Category: LGBT

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.

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…

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Perky Daffodils

Ringed by wonky tombstones, our pretty village church sits on top of a small hill. Called ‘All Saints’ – to cover all the holy bases – the unassuming little building is an eclectic blend of eras – Norman, Georgian, Victorian and modern. The Norman bell tower features a rare folksy thatched roof, and the east…

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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…

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Pruning the Pansies

You know you’re getting long in the tooth when Santa brings you a shiny new pair of secateurs for Christmas. It simply confirms my suspicion that old fairies don’t go disco dancing, they just end their days pruning the pansies at the bottom of the garden. That’ll be me, then.

Actually, it just so happens that Father Christmas got my letter. My old secateurs were knackered. I know I’m supposed to keep ’em sharp and clean but I just can’t be arsed because life, as they say, really is too short. The new pair will be handy come springtime for the annual horticultural nip and tuck.

My new pansy pruners weren’t made by bobble-hatted little elves shackled to work benches in Lapland sweat shops. No, like everything these days, they were manufactured in China. Still, they look like they’ll do the business. The same can’t be said of the instructions.

Sprout long new thingses?

Pickling oil?

Body’s each spot?

Inscrutable or what? 🤔

Pigs in the Proverbial

It’s now been five years since we moved out to the sticks. One day we were enjoying city centre living like pigs in the proverbial, the next we were in the smallest cottage in the county surrounded by the stuff. Such is country life in the Norfolk flatlands.

We’ve been invaded by ants, spiders, moles, slugs and rabbits, been charged at by a seriously pissed-off heffer and kept awake by bloodcurdling screeching and the unforgiving dawn squawk. We’ve also endured fierce storms, leaks and the occasional power cut. And like everyone else, we were put under house arrest by a pandemic.

Local wildlife of the human kind is mostly friendly, though. No doubt, the odd blue-crested bigot still lurks in the undergrowth, but they’re an endangered species nowadays.

It’s our sixth move since we met that fateful evening 18 years ago in a West End gay bar, and unless we end up in a maximum security care home for the bewildered, I reckon this’ll be our final resting place. Never did I imagine as a young gay about London town that I would end my days in the middle of nowhere. But I’ve never been happier or more satisfied with my lot. I feel blessed.

Everyone’s a Critic

We’re big fans of Sir Ian McKellen, star of stage, screen and gay bars – or ‘Sirena’ as he’s affectionately known by the brethren. Sirena is at his devilish best when working to a witty and waspish script. And he clearly revelled in the role of Jimmy Erskine in The Critic, our latest movie jolly.

Jimmy, a fearsome and feared 1930s theatre critic, writes for a right-wing ‘family’ national newspaper. Despite the rag’s political leanings, Jimmy’s predilection for ‘the love that dares not speak its name’ is barely concealed. After all, a theatrical gay is hardly front-page news (even back then). But when it gets him into hot water with the boys in blue, the scandal also gets him the sack.

Staring at an impoverished future preaching to an empty house, Jimmy hatches a dark plot to get his job back. He persuades an up-and-coming young actress – played by the marvellous Gemma Arterton – to seduce the newspaper owner. Jimmy has blackmail on his mind. What’s in it for her? Glowing reviews, of course. She craves Jimmy’s affirmation. These days, everyone’s a critic. But before we all got in on the act, a bad newspaper review could make or break a budding star.

McKellen is deliciously wicked as Jimmy and gets all the best catty put-downs. And he’s ably supported by a first-class cast. How does it all end? Well, let’s just say the critic and the critiqued do not make great bedfellows. Here’s the trailer…

Cutting Room Floor

I’m off-air while Liam and I are perking our pansies on pretty Paxos. While we’re away, here’s a selection of photos that ended up on the cutting room floor, blog-wise. It’s an eclectic mix of random snaps – local and London – plus a really ancient polaroid of me back in the eighties on godfather duty. The babe in arms is now in his forties and his own babes in arms have reached school age. Yes, I feel really old.

Banquet at The Angel, Loddon
Norwich Ukulele Society
School LGBT Helpline
Glitzy London Minaret
Spooky London Church
Easy, Boy
Drippy Garden
17th Century Weaver’s Cottage – Our First Norwich Gaff
Our Vows, Renewed
Yuletide Dino
Bond Bug
The Godfather – Yes, That’s Me!

Lost Boys and Fairies

Sometimes something just turns up without warning, punches you in the gut and has you reaching for the Kleenex. Such a thing is Lost Boys and Fairies, the three-part prime time BBC drama about a gay couple – Gabriel and Andy – applying to adopt a child in Wales. No big deal in these more liberal times, you might think. It’s all about love, right? Except it is a big deal. Not because of the gay angle but because the adoption process is forensic and intrusive. It has to be. Kids in the care system are often already badly damaged, and getting it wrong can finish them off for good.

Cue the gradual opening up of old wounds for lost boy Gabriel – the strict chapel upbringing, the relentless bullying, the repression, depression, an over-fondness for risky pleasures and eventual salvation through sequins and song. Brilliantly scripted, peppered with Welsh, tender performances and gloriously showy musical interludes. Glitzy and graphic, the drama pulls no punches. At times, it’s uncomfortable viewing. Does it end well? Watch it to find out, but don’t forget the tissues.

Not Gay At All

Back in the seventies, catalogue shopping was all the rage and buy now, pay later was my old Mum’s mantra. The entire family was kitted out on the never–never, all for a few shillings a week for 52 weeks. Her catalogue of choice was Freemans and no one was more excited than me when the latest glossy collection dropped on the mat. For some strange reason, I was always drawn to the men’s underwear section – endless hours of fun thumbing and fumbling. I can’t think why. But, for me, it brought a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘mail order’.

My best friend at primary school was a boy called Christopher and, one Saturday, Christopher and I decided to go newt hunting on Wimbledon Common. He arrived at my gaff fully prepared for our safari in all-weather gear – sensible shoes and waterproof anorak. And what was I wearing? A little two-piece number I’d picked out from Mum’s catalogue – matching tight t-shirt and skimpy shorts in sunny yellow towelling with bright blue piping.

I was 10. Not gay at all. And, yes, it rained.

Where To Now St. Peter?

We fancied another pilgrimage and we settled on Peterborough in neighbouring Cambridgeshire, with its epic house of God. While I may be a dedicated heathen, I totally get that back in the days of the great unschooled, the sheer scale and splendour of such colossal erections could keep even the doubters in line. How could mere mortals create such magnificence without the guiding hand of the Almighty? So we jumped on the cross-country ‘Let’s Roll With Pride’ themed train from Norwich.

Peterborough Cathedral was originally founded sometime during the 7th century as an Anglo-Saxon monastery called Medeshamstede. The community thrived until the 9th century before being sacked by pillaging Vikings. To avoid any repeat of that maker-meeting misfortune, the monks enclosed a rebuilt Medeshamstede in thick stone walls, and the settlement became a ‘Burh’ – a ‘fortified’ place. The name ‘Peter’ was then prefixed to honour the monastery’s principal titular saint, and thus Peterborough was born. Or maybe a simpler explanation is that no one could actually pronounce Medeshamstede. Whatever the reason, the abbey church was finally re-consecrated as a cathedral in the 16th century when that old bed-hopping plunderer Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries and pilfered their assets to pay for all those lavish royal weddings and glittering codpieces.

What you see today is mostly 12th-century Norman with a few later Gothic add-ons. As we wandered around, we could hear a heavenly choir rehearsing for an evening concert. The divine sound filled the enormous space – a holy tune amplified by superb acoustics.

A bit of a surprise was the discovery that Mary, Queen of Scots was buried in the cathedral after she lost her head for plotting against the first Queen Elizabeth. Mary got the last laugh, though. The Virgin Queen died childless and Mary’s own son, James VI of Scotland, became James I of England, thus uniting the crowns. James had his mother’s remains moved to Westminster Abbey. The rest, as they say…

Looking around a big pile works up a big thirst so afterwards we decamped to a local hostelry for a few sherries. It was called the Queen’s Head and featured, yes, you guessed it, the Queen’s head – of the second Queen Elizabeth.

Today, Peterborough often gets a bad press but we found it to be a vibrant and entertaining city with colourful characters and mouthwatering global street food. The only minor irritant was the large congregation of ‘Jesus freaks out on the street, handing tickets out for God’, as famously sung by that other great British queen, Elton John, in ‘Tiny Dancer’. But I guess these modern-day evangelical ‘monks’ are only keeping the holy vibe alive. After all, that’s how it all began.

From Social Outcasts to National Treasures

London is a gloriously haphazard, jumbled up kind of place where the rich and the ragged sometimes co-exist cheek by jowl. The Boltons in West London is an address for the seriously loaded, thought to be the second most expensive street* in the land – you won’t get much change out of £23 million. Famous former residents include Douglas Fairbanks Jnr, Jenny Lind and Madonna – the queen of pop that is, not of Heaven. And yet, close by is an entirely different Boltons, an imposing late-Victorian pub. It’s a building with a chequered, ever so slightly sleazy history. From the mid-fifties until the early nineties it was a gay bar. But then time was called on the boozy cruising and it was flogged off to be reborn as a faux Oirish theme pub as part of the O’Neill’s chain. Finally, it morphed into a trendy, overpriced gastropub called The Bolton. That didn’t last either. Nowadays, the boozer is down on its uppers – boarded up, forlorn and flaking; the only punters at the bar are squatters.

Back in the late seventies when I was a fresh-faced young gay-about-London Town, I sometimes drank in Boltons. It was a smoke-filled and deliciously seedy den of vice frequented by assorted ne’er-do-wells – rent boys, drunks, druggies, pimps, peddlers and petty thieves – a place to keep a tight hold of your wallet, if not your virtue. Not that I ever rented out, peddled or picked pockets, of course. It was just fun to watch the action, like feeding time at the zoo.

Now I hear that the worthy burghers of Kensington and Chelsea – the local council and my former bosses – have granted the building protected status because as Councillor Cem Kemahli said…

“The recognition of this historic pub as a listed site stands not just as a tribute to its architectural importance but also celebrates its role as a cherished hub within the LGBTQ+ community. The preservation of buildings like this one echoes our history and diverse communities in the borough.”

Blimey. It’s not that long ago when the worthy burghers were trying to get all the local gay venues closed down. From social outcasts to national treasures in just 40 years.

*the UK’s most expensive street is Kensington Palace Gardens in the same London borough, not far away from the Boltons.

Prevention is the Best Medicine

As we strolled into the village for a few Sunday sherries, we happened upon this poster on the high street. It took us by surprise – but in a really good way.

Last week was HIV Testing Week, backed by a national campaign called It Starts With Me and offering free home testing kits for all. We’ve come a long way since testing involved a heart-stopping clinic visit and a nail-biting two-week wait for the result. While AIDS may not be the kiss of death it once was – unless you live in Sub-Sahel Africa, that is – the disease still stalks the bars and bedrooms. We have the real opportunity to rid ourselves of its toxic embrace once and for all. Because, after all, prevention is the best medicine.