Category: LGBT

Ask for Clive

An ‘Ask for Clive’ poster recently appeared on my Faceache feed. Why ask for Clive? Living in our semi-rural bubble, we’re a bit out of touch with the big bad world beyond our fields of burnt gold. So I did some digging. It turns out that ‘Ask for Clive’ is an amazing nationwide campaign working with pubs and other venues to promote inclusion and provide safe spaces for LGBT people. It started with a sticker and a simple idea. Now thousands of supporters have joined up to stamp out hate and make inclusion a reality. It’s a welcome and much-needed antidote to today’s toxic politics supercharged by the rise of far-right nutters who, given half a chance, would lock us back into the closet – or worse.

Coincidentally, Clive also happens to be the name of my oldest friend who died suddenly in 2020. I think my Clive would be chuffed to see his name associated with an inspirational anti-hate campaign.

Ironically, adopting the name ‘Clive’ also now serves up a massive dollop of dark humour, an entirely unintended nod to ‘Tip Toe’, Russell T Davies’* recent psychological thriller which took gay bashing to a whole new, deeply disturbing level – a portent of things to come if we don’t watch our backs. If you’ve not seen it, Clive is the mad baddie you definitely wouldn’t ask for. The first episode features a lynching. We couldn’t watch the finale; it was simply too much.

* Russell T Davies is the supremely talented writer of the original pioneering Manchester-based ‘Queer as Folk’ series and the ground-breaking AIDS-era drama ‘It’s a Sin’, both for Channel 4, among many others.

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 striking Welsh miners in their hour of need. As I wrote in Pits and Perverts…

“Cue the considerable talents of some seasoned pros (Imelda Staunton*, Bill Nighy, Dominic West) who know how to deliver a line or two and some gifted fresh faces to inject a dash of youthful angst and exuberance. The clash of cultures is pure magic. Moving without being sugary, political without being preachy, candid without being gratuitous and clever without being patronising.”

So it was with considerable nervous expectation that we took our Dorfman Theatre seats at the National on London’s arty-farty South Bank to see Pride, the Musical. Would it be as good as the film?

You betcha, and then some. Sheer brilliance and delight, with all the best lines from the film, all tied up with a bleedin’ big bow, and a finale that didn’t leave a dry eye in the house.

* We spotted the multi-talented top-of-the-bill Imelda Staunton in the bar with hubby and fellow thesp, Jim Carter. Imelda knows all about top-drawer shows. She’s been in a few herself.

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 behind us, so we watched the joy from the comfort of a shady table and a glass or two of chilled white.

Of the many stories that played out before us, two in particular tugged at the heart strings. The first was an elderly lady with a walking stick who we assumed to be trans. She hobbled through the happy crowd – free for a day, at least. What a tale she must have to tell. The second was an old fella, also steadied by a walking stick, shuffling to the beat of Lady Gaga with tears in his eyes. We had tears in ours too. As the Lord Mayor of Norwich set off the parade with a rousing speech from City Hall, we thought, haven’t we come far?

Then, the next day, we awoke to the horror of a religious nutter driving a car into the crowd at Berlin Pride, killing one and seriously injuring many others. Clearly, we haven’t come far enough. Today is Brighton Pride, the UK’s biggest. Everything is crossed.

But back to the joy – marchers gathering at City Hall.

Image courtesy of the Forum. For even more joyful images from the day, check out Norwich Pride’s Faceache page,

Nobody Likes a Slack Ring

A couple of years back, Liam lost his wedding ring. He knew not how, he knew not where. He got really upset about it, but these things happen. We put it down to his increasing decrepitude. On the other hand, as I’d put on a few pounds since we got hitched, my ring was so tight that I needed loads of lube to extricate it from my finger. So we decided to replace both rings and, at the same time, renew our vows. But who can recall what words were said all those years ago? I can barely remember what I said yesterday; I’d be next to useless in a police interview. It’s just as well we kept a copy in the loft alongside the rest of our matrimonial bits and bobs, odds and sods.

Unlike our first time around – a bit of a do with our nearest and dearest – the new ‘I dos’ were a low-key affair. Just the two of us with a bottle of bubbly as our witness.

More recently, diabetes came a-calling, and I was under doctor’s orders to fight the flab. I’ve got family form – both of my brothers are diabetic. So, it was okey-dokey doc, and chef Liam swung into action with his low-carb cookbook. And boy, he really knows his way around a sun-kissed tomato. Hey pesto, I’ve dropped a stone and a bit, and diabetes is no longer knocking – for the time being at least.

But there’s been an unexpected side effect to my new regime. My second ring is now so loose that it flies off in the shower. It’s a bit of a Goldilocks moment – ring one is too tight, ring two is too loose. Let’s hope that ring three will be just right. Because nobody likes a slack ring.

Happy 18th wedding anniversary, Liam.

The Palladium of Drag

I recently stumbled upon this delicious titbit – pun intended – on Faceache about drag life at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern way back in the sixties. Click the image to see the clip.

One of my old witterings from 2015 came flooding back. At the time I wrote:

“I’m sure I’ve been here before.” So said my mother after she took a sip of her brandy and coke and looked around the large smoke-filled room. It was 1980 and I was stepping out with Bernie, a salesman from Somerset. We were treating my mother to a night of slap, sequins and perversion at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern, South London’s premier drag pub. As it turned out, her feelings of déjà vu were spot on. In the swinging sixties, she and my soldier dad had slipped out from the barracks on the other side of the river to catch an act or two.

Déjà Vu, 21/09/15

My own debut at the infamous cabaret venue was in the late seventies before the interior had a radical facelift and the curved bar running down the middle was ripped out. As you can see from the footage of the terrible turn miming badly to a 1969 Clodagh Rodger’s smash, it was used as a catwalk by the jocks in frocks to preen, prance and mince up and down. Happy-clappy punters would rescue their pints before they were high-kicked into the crowd by an unguided stiletto. And, after one too many sherries in the dressing-up cupboard, the act might trip over their heels and do an impromptu stage dive.

Since then, much of old Vauxhall has been tarted up in glass and steel and the boozer itself was at serious risk of being replaced by yet more fancy flats. That was until Historic England stepped in and listed (ie protected) the building because…

…the building has historic and cultural significance as one of the best known and longstanding LGBT venues…

And, I’m glad to report that the RVT, as it’s now known, is still going strong with the slap, sequins and perversion.

Image Courtesy of RVT on Facebook

The Faceache footage from the RVT’s page was itself lifted from an old TV documentary called ‘What’s a Girl Like You…’ at the British Film Institute Archive – the world’s largest. The broadcast was billed as a “scintillating look at the 1960s drag renaissance” and named the venue the “palladium of drag”. It’s well worth a look. Click the image to find out more*.

*People outside the UK may not be able to view the the documentary. It’s a broadcasting rights thing, I guess!

The Ferrow Brothers

Another remarkable little gem lifted from the Queer Norfolk Archive at Norwich’s Millennium Library is the astonishing story of the Ferrow sisters of Great Yarmouth who became the Ferrow brothers. Census records reveal they were born in 1922 and 1924, registered originally as Marjorie and Daisy and then re-registered as Mark and David. Mark medically transitioned in 1939 at 17 and David a year later – both with full parental support. “Though we have been girls, we have both felt men at heart,” Mark said at the time.

Their story received quite a lot of press coverage. 

Remarkably, in stark contrast to today’s polarised and often spiteful debate, the coverage was largely positive or, at least, neutral, perhaps because there were much bigger things to fret about, like a looming world war and an existential threat. In fact, Mark did his bit during the blackout and received a commendation for bravery in civil defence – because heroes come in many colours.

Mark also became an artist of distinction. His painting of former England cricket captain, David Gower, was hung in the National Portrait Gallery.

David Ferrow followed in his father’s footsteps as a Great Yarmouth bookseller and went on to marry. He was well-known and well-liked around town; a bit of a local icon.

Mark died in 1991 and David in 2006. As I said, astonishing.

Cue YouTube…

Cottage Ladies

Until modern times, the status of women was Bible-clear – to love, honour and obey – with a particular emphasis on obey. Women had little say and precious few rights, no better than chattels passed from father to husband. The rule makers didn’t see women as sexual beings who had their own drives and juices, so it’s no surprise that girl-on-girl action has never been illegal. Naturally, despite their blinkered menfolk, lesbian life did exist, of course, but it was a hush-hush affair of furtive fumbles behind firmly locked doors, laced with shame and guilt. Well, it was for most, but not for all.

Born into an aristocratic Quaker family in 1795, Anna Gurney broke the sapphic mould and got away with it. A great philanthropist, the formidable Anna founded a local school decades before state education was introduced, campaigned for the abolition of slavery and became the first female member of the British Archaeological Association – and these are just some of her many achievements.

And, Anna lived openly and guilt-free with Sarah-Maria Buxton – they referred to each other as their “faithful and beloved partner” – in Overstrand, a small village on the north coast of Norfolk. Apparently, they were referred to as ‘cottage ladies’, a wonderfully British term for cohabiting so-called ‘spinsters of the parish’. The couple are buried alongside each other in Overstrand Church. I guess the vicar didn’t bat an eyelid.

Way to go, Ladies!

With thanks to the Queer Norfolk Archive at the Millennium Library in Norwich for this delicious titbit.

LGBT Armed Forces Memorial – No More Shame

Last month, His Maj, King Charles, dedicated the first national memorial honouring LGBT armed forces personnel, 25 years after the ban on LGBT people serving in the military was lifted. Before this, those who were – or who were thought to be – gay or transgender were subjected to interrogation and discharge, a brutal and utterly needless witch hunt that ruined countless lives. Ironically, in the past when the nation faced an all-too-real existential threat – a couple of world wars – the top brass didn’t care less where you stuck it so long as you kept your mouth shut and didn’t frighten the horses. We were all cannon fodder back then.

The memorial in bronze, at the National Memorial Arboretum in Staffordshire, takes the form of a crumpled letter featuring words from those affected by the ban, with the words ‘pride’ and ‘solidarity’ highlighted.

Here’s what the Beeb had to say about it…

The memorial is especially poignant for me, not just because I’m an ex-forces brat who was born in an army barracks, or that I am a great believer in natural justice and fair play for all. It’s also because, in the early nineties, I met Duncan, a dashing young former naval officer who was forced to walk the plank simply for being gay; another irony given the senior service used to be described as ‘rum, bum and the navy’. Even Churchill said something similar.

Duncan didn’t take it lying down. Oh no, he joined three other ‘dishonourables’ and took the UK Government to the European Court of Human Rights. Against all odds – including a hostile press and the pissed off powers that be – they won. Soon after, much to the horror of a few fuddy-duddy generals and bearded rear admirals, the ban was overturned.

Here they are then and now, with Duncan on the left…

Of course, it wasn’t just the four gay crusaders who made it all happen. There was a small army of supporters bringing up the rear. And the rest, as they say, is LGBT history. My history.

Take a Walk in My Shoes Again

While we’re perking our pansies on Ithaca, I’m reposting something from the time we first tasted the wine on Odysseus’ fabled isle. So ladies, gents and everyone in between, take a walk in my shoes all over again…

I gloriously misspent my youth trawling the sleazy dives of many of the world’s great metropolitan sin bins – London, Amsterdam, Paris, New York and Los Angeles among them – and cruising the hedonistic no-holes-barred gay fleshpots of Europe – Ibiza, Sitges, Gran Canaria, Mykonos. My dance card was rarely empty and I had a ball. But, there comes a time when the spirit is no longer willing and the flesh is in bed by midnight.

These days, a gentle week around a cool pool with a good book, a glass of something local and Liam by my side is what gets the pulse racing. Let me take you on a walk through laid-back Frikes, our latest tranquil bolthole, a cute village on the northeast coast of the pine-dressed Greek isle of Ithaca.

Courtesy of JustGreece.com and Jorgos Nikolidakis

Spuds, Spies and Something for the Weekend

The renaissance of the iconic Battersea Power Station and its surroundings isn’t the only radical regeneration along the old Thameside rust belt. Virtually the entire south bank from Grosvenor to Vauxhall Bridges has been transformed by new fancy offices and posh flats along Nine Elms Lane. At the Vauxhall end once stood Market Towers, a typically seventies block with the Market Tavern on the first floor. It was added for the traders who fancied a pint or two after a hard day’s graft shifting spuds and sunflowers at the nearby New Covent Garden Market*.

Come the weekend, though, an altogether different trade was transacted. The pub doubled up as a gay bar, particularly popular on a Sunday afternoon because the boys just loved to booze and cruise after Sunday prayers. I should know, I was one of them. I misspent many an afternoon there during the nineties and noughties. As did Jean Paul Gaultier during his Eurotrash years. But I was never tempted to try my hand in the very ugly and very derelict Nine Elms Cold Store next door. Many a randy lad came a cropper cruising its dark and dank corridors. Plunging down an unlit crane shaft was not good for anyone’s health. Ironically, it was built on part of the 17th-century Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, which had pleasured Londoners for over 200 years. Both Market Towers and the Cold Store are now gone, swept away by redevelopment. Ah, the memories.

Alongside the ribbon of luxury riverside high rises sits the HQ of MI6, the UK’s spymasters, as featured in a number of James Bond films. And not far away is the new, fortress-like US Embassy, which looks like it sits on a lazy Susan. No doubt, both buildings are bristling with various top-secret ways to detect and deter, disrupt and destabilise. Is their proximity to one another just a coincidence? I wonder. Let’s hope they’re keeping us safe from Tsar Pukin and his deadly cronies.

*The old Covent Garden in Central London is now an uber-busy tourist hotspot, so you won’t find Eliza Doolittle flogging flowers and warbling ‘Wouldn’t it be Loverly’ on the steps of the Royal Opera House.