Category: Holidays

Let The Ancient Games Begin

After a restful night and a bountiful breakfast buffet, we were back on the road for our morning reccy of the sanctuary of Olympia, birthplace of the Olympic Games. Just like their modern reincarnation, the games were held every four years and featured a series of athletic competitions. However, rather than the pursuit of national glory, with all that jingoistic flag-waving, the first games were a religious festival to honour Zeus, top god on Mount Olympus.

According to Demetrios, our all-knowing guide, the entire enterprise was a licence to mint money, with gifts to the gods flooding in from across the Greek world. Unlike most Olympiads these days, it made the hosts filthy rich.

The male competitors always competed in the buff. Imagine the sight of sweaty fellas in their birthday suits dripping in olive oil without a jock strap between them, their family jewels swaying from side to side like weights on a grandfather clock – surely they must have done themselves a mischief. But I guess that was the price they paid to be poster boys of their time, to be feted and fantasised about.

Women were not permitted to participate in the main games but had their own, separate events known as the Heraea Games, in honour of Zeus’ missus, Hera. They had to be unmarried, and unlike the ripped blokes, they kept their kit on.

The games ran for about a thousand years, from 776 BCE until 393 CE, when they were abolished by that Christian zealot, the Roman Emperor Theodosius I. The buttoned-up killjoy probably thought all that homoerotic nude wrestling was the work of the Devil.

It takes imagination to visualise the once magnificent temples and civic buildings. Nevertheless, the setting is stunning. And the museum is pretty good too. Liam was thrilled to be able to place his big toe on the ancient starting line at the very first Olympic Stadium. He kept his knickers on, much to the disappointment/relief (delete according to taste) of the gathering crowd.

Postcard from the Peloponnese

Our three-day whistle-stop tour of some of Greece’s most famous historic sites was both tiring and inspiring in equal measure. We were blessed to be in a small group of just five in our (mercifully) air-conditioned minibus. Our fellow travellers were all Australians. I like Aussies. We share a similar irreverent sense of humour.

Demetrios, our well-versed tour guide – an archaeologist by trade – really knew his onions. He spun a good yarn, bringing the ancients to life by blending fabulous fact with fantastic fiction. Throughout our odyssey, he told tales of war and heroism, murder and mayhem, loyalty and treachery, greed and generosity, morals both highbrow and gutter – a no-holes-barred mythical soap opera on acid. All the vices of gods and humans were laid bare, literally in the case of the many fine chiselled statues of beautiful young men with their willies hacked off by scandalised Christians.

Our first stop was the Corinth Canal – not an ancient site per se; it was completed in the 1880s. But it was a welcome comfort break after the long slog escaping the urban sprawl of Athens. And the canal, cut through the hard rock of the narrow Isthmus of Corinth that separates the Peloponnese from the mainland, is impressive, despite being a bit of a white elephant.

Second stop was the spectacular and well-preserved 4th-century BCE theatre at Epidaurus, with its reputation for almost perfect acoustics – ably demonstrated by Demetrios as we stood in the orchestra pit. The echo was remarkable and a little spooky. Unsurprisingly, the theatre is still in use today.

We pit-stopped in modern Epidaurus for a bite. It’s a handsome port town on the Saronic Gulf. Sadly, it was way too hot to explore, though we thought the old British classic phone box in the café was a welcome touch.

Fourth stop was Mycenae, an acropolis almost as old as time itself, sitting on a hilltop 900 feet above sea level. An entire period of Greek civilisation between around 1,600 BCE to about 1,100 BCE is named after it, so it’s no wonder it’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Mycenae is inextricably linked to Homer’s Iliad and the fanciful tales of Troy. Arguably, the most impressive structure still standing is a beehive-shaped building with a pointed dome known in modern popular folklore as The Tomb of Agamemnon, the legendary warrior king who led the Greeks during the Trojan War. It’s highly unlikely to actually be the treacherous old bugger’s final resting place, but never let the truth get in the way of a good myth to lure in the eager punters like me. Liam said I looked like an over-excited boy scout as I gazed in awe at the 3,300-year-old roof.

After a sweaty and exhausting first day, we were only too pleased to be dropped off at our digs for the night, just in time for a well-earned dip, followed by a glass or three of tasty local plonk to watch the sun go down.

Tomorrow, Olympia beckons. Let the ancient games begin.

Postcard from Athens

Our flight to Athens was delayed by an hour but was otherwise uneventful. However, once landed, there was a tortuous slow shoe shuffle to passport control which stole another hour. Thanks for nothing, Brexiteers. By the time we got to baggage reclaim at the end of a seemingly endless series of travelators, our holiday chattels were the last cases riding the carousel. It made me wonder what we would do if, whether by accident or by design, someone were to walk off with our smalls. Let’s hope I never get to find out.

Greek summers are famously hot, hot, hot and Athens is top of the weather charts – swelter-wise. That’s why we chose June rather than August for our classical tour. We didn’t reckon on an early record-breaking trans-continental heatwave with the mercury hitting the low forties. Mercifully, the modern metro train that whisked us into town was air-conditioned.

The first pit stop on our Greek odyssey was in the Monastiraki neighbourhood – once the heart of Ottoman Athens – centred around a busy square, rammed with shops and stalls selling everything from junk to jewellery and places to eat, drink and make merry while watching the world go by. Liam even took to filming what looked like a fun-filled folk dancing display, only to discover it was a pro-Palestinian rally.

Athenians seem particularly keen on graffiti, which adorns pretty much everything – some of it artful, most of it not. We felt that if we stood still for long enough, we’d get spray-painted too. And we’d been warned about pick-pockets. But despite the bustle, the blistering heat, the ugly tags and the artful dodgers, the area had a real urban buzz that we found irresistible.  

The splendid Attalos Hotel, a short case-wheeling stroll from Monastiraki Square, was our lodgings for the night. The staff were friendly and obliging and our room was cool, cosy and comfortable. But most welcoming of all was the intimate rooftop bar with its truly amazing views. Yes, that’s the Acropolis as the backdrop.

Even though we were city centre supping, the drinks bill didn’t break the bank, particularly as our delightful barmaid gave us last orders on the house. Yamas!

Greek Intermission

While we’re away on our Greek odyssey clambering over old tumble-down stones trying not to break a hip, here’s a few of my pics that didn’t quite make the cut, mostly taken in or on the way to one drinking den or t’other. Yamas! 🥂

Our Greek Odyssey

I’ll be off-air for a week and a bit. We’re embarking on our very own Greek odyssey – by coach – taking in the ancient sites at Epidaurus, Mycenae, Olympia and Delphi, topped and tailed with overnights in Athens. I’m a sucker for an old ruin. After our exhausting reconnoitre, we’ll be recuperating on Aegina for a few days, just a short ferry hop from the Port of Piraeus.

It’s our debut pensioners’ coach outing. At this late stage of our life cycle, I can see a pattern developing. Many fridge magnets will be purchased.

Gay Paree, Ooh La La!

We had a ball in Paris for our double anniversary. It was my first trip to the City of Light since 2003, and I’d almost forgotten just how drop-dead gorgeous it is. Back then, I was wandering along the side of the Seine taking in the view when Lindsay Wagner – yes, I do mean ‘The Bionic Woman’ – cycled past. Since then, the whole cycling malarkey has really taken off. The locals, young and old, big and small, have hopped on their bikes with typical Gallic gusto, and many of the wide avenues now have dedicated cycle lanes. Best keep your wits about you.

We chose well, hôtel-wise, a distinctly quirky and deliciously personal boutique B&B in the Marais District. Our innkeeper’s mother had a pair of French poodles which spent their days curled up on the bottom two steps of the trés élégant staircase like flokati scatter cushions. I was amazed no one trod on them, particularly after a few sherries. Ok, I mean I’m amazed we didn’t tread on them after a few sherries.

This trip, we didn’t sight see – been there, done that, bought the fridge magnet. Besides, the weather was way too good to spend time on high-brow pursuits. Instead, we people-watched in pavement cafés. Unlike many big cities these days, everyday people still live in the centre of Paris and it was fascinating to observe ordinary Parisians going about their business weaving through the wide-eyed camera-clicking set.

Our favourite watching spot was opposite the gloriously industrial-looking Pompidou Centre – or Popadom Centre, as Liam likes to call it – which looks like someone’s gone a bit mad with a giant Meccano set.

Much over-priced plonk was consumed and I got a touch of sunburn. Parisian waiters have a reputation for rudeness. This is something I’ve not experienced either this time or before. A smile and a few words of schoolboy French can help oil the wheels and fill the glass.

So, no Eiffel Tower or the Mona Lisa and no Arc de Triomphe or Sacre-Coeur. But there was one must-see: Notre Dame Cathedral. Lovingly rebuilt, with no expense spared after the devastating 2019 fire, Our Lady has risen from the ashes reborn and renewed. We just had to take a peek, along with the thousands of others. It was well worth the very long queue.

The old girl looks magnificent. And yes, we bought another fridge magnet.

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.

Top of the Pansy Pops 2024

The 2024 top of the crop had a distinctly thespian theme – gays and the arts. Could it be any more of a cliché? Or maybe it just reflects a need for a distraction in worrying times. Who knows? Also thrown into the mix were celebrating the life of a dearly departed, a fond memory from our lotus-eating days in Turkey, and a few Greek postcards from gorgeous old Corfu Town. Oh, and then there was the little piece about my money-making side hustle as an Only Fans porn star. If only.

For some inexplicable reason, a 2020 post about a game old bird fit for the pot waddling around our modest small holding took off. Why? It’s a mystery.

Also, numbers-wise, Perking the Pansies enjoyed the best year since 2016, so there’s still life in the old blog yet. I thank you.

Happy New Year. Let’s hope for a lot more peace for 2025.

Pride, the Musical

In my ever-so-humble opinion the 2014 comedy-drama, Pride, is one of the best British films ever made. It’s based on the (almost unbelievably) true story of a small group of London activists calling themselves ‘Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners’ who, in the darkening AIDS days of 1984, raised thousands to help the families of…

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What a Spectacle

Ok, I admit it. I’m a bit of a hoarder. Liam’s always nagging me to weed out the tat. I usually resist. “Useless today, useful tomorrow,” I say. And we have a loft, the perfect hideaway to hide away the junk from Liam’s critical gaze and oh-so well-rehearsed shrugs. The loft is my exclusive domain,…

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Norwich Pride Comes of Age

The fine city of Norwich was draped in lively colours under gin-clear skies for the 18th annual Pride event – the biggest and best ever – with thousands of rainbow folk hitting the streets; free to be who they are. Everyone welcome, regardless. Being a bit long in the tooth, our prancing days are way…

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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?

Like a Bad Penny

We caught COVID on a flying visit to Bulgaria in 2022. Thankfully, as we’d been vaxed to the max, our symptoms were fairly mild, “…more man-flu than death-bed,” as I wrote at the time. And guess what? Just like the proverbial bad penny, COVID turned up again. The nice young lady sitting next to Liam on our return flight from Corfu coughed and spluttered all the way home. She was very apologetic and obviously couldn’t help it, so what can you do? Grin and bear it.

At worst, we thought we might come down with a summer cold. We didn’t reckon on the dreaded COVID again. Of course, it might not have been our poorly fellow passenger, but she is our prime suspect.

Oddly, only Liam was struck down – I was fine. His COVID symptoms were the same as before – slight fever, foggy head and a nasty dry cough that lingered. Still, every cloud, as they say. As an Olympics-obsessive, Liam’s duvet days consisted of hacking his way through non-stop rowing and running, sailing and swimming, jumping and gymnastics, with balls and bats, sticks and stones, paddles, poles and goals galore. And, naturally, Nurse Jack was on hand to attend to his every whim and fancy.