Christmas is almost upon us, and it’s a big deal for local businesses trying to make a few extra shillings before the January slump. As regular readers know, Liam and I like a drink or three, so we do our bit to keep the hospitality sector afloat – it’s our patriotic duty. One of our favourite city watering holes is the Gardener’s Arms (known by most punters as the Murderers), a traditional ale house stuffed with old-world charm, oak beams and exposed brickwork. The pub has a deliciously dark past – hence the nickname – and it’s usually our last port of call before we stumble onto our bus back to the village.
To drum up a bit of business, last year the jovial pub landlord posted a video on Faceache – a fantastic spoof of a scene from Love Actually, one of the nation’s favourite festive films. And it’s been posted again this year. Click on the image below. The video is a bit rude, so best move on if you’re easily offended…
Alternatively, watch it on YouTube…
If you happen to be passing the pub, be sure to pop in for a few sherries and admire the murder theme posted on the walls (Dr Crippin, Lizzie Borden, Bonnie and Clyde, Ruth Ellis, to name but a few). And the yuletide windows are pretty good too.
On a trivial note, the thing that intrigued me about the guinea pig kids I ‘interviewed’ a couple of weeks back was the boys’ hair dos. They tended to fall into two cuts, style-wise – all swept front and centre, or flapping about behind. The front loaders resembled an alpaca, whereas the back flappers were a real blast from the past.
Yes folks, just when I thought it was safe to go back into the barber’s for my number 2 crop, the dreaded mullet is back in town, but with a fancy salon makeover. Not quite the floppy locks of Andre Agassi that bounced across the Centre Court at Wimbledon (before they all fell out). No, modern mullets are…
“… a more blended and refined version of the classic style, often incorporating fades and layers for a more textured and sophisticated look.”
The born-again hair don’t was confirmed on a recent festive frolic in old Norwich. We found ourselves surrounded by mullet-crowned students out on the lash, often accessorising their vintage cuts with a new twist on seventies-style clone-zone tashes and nineties-era baggy trousers – a kinda cross-decade mashup. Best bin the skinny jeans, then.
“Grab your man bag,” Liam said. “We’re off to Sainsbury’s.” It wasn’t a pint of semi-skimmed and a sourdough loaf on his mind but something altogether more highbrow – the Sainsbury Centre for Visual Arts.
The museum was opened in 1978 to show off the art collection donated to the University of East Anglia by Sir Robert and Lady Lisa Sainsbury (of the Sainsbury’s supermarket chain). Robert was made a knight of the realm for his services to the arts, not for the quality of his Jersey royals or his juicy plums.
The impressive Norman Foster-designed building sits within the leafy university grounds and houses an eclectic miscellany of paintings and sculptures spanning 5,000 years, with artefacts from prehistory right through to the late 20th century. As you meander through the exhibits, there seems to be a particular obsession with the human form.
Lady Lisa and Sir Robert Sainsbury
The building itself was put on display in several scenes from the 2015 films Avengers: Age of Ultron and Ant-Man.
And continuing the movie theme, we weren’t expecting to witness a half-baked Lord of the Rings re-enactment as we sank a bottle of plonk in the museum refectory. How times have changed. In my day, students misspent their days getting pissed in the Students’ Union bar, not mucking about in Middle-earth. Or to paraphrase Gandalf: “You shall not pass out.”
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! 🥂
I’ve received a summons. No, I haven’t been caught with my trousers down, at least not recently. I’ve been called for jury service at Norwich Crown Court. The reaction from most people seems to be either “bloody Hell, how can I get out of it?” (generally, you can’t) or “wow, I’d love to do that”. My reaction was “oh no, not again”.
Because it’s my third time. Yes, my third. Most people I know have never been called at all.
As a veteran juror, I know the drill. It can be fascinating – the theatricals in the court, the drama in the jury room with random jurors drawn from all and sundry, and personal prejudices laid bare. But there’s a lot of sitting around in the jury pool between trials. At least these days technology can help relieve the boredom, so I’ll be twiddling with my tablet rather than my thumbs. All my other digits will be crossed, hoping I don’t get put on a trial that goes on and on.
Gossiping about an ongoing case with anyone – including with him indoors – is strictly verboten, so my lips will be sealed before sealing the fate of the defendant. To cut short the proceedings, I’m thinking of yelling “off with his head” as the accused is brought up from the cells. Or maybe not.
When I served before, I sat on a series of short trials. The one that sticks in my mind the most is the case of an ex-British Rail manager in a cheap suit who was up before the beak for fiddling his business expenses. He was caught charging the amorous services of certain ladies of the night to the company account. We found him guilty. I hope the jollies were worth it.
I’ll do my civic duty. of course, partly because I have no choice but mostly because I think it’s probably the fairest system on offer. As it says on t’interweb…
Trial by jury, where a group of ordinary citizens decide a case, has a rich history evolving from ancient legal practices to modern legal systems. The origins can be traced back to Germanic tribes and the use of juries to investigate crimes and judge the accused. In the 12th century, Henry II in England established juries to settle land disputes, marking a key step in the development of the modern jury system. Today, the jury system is a cornerstone of legal systems in many countries, ensuring a fair and impartial verdict by laypersons.
And it certainly beats ‘trial by ordeal’ – torture by any other name – once zealously promoted by the Church, with The Almighty deciding. Flipping a coin would have been fairer. It’s just a pity some traditional forms of punishment have also gone out of fashion. There are a few people I’d cheerfully strap to a ducking stool.
In the medieval era, the rag trade made Norwich rich, making it England’s second city. But it wasn’t to last. The steam age killed off traditional weaving, and old Norwich gradually slipped down the rankings, unable to compete against northern upstarts and their dark satanic mills.
Down but not out, the city reinvented itself with a new trade – making money, lots of it. And what better way to make money in a city largely built of wood than fire insurance? And what better way to reduce expensive pay-outs than to employ your own fireman? And thus, in 1797, a canny banker with an eye on the main prize, Thomas Bignold, founded the Norwich Union Fire Insurance Office.
Fast forward a couple of hundred years and following a complex series of mergers, takeovers, re-names and rebrands, Aviva is now the largest general insurer in the land – and pretty big in other lands too.
The company dominates the city centre with offices everywhere. But none are so grand as Surrey House, the purpose-built head office opened in 1905. Designed by celebrated local lad George Skipper, the lavish interior is richly decorated in marble, some of which was originally intended for Westminster Cathedral.
Marble Hall image courtesy of Pat Jacobs.
The classy Edwardian pile shines like a diamond among a forest of run-of-the-mill utilitarian Aviva office blocks.
To find out more, we joined a friend for the Marble Hall tour run by The Shoebox Experiences*. The people at Shoebox know how to tell a good tale, punctuating history with tasty nuggets and fun facts – and their tour was simply brilliant.
*The Shoebox Experiences run a number of city tours. All profits go to their social enterprise which creates supportive places for vulnerable people. We last joined a tour on their fascinating Hidden Street gig.
The various galleries of the Museum of Norwich at the Bridewell chart the city’s journey from its humble beginnings as a few muddy huts by a river bank to a UNESCO World City of Literature. As I wrote when we first visited in 2017…
“It’s a ripping yarn of churches and chapels, friaries and priories, martyrs and merchants, weavers and cobblers, chocolatiers and mustard makers, fire and flood, black death and blitzkrieg.”
The Museum is a splendid way to spend an afternoon, come rain or shine. But it wasn’t the exhibits we came to see on our most recent visit, but a guided tour of the Undercroft, the vaulted cellar beneath the Museum. Norwich is stuffed with medieval undercrofts – they often escaped fire and the wrecking ball. Whereas the current Museum is mostly 18th-century Georgian, the Undercroft itself – the largest in Norwich – dates from the 14th Century.
The Bridewell Undercroft was originally used to store and display the precious wares of the filthy-rich merchants who lived in the fancy mansion above. It was a dry and secure place to show off the goodies to potential buyers and keep out thieves. But ironically, after the monied merchants moved out, the building became a ‘bridewell’ – a ‘house of correction’ – where those who had fallen on the hardest of times would find themselves incarcerated – the ‘criminalisation’ of the poor, as our guide put it.
Our guide certainly knew her stuff, bringing the story to life with gossipy titbits from the past blended with the serious stuff as she walked us through the suite of underground rooms. The tour provides a fascinating insight into not just the building but also the ebb and flow of the city’s fortunes. The Undercroft was even used as a bomb shelter during World War II.
From a strong room to a prison cell, a place of punishment to a place of safety, the Bridewell Undercroft tells it all. And yes, I bought a fridge magnet.
Neither I nor him indoors are that keen on classic Hollywood-style musicals. We tend to go for something a bit more contemporary. But when we saw the all-round talent that is Alex Green taking centre-stage as the poster boy for Singin’ in the Rain, one of MGM’s most iconic musicals, we thought, why not?
The Norfolk and Norwich Operatic Society chose the musical for their centenary production, and the run at Norwich’s Theatre Royal was more or less sold out. As is our habit, we chose a matinee and joined our fellow grey tops on their day out. I’ve never seen the entire film, just the more famous dance highlights, so I wasn’t familiar with the story. What I did know is that famous Hollywood hoofer Gene Kelly was horribly mean to his co-star, the late, great Debbie Reynolds, who was only 19 at the time and new to the dancing lark. Kelly bullied her until her feet bled. It’s the stuff of Hollywood legend.
Getting the gist of the story wasn’t helped by the punter sitting in front of me, with the biggest head since King Kong fell for Fay Wray. I missed most of the action stage left. So much so that Liam and I swapped seats for Act Two – him being taller. A stiff drink got me through it.
What I did see was terrific. Alex Green was joined by an equally gifted cast who really gave us the old razzle dazzle in spectacular style. The famous Singin’ in the Rain sequence was particularly impressive, with Alex Green in the Gene Kelly role splashing across the front of the stage as water showered from above. He got soaked. The front few rows got a bit wet too – I’m guessing the punters were pre-warned.
We also loved the reprise featuring a funkier version – both in song and dance – of the Singin’ in the Rain number by the full ensemble. A great modern touch.
Image courtesy of the NNOS Facebook page
And I’m pleased to write that, in the end, King Kong didn’t spoil the show.
Homelessness is a complex issue, and there are so many reasons why someone might find themselves without anywhere to live. But we live in a rich country and I can’t help thinking that the scourge of homelessness is worse than it needs to be. I’m not given to petty envy. I’ve nothing against the wealthy as long as their wealth has been honestly acquired and they pay their dues instead of squirrelling it away in various tax havens. As for tax dodging billionaires, how much money can any one person possibly spend on themselves in a lifetime? As Francis Bacon – the 17th-century former Chancellor of England, not the famous artist – allegedly said:
“Money is like muck, no good except it be spread.”
But, more positively, there is help available to those who both need and seek it, at least there is in Norwich. I recently picked up this Pathways Norwich signposting leaflet.
Is it enough? Is it ever? Sleeping rough must be tough at any time of year. Imagine how much rougher and tougher it gets as winter cloaks the streets. I know Christmas can be expensive and many people struggle to pay the bills but, buddy, if you can spare a dime, please do.
Whatever Christmas means to you, wishing you and yours a warm, dry and peaceful yuletide.
On a recent shopping and supping matinee in old Naaridge, we spent the afternoon watching the macabre horror flick The Heretic. Hugh Grant is bone-chilling as the over-courteous villain who menaces with oh-so-typical English charm as he dissects faith with a pair of nervous Mormon missionaries. Struck dumb as we left the cinema, we needed a drink to loosen the tongues and unpick what we’d just witnessed. Despite – or perhaps because of – a round or two of the Devil’s brew, we weren’t able to make too much sense of the religious experience we’d just had.
When we got back to the village, we had a final snifter at our local. A couple of likely lads in football kit were sitting at the bar. They kept looking across. We couldn’t think why at first. Usually this means one of two things – fight or fancy. Had we pulled? Fat chance at our age. Should we flee? We soon realised that what they actually fancied was the signed Norwich City FC shirt hanging on the wall behind us. Well, at least they didn’t want to beat us up.
Perking the Pansies 