Category: Norwich

Rainbow Balls

The marching season will soon be upon us. I’m not referring to the archaic and socially corrosive pipe and drum marches in Northern Ireland. No, I mean the collective act of uninhibited worship by LGBT communities in towns and cities up and down the realm. He-men in heels, lads in lycra, dames in dungarees and enough gingham to supply every Doris Day film ever made will be parading through the streets chanting the pink anthem, “We’re here, we’re queer, we go shopping.” All are welcome. It’s a glorious celebration of diversity without the slightest risk of disturbance by fascist thugs. Blighty isn’t Russia. The only skinheads on view will be in frocks. It wasn’t always like this. The Sceptred Isle has come along way in a few short years. According to The European International Lesbian and Gay Association Europe, Blighty is the best place in Europe to be gay. From what I’ve read and experienced, I would agree. Who’d be openly gay in Moldova?

Sadly, the dancing days of mega-prides are almost behind us. Most of them operated on a wing and a prayer at the best of times: a single bad weather day would financial cripple the lavish parties in the park with their huge overheads, top billing acts and decadent consumption of alcohol and recreational drugs. The cost of the clean-up operation alone was enough to bail out the Greeks. Brighton Pride is the lone survivor. Last year, for the first time, it was pay-on-the-gate affair. I fear its days are numbered.

We’ve been following the preparations for Norwich Pride with keen interest. Money is tight but the dedicated volunteers are doing all they can to ensure the festival remains both fun for all the family and solvent. The fundraising efforts that have caught my eager eye include ‘Ping Pong for Pride,’ a table tennis knockabout at a local primary school (with rainbow balls) and a Eurovision Song Contest party at Cinema City (proceeds to be split between Norwich Pride and the BBC’s Children in Need). On the 28th July, the gayest day of the year, Norwich will be awash with an ocean of fluttering rainbow flags, including over Hellesdon Hospital, Aviva Insurance, the Norwich Puppet Theatre, City College, Norwich City Council, Norfolk County Council, the Castle Museum and the Fire Service Head Quarters. We’ll be there to cheer on the drag queens, soak up the gaiety and to dance to diversity at Norwich’s very own family-friendly rainbow ball.

Getting the Abbey Habit

West End super-hit Sister Act (developed from the Whoopi Goldberg movie) is on nationwide pilgrimage and arrived at the Theatre Royal, Norwich, in April. To celebrate this holy occasion, the theatre attempted to break the Guinness World Record for the most number of people dragged up as nuns in one place. Graham James, Bishop of Norwich, was ordained to judge the endeavour. The good Bishop was escorted by Jan McFarlane, Archdeacon of Norwich, who was dressed to impress in her big black dress. The Venerable Archdeacon said,

“It was frighteningly easy to find a habit. I thought about borrowing a real one but decided to get my own. I may have missed my true calling.”

Alas, the challenge fell rather short of the 251 needed to break the record. Liam was distraught at getting none of the nun fun. He was relishing the thought of running up a couple of habits on the old Singer.

Check out the video

From Local to Yokel

It’s Sod’s Law. As soon we decide to paddle back to Blighty on the evening tide to become country yokels, two things happen to make life in battered Bodrum just that little bit easier and that little bit cheaper.

First off, the Town’s highways and byways are being laid with fibre optic cables. A battalion of dusky, sweaty vested navvies is carving out mini-trenches along every street. The deep furrows are being backfilled badly and dribbled with lumpy tarmac. In some of the crazy paving alleys, zigzagging troughs look like hastily repaired earthquake cracks.

The project is a joint venture between Super Online (internet) and Turkcell (mobile phone). Fibre optic cables provide a much faster and more reliable internet experience and the new service will give the current whore’s drawers service from TTNET (Turk Telekom) a run for its money. Who knows, it may even drive down prices. I hear there are also plans for cable TV in the pipeline. Oh, what joy: the chance to tell Digiturk (Satellite broadcaster) where to shove their overpriced packages.

And so to the second piece of good news. Dolly drivers on the flat fare blue-liveried bus routes now charge us the tariff usually reserved for locals (2 lira instead of 2.75 as advertised in English). It’s only taken two years. Sadly, we’ve yet to get the local rate at cute Ali’s barbers for our one-round-the-side-two-on-the-top crops. He’s worth it though. Even without the ‘extras’.

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Norwich?!

This has been the loaded question from some of those in the loop. Do I sense smidgeon of incredulity? A soupçon of smugness? To be fair, until quite recently, all I knew of Norwich was the Sale of the Century from the Seventies, Bernard Matthew’s gobbling turkeys and the acronym, kNickers Off Ready When I Come Home. I used the latter in text messages to Liam when we were at it like rabbits during our honeymoon years. By common consent, the former Anglo-Saxon kingdom of East Anglia is full of in-breeds shagging their siblings and marrying their cousins (sound familiar?). This may be true in the rural flatlands of England’s gobbling breadbasket but surely not in the pretty cathedral city, a hidden gem with its student vibe, wine bars and arthouses. We are delighted to be joining the north folk of Norfolk as neo Norwichians (not to be confused with Norwegians who, as Vikings, did a bit of raping and pillaging in that part of our Sceptred Isle). And just in case you need further convincing, take a look at this:

Okay, Norwich didn’t win but we all know that Derry (or Londonderry, depending on what side of the fence you pray on) won for political reasons. Just in case you’re thinking of sending me outraged of Derry/Londonderry letters, I’m entitled to say that. I’m half Northern Irish and I don’t pray at all.

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No Going Back on Going Back

And the Winners Are

And the Winners Are…

All medieval Gothic cathedrals look the same to me – all those lofty arches, graceful buttresses, elegant cloisters, grimacing gargoyles and more effigies of martyred saints than I could shake a stick at. Thank you to everyone who entered the spot the Goth competition. Some were stumped and plumped for Chichester, Durham, Oxford and second favourite, Salisbury. All fine buildings, but nil points to you lot. Yes, the next exciting whistle-stop on our pansy trail is the fair city of Norwich, the handsome capital of East Anglia and former home to the quiz of the week with Nicholas Parsons.

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We decided to alter the competition rules a little (we can do that) and pick a couple of winners at random instead of just the one. Liam selected one and I chose the other. Congratulations to Niki Fowler and Paul Hard. A pristine copy of Perking the Pansies will be with you very soon, signed, sealed and delivered. We hope you enjoy it. And if you do, tell your family, your friends, strangers in the street, shout it from the rooftops and maybe add a review to Amazon. As they say at Tesco’s, every little helps.

Off to Norwich we shall plod and that’s where I’ll write the sequel. Emigreys beware. Just when you thought it was safe to dip your toes in the Ege, I’ll be tying up the loose ends of our extraordinary time in old Bodrum Town and moving the story along to its bitter end. I’ll also keep on blogging, reporting on the Motherland and our foster home through my veracious, liberal eyes. The uncensored safety of Blighty will allow me to write more honestly.

Have a look at No Going Back on Going Back for all the competition entries (those not published elsewhere). It’s my most commented on post.

No Going Back on Going Back

‘In the beginning there was work and work was God. After 35 years in the business, the endless predictability made me question the Faith.’

I wrote those words on the 8th October 2010, the opening sentence of my debut post on a brand new blog about a couple of silly, cynical old queens who decided to jump the good ship Blighty and wade ashore to Asia Minor as gay semigreys (or is it semigays? No, that would be those who dip in and out). For a minority report, the blog’s done rather well. Now there’s a book. That’s done rather well too. Remarkable. Both crept up behind us without hint or herald. Maybe we should have listened to the early advice of our playground peers and kept our backs to the wall. Too late now.

We planned to stay in Turkey for a good few years, slowly descend into memory loss and erectile dysfunction disguised by a haze of alcohol, then paddle back to Blighty for the liver transplant and wait for the Grim Reaper’s call. Sadly, it’s not to be. I’d like to do author things and keep the pennies (and believe me I do mean pennies) rolling in. I can do neither in Turkey. There’s another reason. An important reason. There are pressing family issues that cannot be ducked or delayed. If you have read the book you will understand:

“One day, our Turkish adventure might be curtailed. We were prepared.” (Chapter 12)

That time has come.

Where will we be laying our hatboxes next? Well, there’s a clue in the picture below. Hint – it’s not in Soho.

Where is this?

Thank you Turkey for breaking the umbilical cord between wages and lifestyle. Thank you Turkey for giving me the time and space to write. Thank you Turkey for handing me a story on a plate. We hope one day to return. But, for now there’s no going back on going back.

Perking the Pansies2 (464 x 700)The photo above is a picture of one of the great cathedrals of England but where is it? Answer correctly for the chance to win* a signed copy of Perking the Pansies, Jack and Liam move to Turkey. Submit your answer by commenting on this post.

*The winner will be chosen at random by Liam from correct entries submitted before 4th March 2012. Comments containing entries to the competition will not be published until after this date so no cheating. The book will be shipped free to the winner to any address in the UK or Turkey. Delivery elsewhere (Mongolia, the dark side of the Moon, etc) may incur charges depending on the cost. Those who already know the answer are banned (we know who you are).

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In the Beginning

And the Winners Are…

Norwich?!

Emigrey Spongers

Maurice invited us to his gaff for festive drinks on Christmas Eve. I was delighted to discover that Bernard from Majorca was in town. Bernard is the El Presidente of the ‘First Wives Club’, the fellowship of the ring of exes with whom Maurice has remained friends. Liam thinks the whole concept of staying on good terms with old flames is unnatural. I have membership card number five. It’s fair to say that Maurice has a distinct type, since we are all stout short arses. His current squeeze is no exception. We are the six gobby dwarves to his stocky Snow White.

Meeting up with Bernard again reminded me of my encounter with the Spanish chapter of the guild of emigreys many years ago. Bernard runs a bar in Mallorca and Maurice and I visited him one wet, windswept winter. We were invited to Sunday lunch with an east country couple called Doreen and Jim from Norwich.  Jim was doing hard labour retiling Bernard’s bar floor for which he was being handsomely paid. I asked what brought them to Spain. “Too many foreigners coming into the country and sponging off the social” came the depressingly familiar reply. I nearly fell of my chair when Jim boasted, without the slightest hint of irony, that he was claiming incapacity benefit.