We’re getting too long in the tooth for this exhausting New Year malarkey. The days are long gone when we would queue up in the rain, squeezed into sequinned hot pants outside some over-priced sleazy boyz club to take recreational drugs and shake our booties into the wee small hours, surrounded by half-naked sweaty men in tight jeans wrapped in fur and tattoos. Come to think of it, it doesn’t sound that bad at all. Sadly, the spirit is willing but the flesh is oh, so weak. Such unfettered decadence is best left to the young bucks who bring up the rear with stamina and a little lovin’ in mind. No, for us, it was a quick bite in town then back home to a warm hearth, Graham Norton and a bottle of bubbly, all capped off with the South Bank fireworks courtesy of impossibly blond London Mayor, Boris Johnson (a wolf in a golden fleece if ever there was one), Vodafone and good old Auntie Beeb. And fabulous pyrotechnics they were too. It’s always good to bring in the new year with a bang don’t you think?
Category: TV & Radio
2013 in Review
Perking the Pansies recovered from a difficult birth at the murderous hands of the Turkish censors, thrived through the terrible twos and survived the transitional threes, ending the year with 60,000 hits for the last twelve months. Thank you to everyone and anyone who’s passed by and glanced at my random witterings. Most blogs burn out after two years so I must be living on borrowed time.
As the sun sets on 2013, in the best Hogmanay tradition, I give you the year’s top ten – a pick ‘n’mix treat of bum cleavage, Turks at the barricades, a shot in the arm, a tender coming out story, a sexy rugger bugger, a book to send you to sleep, an old-time boozer, an olive tree planted in a foreign field and a scratched itch.
Image courtesy of Occupy Gezi on Facebook.
One for the Ladies
The Art of Blogging at St Margaret’s Church of Art
Gareth Thomas likes Good Read
Best of Perking the Pansies Vol Two
Queen’s Head, Chelsea
Tulip Fields of Turkey
Image Courtesy of the Financial Times
Tom’s Posing Pouch
It was the picture wot won it.
A revolution in the making?
Tom Daley: Something I Want to Say
Saying it before someone said it for him.
Gareth Thomas, Dancing on Ice Drama
Who said ice-prancing rugger buggers can’t read?
With thanks to the nice people at WordPress who featured me on one of their big hitting sites.
Turkey, Surviving the Expats – Out Now!
Keeping me out the workhouse.
A Chelsea classic and old watering hole of mine.
A small corner of Turkey that is forever John.
A soppy tale from Liam.
And we all know who did in the end, don’t we?
For some inexplicable reason, this was the most popular image of 2013, featured in Let’s Hear it for the Brides.
And I shouldn’t forget the perennial favourites from previous years that keep coming back again and again like a bad case of thrush.
Proving that ‘sex’ really is the most searched for word on Google.
A humble little post about a spectacular discovery in eastern Turkey that just keeps on giving while the archaeologists keep on digging – 8,000 hits and climbing. Who would have thought?
Oft quoted and oft plagiarised (and not always with a credit, tut tut)
Goodbye to the Turkish Living Forum
The few spoiling it for the many. A real shame.
And what of 2014? All I know is that Turkey Street, Jack and Liam move to Bodrum will be out early in the year. Will it be as successful as the first one? Who knows? Not me. Whatever happens, come rain or shine, a happy and prosperous year to all my pansy fans. Thank you for staying the course and for your remarkable support. I’m touched but then, I have been for years.
Smash
We have an embarrassment of TV choices courtesy of Virgin Media but it’s funny how the more channels we get, the more selective we become. It’s a reflection, perhaps, that more of the same isn’t much of a choice at all. So, as the nights draw in, we camp in front of the box hitting the boxed sets. Our latest televisual distraction is Smash, an American soap-style drama about the birth of a stage musical from kernel to opening night – Glee for grown-ups. Less sugar, more spice. The series was a joint birthday gift from our old friend, Clive. Frustrated music-hall maestro, Liam is a sucker for this kind of thing; the gay cliché cap fits my husband very well. The fictitious musical – Bombshell – focusses on the tragic life of Marilyn Monroe as she is passed around the troops. It cleverly parallels Norma Jean’s descent into Hell with that of the musical lead. With an Emmy, a Grammy and Globe nominations under its belt, the show tangos along nicely with twists and turns to suit even the most dedicated conspiracy theorist. There are a few nice tunes and more than a few nice routines but don’t expect to actually like any of the characters that much (with the possible exception of the impresario played by Angelica Huston). There’s an awful lot of back-biting, bitching, double-crossing and good old fashioned infidelity – all in a day’s work for the Broadway board-treading business. It’s a jungle in there and Liam loved every minute.
Enemy of the State
I see that the Daily Mail (or Daily Hate, as I prefer to call it), has hit the headlines with a vicious character assassination of the late Ralph Miliband (father of Ed, the current Labour Party leader) by describing him as ‘The man who hated Britain.’ It’s not the first time this particular rag has dressed up nasty prejudices as legitimate political comment, though libelling a dead man is low even by their own very low standards. Well, the dead can’t sue, can they? These days, quite a few people would be tripped up by the Mail’s paper-thin definition of what it means to be British, me included. I’m a bleeding-heart pinko liberal who leans towards republicanism, refuses to doff my cap to my ‘betters,’ can’t abide cricket or warm beer (make mine a chilled glass of French), prefers Italian to a full English, considers organised religion to be, at best, plain daft and what else? Oh, yes, I’m a shirt-lifter to boot. I guess this must mean I hate Britain too. Except, of course, this is nonsense.
It was left to Quentin Letts, that well-known man of the Mail (though not of the people), to defend the paper’s reputation on BBC’s Question Time. Over to Mehdi Hasan, a British Muslim and the political editor of the Huffington Post in the UK, who left poor Mr Letts looking like he’d just been scolded by nanny. Priceless.
If you want to know more about the story, simply Google ‘Ralph Miliband.’ It’s splashed all over the web. Make you own mind up. Don’t let the Daily Mail do it for you.
Parade with Pride
Images courtesy of Norwich Pride on Facebook
By any measure, Norwich Pride 2013 was a rip-roaring, runaway success. 5,000 people flooded into the city to paint the town red, orange, yellow, green, blue and purple. Even the regal lions guarding the grand entrance to City Hall got into the act with rainbow garlands wrapped round their elegant necks and party hats propped on top of their fine heads. The BBC issued a weather warning but sheer exuberance blew the clouds away and bathed the crowds in warm sunshine. This was a Pride with a difference. Despite the large numbers, there was a touching intimacy and a genuine sense of inclusion sadly lacking in some of the mega Prides these days – no VIP areas for the cut above, no egos to massage, no fences to keep people out (or to keep them in), no faces that didn’t fit. We had a ball. Congratulations to the dedicated group of volunteers who made it all happen. You played a blinder.
I was chuffed to be asked to be the voice of Pride on Future Radio. Pity the poor people who had to listen to me witter on several times a day.
A picture paints a thousand words so check out the frocks and frolics on the Norwich Pride Facebook Page and the Norwich Evening News.
Norwich Pride 2013
Jack Scott on Future Radio
The marching season continues (no, I don’t mean the archaic and nose-rubbing Orange Day parades). Following a whole week of rather special events (including my very own display at the Pride Without Prejudice Art Exhibition), tomorrow is Norwich Pride day, a gift from the LGBT community to all and sundry. We missed it last year. Something else got in the way. Now, what was it? Oh, yes, watching the opening ceremony of the London Olympics from a balcony overlooking the stadium. We were torn, but the once-in-a-lifetime event won the day, I’m afraid. This year we are fully committed to the pink party. In fact, I’m going to be co-hosting the outside broadcast of Pride Live on Future Radio with the fabulous Di Cunningham from the epicentre of the knees-up on Millennium Plain, itself the epicentre of community life in the city. I’m not quite sure what to expect other than that it’ll be a scream and I’ll be the one doing the screaming. I think Di intends to wind me up and let me loose into the rainbow crowd to hunt down colourful victims to interview. Tune in on 107.8 FM (or online) and listen to me make a total prat of myself because I won’t know what’s coming up and I won’t have rehearsed my lines. Oh, sod it, who cares? It’s all in a worthy cause. Whoever you are, why not pop along and parade with pride?
Behind the Candelabra – Venereal Warts and All
I’m old enough to have caught the tail-end of Liberace’s long and very successful career as pianist to ladies of a certain age. Despite being the most outrageous old queen in the business and the rampant tittle-tattle about his bawdy private life, Liberace got away it by suing the arse off anyone who told tales out of school and playing the I-just-haven’t-found-the-right-girl tune to his myopic fans. Back in the day, it was easier to maintain the lie. If he was still alive and tinkling, the Twitter generation and the red tops would have a field day, particularly as Walt loved to play fast and loose with his reputation by buggering the boys in back rooms. So, with a sparkling set of reviews, we anticipated the Liberace biopic ‘Behind the Candelabra‘ with some relish. Was the film worth the hype? Well, yes and no. Michael Douglas as the rhinestone peacock was superb. He deserves an Oscar but won’t get one as the film was made-for-TV by HBO in the States (though he will qualify for a BAFTA here in old Blighty). Matt Damon as the young lover sported a suitably rabbit-in-headlights look and Rob Lowe almost stole the show as a deliciously wicked pill-pushing plastic surgeon who’d been under the knife once too often himself. The film caught the gas-guzzling Seventies’ mood brilliantly and there were some good lines. By the end of the performance though, too many things were left unsaid. When Liberace’s elderly mother died (an unrecognisable Debbie Reynolds) his response was, “Now I am free.” Why? We’re not told. I found myself getting a little bored as the glitter-sprinkled film camped along to its inevitable conclusion and became irritated when the Middle England audience giggled in embarrassment at some of the mildly raunchy scenes and ripe language. Ladies, it wasn’t that graphic. You really need to get out more.
Whatever Happened to Shergar?
Following the horse meat scandal that swept the continent, supermarkets are spending millions to restore public confidence in their products. They could have saved a lot of bother and expense by not shoving Red Rum in the mincer in the first place. Now we know what happened to Shergar. Budget chain, Aldi, have been running an ad campaign on TV which makes me smile. Why are the ads often more entertaining and inventive than the programmes they interrupt? Money, I suppose. Click on the Aldi Logo to check it out.
Song for Eurovision
Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile, smile, smile. Forget the worst recession since the South Sea Bubble, dust off that cracked glitter ball and drag out those tarnished bacofoil hot pants. It’s time to get crushed by the sequined juggernaut that is the Eurovision Song Contest, the rightful heir to the fall of Communism. This year, the travelling freak show has pitched the big top in Malmö (pronounced Malmurrrr), Sweden. Expect high camp, a blizzard of glitzy ticker tape and enough dry ice to halt global warming. Expect virginal visions in white, gay-bar strippers, fake blonds where collars and cuffs don’t match, notes as flat as the Fens and tunes once heard, never remembered. Don’t expect ABBA. The land of the midnight sun and real blonds is throwing an enormous street party like a UEFA cup final but without the drunken thuggery. The annual warble-fest costs so much to stage it attracts its very own IMF bail-out. Let’s hope nobody votes for the unkindly named PIGS (Blighty might be joining that popular club any day now). Winning will send them over the fiscal cliff.
Turkey has thrown a hissy fit and withdrawn from the competition. TRT (the Turkish broadcaster) does not like changes to the voting rules in recent years (50/50 between the public and a panel of music experts) which it claims disadvantages the Turkish entry by reducing the influence of the Turkish diaspora across Europe. That’s the point, silly. TRT also objects to the automatic qualification of songs from the so-called ‘Big Five’ broadcasters (the BBC among them) that pay the lion’s share of the costs. If TRT wants a free ride to the final, it’ll have to sign a much bigger cheque. After all, he who pays the piper calls the tune. To top it all, TRT got its pantaloons in a twist over a lesbian kiss live on stage. At the semis, Finland’s Krista Siegfrid landed a sloppy smacker on the lips of one of her backing dancers. Krista doesn’t actually drink from the furry cup in her day job, she just objects to the Finnish Parliament’s refusal to vote on marriage equality. Her song ‘Marry Me’ is through to the final where she’s threatening to repeat the tonsil-tickling outrage. Whether Krista has qualified because she kissed to be clever or despite of it is anyone’s guess. Overcome with moral indignation and shock, TRT has pulled the show completely. As we all know, watching a bit of girl-on-girl action turns you lesbian and there are no lesbians in Turkey, the land where men are men and goats are nervous.
Britain’s entry is an old-school power ballad sung by the gravelly-voiced Welsh chanteuse of yesteryear, Bonnie Tyler, she whose heart was totally eclipsed in ’83 after she got lost in France in ’77. The song’s not half bad (and half good either) but it hardly matters. We could put up Sooty for all the difference it would make. Mark my words. It’ll be a heartache for Bonnie. She’ll need more than a hero to fight the rising odds against a rout by the former Warsaw Pact. Well, I suppose it serves us right for Iraq. Poor old Auntie Beeb keeps wheeling out the golden oldies with their careers behind them, presumably because no-one with a career in front of them would touch Eurovision; it’s the kiss of death. Despite the parochial politics and regional gerrymandering, we’ll be waving our little union flags, raising a glass of bubbly to the campest show on Earth and hoping against hope that we don’t come last.
Here’s Bonnie at full gritty throttle:
The Bosphorus
As the sea route between the Black Sea and the Mediterranean and the narrow meeting point between Europe and Asia, the Bosphorus has been of immense strategic and commercial importance ever since humanity first strapped a few planks together and took up paddling. Old Istanbul straddles both sides, with one leg in Europe, the other in Asia and the whole world passing in between. The history of the region is littered with war, invasion, conquest and capture. No doubt, it will be again.
In 2011, BBC Radio 4 ran a three part history of the Bosphorus. It’s an absorbing tale, well told by Edward Stourton. If you have time to spare, tune in the wireless, sit back with a small cup of sweetened kahve, a slice of baklava and lose yourself in the drama while your teeth rot and your arteries harden. Click on the picture link below:
Interestingly, the word “Bosphorus” derives from the ancient Greek “Bosporos” which means “Oxford.” Who knew?
With many thanks to Alan Austin who sent me a link to the programme.
Perking the Pansies 