Category: London

Fifteen-Year Itch

For our fifteenth wedding anniversary we were itching for a big city scratch with a difference. Despite my heathen leanings, I do like an impressive church, and few are more impressive than London’s St. Paul’s Cathedral, Christopher Wren’s tour de force topped with its heavenly dome. The earlier Gothic pile was torched along with much of the old medieval city in the Great Fire of 1666. It’s reckoned the blaze started in a bakery in the appropriately named Pudding Lane, bringing a whole new meaning to the hallowed phrase ‘give us our daily bread’.

Meandering around the flashy Baroque splendour brought back happy memories of my first pilgrimage – back in my spotty teens when I accompanied my grandmother, who was over from Ireland.

According to the annals, there’s been a church on the same spot since 604 AD, and possibly as far back as the late Roman period, as suggested by a plaque listing the pre-Norman bishops with their glorious tongue-twister names.

In stark contrast to the lavish decor above, the crypt is simply appointed and stuffed with the tombs of kill and cure notables from days long past, from Florence Nightingale and Alexander Fleming – who discovered penicillin quite by chance – to the victors of Trafalgar and Waterloo, Nelson and Wellington. Napoleon must be spinning in his monumental Parisian grave. Wren is there too, of course.

After piety came avarice, with indulgent afternoon tea and bubbles in The Swan at Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre followed by mother’s ruin at Halfway to Heaven, the homo watering hole near Nelson’s massive column, where Liam and I first met. They knew we were coming judging by the ultimate gay megamix playing on the jukebox – Pet Shop Boys, Erasure, Marc Almond, The Communards, Frankie Goes to Hollywood, Dead or Alive, Gloria Gaynor and Hazel Dean – with Liza Minnelli’s ‘Love Pains’ bringing up the rear. Liam’s shoulders shimmied to the beat. Perfect.

Paul O’Grady, RIP

We awoke this morning to the sad news that Paul O’Grady, AKA Lily Savage drag queen extraordinaire, has died. Even though I didn’t know Paul personally, somehow it still feels like a big loss. Lily Savage was such an important part of my formative years as a pretty young gay about town. Before Paul hit the big time on the telly box, firstly as his alter ego and then as himself, I misspent many a boozy night of slapstick and sequins watching Lily click her high heels on the velvet-draped stage of the Royal Vauxhall Tavern, South London’s premier drag pub. Quick-witted, caustic, filthy and utterly original, Lily always brought the house down. I laughed so much it hurt. Nobody dared heckle Lily when Lily was on a roll. She was more than just drag. There have been countless drag queens down the ages, some great and some dire, but Lily stood wig and shoulders above them all. Lily was comedy royalty.

There are loads of videos of Paul and Lily on YouTube. I’ve picked one – outtakes from the Lily Savage TV Show back in the day on the Beeb. If you’re easily offended, best change channels now.

The Amazing ABBA Voyage

A big birthday deserves a big show and they don’t get much bigger than ABBA Voyage at the specially constructed ABBA Arena in London’s Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park. Discretion prevents me from broadcasting the number of the big birthday. Let’s just say the lady turned 21 again. After a Champagne breakfast at the White Horse generously provided by our jolly landlord – the birthday girl’s other half – the fancily-dressed voyagers piled onto the charabanc to the Smoke. More generosity from the innkeeper saw some of us three sheets to the wind before we hit the M11.

London traffic, as always, was bumper to bumper, but we made the performance – just. And what a performance. It took my breath away. Truly the best light and sound show I’ve ever seen. ABBA split in 1982 and, unlike some ancient rockers who seem to be on perpetual tour, the quartet wisely decided they were way too long in the tooth to squeeze into those skin-tight costumes and hit the road again. So ABBA Voyage is the next best thing – or the first best thing depending on your point of view – a virtual concert featuring ‘ABBAtars’.

At first, it felt a bit weird clapping to a series of holograms, but the show is so technically brilliant, so convincing, that it’s easy to suspend belief and party hard to the fast-paced set of timeless ABBA classics. And who doesn’t like a bit of ABBA at a party? We all had a ball, particularly the birthday girl – because she’s amazing too.

Then and Now

Back in 2008, the eccentric old fella next door bought my London Victorian terrace in Walthamstow. One fateful evening he popped round with his chequebook and asked, “How much?” And just like that the deal was done and we were on our way to Turkey for a new life in a foreign field. I wrote about it in that book. Cue the shameless plug.

perking-the-pansies-chapter-2Download

I’ve been pretty lucky with buyers. My gaff before Walthamstow was also flogged off to a neighbour. Both sales saved me a king’s ransom in estate agent fees.

Last year, my old Walthamstow house came back onto the market for the first time since I sold it. Despite being in a very sorry state, it went for more than double the 2008 price tag. London prices really are crazy. I don’t know what happened to the eccentric old fella next door but it was really sad to see my pretty Victorian terrace with all the vivid memories of good times past looking so unloved and unlived in. I really hope whoever’s got it now will sprinkle a little fairy dust to bring it back to life. Because it’s a cracking little place for the right person.

Then and Now…

Jack and the Beanstalk

The weather outside is dull and drizzly so it must be pantomime season, just the thing to chase away those winter blues. Panto is a centuries-old theatrical tradition which has evolved into a totally OTT cross-dressing, saucy song and dance piss-take loosely based on a fairy tale, fable or folklore. Kids love it and, for many, it’s their first taste of live theatre. Grown-ups love it too, catching the ripe gags that fly over the heads of the little ‘uns. Often a little bit naff, Panto is always great fun. And it’s profitable, keeping many a local theatre in the black for the rest of the year.

We’ve done two pantos this season – both versions of ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’. The first beanfeast was at the glorious London Palladium starring the incomparable Julian Clary as the Spirit of the Beans, brought up the rear by a host of top notch familiar faces. The Palladium gig is the annual headliner, panto-wise – getting the full-on West End treatment with no sequin spared. Julian stole every scene with one outrageous costume after another and all the best lines. It was a glorious belly-laugh of the lewd, the crude and the rude. All in the best possible taste – not.

The second interpretation, at the Fisher Theatre in nearby Bungay, was a more modest affair. It was surprisingly good; a few missteps, the odd fluffed line and an emergency stand in due to illness but that’s par for the course in amdram-land. None of that mattered, especially to the army of kiddies in the audience who lapped up every silly joke and every slapstick moment. Great fun for all the family in a cute local theatre with a fab little bar attached. Wonderful.