This Christmas, as is our habit, we’re looking forward to calorific grub, artery-hardening afters and pick ‘n’ mix snacking, washed down with a barrel of posh plonk (all courtesy of Mr Marks and Mr Spencer) and seasoned with a little peace on Earth. The last one seems to be a rare commodity these days; we can only hope for a bit more comfort and joy. Whatever Christmas means to you, may your day be merry and bright.
I’ll leave you with the John Lewis Christmas TV ad, the cream of the crop this year. It gets me every time. Best grab the Kleenex.
Following a week or so of life-affirming lolling and libations on Paxos, we’ve switched it up a gear for a couple of nights in Corfu Old Town – Kerkyra to the locals. We’re staying at the Hotel Konstantinoupolis, a beautiful but faded 19th-century neo-Venetian pile overlooking the Ionian Sea with a faint but distinct whiff of Poirot about it. The aircon in our room provides blesséd relief but our over-zealous shower floods the entire bathroom. Ours is the balcony with the open shutters to the right of the second-floor hotel sign. It was too hot to sit out.
Buzz Town
Designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site, Corfu Old Town is a caramel-coloured labyrinth of lanes and alleyways stuffed with rows of old Venetian-style tenements – all wooden shutters, ornate balconies and grandma’s bloomers blowing in the wind. Down on the street, tourist tat vies for space with posh shops and designer labels. There’s a real buzz in the super-heated air.
Feeling Hot, Hot, Hot
It’s hot, really hot. The face-slapping sizzle on Paxos was moderated slightly by a sea breeze and a cool pool. Not so in Corfu Town. To stop these old pansies from wilting completely, we dive in and out of air-conditioned souvenir shops for a pretend thumb and browse, and pitstop at various watering holes along the way to our final destination, the trés élégante Liston, an arcade modelled on the Rue de Rivoli in Paris. It’s simply stunning. We take up pole position to people watch the shuffling lines of sweaty cruise ship oldies in socked sandals, bum bags and floppy hats.
Rude!
For our culture fix, we had a gander around the mercifully cool Museum of Asiatic Art housed in the Palace of St Michael and St George. Constructed by the British between 1819 and 1824, the neo-classical palace was built for the colonial high commissioner and the Ionian Senate. The collection is impressive, with artefacts assembled from across the Asian continent – paintings and pictures, silks and Samurai swords, vases, masks and magic carpets, and more Buddha heads to shake a slapstick at. Liam was rather taken by the flamboyant camel drag, but his interest really piqued with the display of erotic Indian sculptures. Yes, they really are doing what you think they’re doing.
So that was Paxos and Corfu – two iridescent islands, fourteen clammy days and enough cheap plonk to sink a frigate. We shall return. But maybe not in July next time.
After tripping the light fantastic along Tooting High Street, I took Liam even further down my memory lane with a short hop to Wandsworth Town. I showed him where I was a shoe shop Saturday boy, the primary school where I was a knotty-haired happy chappy, and finally, my digs from the age of ten until I ventured out into the wicked world – my ‘days on the tills, nights on the tiles’ moment before marriage and a mortgage.
After my Dad retired from the British Army, my parents ran a backstreet shop, one of a parade of four. Ours was a ‘bottle and basket’ selling booze and bread and all things in between, and we lived above and behind. It was a good little earner. Even during the dark days of the 1974 three-day week, Dad kept the lights on with candles from the cash and carry. It was a cold and miserable time and people hit the hard stuff to get through it – a bit like the recent lockdowns. On a happier note, as part of Her Maj’s 1977 Silver Jubilee celebrations, Mum helped organise a street party. The till rang non-stop as the red, white and blue bunting fluttered in the summer breeze.
Of the other shops, next door was a butcher’s with a newsagent’s at the end. I can’t remember what the third shop in the parade was. It hardly matters now as they’re all gone – long-since converted into gentrified houses that fetch a king’s ransom.
Here’s a very rare picture of me from that bygone era. Our first-floor parlour was a riot of clashing colours and patterns – very de rigueur at the time. I’m sure it’s much more tasteful today. But why was my chopper bike propped up against the sofa?
To misquote Mark Twain, ‘The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.’ And I hope that’s also true of the long-anticipated demise of the high street. The great shift to online shopping may have been accelerated by the pandemic but I, for one, relish the experience of grazing and browsing in the real world. And so do many others judging by the queues of masked punters we saw shuffling towards the entrances of various Norwich stores when we ventured into town. Sure, some retailers have gone to the wall while others limp on but a little imagination and a lot of fairy dust might be all it takes to stop the rot and save our city centres from becoming ghost towns. People are nothing if not inventive and fairy dust is plentiful in the retail trade.
One thing an online shop can’t provide is the conviviality of a post-shop bottle and bite. This we sought in the Lamb Inn, our favourite city centre watering hole. The delightful lady at the gate recognised us. ‘One white, one red,’ she said. She’s Spanish and I was delighted that Brexit hadn’t put her off from sticking around. What she didn’t know is I had a brand-new axe in my man bag. I’ve never gone tooled up before. I felt like a criminal. And that’s another thing you can’t get online – an offensive weapon. Well, not legally anyway. Rest assured I bought the axe to chop up firewood, not run amok. Norfolk isn’t Midsomer.
As we took our seats for the bus home, I looked through the window at the YMCA opposite. I began to wonder if ‘it’s fun to stay at the YMCA’, as suggestively sung by the Village People. I doubt it. This is Norwich not New York and these village people have long since hung up their leathers and feathers.
A light dusting of the fluffy white stuff generally brings the entire nation to a shuddering halt and a lot of huffing and puffing over the airwaves. But, as we’re already under house arrest, this year’s avalanche has made little difference to our daily lives – except for one thing. Our Sainsbury’s supermarket delivery was cancelled and we were forced to venture out into the snow and ice to buy bog rolls, booze and our daily bread.
Still, the kids seem to be having a ball. Beats school any day. Oh yes, I forgot. They’re not at school anyway!
My teeth were the first casualty of the pandemic. Both my routine check-up and appointment with the hygienist were cancelled as dental surgeries up and down the land shut up shop and the nation’s drills fell silent. But dentists are now back in business – just – and I went into town for my first scale and polish of 2020. Health and safety measures were in full swing with a new check-in app, a strict one way system, sanitisers everywhere and the poor hygienist dripping in enough PPE for a trip to Mars.
It was only our second trip into Norwich since lockdown so we made the most of it, picking up a few non-essential must-haves. Face masks must now be worn in all shops and indoor shopping centres. Most folk complied, with a rich array of styles from the unimaginative to the truly outlandish. Our little black numbers were at the dull end of the spectrum. And, unlike the man who was recently caught strolling down Oxford Street in London, the masks covered the right appendage.
But I couldn’t help thinking that they gave a false sense of security as shoppers weaved through the crowd pretty much ignoring signs and social distancing.
We also took full advantage of Chancellor ‘Risky’ Rishi’s ‘Eat Out to Help Out’ discount scheme to jump-start the hospitality sector after the leanest of months. We lunched late but before we were shown to our table, our temperature was checked by the maître d’. Very reassuring, I thought, and the only time I’ve been pleased not to have been called hot, hot, hot.
It was a warm but rainy day for our first forage into Norwich since March’s lockdown. I must admit we felt unexpectedly anxious at the prospect of leaving the sanctuary of the village and heading into town on a bus. We girded our loins, with masks and sanitisers cocked and ready.
It was actually fine. Because of social distancing rules, bus capacity has been reduced and, as we were two of only six passengers, there was plenty of room. This didn’t stop a young couple sitting together in non-designated seats and removing their masks to chat. What is it with the young? They may feel indestructible, safe in the knowledge that the dreaded lurgy is unlikely to bring them down, but that won’t stop them super-spreading to the rest of us.
It was good to get back into the city again. Norwich was busy but not packed – almost normal. Big Issue sellers were back on the streets and most cafés and shops were open. The only thing noticeably missing were the buskers and artists who, in better times, provide a weird and wonderful addition to Norwich’s street life.
Wherever we went seemed well-organised and COVID-secure with lots of one-way systems going on. Most people complied. No one was overwhelmed with punters, though. It’s an anxious time for traders, I’m sure.
After a bit of retail therapy, we headed to the Lamb Inn for a cheeky bottle of blush and some hearty pub grub, using a handy app to order and pay. Our food and drinks were brought to our table by a delightful young waitress. It was all done efficiently and with a reassuring smile. I think this continental style table service might catch on – until winter sets in that is.
Apart from clacking about in my mother’s heels when I was six (and who hasn’t done that?) I’ve only cross-dressed once – dragging up as Mary Hopkins at a fancy dress Eurovision Song Contest party back in the day. I picked up a dodgy blonde wig and cheap black dress on the Roman Road Market in London’s East End. In DMs and black eyeliner, my Mary looked like a gothed-up pantomime dame. I made sure all the photos were destroyed.
With my drag days long behind me, imagine my surprise to get this delivered from dependable ol’ Marks and Spencer, the cornerstone of the beleagued British High Street.
Not so dependable, after all. Right name, right address, wrong order. We wanted fitted sheets. We got fitted bras. And not any old bras, oh no. These were M&S bras, sumptuously soft with full cups in 36B. Still, it made us giggle on a slow day.
Here’s the real Mary doing her thing on Eurovision back when the UK had a fighting chance of winning. Not that Mary did win. Despite being red-hot favourite, she came second to Ireland’s Dana, a sweet-voiced chanteuse with fire and brimstone views.
Who knows what life will be like once we’re released from house arrest? What will the so-called new normal look like? What’s certain is we’re all Zooming, streaming and buying online like never before. This was already the direction of travel and it just got turbo-charged. How many bricks and mortar businesses will survive is anyone’s guess.
And then there are the most ancient of games – cruising, coupling and canoodling – and the arenas where these rituals are played out. From an LGBT perspective, swiping right had already forced many a gay boozer to call time for good. Why bother with the faff and expense of propping up a bar hoping for a chance liaison when you can order in with free delivery? But these places aren’t just about a Saturday night takeaway, they also provide a community hub and a safe haven from a sometimes hostile world.
An old friend sent me – via WhatsApp, ironically – these amazing images of some of London’s most iconic gay pubs, venues with long and infamous pedigrees. I don’t know who took the pictures so they can’t be credited but they brought back a flood of memories of my gloriously misspent past.
Ladies and gents and all those in between, I give you the seven sisters. As the old saying goes, use them or lose them.
The Kings Arms: famous for bears, their admirers and Jivin’ Julie’s sunday night karoake
The Eagle: the youngest of the seven sisters
The Admiral Duncan: made famous by a nail bomb which, in 1999, killed three and maimed many others
Halfway to Heaven: where Liam first caught my roving eye 14 years ago
The Duke of Wellie: always my favourite Soho boozer right next door to my least favourite, Rupert Street
Comptons: Soho’s boozy, cruisy bar frequented by likely lads from all over the world
The Royal Vauxhall Tavern cabaret bar and the eldest sister by far. Listed status may not protect it from demolition. My mother watched drag shows there in the sixties
We’ve had an invasion of psychedelic gorillas, a parade of colourful elephants, the flight of the camp dragons and a husk of vivid hares, not mention the wacky ducks that paddle up the Wensum every year. Now big bugs are swarming all over our local shopping centre. And, really big buggers they are too, like extras from an old Hammer horror film. The kids love ’em. And who could resist the chance to clamber all over some poor giant ladybird minding her own business? With the relentless rise of online shopping, it’s a clever ploy to get parents off their computers and into the stores. Long live pester power.
Perking the Pansies 