Category: Norwich

Celebrate World Book Day

Millennium Library Norwich

Today is World Book Day here in Blighty. One of the main aims of the event is to disconnect today’s cyber-mad yoof from their gadgets and gizmos and save them from irreparable damage to their imagination (i.e. anything beyond the visual). Pissing in the wind? I hope not. I’m an irrepressible optimist. So, my friends, support the cause by popping out to a bookshop and picking up the real deal in paper and card to have and to hold from this day forward. A bit short of the readies? No problem, join your local library. It costs nothing. Libraries can be exciting and surprising places these days. Gone are the days of stuffy shelves, dusty benches and bespectacled bookworms whose only words were “shush!” The best of the bunch are multi-media extravaganzas that stimulate all of the senses, none more so than Norwich’s Millennium Library at the Forum. For the sixth year running, this hi-viz high tech vortex of culture and learning has been named the most popular library in the realm, with over 1.3 million visitors passing through the doors each year. I knew it was quality the moment I found my own literary witterings in their catalogue. Naturally, I had to borrow the book to make sure. I won’t keep it for long. I know what happens in the end.

9781904881643-Perking the Pansies COVER.inddIf Norwich is too far to trot, you’ll also find Perking the Pansies in the British Library, The National Library of Scotland, The City of Sydney Library, The Liverpool City Library (that’s Liverpool in New South Wales), The Stonnington Library, South Yarra, Australia and The Wellington Public Library in New Zealand.

Not bad for a debut book by a nobody who is neither a reality TV star nor a celebrity cook. I’m gobsmacked, as they say in the tabloids.

Postscript:

Today is also my old girl’s birthday. She’s 84. Happy birthday, Mum!

Nine to Five

Nine to FiveDespite a head cold that had me supping on the gin and Lemsip, Liam managed to get me to Dolly Parton’s  ‘9 to 5’ at the Theatre Royal, Norwich. Adapted from the 1980 movie comedy starring Dolly, Lily Tomlin and Jane Fonda, ‘9 to 5’ is a high-energy musical farce about three overworked and overlooked female office workers exacting delicious revenge on their lazy, lecherous, sexist, misogynistic boss. We had terrific seats for a terrific show with some terrific tunes and terrific lines (“You’re just a typewriter with tits.”). Amy Lennox* was uncanny in the Dolly role. If you closed your eyes, you’d think it was the chesty chanteuse on stage. Natalie Casey as Jane Fonda was superb with sharp comic timing and a tremendous voice. Slightly more disappointing was Jackie Clune in the Lily Tomlin part; a few more dance lessons might help. Veteran trouper, Bonnie Langford, almost stole the show in her supporting role as the boss’s fawning assistant.  Bonnie can throw her legs higher and wider than anyone I’ve ever seen on stage, screen or porn flick. The gorgeous Dolly has quite a following among the gay fraternity and the audience was liberally sprinkled with fairy dust, including the man next to me whose shocking hair don’t would have him run out of Soho. Dolly herself appeared as narrator on a large clock-faced screen above the stage. Saying “thank you” to Norwich was a nice touch and Dolly brought the house down when she launched into the familiar ‘9 to 5’ theme at the end.

*We saw the talented Amy Lennox in ‘Soho Cinders’ last summer and she was superb in that too.

Plumber’s Bum

Plumber's bum

In their utilitarian wisdom, the local water company decided to replace our meter. Apparently, the old device was knackered and belonged in the Science Museum (along with what’s left of British manufacturing). A couple of big lads turned up in fetching hi viz vests and butch safety helmets (it takes a real man to carry off yellow with style). After a bit of bump and grind, the meter was replaced in a thrice. Off they trotted, job done. I fancied a cuppa and went to the tap to fill the kettle. Up went the lever, down came the trickle. I’ve commented on our lacklustre sprinkle before but this was beyond ridiculous – more no-flow than low-flow. A quick bell to Anglian Water and, following a brief conversation about the whereabouts of my stop-cock (no idea), an emergency plumber was dispatched to my rescue. Oh God, I thought. It’ll be days of whore’s wipes, takeaways and pre-programmed poos before my stop-cock gets a good seeing to. But, no. A hour later, a handsome chappy in cargo pants turned up with wrench it hand. “Where’s your stop-cock?” he asked. “No idea,” I replied. He searched high and low and discovered the mechanism lurking behind the washing machine. As he knelt down to inspect my crevice, he flashed his own little crack. It was crowned with a tiny tuft of wispy hair. I stifled a wolf-whistle. A firm twist of the wrist and whoosh, the source of life gushed forth. Most satisfying. So, we now have sufficient water pressure to run a small hydro-electric dam. It never rains but it pours.

Hyde Park on Hudson

Hyde Park on Hudson

Hyde Park on HudsonAnother free ticket for Cinema City and another viewing: ‘Hyde Park on Hudson.’ We were enticed by the promising trailer, but I’m afraid the trailer contained all the best bits. Given the context – the first official visit of a British monarch to the USA, desperately trying to drum up American support on the eve of World War Two – and the salacious depiction of President Roosevelt as a serial philanderer with a First Lady who liked to lick the lettuce, the movie was disappointingly flat. The narrative was plodding and the dialogue lacked depth. Laura Linney put in a fine performance as ‘Daisy,’ the President’s distant cousin and reluctant paramour, Bill Murray as Roosevelt did his best with an average script and Samuel West made a suitably terrified King George VI. But ‘The King’s Speech,’ this ain’t.

Young at Heart

Young at Heart

To celebrate John Hurt’s appointment as the first Chancellor of the newly elevated Norwich University of the Arts, we sank a bottle at the nearby Playhouse Theatre Bar (like we need an excuse). The bar is the boozer of choice for the trendy young things loading up their student debts in wild abandon. Sitting like a couple of old codgers in the corner, we love to imbibe the ambience that overflows with youthful exuberance and optimism. It’s a welcome antidote to the cynicism of older age. The banter and gossip can be delicious and we are dedicated eavesdroppers.

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    Speech marks

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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.

An Intimate Evening with Ruthie Henshall

ruthie-goldRuthie Henshall, star of the West End, Broadway and Celebrity Family Fortunes, was in town performing her one woman gig at the Norwich Playhouse. Liam was first in the queue for tickets. Olivier award-winning Ruthie went down like mulled wine on a chilly night and belted out the old show tunes to an appreciative audience of old queens and old codgers. Ruthie’s tender rendition of “I Dreamed a Dream” from “Les Mis” (Ruthie played the role of tragic Fantine on stage in 1992) made for an interesting comparison with Anne Hathaway’s epic interpretation in the film version of the Glums currently doing the rounds. Ruthie didn’t disappoint.

The likeable Ms Henshaw punctuated the show with intimate tales and titbits from her chequered past. The slightly nervous repartee contrasted with a confident despatch of her back catalogue and the overall effect was rather endearing. I left the auditorium thinking that this was a girl I could have a drink with. Liam left the auditorium in love with yet another chanteuse.

I have my own romantic association with “I Dream a Dream.” Many moons ago in a gay bar on the Fulham Road, it was sung to me by a fat drag queen called ‘Dockyard Doris.’ Dearly departed Doris had a huge voice and carried off the key change with music hall assurance. The song was requested by a gas fitter (I was cleaning out his pipes at the time). He thought I was the one. I had other ideas. 

And Then There Were Three

wheelie binWhen we lived in Walthamstow, the recycling scheme was clear and simple. We had a single green plastic container into which all material was deposited – plastic, glass, paper, cardboard, aluminium cans – the entire kit and caboodle. I called it my ‘save the world box’ and it was emptied weekly. Four years on and the whole recycling malarkey has got a lot more serious. We now have a black wheelie bin for general household refuse and a light green wheelie bin for recycling except for kitchen waste that goes in a little black box, garden waste that is chucked into a beige sack and glass which goes into a dark green box. The latter, in particular, requires the strength of two butch lads to lug and tip. Our little back yard, with its random collection of multi-sized containers, could be entered into the Turner Prize to represent the municipal oppression of the common man.

Our general rubbish and recycling is collected on alternate weeks. This came as quite a shock after the twice daily tours by Bodrum bin men. At my advanced age, the new regime takes some mental acrobatics to remember what week is which. I’ve taken to sticking post-it notes on the multi-point.  Nevertheless, we do our bit. Sometimes though, the city council don’t do theirs and sometimes, they serve up an embarrassment of riches. Three times now, our recycling has been left to rot by the wayside. Our refuse was refused. Then we were suddenly hit by the mysterious case of the stolen wheelie. I looked out the window. It was gone. I looked up and down the street. It was of empty of wheelies of any sort. What would Miss Marple make of it? I amused myself with the thought of early-morning students on a drunken caper wheeling my wheelie around the city with a pissed-up nerd inside. Wheelie-less, I rang the Council. “I’m without a wheelie,” I said. “Oh dear, no,” a sympathetic lady replied. She was shocked by my sorry tale and promised re-instatement. A shiny new wheelie arrived the very next day; then another one the day after, then a third the day after that. I’ve opened an e-Bay account. Don’t tell the Council.

The Big Thaw

The Big Thaw

After the big freeze comes the inevitable big thaw as temperatures rise to their seasonal norm. The glaciers of Norwich are gently melting to a sloppy slush of dirty grey and iced water gently trickles away into sewers. My bruised back is gradually recovering from my big trip and I can venture out once more without fear of slippage and indignity. Before the cold snap becomes yesterday’s news, I give one last cold snap of my own – our patio table looking like a giant iced sponge on a silver cake stand.

The Big Thaw