite the entire film note-for-note and word-for-word. It’s on the job description of all gay men of a certain age. To end the season with a flourish, we expected a sugar-coated, feel-good soft focus trip up and down the pristine piste. We got a dirty Alpine avalanche exposing a nation in denial, a dysfunctional family and a bi-polar singing ex-nun who never was. To pour weed killer on the edelweiss, the Von Trapps didn’t climb any mountain or ford any stream to escape the evil clutches of the nasty Nazis. No, they caught the 5.30 express to Italy. The truth, as they say, should never get in the way of a good story. It was the cruelest of blows; I fear Liam will never recover.

Willy-Wares and Booby Prizes

elf hatThe excessive festive recess started with a Soho reunion: old friends, cards and kisses, secret Santa tat and drunken frolics. It’s a Yuletide tradition of our own making. The next day, Liam and I had a parting of the Christmas ways, he to his folks, me to little sis. ‘Twas the season to be separated when love and duty called. Supermum sis cooked up an all-the-trimmings banquet for a small tribe. The ten ton turkey was the size of an ostrich and took two of her strong lads to haul the big bird into the oven. Plates were perched on every surface and piled high with just-right tastiness. I don’t how she does it. There was just one minor fly in the ointment. A kitchen frisk uncovered a sprout-less cupboard. Trifling recriminations were muttered over the sink, but it suited me just fine, not least because it avoided a windy afternoon with my old mother bringing up the rear. As usual, I didn’t lift a finger. My sister never lets me. I always offer, honestly I do, but my pleas fall on dismissive ears. She always makes me feel like a treasured guest. Brimming glasses of wine appeared from nowhere and a hot water bottle was slipped into my pit while my back was turned. Liam joined the fray on Boxing Day, sporting an elf hat and dragging his bulging sack of filthy goodies from Ann Summers. ‘Rude and Lewd’ could be our family motto and Liam raised the tone with willy-wares, booby prizes and lick-me-quick licentiousness. I could show you the photographs but I fear a call to Social Services might be the outcome. Priceless.

The Big Bang

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…

The Alternative Queen’s Speech

Confession, as they say, is good for the soul. I must confess, therefore, to being a tad disappointed with fair Norwich’s festive lights. I was hoping for a Middle Europe extravaganza to suit its Middle Ages cityscape. The grand façade of the over-imposing City Hall is artistically decked out in vertical white lights, the Guild Hall dribbles with LEDs, Jarrolds Department Store is lit up like the proverbial Christmas fir and the central market looks suitably festive with multi-coloured lights chucked round some trees. I’m less impressed with the thin strings of bulbs zig-zagging across the Lanes and poor London Street (one of the main shopping thoroughfares) is bereft of any Yuletide display except for the few stores that could be arsed. Oh well, at least it’s not as miserable as the coastal resort of Herne Bay in Kent. When z-listers, Gareth Gates and Toyah Wilcox turned on their lights, the crowd booed.

We’ve made up for the seasonal deficit with our very own elegantly-baubled bush, our first for four years. We shipped our decorations all the way to Turkey and then all the way back again. In that time, they were never removed from their boxes – we always spent Christmas in Blighty and couldn’t be bothered with all the fuss and nonsense.  Not that we went without our tinsel fix. As Turkey-baste (festive gag) readers know, Turks have taken the Christmas razzamatazz to their hearts and grafted it to New Year with a riot of shiny balls, flickering fairy lights, soft toy Santas, and twinkling trees as far as the eye can see. Now that we’re in Norwich and have resurrected the Christmas tree tradition, I’ll be vacuuming needles and glitter until Kingdom come.

On a religious note, according to the latest census, Norwich is the least religious city in England and Wales. This is despite having two cathedrals and more intact medieval churches than any other city north of the Alps. It’s caused quite an ecclesiastical brouhaha. I assume the Church of England is making a killing by renting out the family jewels as cafés, wines bars and exhibition halls. Needs must when the Devil drives.

You’ll be glad to know that I’m closing the show for the Christmas recess. Before I go, let me wish everyone, believers and non-believers alike, a peaceful season of goodwill. Whatever Christmas means to you, be happy and enjoy. 2013 will be an eventful year, I can feel it in my water. Or maybe it’s just a urinary infection. Joyeux Noël as the Gauls say.

Christmas Card 2012

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?

Istanbul Angels

Pioneer Sabiha

Book Tour Intermission

Our flight back to Blighty a few days before Christmas was smooth and relatively uneventful. We flew to Stansted via Sabiha Gökçen Airport, Istanbul, with Pegasus. Sabiha Gökçen is an ultra-modern airport, all shiny and new, in stark contrast to Stansted which is looking distinctly shabby these days. The airport is named after a Turkish aviator who is reputed to have been the world’s first female fighter pilot and one of Atatürk’s eight adopted children.

Istanbul’s airports provide an exotic visual banquet as travellers from across the Balkan, Anatolian, Caucasus and central Asia regions mingle around the highly polished halls in their ethno-religious finery. The most striking group this year was an angelic-looking troupe of people dressed from head to toe in bright white towelling and biblical strappy sandals. I don’t know which country they hailed from or what religion they observed (if any), but I was fascinated by them as they shuffled along through the rowdy crowds. Vive la difference!

Check out the book

Twas the Season to be Jolly

Jack Scott, Columnist

Imagine our confusion and delight when we first happened across the Christmas trinket aisle at the local supermarket, where all manner of yuletide paraphernalia can be purchased. We fondled the multi-coloured shiny balls, flickering fairy lights, soft toy Santas, naff papier-mâché winter scenes and twinkling, tinselled trees, all manufactured by the enterprising Chinese. Not to miss out on the fun, it seems that our Turkish hosts have appropriated many Christmas traditions and grafted them on to New Year.

The book

Ringing the Belles

New Year’s Eve brought a couple of tremors and torrential rain to Bodrum. We refused to let Mother Nature throw us off kilter or dampen our spirits as we joined the Bodrum Belles to drink in the New Year. The place of our undoing was Musto’s Restaurant, our haunt of choice. The source of our undoing was a bottle of Jaegermeister doing the rounds courtesy of a particularly boozy Belle (you know who you are). Think 100% proof cough mixture. At the stroke of midnight, Liam and I kissed in front of a passing copper, put out some windows with a salvo of party poppers the size of bazookas, watched the creditable firework display and shuffled from side to side to classic, cheesy, gay dance tracks of yesteryear. I wonder who chose the music?

It doesn’t get much cheesier than this.

Have you checked out the book yet?