Category: London

How Did Henry Get His Hampton Court?

What’s a couple of loose-end gay boys to do on a hot and cloudless summer’s day in old London Town? Pub or palace? We tossed a coin. Tails for the pub, heads for the palace. Her Maj won, so off we went to visit the glorious Hampton Court Palace, which graces a pretty stretch of the River Thames, upstream from Richmond. It was Liam’s first time whereas I’m an old pro – I first visited as a wide-eyed lad.

Not my pic, obvs!

Construction of the magnificent pile started in 1514 by Cardinal Wolsey, Henry VIII’s Lord Chancellor. For seven years Wolsey lavished vast sums, building a palace to match his ego and rival anything in Rome. Clever and ambitious, the so-called ‘butcher’s son’ from Suffolk rose through the ranks to a position of power second only to the King himself. However, for most, being in Henry’s orbit was as precarious at it was profitable. And being his chief minister was the most precarious of all. Top dog Henry, the old letch and all-round shit, was a notoriously demanding and unpredictable boss who always got his way. A fall from favour could cost you your head – literally.

When the cunning old cardinal’s Machiavellian ways failed to secure a papal annulment for Henry’s marriage to Catherine of Aragon, he sensed his days might be numbered. So he gifted Hampton Court to Henry as an expensive bung in a desperate attempt to save his own skin. It didn’t work. He was arrested anyway – on trumped-up charges of treason – but died horribly from dysentery before he found his too-clever-for-his-own-good head on the block.

And that’s how Henry got his Hampton Court.

These days, the Palace has a split personality, with a 17th-century Versailles-inspired extension grafted onto the Tudor carcass

We worked up quite a thirst wandering through the gates, galleries and grand halls, chambers, chapel and wine cellar. So obviously, after the palace came the pub.

We spent a sultry evening watching the sun set over Old Father Thames and mingling with the jolly young boozers supping outside the parade of riverside ale houses by Richmond Bridge. Cheers!

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.

Into Victoria Wood – Part One

The amazing comedy genius that was Victoria Wood died in 2016. It was a sad day. As I wrote at the time, ‘she kept me laughing through four decades’. And now through the fifth and heading for the sixth, I’m still laughing. When we heard that Tom MacRae, the brilliant writer behind the hugely successful stage musical Everybody’s Talking About Jamie, had written a story around some of Victoria Wood’s most iconic songs, I would have sold my soul to the Devil for a ticket.

Thankfully, Satan will have to wait a while longer to have his wicked way with me as we managed to pick up a couple of tickets the very moment they went on sale. The only slight bum note was that the show was debuting not in London’s glittering West End – not even in the not-so-glittering off-West End – but at The Victoria Wood Theatre, recently renamed in her honour. And where is this eponymous venue? Bowness-on-Windermere in the Lake District. So as it’s about 210 miles north as the crow flies, we decided to make a meal of it.

First up was a pitstop in London, staying in steamy King’s Cross on the hottest day of the year. This once sleazy part of town – all street walkers, drunks, druggies and down-and-outs – has been transformed in recent years and is now home to posh shops, fancy bars, over-priced eateries and the huge British Library. We thought we might sleep over at the glorious St Pancras Hotel but with rooms from 500 quid a night, we settled on a budget bed in Premier Inn instead.

We also thought we might enjoy a sherry or two in the local gay pub we used to frequent back in the day, assuming, like the area, it had been tarted up. But when we noticed it was hosting the ‘Big Bi Fun Club’ in the basement, we decided to wave goodbye to the good Bi’s. Some sleazy things never change, I’m delighted to say.

Next stop on the line, Bowness…

Riding the Mail Rail

Whenever we’re in London for our regular rendezvous with nearest and dearest, we try to fit in something a little different. And what could be more different than riding the Mail Rail? Back in the day when people still wrote actual letters, traffic gridlock in the smoky city was holding up the King’s mail. It just wasn’t on. The solution? Build a mini railway beneath the congested streets. From 1927, the underground mail train ran from Paddington in the west to Whitechapel in the east before hitting the buffers in 2003.

But that wasn’t the end of the line. Some bright spark at Royal Mail saw an opportunity to make a few bob, and Mail Rail opened in 2017 as a visitor attraction. We thought we’d give it a whirl. As we rattled along the narrow tunnel in the toy town choo-choo, the old subterranean world of the postie was revealed with fascinating audio-visual displays projected onto the curved walls of long-abandoned platforms. Then, quite suddenly, we shuddered to a halt and were plunged into total darkness. ‘Attention! Attention! Power cut!’ bellowed a fella with a Cockney accent over the tannoy. Liam looked worried. ‘Only joking!’ It’s not a trip for the claustrophobic – or the long-legged.

Our final stop was a tour of the nearby Postal Museum. Apparently, mail first became a thing for that old letch and all-round shit, Henry VIII, as a kinda medieval pony express for royal dispatches. No Truth Social back then. The stables used by all the King’s horses were called ‘posts’ – hence the origin of the word we use today. Who knew?

Although I’m way too long in the tooth to have been a fan of Postman Pat, that evergreen kiddies cartoon from the eighties, the entire experience brought out the inner child (or geek) in me.

As is my wont, I bought not one but two fridge magnets in the gift shop. Liam shrugged and sighed, as usual. And then I picked up something to read around the pool for our forthcoming Greek odyssey – assuming it’s not buggered up by you know who’s current war.

He’s Behind You – Again

This year’s winter has been more or less the usual tedious diet of dull and damp. So what better way to blow away the blues and lift the spirits than a festive pantomime, cross-dressed in glamour and glitter, sequins and smut? This year, we’ve rather overdosed on the panto lark with three – yes three – shows. First up was our annual pilgrimage to the daddy of all pantos at the London Palladium. The latest star-studded camp-fest was Sleeping Beauty, fronted, as usual, by the dowager queen of the double entendre, Julian Clary. As expected, the Palladium’s (and Julian’s) 10th anniversary show was lavish, lewd, and with a plot as thin as a Christmas twig. It was fabulous.

The magic continued with a thoroughly village affair – Cinderella, from the local Loddon Players in their 50th anniversary year. Fun and frolicky with talented turns, foot-tapping tunes and dazzling drag, it was the perfect antidote to the drizzle outside. It’s great to see community theatre flourishing in our small corner of the world.

Finally, panto season came to an X-rated close with the uber rude One Eyed Willy from the Adult Panto Company. The leave-the-kids-at-home show was a no-holes-barred (literally) belly-laugh romp bringing a ripe meaning to that time-worn panto phrase ‘he’s behind you’. Total filth, and we can’t wait for next year’s saucy spectacle.

London, City of Hope

We saw in 2026 with a proverbial bang at a house party thrown in style by two of our favourite village people. It was a banter-filled evening of merriment, with never-empty glasses, great grub and terrific company. As the midnight hour approached, Big Ben chimed in the New Year and we all crossed hands for an exuberant, if well-oiled, rendition of ‘Auld Lang Syne’. Thank you to our generous hosts with the most; you know who you are.

The following day, nursing the first hangover of 2026 (one of many to come, no doubt), we watched London’s epic New Year’s fireworks display – the largest in Europe – on the BBC iPlayer. As usual, the Mayor put on a spectacular pyrotechnic extravaganza of shock and awe. ‘How do they do that?’ said Liam.

London had a vital story to tell and it came through loud and clear – a profound message of fairness and inclusion in troubling times, a city of hope and a place for everyone – the perfect antidote to the flag-shaggers who diminish us all. Amen to that. Cue the video…

In a Galaxy Far, Far Away

I’ve never understood the enduring, almost religious appeal of sci-fi and superhero stuff – the comics, the blockbusters, the video games, the whole alternative universe. Ok, I admit I did enjoy the original Star Wars trilogy and loved the sixties Batman with Adam West as the camp caped crusader in budgie smugglers (I wonder why?). But that was back when I was young and easily aroused. These days, I much prefer a whodunnit – even better if it’s set in a quintessential caramel-coloured English village with a mad vicar with murder in mind.

But we were reminded how big the ‘super-verse’ has become when the circus came to town for Comic Con 2025 at the Excel Centre in London’s Docklands. Our East End digs for my 65th birthday extravaganza were occupied by a battalion of young superhero lookee-likees. A trio of dressed-up Star Wars jedheads joined us in the lift. As the doors began to close, one cried out, ‘Shit, I’ve left my light sabre behind!’ Down in the lobby, we were faced with a speeding bullet of supermen in full caped garb, rushing – though not flying – out the door, with Captain America and Darth Vader bringing up the rear.

Still, I guess it’s all good clean fun for the young and the young at heart. Much healthier than being seduced by the dark side of cybercrime, county lines, street gangs or religious fruitcakes.

Dancing Queens No More

As our birthdays are just two weeks apart, each year Liam and I tend to mark them together. Nowadays, as befits our budding dotage, our jollies resemble more of a pensioners’ outing than the bop-til-you-drop of our yesteryears. 2025 also marks me reaching my latest chronological milestone – 65 – so Liam planned some fancy ticklers to get me in the mood. First on the menu was a glass of overpriced plonk in a Canary Wharf wine bar followed by a surprise dinner date with family. We dined on Italian, washed down with copious amounts of gossip and scandal – naughty but nice!

 The next morning Liam took me up this…

… for a full-on full English with a show-stopping view at the Sky Garden. Perched on top of the Leadenhall Building – affectionately known as the Walkie Talkie – the Sky Garden is London’s highest public green space, with panoramic views of the city. It was a gorgeous crisp day with the sun hanging low in the wispy blue, so our snaps aren’t all that. But you get the picture.

After breakfast, we wandered through the City in a vain attempt to burn off the calories, passing ‘the Monument’, the enormous column commemorating the Great Fire of London of 1666, and then across the Thames to Southwark – pronounced suth-erk – via London Bridge. We strolled along the busy Queen’s Walk, passed HMS Belfast and through Hays Galleria before crossing back into the City via Tower Bridge.

Our final destination was St Katharine Docks, immediately downstream from the Tower. Once part of the Port of London, the docks have since been repurposed as a place to work, sleep, shop and sup, centred around an upmarket yachting marina. After a quick gander, we found a place to sink a bottle and watch the world sail by.

Afternoon drinking can be exhausting even for these two old lushes, so it was back to our Westferry digs for a kip. We had to be fresh and fragrant for the main event, which was…

This was our second visit to the breathtaking ABBA Voyage, located by the deliciously named Pudding Mill Lane Station. Our debut performance was in 2023 as part of a birthday bash for the good wife of our local pub’s (now ex) landlord. Back then, we wiggled about like has-been dancing queens to the ageless ABBA classics. This time round we booked comfy seats in the auditorium. This old codger has finally hung up his dad-dancing shoes, much to the relief of all those around. Well, I don’t want to put my back out.

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! 🥂

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.

MI6
US Embassy

*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.