Category: London

Second Time Around

We spent a chilly evening warmed by a blazing grate and a bottle of red romantically reminiscing about our civil partnership ceremony in 2008. It was a splendid festival of family and friends in the Sky Lounge at the City Inn Hotel, Westminster. We tied the knot silhouetted against a picture postcard backdrop of the Palace and Abbey. With the simple words “The relationship between you is now recognised in Law” ringing in our ears, we embraced to an ocean of beaming smiles, rapturous applause and a chorus of cheers. Blighty has come a long way since the awful Thatcher years.

A champagne reception was followed by an old routemaster red bus tour of London Town from the Abbey to St Paul’s. We crossed Old Father Thames by London Bridge onwards through Borough towards ‘Horse’ in Waterloo, the gastropub venue for our reception and evening knees up. Tables were dressed French bistro style with crisp white linen and porcelain contrasted with a single stem tulip of vivid red. We dined at a top table for two. Speeches were informal and unrehearsed. There were flowers for the seniors, toys for the juniors and posh chocolates and bubbly for significant others.

Liam said it all with a song called ‘Second Time Around’ which he composed covertly over many weeks. Vocals were supplied by Sally Rivers, a top-notch singer of enormous depth and experience with a rich, soulful voice. Fortified by a vat of Dutch courage, Liam nervously accompanied Sally’s recording live on the piano. I listened intently from a distance. It made me thankful he chose me. It was a sweet triumph without a drunken bum note that brought the crowd to its feet and had us sobbing in the aisles.

If you fancy a listen, click here.

The evening shindig brought in a bigger audience. I pre-mixed the music with old favourites, dance classics and pop standards – No ‘YMCA,’ ‘Agadoo’ or ‘the Birdie Song.’ The evening jolly was joyously punctuated by a big screen showing of a camp compilation of cleverly cut snippets from famous musicals synchronised to a soundtrack of  ‘I Just Wanna Dance.’

See how many musicals you can name but if you are offended by the word f*****g then you’d best not play it!

The evening was brought to a close by Petula Clark’s ‘The Show is Over Now,’ a fitting end to a momentous day.

Tomorrow’s post – The Honeymoon

Tales of the City

Clive and partner Angus, invited us for dinner; a civilised and sophisticated affair, attended by some of our other long-term London life friends, Debbie, Ian and his partner, Matt. Clive is my oldest friend, more like a brother really. We attended the same school and have travelled down the years together, not always agreeing, sometimes quarrelling but always caring.

Debbie is a voluptuous head buyer for Fenwick’s who travels between the fashion capitals of the world seeking the latest accessories. She is Miss Mortgage Free of Kingston-upon-Thames so the girl from The Valleys has done good.

Ian is the manager of a Soho porn store, though he prefers to call it a ‘lifestyle’ shop, principally for his mother’s benefit. When pressed, he readily admits that R rated DVDs and poppers are the biggest draws. Apparently, regardless of the brand, poppers (or ‘room odorisers’ to give them their proper retail name) are all made by a man called Colin in his shed in Carshalton. Ian is particularly proud of his Christmas windows this year with little bottles of lube and condoms sitting prettily in sparkly trees between a pair of overpriced designer knickers and the new Armistead Maupin novel. “Beat that John Lewis!” he proudly exclaimed. Matt is a banker and has recently moved to a new position where the dealers know what wine to drink. He tells me this is the only qualification required of a banker these days. They are the archetypal urban gay couple with a penthouse flat in Bow and a mortgage the size of the Irish bailout.

The evening frolicked along handsomely. I miss the intelligent banter and repartee. It’s not something we get much of in Yalıkavak where espousing the malevolence of the Daily Mail is the usual stuff of debate.

Sex, Drugs and Sausage Rolls

London is a rare winter wonderland, gripped by a vicious Siberian front. Nevertheless, we slipped the leash of social and family commitments for a self-indulgent Sunday sojourn to a Vauxhall crush bar. We took drugs, stripped off our tops to display our newly acquired slimline torsos, flirted a little and reconnected with our subculture as the snow fell roundabout. We looked utterly ridiculous but we had a ball. You can take the boy out of London but you can’t take London out of the boy.

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Loft Living London Style

The Blizzard

We observed the blanket blizzard from the safety and comfort of our loft musing how we might manage the social merry-go-round that is  to come. Still, we were content in the knowledge that the house was warm, snug, leakless and the power uninterrupted. Perchance, I may experience my very first white Christmas.