Category: Norfolk Broads

Gorillas in Our Midst

Gorillas in Our Midst

Gorillas

We got back from holiday to face an invasion of psychedelic gorillas. I thought someone had slipped some acid in my gin and I was tripping the light fantastic. Don’t fret, I haven’t taken to class A drugs and mugging old Norfolk broads to feed a nasty habit. Not yet anyway.

Looking like the camp cast of ‘Planet of the Apes, the Panto,’ these unique and rather fabulous specimens of street art form the 53-strong gorilla trail around the city organised by the ‘Go Go Gorilla’ campaign. According to their website the trail will…

“… take place for 10 weeks during the summer of 2013 and will encourage thousands of people to discover and re-discover the city of Norwich, provide community and education projects and highlight environmental issues and the plight of one of the world’s most endangered species.”

At the end of the exhibition, the multi-coloured silverbacks will be auctioned off for charity. Bid early to avoid disappointment. Remember, a Guy’s for life, not just for Christmas (so says Liam). It certainly knocks spots off a naff garden gnome, not to mention the pushy teenagers in the street gripping clip boards to extract direct debits for the World Wildlife Fund.

Here’s a small selection:

The Go Go Gorilla campaign got into a bit of hot water with the Freddie Mercury estate when one of the exhibits aped the late great Queen showman in his cloney stage clobber. Breach of copyright, apparently. It was removed from the forecourt of the Forum – to be repainted. Boo, hiss. Unlike the stuffy suits running his estate, I’m reliably informed that Mr Mercury had a wicked sense of humour and a charitable bent.

Freddie

I rather hoped that Freddie the Gorilla would be resurrected in full drag as a tribute to the ‘I Want to Break Free’ video. Sadly, it was not to be. Freddie was reinstated today, sprayed black and minus his tash, crop top and signature buck teeth. So now it’s just any old primate in a Queen jacket. Still, all the fuss gave the campaign a bit of a boost and got them on the BBC.

Here’s my personal favourite, a mean-looking bugger with a strangely benign face. He’s less adorned than the others with just a light dusting of glitter sparkling away in the sun. Clearly, this Guy is not afraid of his feminine side. Or perhaps Guy’s really a Gal?

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Behind the Candelabra – Venereal Warts and All

Behind the Candelabra – Venereal Warts and All

Behind the CandelabraI’m old enough to have caught the tail-end of Liberace’s long and very successful career as pianist to ladies of a certain age. Despite being the most outrageous old queen in the business and the rampant tittle-tattle about his bawdy private life, Liberace got away it by suing the arse off anyone who told tales out of school and playing the I-just-haven’t-found-the-right-girl tune to his myopic fans. Back in the day, it was easier to maintain the lie. If he was still alive and tinkling, the Twitter generation and the red tops would have a field day, particularly as Walt loved to play fast and loose with his reputation by buggering the boys in back rooms. So, with a sparkling set of reviews, we anticipated the Liberace biopic ‘Behind the Candelabra‘ with some relish. Was the film worth the hype? Well, yes and no. Michael Douglas as the rhinestone peacock was superb. He deserves an Oscar but won’t get one as the film was made-for-TV by HBO in the States (though he will qualify for a BAFTA here in old Blighty). Matt Damon as the young lover sported a suitably rabbit-in-headlights look and Rob Lowe almost stole the show as a deliciously wicked pill-pushing plastic surgeon who’d been under the knife once too often himself. The film caught the gas-guzzling Seventies’ mood brilliantly and there were some good lines. By the end of the performance though, too many things were left unsaid. When Liberace’s elderly mother died (an unrecognisable Debbie Reynolds) his response was, “Now I am free.” Why? We’re not told. I found myself getting a little bored as the glitter-sprinkled film camped along to its inevitable conclusion and became irritated when the Middle England audience giggled in embarrassment at some of the mildly raunchy scenes and ripe language. Ladies, it wasn’t that graphic. You really need to get out more.

Ye Olde Curiosity Shop

Ye Olde Curiosity Shop

The traditional high street is under seige from a flat-lining economy, increased rents (no, I don’t understand that either during a recession) and the relentless pressure from the big boys with their charmless out-of-town retail parks sucking up all the trade. Norwich seems to have bucked the trend by preserving its novelty. Of course, the narrow maze of city centre streets has its fair share of chains with their identikit offerings but there’s also a treasure trove of independents to graze. Maybe the city’s relative isolation is its saviour (the last section of the dual carriageway from the Smoke is only now being built and the train service is express-less). Perhaps it’s a benign planning environment by farsighted burghers. Who knows? Whatever the reason, long may it continue. Here’s just a small sample to whet the appetite and loosen the purse.

Give Us a Quiche

Jarrolds is a Norwich institution. The family-run business has outlets dotted about all over the shop. The Book Hive is the best independent bookshop in town. Both Jarrolds and the Book Hive declined to stock my book. Jarrolds refused (politely). The Book Hive didn’t respond at all. I don’t hold it against them (much).

The Grosvenor Fish Bar on the corner of Pottergate and Lower Goat Lane offers delicious, artery-hardening deep-fried heart attacks. It gets my vote because punters are welcome to finger the fish over a pint in the pub opposite. Personally, I prefer to nibble on a battered sausage (cue Liam). The public house in question, The Birdcage, has been the scene of our undoing many times now.

Fish Bar and Pub

I doubt Meryl Streep ever visited this corner of the Dark Continent when she was attempting a truly terrible Viking accent in ‘Out of Africa.’  Do they really sell slices of crocodile, ostrich, springbok and zebra? Well, if Tesco’s can flog donkey burgers, why not?

Liam spends endless hours thumbing through the sheet music in this old-school music shop as he contemplates a profitable sideline teaching piano. He’s quite talented with his fingers, my Liam. This little gem is right along the street from our weaver’s cottage.

St George's Music Shop

Finally, my personal favourite – not because I’m a cock in a frock at weekends and call myself Jacky but because Pepperberry’s sell ‘clothes designed with your boobs in mind.’  It’s just as well, as I have noticed that quite a few Norfolk broads do look like they’ve eaten all the pies.

Pepperberry

Shop ‘Til You Drop

Shop ‘Til You Drop

With the weather finally on the up and blossom dripping from the trees, the citizens of Norwich were out in their droves doing what the Brits do best – shop and sup. Purses and plastic were loosened in a brave attempt to drag the economy out of the abyss. Technically, the economy is as flat as a witch’s tit, rather than triple dipping and the patient needs all the TLC it can get. Market stalls toppled out onto the pavement, till queues weaved round Primark, the M&S food hall heaved with Norfolk broads and we couldn’t find a table in Pret a Manger when we bagged a baguette.

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We escaped the madding crowd by browsing the floor show in the Forum. Modern art isn’t everyone’s cup of char but Liam loved it.  I left him to peruse the exhibits and ordered a couple of drinks at the bar. Cheers!

Google Before You Go

Google Before You Go

BoudiccaA bright spring sky and a benign forecast enticed us out for a countryside foray. We fancied a look around a reconstructed Iceni village near the hamlet of Cockley Cley (there’s a joke in there somewhere but I’m damned if I can find it). Cast your minds back to the history books of your early school days and the chapter on Queen Boudicca (Boadicea). As the story goes, the Iceni were a Celtic tribe who lived in what is now the county of Norfolk. Following the Claudian conquest of 43 AD, King Prasutagus of the Iceni (Boudicca’s other half) kept his crown by taking the Emperor’s shilling and becoming a client of the Romans. When he died, he left his lush forests and clearings in equal share to his two daughters and fiddling Nero. The perfidious Romans ignored his Will, flogged Boudicca, raped her daughters and took the lot for themselves. Dowager Boudicca was seriously pissed off. Bent on revenge, she joined up with other revolting tribes and went on the rampage. The startled Romans got quite a kicking and the rebellion nearly succeeded in booting the double-crossing conquerors out on their toga’d arses. The insurrection failed in the end but not before the rebels torched London (the first great fire), Colchester and St Albans, slaughtering the inhabitants. Folklore has it that the old Norfolk broad is buried under platform 9 or 10 of Kings Cross Station in London.

We stopped for tea in nearby Swaffham, a pretty market town with kerb appeal and a sprinkling of charm. Sadly, it was closed for the winter (apart for the odd charity shop and the ubiquitous and over-priced Costa Coffee). We climbed back into the car and headed south, passing open fields populated with freakish scarecrows dressed like the Ku Klux Klan. Liam muttered something about Jerry Springer the Opera and sped on towards the Iceni village. Contrary to the forecast, it started to rain. More by luck than judgement, we found the faux settlement hidden along a nondescript country lane. The gates were firmly locked, like Swaffham, closed for winter.

Memo to self – next time you fancy dipping your fat toe into the history of the Ancient Brits, Google before you go.

Happy Birthday, Pride Live!

Future RadioSuddenly I find myself with a few radio gigs under my belt. What began as a couple of promotional guest spots to flog some books on the ‘Pride Live!’ Show on Future Radio, has somehow migrated into a regular turn as co-host. This radio caper isn’t as easy as it sounds. An awful lot goes into it – before and during. For my considerable sins, I just pitch up on the night with a few scribbled notes and witter on. My two favourite Norfolk broads, jivin’ Jules and delicious Di, do all the hard work assembling the show, twiddling the knobs, queuing the music and corralling the guests. The spontaneous multi-tasking is quite beyond me and best left to the dynamic duo. If I was left at the tiller, chaos would run amok and the ultimate radio faux pas – silence – would stalk the studio. Di Cunningham also presents the morning show. The worker bees of Norwich wake to a daily dose of fun and originality. I don’t know where she gets the energy and inspiration from. Di’s considerable talents have been recognised by no less than the BBC Academy’s College of Production. High praise, highly deserved.

It’s Pride Live’s 100th show this Monday (11th March) from 6.30pm (UK time). I’ll be at the mic with Jules, chipping in with my usual witless banter and we’ve got Brian Dowling and Michael Cashman on the bill to help us celebrate the milestone. If you fancy tuning in, click on the Future Radio logo above, bookmark the site and pop a reminder in your pocket book or fancy phone. If you miss the show live, you can catch the podcast.

In today’s stormy financial climate, community radio stations can operate on a wing and a prayer. This is a tenuous link to my video choice. Cue The Buggles:

 

Norwich Rising

Grey East Anglian skies didn’t dampen the enthusiasm of the fair ladies of Norwich as they strutted their stuff in support of their sisters around the world on the receiving end of violence and abuse. I couldn’t take my eyes (or my camera) off the older Norfolk broad with grey hair and a mean mauve streak who shook her tush with unbridled abandon. Way to go girl!

This is a small reminder of why they were dancing.

One Billion Rising

One Billion Rising

‘One Billion Rising’ is a global campaign to eradicate violence towards women and girls. Why One Billion Rising? Well, it’s estimated that one third of all women on the planet will experience violence at some point in their lifetime. It’s a staggering, almost incomprehensible statistic that makes the brain hurt. Tomorrow is ‘V’ day (Victory, Valentine and Vagina) and events are being held all over the world. Everyone is invited to shake their booties in a glorious dance fest of global proportions to call a musical halt to the horrifying levels of abuse. Let’s face it, knocking women about (and much, much worse besides) just ain’t clever – never was, never will be.

One Billion Rising

The Norfolk broads are doing their bit with ‘Norwich Rising’ at the Forum at 1pm and the ladies of Turkey are getting in on the act in Fethiye, Göcek, Izmir, Izmit, Istanbul and our old stomping ground, Bodrum. So to my Bodrum Belles, Gümbet Gals and Bitez Babes, get your backsides down to the harbour for a bit of bump and grind. Gather from midday for the dress rehearsal and wear something pretty in pink. We want to see those tushes twirling in perfect harmony by the 1pm kickoff. I have my spies.

Roving Jay

Roving Jay

Santa sent me a bumper prize this year: globe-trotting local lass Roving Jay paid me a whistle-stop visit. Jay currently lives in Los Angeles but grew up in the flatlands and big skies of East Anglia – she’s a Norfolk broad at heart. She parachuted in from La-la-land to spend Christmas with family but took precious time away from the rellies to join me for a natter over an Americano. Dedicated Turkophile, Jay, owns a house near glorious Gümüslük, on the Bodrum Peninsula. Readers may be familiar with her own blog, Roving Jay and her website, the Bodrum Peninsula Travel Guide.  Jay has been a faithful pansyfan from the beginning and very kindly wrote a stunning review of Perking the Pansies, Jack and Liam move to Turkey when it was first released. I have to say, it made me blush (really) and I shall be forever in her debt. Because of the vagaries of the rural bus schedule in these parts, we only got to chew the cud for a couple of hours and didn’t get around to hitting the sauce.  We still managed to pack a lot into the chat. Meeting cyber friends in the real world can be a nerve-shredding experience and I was a tad anxious. I needn’t have worried. Jay was a delightful coffee companion. Anatolia aside, it turned out we have a lot in common – for a start, we were both forces brats of more or less the same generation (though Jay is younger and so much prettier).

This spring, Jay is publishing her first guidebook, just in time for the summer scrum. It’s Jay’s unique take on the Bodrum Peninsula. Unlike so many guidebooks these days, it’s a first-hand account and covers the small corner of Turkey that Jay intends to call home one day. The book is stuffed with must-sees and must-dos and is a literary and factual treat. For more information click here. Very highly recommended.

Get Out of My Pub!

Get Out of My Pub!

Close to our ancient lodgings in the parish of Norwich-across-the-water is an Irish pub called ‘Delaney’s’. Gawd knows why it’s described as an Irish bar. It sells Guinness but otherwise looks like a run-of-the-mill pub to me. One thing in its favour is a late licence. After a disappointing bite at the über-trendy Bicycle restaurant, we passed Delaney’s welcome mat and Liam persuaded me to have a final snifter (not much of a stretch, I know). We took up pole position at the end of the bar and eyed the pubscape of squiffy painted Norfolk broadettes, Primark neo-chavs, indebted bedsit students and bewildered tourists. The only fly in the otherwise tasty ointment was the wasp-chewing landlady surveying the jovial scene from behind the bar with her arms folded. A couple of drinkers away, a dandily-dressed Italian ordered a pint but then realised he didn’t have enough pennies to pay for it. He proffered plastic instead.

“Five quid minimum spend,” growled the slapped-arse face.

“I’ll have two pints, then,” he replied warmly.

She was having none of it. “No chance!” she barked.

The bemused Italian, still smiling, asked what the problem was. He even offered to give one drink to the stranger to his right. Clearly not a woman to be crossed, she dismissed him with a wave and scuttled off to serve another punter. Refusing to submit, he persisted with his friendly inquisition. Her faced reddened, her eyes narrowed and her thin lips pursed. The whippersnapper’s challenge was stoking her fire and not in good way. Finally, the fiery redhead could take no more and blew her stack, screaming in true Peggy Mitchell style:

“You’re barred. Get out of my pub!”

He stood his ground for a little longer but eventually gave up with a shrug and left. Not wishing to suffer the same fate, we supped our frothy pints and watched our Ps and Qs. Ten minutes later, Mr Persistent returned in triumph waving a ten pound note. It had no effect. The lippy landlady just chucked him a cold shoulder and no one else dared to serve him. The battle of wills continued. He stood at the bar for a good thirty minutes, casting broad smiles and boundless charm. Then suddenly, as the crowd looked on, his dogged tenacity melted the harridan’s icy heart. She smiled, pulled him a pint, slapped it on the counter and waved the tenner away.

All’s well that ends well. Who needs EastEnders when you’ve got Delaney’s of Norwich?

Update 2015: Sadly Delaney’s and the harridan are no more. The pub’s been converted into a Shoreditchesque gastropub called St Andrew’s Brew House and the flame-haired landlady has entered a nunnery.