Category: Food & Drink

Extra-Special Christmas Guests

Liam and I had intended to enjoy an intimate Christmas dinner for two with all the trimmings. But, at the very last minute, we binned boring old traditions and invited a few of our closest friends to the table to drink us under it. But who were they?

To our right sat multi-Michelin starred potty-mouthed celebrity chef, Gordon Ramsey – lusty and dry, with a hint of ripe language. On our left flowed the nation’s favourite talk show host Graham Norton, whose witty white got our tongues wagging. Next to Graham at our festive table sat the multi-gonged crooner Gary Barlow, whose let it shine rosé hit the right note. Finally, the undisputed superstar of the show was every gay boy’s pet pop princess, Kylie Minogue, with her pretty-in-pink plonk that we just couldn’t get out of our head. By bottoms up, we were swaying to Kylie’s very first Christmas number 1 – XMAS.

Our debut celebrity Come Dine With Me show was top of the plonks. But, blimey, this lot know how to put it away. I guess that’s the pressure of fame. Cheers!

Where Love Lives

This Christmas, as is our habit, we’re looking forward to calorific grub, artery-hardening afters and pick ‘n’ mix snacking, washed down with a barrel of posh plonk (all courtesy of Mr Marks and Mr Spencer) and seasoned with a little peace on Earth. The last one seems to be a rare commodity these days; we can only hope for a bit more comfort and joy. Whatever Christmas means to you, may your day be merry and bright.

I’ll leave you with the John Lewis Christmas TV ad, the cream of the crop this year. It gets me every time. Best grab the Kleenex.

Love Actually

Christmas is almost upon us, and it’s a big deal for local businesses trying to make a few extra shillings before the January slump. As regular readers know, Liam and I like a drink or three, so we do our bit to keep the hospitality sector afloat – it’s our patriotic duty. One of our favourite city watering holes is the Gardener’s Arms (known by most punters as the Murderers), a traditional ale house stuffed with old-world charm, oak beams and exposed brickwork. The pub has a deliciously dark past – hence the nickname – and it’s usually our last port of call before we stumble onto our bus back to the village.

To drum up a bit of business, last year the jovial pub landlord posted a video on Faceache – a fantastic spoof of a scene from Love Actually, one of the nation’s favourite festive films. And it’s been posted again this year. Click on the image below. The video is a bit rude, so best move on if you’re easily offended…

Alternatively, watch it on YouTube…

If you happen to be passing the pub, be sure to pop in for a few sherries and admire the murder theme posted on the walls (Dr Crippin, Lizzie Borden, Bonnie and Clyde, Ruth Ellis, to name but a few). And the yuletide windows are pretty good too.

Oh, I Do Like to Be Beside the Seaside

What better way to spend a sunny spring afternoon than a trip to the seaside? We’d never been to Southwold, the classy resort on the Suffolk coast because, without our own wheels, it’s a bit of a trek. So an equally classy neighbour took pity on us and offered to take us. We had a fine time frolicking around on the eccentric antique arcade games at the old pier, strolling along the beach and scoffing scrumptious scones topped with the must-have clotted cream and jam at the posh Swan Hotel. Liam even went for a paddle. The bracing wind blowing in from the North Sea didn’t put him off.

First mentioned in the Domesday Book* of 1086, the pretty town is notable for several things, not least a bunch of bible-bashing, buttoned-up puritans who, in 1637, emigrated to Hingham*, Massachusetts. Southwold was also the teenage home to author George Orwell. His most famous novel, Nineteen Eighty-Four, warns of the slide into totalitarianism. I see a connection.

On a lighter note, the town is also home to the famous Adnams Brewery. These days, I prefer the grape to the grain but Liam tells me they brew a quaffable ale. The afternoon ended with traditional fish ‘n’ chips down by the old harbour. All in all, a fun day out.

Some images courtesy of Pat Jacobs.

*The Domesday Book was commissioned by that bastard William the Conqueror to price up the realm he stole.

*The Massachusetts town was named after Hingham, Norfolk, from where most of the new settlement’s first colonists came, including Abraham Lincoln’s ancestor, Samuel Lincoln. A bust of old Abe takes pride of place in Hingham’s St Andrew’s Church. The Norfolk Hingham is also where Liam worked at the medical practice for a few years to keep the wolves from the door after we returned from our Anatolian misadventures. It’s a small world.

Dwile Flonking

A couple of summers ago, I wrote a tongue in cheek piece about Dwile flonking, a notorious East Anglian pub game involving two teams of twelve players, each taking a turn to girt (dance) around the other while attempting to avoid a beer-soaked dwile (cloth) flonked (flung) by the non-girting team.

Imagine my amazement to find out that the Locks Inn Community Pub, a gorgeous country tavern in the parish of Geldeston, has resurrected the boozy ‘sport’ as a trial of strength between the north folk (Norfolk) and the south folk (Suffolk) of old East Anglia. The Norfolk pub sits on the north bank of the River Waveney looking down on Suffolk on the south side.

Alas, we didn’t find out about it until afterwards and don’t know the result but I hope the merry folk made it a good clean fight. Okay, what I really mean is I hope Norfolk flonked our rivals into the dirt. And don’t even ask about the turnip tossing.

Totally flonking bonkers.

Okay, You, One Sentence Should Do It

Our double anniversary has sneaked up on us again – 19 years since our eyes met across a busy West End gay bar fit to bursting with a gossipy after-work crowd, and 17 years since we got hitched. This year, we’ve decided to push the boat out and paddle down the Seine. Yes, we’re off to gay Paree for a gay old time. For these gay old timers, this means a gentle stroll along the handsome boulevards and a big slice of café culture rather than painting the town pink in our disco pants. Our tush shaking days are long gone.

In the meantime, I stumbled across this old Faceache post written by him indoors to mark our seventh anniversary. Liam was challenged to say it all in a single sentence and he did it in style. He wrote…

Seven years ago we met in that bar in Trafalgar Square, shared that Sloppy Giuseppe and over-priced Pinot Grigio, argued about the bill, eventually went Dutch, courted for months like a pair of 1950s Catholics (for heaven’s sake), collapsed out of exhaustion into the world of jiggy-jiggy (terribly messy but strangely exciting), fell madly in love, got married (nice suits), moved in together (delicious scandal), watched the curtains twitch (mostly nets), gave up everything sensible and moved to Turkey (what was wrong with Spain?), fell in-and-out-and-in-and-out of love with an extraordinary (no, challenging, misogynistic, homophobic, primitive and God was it cold – okay I loved it) place, you writing ‘that’ book, ‘that’ book getting critical acclaim and big sales (cha-ching) but ‘that’ book largely ignored by those close to us (discuss?), coming back to look after our own (good call), becoming poor, well poor-ish (bad call), discovering the great city of Naaaarwich (nuff said), having more jiggy-jiggy (apparently unnatural, but terribly good with central heating and an injection of Radio 4 LW), re-discovering UK culture like a long lost friend but afraid to tell the expats how wonderful it was in case it came across as boastful (fine line), you becoming ‘properly’ recognised as a ‘proper’ writer (hurrah!) not to mention radio star (OMG), me re-learning Bach fugues (they are SO hard to play, even harder than Mozart, you really have no idea how my fingers ache), both of us weeping like candles at the latest Cinema City flick (okay, mostly Dame Maggie and thank God for the discounted tickets and blood-warm Merlot at the bar), getting over-excited about that converted railway carriage in miles-from-nowhere (yes, I could wash my bits in a sink with a view like that), improvising those make-shift nappies during the messy norovirus days (thank you Blue Peter and Morrison’s super-padded 2-for-1 kitchen towels, we owe you), people-watching at the Playhouse and longing to be young (clearly, we need to avoid Death In Venice comparisons here), gasping at Bonnie Langford’s amazingly flexible crack (and boy, can that Dolly can write a tooone) but most of all, keeping our focus, always, on making sure our glass is resolutely full. I’d say it’s been an extraordinary seven years, husband.

Flight, Fight or Fancy

On a recent shopping and supping matinee in old Naaridge, we spent the afternoon watching the macabre horror flick The Heretic. Hugh Grant is bone-chilling as the over-courteous villain who menaces with oh-so-typical English charm as he dissects faith with a pair of nervous Mormon missionaries. Struck dumb as we left the cinema, we needed a drink to loosen the tongues and unpick what we’d just witnessed. Despite – or perhaps because of – a round or two of the Devil’s brew, we weren’t able to make too much sense of the religious experience we’d just had.

When we got back to the village, we had a final snifter at our local. A couple of likely lads in football kit were sitting at the bar. They kept looking across. We couldn’t think why at first. Usually this means one of two things – fight or fancy. Had we pulled? Fat chance at our age. Should we flee? We soon realised that what they actually fancied was the signed Norwich City FC shirt hanging on the wall behind us. Well, at least they didn’t want to beat us up.

Beer is All Around

The big screen at Cinema City flickered green – Gremins green. So that was the end of that. No matinee at the flicks for us. What’s a couple of likely lads to do instead on a damp and dismal afternoon in old Norwich town? Find a pub, of course. Down the years, we’ve supped at most city centre watering holes and one of our favourites is the Murderers on Timberhill, a traditional ale house stuffed with old world charm, oak beams and exposed brickwork. The pub has a dark past – hence the name – and it’s usually our last port of call before we stumble onto our bus back to the village.

They serve a very quaffable house wine at the Murderers, at a very good price. And quaff it we do. At the time of our visit, the bar was rammed to the crooked beams with hard-drinking young bearded types. Boisterous but good-humoured, it turns out the hairy merry men had parachuted in from the North Sea gas rigs. And the riggers were hell-bent on spreading the love by offering sambuca shots to everyone from a loaded tray. It would’ve been rude to refuse.

Not to miss a PR trick, the Murderers has stepped into Christmas with a brilliant parody of a famous scene from that perennial festive favourite, Love Actually. So folks, I give you…

Cash Is Still King

For our inaugural visit to luscious Lakka on Paxos back in 2022, cash was king. Flashing the plastic in shops, restaurants and cafés was definitely frowned upon. We suspected this was a hangover from the financial crisis of the previous decade, which brought Greece to its knees. On our return trip this year, cash was still the preferred method of payment, but cards were much more widely accepted. So we mixed and matched to spread the load, settling up when we got home. Complimentary Wi-Fi was pretty much available everywhere, so wherever we ate, the code was first thing on the menu. At one particular harbourside taverna, the Wi-Fi code was:

pleasepaycash

How could we refuse?

Postcards from Paxos – Second Delivery

Some Like It Hot

We knew Paxos would be hot, but we didn’t know quite how sizzling. The mercury rises with each day that passes – 38 degrees and counting. Afternoons are either spent cooling off in the pool or quenching our thirst in breezy harbourside cafés watching the ebb and flow of the yachties from the fancy boats. Some struggle in and out of the small dinghies that ferry them back and forth. Yes, we do laugh – discretely.

All the Nice Boys Love a Sailor

We made an excursion – to nearby Loggos – for a spot of lunch. The bus was blissfully air-conditioned, with fares collected by a formidable Greek grandma – not a woman to trifle with. Smaller than Lakka, Loggos is every bit as cute. The swarthy fisherman we spotted gutting his catch was pretty cute too.

Sundowners

Sunsets in Lakka are glorious and best watched while sipping a stiff cocktail strong enough to put hairs on the chest. Talking of chests, our cocktail waitress has a novel way of keeping her cool – stuffing a hand-held fan down her cleavage. Village food is more hearty than haute cuisine, and the very quaffable house white is probably poured from a bucket out back. But hey, who cares? Tastes good to me.

Star Struck

Lakka isn’t quite St Tropez, so imagine our surprise when we spotted Tim Rice, he who wrote the lyrics for global musical megahits like Jesus Christ Superstar and Evita, among other smashes. We guessed he’d dropped anchor and jumped ship for dinner. Liam also spotted Frances de la Tour, the wonderful character actress who once flashed her tits at me in a West End play back in the seventies. All for her art, of course.

Thank you to chatty man Kostas for a memorable time and also to our wonderful Albanian chambermaid, Manuela, who has an economics degree and is fluent in three languages. Manuella works two jobs to keep food on the table for her family.

We shall return.