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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
We’d heard amazing things about All of Us Strangers. It’s caused quite a stir among the critics and film award aficionados, so we decided to see what all the fuss was about with a trip to Norwich’s Cinema City. Originally a wealthy merchant’s gaff, it now houses three screens, a bar and a restaurant under a vaulted stone ceiling. Membership gives us free tickets and discounted drinks so, as is our habit, we had a few sherries in the medieval great hall beforehand.
As for the film, well, it’s the most extraordinary piece of cinema I’ve seen in years. Based on the 1987 novel Strangers by Taichi Yamada, it’s a masterpiece and has been lavished with praise and awards since its release. More gongs to come, I’m sure.
So what’s it about? A passionate romance between two loners set to a glorious eighties soundtrack of the Pet Shop Boys, Frankie Goes to Hollywood and Alison Moyet? Yes, but it’s so much more than that, so much deeper. The film begins with writer Adam sitting at his desk in his fancy high-rise staring out at the night-time London skyline. What follows is an examination of profound grief where the past is knitted with the present in a hopeful attempt to find forgiveness and resolution. But is this an autobiographical screenplay Adam is struggling to write? Or a series of fantastical dream sequences? Or perhaps it’s a classic ghost story? Go see it and decide for yourself. All I can say is there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.
Andrew Scott as Adam is mesmerising. And the exquisite Paul Mescal as his sexy squeeze, Harry, hits the bullseye too. Here’s the trailer…
As an aside, Harry reminded me of a sexy squeeze of my own back in the day who introduced me to Kraftwerk’s amazing 1978 album The Man-Machine as we rolled around the floor of a South Kensington mews house. But that’s another story.
We’ve all heard the tedious line about how the good old days were so much better. It’s said by those who yearn for a bygone era of stiff upper lips, Sunday church and honour on the cricket field, a time when the buttoned-up knew their place and respected their betters. Of course, the reality for many was very different – backstreet abortions, cold water slums, consumption and rickets. And let’s not forget; the love that dares not speak its name could get you banged up. Oh, the smug joy of seeing the past through rose-tinted glasses. Sounds like a nasty dose of false memory syndrome to me.
But then I saw this on Faceache and started to wonder if maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.
If this is genuine, it must be from an American rag. New-fangled miracle machines like dishwashers were but a pipe dream in post-war, bombed-out Britain. But I am drawn to the notion of a doting homemaker who never complains and whose only function in life is to service my every need. If only I could get Liam to ‘fix his makeup’ and ‘put a ribbon in his hair’ just before I get home after a hard day at the office. And ‘be a little gay’ to give me a well-earned lift.
Fat chance. I should have slipped ‘obey’ into our marriage vows. He calls me his ‘little gay’.
Only kidding. I doubt anyone would hand over their hard-earned cash to watch me waving my wrinkly old willy about. Though, way back in my pretty-boy days, I was occasionally offered a few farthings for a facial. But that’s another story. So I do wonder why certain internet search terms bring furtive fumblers to pansyland seeking cheap titillation. And what search words might they be? Well – jail bait, rent boys and scally workmen get top billing. Poor sods, I do hope they’re not too deflated by my humdrum random ramblings. Nothing to see here. Move on.
During Twixmas, one of our many nephews asked his long-term partner to marry him. His proposal was made at a surprise engagement do in London. Was he wise or foolhardy to drop to one knee in front of his nearest and dearest, ring in hand? Will she? Won’t she? Well, she burst into happy tears and said yes so there’s the answer. Relief all round to the sound of chinking and cheers. With tension eased, the party got into full swing. The young ‘uns kept their old gay uncles well-oiled with plonk and Jagerbombs. We must have looked like a pair of old drunken dowagers propped up in the corner.
We also found out that our soon-to-be niece-in-law is heavy with twins. They already have one toddler – fredelicious Freddy – so three will soon become five.
New year, new life, new hope.
I’ll leave you with London’s epic New Year’s Eve fireworks, a spectacular light show to celebrate ‘a city for all’ with a nod to some of the more positive events of 2023, including the 10th anniversary of the legalisation of same-sex marriage in England and Wales. Amen to that.
Perking the Pansies 