Category: Norwich

A Number on a List

A Number on a List

Recycle for NorwichWhat does this bog blue box on wheels look like to you? There’s a small clue stamped on the side. Yep, looks like a recycling wheelie bin to me too. So why is that the butch bin men of Norwich City Council (or refuse disposal executives or whatever fancy names they give themselves these days) walk past it as if it were invisible? Several fruitless calls to the over-imposing art décor city hall (the huge building that can be seen for miles and which the Luftwaffe failed to hit during a bombing raid) have not established why the vibrant blue box I share with our fabulous neighbour seems to merge inconspicuously into the brown-red brick backdrop at the very moment the bins around us get emptied. Apparently I’m not on their list and so I don’t exist. So put me on your list, I said. Right away, they said. Must have slipped their minds. I’m waiting for a call back from a very important supervisor-type person. Still no joy. That must have slipped their minds too. Exhausting work, this bean-counting business. I know, I used to be one of them. Over to UB40 who famously sang in 1981 (during the last great depression):

On in Ten

P.S. I know the green glass box (also invisible on collection day), does make it look like we’re a couple of old lushes but I would say in our defence that it’s two weeks worth of empties and our neighbour also has a wee dram from time to time.

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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

Philadelphia

Philadelphia

Last month, John, my eldest brother and his missus came to visit. He’s the eldest of five and would be the first to admit that when I trampolined out of the closet at the tender age of 16, he was none too pleased. In those far-flung days, only the likes of sexually ambivalent Larry Grayson, Kenneth Williams and John Inman were in the public consciousness and they all kept a foot firmly in the closet door. Most people thought all queers were predatory child abusers recruiting for the cause (some pond life still does, of course). Ironic, now that the Jimmy Savile scandal from that very era has now hit the fan. As the years rolled by, my brother’s views mellowed and moderated. I see his altered image as a metaphor for society as a whole. On the evening of our 5th wedding anniversary, John and his wife treated us to a slap-up meal at Jamie’s Italian. Thanks bro!

IMG_3139

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!

The First Day of Spring

The First Day of Spring

The first proper day of spring found us leaping into the car to make sure we didn’t miss it. Liam fancied a road trip to the north Norfolk coast and had the resort of Sheringham firmly in his sights. The town was heaving with families who had the same idea, all making the most of the Easter holidays. The air was thick with a heady blend of exhaust fumes, deep fried cod and sickly-sweet candyfloss. Memories of childhood came flooding back, jaunts to windswept resorts before I discovered the joys of Spain. And believe me, Sheringham was windswept. The North Sea was working hard to propel ice cream scoops from cones, causing deafening tantrums from the buggy brigade. Fortunately, the wind was warm.  Just a few weeks ago, the nipple-hardening gusts would have petrified the kiddies to the spot. I can’t say I liked Sheringham that much. From its name, I expected cute and quaint. I got bucket and spades and amusement arcades, fine if that floats your boat. The beach, though, is impressive.

Biker Boys in Cromer

From Sherringham, we swept inland to the Georgian market town of Holt for a root around and a light bite. The main road into town is dominated by a large funeral directors’ showroom and I suspect it does a brisk business. More of a large village, handsome Holt drips money, judging by the number of Chelsea tractors cruising through the streets and the price of property in the estate agents’ windows. Sadly, Holt was more or less closed. It was Sunday and Sundays are still sacred in this corner of the county.  We found just one bar/restaurant open. The owners had clearly given up their day of rest to monopolise the day’s trade. At eight quid for a cheese and ham toastie, they were making a killing.

We made it back to base for a final snifter before sundown. Naturally, the riverside beer garden at the Playhouse Theatre Bar was our hostelry of choice. We were the oldest bingers in town as we sat like a couple of old pervs watching the exuberant youngsters around us and ear-wigging their artful (and sometimes pretentious) conversations. I didn’t realise Fred Perry tops are back in. Shame. I chucked all mine out in the Noughties.

Playhouse Bar Beer Garden

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Attack of the Norovirus

The schools are off and a sparkling (but still chilly) early spring day brought the north folk of Norfolk out of hibernation to swarm around the lanes of Norwich in search of a bargain (and there are bargains galore to be had). I watched the throng from a kerbside café. I was out alone in fat jacket and shades to pick up provisions. Liam has been laid low by a nasty bout of gastro-enteritis caused by the norovirus he picked up visiting his mother at the weekend. The virus stalks for prey along the corridors of her care home like the Black Death. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about, my mother-in-law has been struck down and confined to bed along with Liam’s father, brother, sister and nephew. Liam has withdrawn to self-imposed quarantine (except for emergency dashes to the loo) in the vain hope that I won’t be the next casual casualty. I await my fate like a man on death row. We’re rather hoping to drop a few pounds.

FLR-040 NoroVirus Poster FINAL RGB.qxp

The norovirus is particularly perilous for the sick and the old. Does my mother-in-law’s care home have adequate infection controls in place? Your guess is as good as mine but I doubt it. The cynical may see this as a great way to manage turnover. I do know, after working in both adult and children’s social care for many years, that the State’s (and therefore, society’s) willingness to pay for the care of the most vulnerable diminishes as they age. Mark my words, eventually the shit will hit the fan (or the sheet, as in this case).

The good news is that mother-in-law is on the mend and will live to fight another day. We are mightily relieved.

The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel

The-best-exotic-marigold-hotelI wanted to see ‘The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel’ when it was released in 2012. It’s my kind of film but not the kind that got a screening at the plush cinema in Bodrum which tended to focus on Hollywood blockbusters, more’s the pity. We could have lifted a dodgy download from the enterprising Low Countries couple who did a roaring trade in counterfeit DVDs for the emigreys but I’m rather anti the whole it’s-not-really-stealing thing. Actually, it is. So, I was resigned to stalking the bargain bucket to acquire a proper copy at a knock-down rather than a knock-off price. My patience was rewarded and we picked up the film for a song at our local Norwich HMV store.

We uncorked the wine, turned off the lights and put our feet up. It was well worth the long wait. The tall tale is about a disparate group of cash-strapped Brits who up sticks, drop off their excess baggage at check-in and travel to the sun to eke out a low-cost dotage in an emigrey enclave (in this case, a run-down retirement hotel in India). Sounds strangely familiar and not so tall after all. The funny and tender script, heaving with sharp one-liners and set against the glorious chaos of the sub-continent, is delivered with expert thespian timing by the outstanding cast (including that pair of incomparable old Dames – Judi and Maggie). I didn’t want it to end

Let Dame Judi tell it as it is:

“There’s no past that we can bring back by longing for it, only a present that builds and creates itself as the past withdraws.”

Did the old wrinklies heed the advice and find redemption and contentment? Do any of us? Now, that would be telling.

The Little Book of Coming Out Stories

The Little Book of Coming Out Stories

The Little Book of Coming Out Stories‘The Little Book of Coming Out Stories’ must in the running for the smallest book in print. Like me and gift boxes from Cartier, the best things come in pocket-sized packages. The book may be small in size but it’s big in ambition – 140 stories in 140 characters (or less) for £1.40. It’s a coming out textbook for the Twitter age. Compiled and produced by filmmaker/trainer Shelly Telly and poet/artist Vince Laws, the book is packed with abbreviated anecdotes that amuse, shock, sadden and liberate. Bravo to the people who shared their stories. Two tales, in particular, caught my eye:

My mother has Alzheimers so I have to keep coming out. Doesn’t get any easier!

I came out to my friends and family. My friends have been very supportive. My parents don’t talk to me. Water is thicker than blood.

The book is available to borrow from any Norfolk library or to buy from the Book Hive, the Greenhouse Shop or direct from Shelley (email shell@shellytelly.co.uk).

Now what would be my own coming out short?

I bounced out of the closet from a trampoline. The overcrowded cupboard was giving me claustrophobia. I don’t do orgies.

Lady Haha

Lady Haha

Lady Haha Playhouse Theatre

To honour International Women’s Day (8th March), we plopped through the puddles on a blustery night to watch a quintet of female comics. The gals with gags strutted their stuff for the ‘Lady Haha’ show at the Playhouse, Norwich (a fab bar with a theatre attached). Generally, I’m not keen on stand up – a bit too hit and miss or too clever by half in my experience. I needn’t have worried. The acts – Grainne Maguire, Amy Howerska, Vikki Stone, Diane Spencer and headliner, Tiffany Stevenson – tickled my ribs with their bawdy take on feminism, racism, gingaphobia, relationships, dating, men, oversized willies and orgasms (or lack thereof). These funny ladies of the night are going places.

PS: I was a tad disappointed not to see Aisling Bea who was originally billed to appear, mainly because she sounds like a sickly insect. 

PPS: Vikki Stone is a younger, filthier version of the superlative Victoria Wood and is quite a hit on You Tube. This is one of her lewd tunes. Best not watch if you’re easily offended.

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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.

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