Category: TV & Radio

Tattoo!

Tattoo!

TattooAccording to a recent article in the Independent newspaper, Norwich is the second most tattooed city in the land, with 41% of people saying they sport more than six images. Coincidentally there are six tattoo parlours in the city centre, all doing a roaring trade. There was a time when tattoos were the preserve of randy roughs and frisky seamen. These days, the streets are teeming with cocks of the county wearing their body art with pride. Everybody’s at it. Some are so well adorned, they could be skinned and hung in the Tate. And yes, the image above is a tattoo of Norwich’s ancient cathedral. Is nothing sacred? Norwich tattoos even get a brief mention in Turkey Street.

‘F-f-fwend,’ said Sean, holding out his hand to an ageing skinhead with a trio of studs in one ear and a spider tattoo crawling up the side of his neck.

Turkey Street,  Chapter Thirteen, Blesséd are the Meek

I’m not against tattoos per se. In fact, I’ve got one myself. It’s a sad little thing resting on my shoulder, long faded with age and disfigured by a mole. I had it done many moons ago and have never repeated the experience. It was like having glass dragged across my skin. No, a little body engraving is fine by me, it’s just, like most things, less is more. When the lovely Iwan Thomas was the first to be ejected from this year’s Strictly Come Dancing on the Beeb, maybe it had more to do with the sudden exposure of his breast plate embellishment than his stompy cha-cha-cha. And I do wonder, when the ravages of time take their inevitable toll and taut young bodies are distorted by bingo wings, double-barrelled bellies and thunder thighs, how many men (and women, of course) will regret the artful decisions of their youth.

Iwan Thomas

Image courtesy of BBC/Guy Levy

Vicious!

Vicious!

Vicious

Norwich life is enriched by regular soirees of beer and banter with a well-preserved couple who have been together since God was a toddler. They will remain nameless to spare their blushes. We’re the same generation and witter on endlessly about the good-old, bad-old days, the state of the nation and who will change our nappies during the bewildered years. It’s a fun and fruity gig.

Last time we met, we all fell into conversation with the pot man collecting a forest of empty glasses from our table. It turned out he was a student at the University of East Anglia working his way through a PhD in Medieval History. He was also gay, clever and quick witted. The young buck took one look at the four old codgers and quipped,

God, it’s like staring at my future. An episode of Vicious.*

Well that put us in our place. You’ve got to love the young.

*Vicious is a recent high camp, hit-and-miss TV sitcom featuring a couple of elderly theatrical types starring a couple of old thespians, Derek Jacobi and Ian McKellen.

Did She or Didn’t She?

Helen McDermott is a radio and TV presenter who, back in the day, was one of the most popular faces on Anglia TV, the local commercial television franchise-holder in these parts. These days she keeps her hand in by presenting at Mustard TV, a local community station. Recently, though, Helen hit the national headlines by calling her fellow presenter a naughty name – a really naughty name, in fact the naughtiest of names – after he referred to her as a relic. The gaff didn’t end up of the cutting room floor. Oh no. It was aired and before the watershed, too. But  as only one man and his flock actually watch Mustard TV, who would ever know? The tabloids, that’s who. But did she actually say it? You be judge (or change channel, if you’re easily offended).

Thank you to the multi-talented Mark Gracey who suggested this post one night over a sweet sherry.

Cilla Black, RIP

Cilla Black, RIP

The inimitable Cilla Black has just died at the young age of 72 at her home in Spain. It’s a sad day. I grew up with Cilla (née Priscilla White) from her glory days as Britain’s premier power balladeer in the Swinging Sixties to her reign as undisputed queen of Saturday night TV in the Eighties with programmes like Blind Date. So I do hope when Cilla pitched up at the Pearly Gates, St Peter asked:

What’s your name and where do you come from?

I think Our Cilla would have liked that

Blind Date

Radio_NorwichTurkey StreetYesterday was my date with Stephen Bumfrey on BBC Radio Norfolk. I was a tad nervous. I needn’t have worried. Stephen has a natural charm which immediately put me at my ease and the conversation turned effortlessly. We talked about my memories of a tropical childhood, the curse of the whinging emigrey, my hopeless language skills, the challenges of a Mediterranean winter and, of course, my book, Turkey Street. It was like catching up with an old friend over a sherry or three. What fun I had. Thank you, Stephen for letting me shamelessly plug my book.

If you didn’t listen live, you can catch the podcast here. It’s available for the next 29 days only. My gig starts at 2:37 into the show.

I’m Nearly Famous

I’m Nearly Famous

BBC Radio Norfolk

Turkey StreetI’ve been invited onto the Stephen Bumfrey Entertainment Show on BBC Radio Norfolk to have a natter about my book, Turkey Street.  According to the BBC radio website, the marvellous Stephen ‘mingles with the stars of stage and screen on his afternoon show.’ The only time I’ve ever treaded the boards was as Snug the Joiner cum Lion in a school production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I roared a lot and fluffed my lines. And as for my screen career, well, we’d best draw a veil over the sex tape. So I feel a bit of a fraud. Help!

Listen to me fluff my lines all over again this Tuesday (21st) at 2:30 on 95.1 FM, 104.4 FM, DAB and over the web.

Eurovision 2015

Eurovision 2015

Eurovision 2015aThe grand final of the Eurovision travelling circus hits town tonight. This time, the old imperial seat of the Hapsburgs, Vienna, is the venue for the annual glitterfest of frightful frocks and terrible tunes. The BBC has chosen posh celebrity cook and reformed coke head, Nigella Lawson to announce the verdict of the UK jury. I hope she doesn’t get too sniffy about it.

This year’s no-hope entry for Royaume Uni is Still in Love with You by Electro Velvet. God alone knows why Auntie Beeb thinks a daft Charleston pastiche with no discernible chorus stands the slightest chance of making it to the left hand side of the leader board. Still, I hear torch song dirges are big this year (along with the hair) so who knows? Electro Velvet might just rise above the slash-your-wrist ditties.

PS. The man who coined the phrase ‘Eurovision’ died in 2010 at the grand old age of 94. His name was George Campey. I’m saying nothing.

PPS. The UK entry flopped yet again. Has the BBC given up trying?

The Whole Barry Manilow

BarrySince 2015 promises new ventures, adventures and a sequel book, I decided it was high time Perking the Pansies got a face lift. I don’t mean a little nip here, a tiny tuck there, I’m talking the whole Barry Manilow. Not that I’m suggesting the septuagenarian crooner has had any restorative work done at all. Oh no. His recent denial on the Jonathan Ross Show was so convincing (tongue in drum-tightened cheek springs to mind).

I shouldn’t be too hard on old Barry. He comes across as a thoroughly decent chap and, in our image obsessed world, what’s a boy to do? He needn’t fret. Barry’s place in the pop pantheon is assured. He’s made many ladies of a certain age very happy and his fans have remained doggedly loyal. And I defy anyone to keep their shoulders rigid to Copacabana. The camp disco classic was also the name of a seedy dive I used to frequent in Earls Court back in my heyday. Believe me, there were plenty of Lolas at the bar crying over lost love and drinking themselves into oblivion.

Last year, Barry married his long term partner, Garry Kief. Barry and Garry? What fun. Apparently, some people were surprised. But then, some people are stupid. As for Perking the Pansies, it may have a brand new shop window but it’s the same old rubbish inside.

Sing, Little Birdie

Liam hyperventilated at the prospect of watching Eurovision’s Greatest Hits, an extravaganza beamed across Europe by the BBC  to celebrate the sixtieth anniversary of the travelling camp fest. I slipped a little something in his Rioja to calm him down. Compered by Graham Norton in his newly acquired hipster whiskers and the posh-frocked Swede, Petra Mede, the show featured some of the contest’s most iconic/dire/fabulous/dreadful (delete according to taste) songs from times past – Brotherhood of Man, Johnny Logan, Lordi, Nicole, Bobby Socks (who?) to name but a few. Sadly, ABBA didn’t reform for the celebration but the BBC did chuck in Riverdance to get the feet tapping (an interval act that was one of the best things to ever emerge from the competition).

Eurovision 2015

Eurovision has come a long way since Pearl Carr and Teddy Johnson represented Le Royaume-Uni in 1959 with Sing, Little Birdie. Now we have the transgender Dana International (winner for Israel in 1998) and Conchita Wurst, the bearded lady (winner for Austria 2014) singing a duet holding hands. Way to go, sisters – changing the world one sequin at a time and really pissing off the bigots.

In the Bleak Midwinter

East Anglia tends to get to best of the weather – it’s often drier and warmer than other parts of these wet little islands. During the bleak winter weeks, when low damp clouds cloak the rest of the nation and drive half the population into Thomas Cook to thumb through the glossy travel brochures, we often enjoy clear skies and bright sunshine. But in the last twenty-four hours, we’ve gone from this:

Sunset Over Norwich

To this…

…as an Arctic snap blew down from the North Pole closing roads, runways, schools and A&E Departments. Brrr…

So today, I thought better of my routine (a stroll to the gym – like I need an excuse to step off the treadmill – followed by a steaming americano and a trawl through the free papers). Instead,  I slipped on my fluffy mules, whacked up the heat and tuned into daytime TV. Let’s hope the weather turns by tomorrow. At my age, a diet of soporific trash on the box could easily become habit forming.