It’s Red Nose Day and up and down the realm, normally sane citizens are indulging in a collective act of extreme silliness for Comic Relief, raising a bit of dosh for those in need both at home and away. Catch the nonsense on BBC1 tonight starting at 7pm (Brit time). Despite the distressing economic climate, people continue to be generous with their time and their cash. My old friend, David Harries, is doing something funny for money and needs a little support. Give him a helping hand and I guarantee you’ll feel all warm inside.
Category: TV & Radio
Happy Birthday, Pride Live!
Suddenly I find myself with a few radio gigs under my belt. What began as a couple of promotional guest spots to flog some books on the ‘Pride Live!’ Show on Future Radio, has somehow migrated into a regular turn as co-host. This radio caper isn’t as easy as it sounds. An awful lot goes into it – before and during. For my considerable sins, I just pitch up on the night with a few scribbled notes and witter on. My two favourite Norfolk broads, jivin’ Jules and delicious Di, do all the hard work assembling the show, twiddling the knobs, queuing the music and corralling the guests. The spontaneous multi-tasking is quite beyond me and best left to the dynamic duo. If I was left at the tiller, chaos would run amok and the ultimate radio faux pas – silence – would stalk the studio. Di Cunningham also presents the morning show. The worker bees of Norwich wake to a daily dose of fun and originality. I don’t know where she gets the energy and inspiration from. Di’s considerable talents have been recognised by no less than the BBC Academy’s College of Production. High praise, highly deserved.
It’s Pride Live’s 100th show this Monday (11th March) from 6.30pm (UK time). I’ll be at the mic with Jules, chipping in with my usual witless banter and we’ve got Brian Dowling and Michael Cashman on the bill to help us celebrate the milestone. If you fancy tuning in, click on the Future Radio logo above, bookmark the site and pop a reminder in your pocket book or fancy phone. If you miss the show live, you can catch the podcast.
In today’s stormy financial climate, community radio stations can operate on a wing and a prayer. This is a tenuous link to my video choice. Cue The Buggles:
Gareth Thomas, Dancing on Ice Drama
Former Welsh international, Gareth Thomas, demonstrated that he’s just as nifty on ice as he is on the rugby field. The man mountain with more muscles than Atlas proved that big doesn’t mean clumsy as he lifted and glided with elegance and flair. It’s enough to make a boy go weak at the knees. Even though gorgeous Gareth had to drop out of the competition due to ill health, the boy from the Valleys did well, very well. Get well soon, Gareth.
Now the Welsh beefcake has hung up his sequins and skates, he’s got time to catch up on his reading. And guess what he’s reading?
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Winter Wonderland
It didn’t take the power of the Delphic Oracle to predict the chaos that would result from yesterday’s whiteout. Even a light dusting of snow generally brings the nation to a shuddering halt. East Anglia has been particularly badly hit by the avalanche. It’s been the talk of BBC Radio Norfolk all day with a litany of cancelled events hitting the airwaves – whist drives, netball practice, line dancing, am dram, bowls and bingo. The county is littered with abandoned cars, parish halls have shut up shop, the brownies will not be dib-dib-dob-dobbing any time soon and the oven’s gone cold at the WI. Hundreds of schools have called time and thousands of kids are playing in the snow before it turns to dirty slush. Trains are cancelled and planes are grounded at Norwich International Airport (Yes, Norwich does have an international airport, not that you can fly to anywhere particularly exciting). The Dunkirk spirit has been rekindled and tales of random acts of kindness are flooding in. Plummeting temperatures and a sharp frost will guarantee that the show will run and run for a few days more. This all pales into insignificance when compared to the drama and tragedy that unfolded on the streets of South London this morning when a helicopter crashed into a crane, killing two people and injuring twelve more. You would never know it from the coverage on local radio here in the frozen east.
A sparkling blue sky enticed me out of the warmth for a hot drink and an iced bun. I took these snaps along the way.
Follow Every Rainbow
Safely home after almost a week of festive overload, we uncorked a bottle and nested on the sofa to watch ‘Climbed Every Mountain’ on BB2. Liam is rather obsessed with ‘The Sound of Music’ and can recite the entire film note-for-note and word-for-word. It’s on the job description of all gay men of a certain age. To end the season with a flourish, we expected a sugar-coated, feel-good soft focus trip up and down the pristine piste. We got a dirty Alpine avalanche exposing a nation in denial, a dysfunctional family and a bi-polar singing ex-nun who never was. To pour weed killer on the edelweiss, the Von Trapps didn’t climb any mountain or ford any stream to escape the evil clutches of the nasty Nazis. No, they caught the 5.30 express to Italy. The truth, as they say, should never get in the way of a good story. It was the cruelest of blows; I fear Liam will never recover.
The Big Bang
We approached the New Year’s celebrations with the best gay-boy-about-town intentions. At first, we planned to bop ‘til we dropped at The Loft, Norwich’s premier gay club (okay, Norwich’s only gay club). This idea was soon swapped for a more sedate saunter to our favourite watering hole, The Birdcage, an intimate über-fashionable bar with a metrosexual vibe. The evening started in style with a leisurely bite and a bottle. After polishing off our second Pinot Grigio Blush, we paid the bill and wandered down the cobbled street. We peered through the dripping window of the pub. It was crammed with animated revellers. A line of youthful punters in identical skinny chinos queued at the door. Liam and I looked at each other with a can’t-be-arsed expression and, without a word, we tottered off home, arm in arm. I thought I was letting the side down until I gave a round-robin ring to my London life friends. One was watching Graham Norton, the second was catching a film on Netflix and the third was watching Julie and Julia on DVD. All were nesting on the sofa with their respective partners. Age has crept up on all of us. Like the sudden arrival of grey pubes, we didn’t see it coming. I don’t mind too much. Just like the Virgin Queen, I survived the slings and arrows and have entered my golden age. Elizabeth Tudor was no virgin either.
Every cloud, as they say, has a silver lining. If we had danced the night away in the company of trendy nippers barely out of short trousers, we would have missed the pyrotechnic gig on Auntie. With the exception of the brief and barely disguised party political broadcast on behalf of the Tory Party, the heart-stopping show stopper had us on the edge of our pews. See for yourself…
The Cream of the Crop 2012
It’s the turn of a new year, a time to reflect on the recent past. And what a hectic time it’s been for these old two old drunken reprobates. Four years ago, we jumped the good ship Blighty and swam ashore to paradise in search of a dotty dotage of gin and tranquility We found a paradise of sorts and so much more besides. Three years into our choppy voyage, I found a little fame and notoriety, and a new course was set – as an accidental author. 2012 brought change: a rudder slammed into reverse and a return to our damp little island perched on the edge of Europe. So, in the best tradition of the year’s end, I give you the most popular Pansy posts of 2012.
1. Now That’s What I call Old
Who would have guessed that a lazy, throwaway post about the 12,000 year old ruins at Göbekli Tepe in Eastern Turkey would hit the top spot? Although it was published in 2011, like Meatloaf’s Bat Out of Hell*, it never left the charts. In fact, it’s my most popular piece ever, racking up 7,500 hits to date.
2. Expat Glossary
Another perennial favourite. Technically, it’s a page not a post nowadays (though it started off as a post many moons ago). Oft quoted and copied, it’s a tongue in cheek attempt to classify the vintage villagers of expatland. It continues to strike a chord.
3. Goodbye to the Turkish Living Forum
The closest I came to an unseemly slanging match – I queered my pitch with the Turkish Living Forum (or, more accurately, they queered their pitch with me). I stopped the vile conversation in mid-sentence. I can do that. It’s my blog. It gladdens my little homo heart that this post continues to attract punters. If I’ve put just one potential member off the bigoted posts, then my work is done. It’s a shame. Most contributors to the forum seem sane and reasonable. It’s a good idea ruined by the vicious and vocal few.
4. Britain’s Got Loads of Talent
I’m a sucker for a sob story and Britain’s Got Talent is stuffed to the rafters with them. A genuine attempt to discover the best (and worst) amateur talent that Blighty has to offer, or a cynical commercial exercise in crass over-sentimentality? Probably both and so what? This year a dog won. No, a real dog, not an ugly person.
5. No Going Back on Going Back
A slip of the wrist and the cat was out of the bag. A premature posting meant that I announced our repatriation much earlier than I had intended and readers tuned in to read the news.
6. Zenne Dancer
A post about a ground-breaking and award-drenched Turkish film, inspired by the true story of a Kurdish student who was gunned down by his own father for being openly and unrepentantly gay. It still hasn’t been released with subtitles so I’m ashamed to say I still haven’t seen it.
7. Fifty Shades of Gay
I wrote this post to celebrate and support the launch of Rainbowbookreviews, a brand new LGBT book review website. As part of the party, Perking the Pansies, Jack and Liam move to Turkey was offered as a competition prize. What some people will do for a freebie.
8. The Friendly Games
This was my naughty but nice take on the closing ceremony of the London 2012 Olympics. The BBC did a grand job in televising the once-in-a-lifetime event – online, on radio and on TV. Liam had all three on simultaneously. For a brief period, the nation forgot its woes and smiled again. The mother lode of precious metal helped.
9. Bodrum’s Crusader Castle
Towards the end of our time in Turkey, I thought it was high time to give the pansy treatment to the grand centrepiece of the Bodrum townscape – a little bit of history (not too much) and a little bit of humour. It’s a popular cocktail.
10. Gran Canaria, Sex Emporium
Our first ‘proper’ holiday for four years and we chose Gran Canaria, that rocky mid-Atlantic brothel. You can take the boy out of the back room but you can’t take the back room out of the boy.
I leave you with my favourite image from 2012. I know, it’s all a bit predictable but I’m turning into a dirty old man and I intend to wallow in it. Happy New Year everyone and thank you for enduring my camp old nonsense for yet another year.
*Bat Out of Hell stayed on the UK album chart for 474 weeks. God knows why.
Talking Raw Turkey on the Radio
The fabulous people at Norwich’s Future Radio asked me to pop in and talk about Turkey, the Raw Guide on the Pride Live programme. I’m becoming quite a regular on the show and they very generously allow me to shamelessly plug my work.
Plonk and Gossip
We played hosts at the weekend. Well, I say hosts. Apart from a short stroll to the Playhouse Theatre to enjoy the lavatorial humour of Jenny Eclair, the only hosting we did was to pop the celebratory corks. Our house guests, my old mucky mucker, Ian, and his young Celtic tiger, Matt, were grabbing a few days away from the Smoke and the Christmas scrum. Matt’s generosity at the bar meant that I can’t remember much of Ms Eclair’s high-velocity act though I can confirm it was deliciously funny, full-on, filthy and packed with an abundance of menopausal references to female plumbing. An arctic snap swept across the flatlands and the big skies dribbled with sleet so we decided to cancel the city tour. Instead, we settled down to a warm summit of plonk and gossip with a boozy interval of Strictly Come Dancing on Auntie. Our guests steadfastly refused to let us put our hands in our pockets which was naughty and typically stubborn but gratefully received by these poor old provincial poofs. We sent them packing with a couple of Tesco’s bags (to transport their livers in).
World AIDS Day, RIP
A few weeks, back Liam and I watched a biopic of Kenny Everett on BBC4. ‘Best Possible Taste’ documented cuddly Kenny’s struggle to achieve personal happiness and professional recognition. The film was cleverly narrated throughout by the pantheon of Kenny’s comic creations. Kenny and his characters were brilliantly reconstructed by Oliver Lansley, who perfected Kenny’s high camp mannerisms and anarchic style. I’d forgotten just how funny and original Kenny was, and how far he pushed the boundaries. For most of his adult life Kenny was resolutely in the closet even when it was obvious to everyone (including his long-suffering wife) that he was as bent as a nine bob note. Abstinence wasn’t his game, just denial. For very good reasons, the closet was a crowded house back then. Like all of us, Kenny was entitled to his privacy and, as far as I know, he never said anything negative about gay people (unlike some of his closeted contemporaries). He came out just before the tabloids forced him out and he did so in typical OTT style. I didn’t know Kenny but I saw him occasionally, usually at the Sunday night gay gordons at the Dog and Fox in Wimbledon Village. He was always attended by fawning acolytes, as is the way for the rich and famous.
Kenny was an irrepressible one-off whose off-script ad-libbing frequently got him got him the sack. His ill-judged appearance at a Tory Party Conference where he urged delegates to “…kick Michael Foot’s* stick away,” did him no favours but he redeemed himself by telling a very rude joke about Margaret Thatcher live on Radio 2. He was instantly dismissed for the misdemeanour. Kenny died of an AIDS-related illness in 1995. He was 50. That was the same year I met John. Those who have read my book will know that he died of an AIDS-related illness in 2003. John was 36.
Today is World AIDS Day. It doesn’t get the coverage it once did. In the rich world people aren’t falling off their barstools like they used to. It was not always so. One balmy evening in the summer of 2004 I was having a drink with an old friend in the Colherne, once the grand old dame of London gay bars. I looked around.
“Just a load of old uglies in tonight,” I said.
“That’s because all the handsome ones are dead,” he replied.
Cruel and cutting or just a bald statement of fact? The truth is, most of the gay people I knew in my twenties are dead.
When AIDS first hit the headlines the Reagan Administration across the Pond shamefully sat on its hands (well, it was divine retribution on fags and smack-heads after all) until it became blindingly obvious that, unlike Reagan, the Lord’s wrath wasn’t the least bit discriminating. Ironically, given the Thatcher Government’s abysmal record on minority rights, it was the Tories who chucked money at the problem – into research, awareness and care. From the mid-Eighties right through to the late Noughties, Britain had some of the best services for people with HIV and AIDS to be found anywhere in the world. These days, HIV is something you live with not die from (unless you have the misfortune to be born in much of Africa, but that’s another depressing story). But, AIDS is still with us, stalking the bars and the chat rooms. There is no cure, no vaccine – maybe one day but not yet. It pains me to see young people playing Russian roulette through some misguided notion that AIDS is an old queen’s disease or thinking that if they do get it, a pill a day will keep the Grim Reaper at bay. This is no way to think or to live. Heed the advice of an old pro who ducked the Reaper’s scythe by the skin of his teeth. Pick up the condoms that are still freely available in gay bars. Go dressed to the party. It may save your life.
*Michael Foot was the Leader of the Labour Party at the time and used a stick to help him walk.
Perking the Pansies 