Amsterdam, the Big Tulip

Before we got hitched, Liam and I had both enjoyed the many meaty treats of old Amsterdam. Needless to say, it didn’t include a cultural cruise around the august galleries of the world-famous Rijks Museum. These days, life is mercifully more sedate. Randy times with likely lads on the pull are but a distant memory, and nights on the tiles have given way to days on the trail.

First up on our cultural pilgrimage was the Homomonument, a memorial to those poor souls persecuted for their sexuality during the Second World War. Opened in 1987, the monument takes the form of a giant pale pink triangle jutting out into the Keizersgracht. The pink triangle was the badge gay men were forced to wear in the Nazi death camps. And we all know what happened in those places.

This is the one site I’d seen before. Here’s me in the naughty nineties. The second picture is me now. Obviously, I haven’t changed a bit!

To my shame, I’d never visited Anne Frank’s Huis, so I was determined to right this particular wrong. It was a sobering lesson in everyday evil. Lest we forget.

And, yes, we made it to the Rijks Museum – huge and impressive but way too busy, I thought. There’s little time to take in the art without being bothered by jostling, happy snappers. Well, if you can’t beat ’em…

The following day we took an audio tour around the well-sculptured Royal Palace on Dam Square with its lofty ceilings and twinkling crystal chandeliers. It was great fun, apart from the couple of young pushy queens who didn’t understand the simple concept of the queue.

As our long weekend coincided with Storm Babet tearing across Northwest Europe, we were expecting lively weather. And we got it. We coped by drinking through it; like we needed an excuse.

Despite the inclement weather (and contrary to the images below), the city was rammed. Weaving through the obstacle course of talkers, walkers, cars, trams and manic cyclists coming at us from every which way was quite the challenge. It’s a miracle we didn’t come a cropper. But we survived unscathed.

The Big Tulip really is cool. We will return.

Dutch Courage

In the autumn of 1978, a pretty-faced eighteen-year-old pulled into old Amsterdam’s grim and gloomy Centraal Station. It was cold and wet, with scary types milling about the windswept forecourt. The new beau in town had no place to stay. He’d heard that Kerkstraat was the place to hang out but had no clue where that was or how to get there. While standing in the rain wondering what next, he was approached by some sleazy bloke with a nasty comb-over – the kind of man your mother warned you against – who offered him a lift. He wisely refused, jumped into a cab and stumbled into the first hotel he came across. He asked if there was any room at the inn. There was – just the one.

That new beau in town was me, and that was my inauspicious start to an eye-popping, life-liberating experience. I lapped it up – and Amsterdam lapped me up – looked after by the proprietor of the West End Hotel, a grey-haired Dutch chap with a handlebar moustache and kindly eyes.

Forty-five years later, Liam and I pulled into old Amsterdam’s now bright and flashy Centraal Station. It was cold and wet but buzzy, with travellers and locals milling about the windswept forecourt. We jumped on a packed tram to Kerkstraat and stumbled into our hotel.

“Hold on, I know this place.”

Yes, you guessed it. It was the same hotel – renamed, remodelled and reborn, phoenix-like, but the same gaff, nonetheless. What are the chances?

If you look closely at the image below, you can spot the old name ‘West End Hotel’ etched into the glass above the entrance.

I wonder what became of the grey-haired Dutch chap with a handlebar moustache and kindly eyes who looked after a pretty-faced eighteen-year-old all those years ago?

We’re Not in Kansas Anymore

We see a lot of am-dram these days – across town and county, in huts and halls, theatres big and small, all delivered by companies of dedicated luvvies giving it their all. We love the old razzle dazzle. It keeps us out of the pub, though not necessarily sober as there’s always a bar attached. Unsurprisingly, the gigs are a mixed bag – some good, some not so good. And sometimes they’re really, really good. We never know what to expect. It’s all part of the drama.

Right up there on the really, really good scale was the recent production of The Wizard of Oz at the Beccles Public Hall and Theatre, a charming little venue just across the county line in Suffolk. From the first scene to the last, the show was pure magic, slick and professional, with some cracking acts.

A special mention must go to Alice Peck, the daughter of our local tavern keeper, in her debut lead role as Dorothy. Well done, young Alice. It was a tornado of a performance. You’ll go far.

And who could forget Alice’s mother, Karen, reprising her role as the Wicked Witch of the West from her 2022 performance? She swapped her usual soft Dundonian tones for full-on, in-yer-face Glaswegian. Full of menace and mayhem, we were half-expecting a Glasgow kiss from a seriously pissed-off cackling witch. We definitely weren’t in Kansas.

All images courtesy of Facebook.

The Molly Boys

I’ve been watching Suffolk and Norfolk: Country and Coast on the box. It’s a gentle pilgrimage through the timeless counties that make up ancient East Anglia. By episode five, we reached the picture-postcard Norfolk village of Great Hockham – AKA Hockham Magna – and its Hornfair. The annual bash dates back to 1272 when King Henry III granted the villagers permission to hold a fair and weekly market. These days it’s an excuse to get a bit silly with daft games like the Woodchop Challenge and the World Stick Balancing Championship. And then there’s molly dancing. Molly who? You may well ask.

Molly dancing is a form of English Morris dance which was traditionally done by out-of-work ploughboys during midwinter in the 19th century. It was a way to fill the fallow season between Christmas and spring ploughing. The farmhands would visit the more well-to-do parishioners and offer to dance for money – because a boy’s gotta eat. Those who refused might see their mixed borders turned over.

Molly was an old term for an ‘effeminate man’, and dancers always included at least one fella dressed in women’s clothes. Who knew 19th-century country life could be so fluid? I wonder what else the molly boys did for a few farthings when times were hard? Well, it’s better than slipping a ring on Daisy the cow.

Molly dancing has enjoyed a recent revival, and the Hockham troupe are called the Clobhoppers – clumsy bumkins – and here they are in action doing a rather aggressive stick dance. These molly men don’t muck about, even in a frock. And don’t be put off by their black faces. It’s not intended to be racist. The ploughboys of old painted their faces with soot so they wouldn’t be recognised as they ploughed up your prize pansies.

Seaside Specials

After an unseasonably warm few weeks fired by a hot Saharan blast, autumn is finally upon us and thoughts meander back to summer frolics and the bucket-and-spade family entertainment that took me right back to more innocent times in short trousers. Some people may remember Seaside Special on the box during the seventies and eighties. I know I do. It was a Saturday night fixture in our house.

Our first 2023 seaside special was the award-winning Cromer Pier Show at the Pavilion Theatre. For my sins, I was expecting something fun but just a little bit naff. How wrong was I? What we got was a spectacular and lavish vaudeville-on-sea variety show with crackin’ tunes, crackin’ vocals, belly laughs and juggling genius, all wrapped up in sequins and feathers.

If that wasn’t enough to set the pulse racing, nothing could prepare us for the Hippodrome in Great Yarmouth, Britain’s last remaining circus building. Seemingly untouched by the modern world, the theatre reeks of old-style, time-worn charm – the toilets alone are a riot of Victorian bling. But there was nothing faded about the show. Featuring top-notch acts from around the world, it was full-on, edge-of-the-seat stuff. And it doesn’t get any more full-throttle than four leather-clad bikers playing ‘catch me’ around a metal cage. For the grand finale, the stage fell away to reveal a swimming pool and the show was brought to a splashing close by a shoal of fancy ladies doing a Busby Berkeley number surrounded by fit blokes in tight wet shirts. It felt like I was on drugs.

For more exciting images, check out the Hippodrome’s own website. Many thanks to our fellow village people who invited us along for the rides. You know who you are.

In Sickness and In Health

It’s been a year since my old girl died. She was 93, but even though she was frail and a bit mutton – well, a lot mutton – in many ways she was blessed. She lived a long, eventful life and she kept her marbles right up to the end. Others are not so lucky. There can’t be many people, directly or indirectly, untouched by the cruelty of dementia. Even though science and wealth have kept the Grim Reaper at bay, our minds often can’t keep up, and it’s miserable. The Big D must be particularly tough for the wives, husbands and partners of the sufferers. There are no happy endings, just ’til death do us part.

But all is not lost. Dementia is gradually revealing its dark secrets, and with light comes reward – earlier diagnosis, better treatment and maybe a cure one day. The trouble is, it’s a hard slog and it all takes cash. The Alzheimer’s Society here in the UK are currently running a TV ad campaign called The Ultimate Vow to raise awareness. It shines a light on the everyday struggles of couples living with dementia. It’s brilliant and it made me cry.

We give not just for others but also for ourselves.

Meat and Two Veg

Continuing with the gym junkie theme from last week. Given my aversion to unnecessary movement and a low boredom threshold, I keep myself amused at the gym by reading a newspaper. My daily rag of choice is the I (I for Independent). I know buying an actual printed newspaper is rather old-fashioned these days but I like thumbing through the I. It’s an easy read – a digest of the news with minimal preaching. I’m way too set in my ways to be told what to think. The paper regularly features surveys of various everyday activities, and one that stuck in my mind recently was about washing – pertinent when getting all hot and bothered on an exercise bike. Apparently, 34% of Britons don’t wash their meat and two veg when showering. Listen up, lads. No one likes cheesy wotsits in the bedroom.

Images courtesy of Loddon Community Gym.

Care in the Community

Many gym bunnies get a kick out of it. Apparently, pumping iron can pump the endorphins too, the brain’s feel-good neurotransmitters. After a decade on the treadmill, I can’t say I’ve ever noticed my mood improve. The truth is, I go to the gym because I have to – doctor’s orders – and not because I want to. Following our move to the village, Liam and I joined the community gym. It’s a small but perfectly formed facility housed in the pretty annex of our local library. We used to belong to a more industrial strength torture chamber in town, encircled by beefy blokes in tattoos and tight togs getting down and sweaty. Our community gym is a more sedate affair with a mostly mature crowd trying to dodge the Grim Reaper – us included. I call it my care in the community.

Keeping the gym going is a constant hand-to-mouth exercise. A grant from the local council helps with running costs, but money is always tight and this requires imaginative ways to raise some dosh. Cue the recent 12-hour cyclathon. On one of the hottest days of the year, 21 members took part. And yes, that’s Liam doing his bit (bottom left).

If you look really closely you can just make out my knee behind him. I was there for moral support.

Images courtesy of Loddon Community Gym.

Must Try Harder

QuickBooks is a handy accountancy package used by many small businesses and sole traders like me so it’s not that surprising that scammers target their users. Scamming is a highly profitable business – a digital plague bringing ruin and misery to so many. But really, when it plummets to this level of stupidity, it’s a miracle that anyone gets conned.

0/10 for language, spelling, grammar, punctuation and the wrong currency. Must try harder.

Postcard from Ithaca

Sleepy Frikes on the idyllic island of Ithaca was simply sublime – serene and restorative. The peace was broken only by the ringing of goat bells in the surrounding hills and wind chimes singing in the breeze. There was one exception, though. Some excitable sprogs commandeered the pool and did what excitable sprogs do everywhere – splash and scream – while their parents buried their heads in their tablets. Mercifully, it was just for the one afternoon.

I always thought Tom Conti’s fake Greek accent in Shirley Valentine was way too much until I heard our poolside barman speak. Young Luca’s deep and rich dulcet tones sent a dribble down the spine. No wonder Shirley dropped her knickers.

Lazy days basking at the pool were followed by an evening stroll down to the tiny harbour for eats and treats. Food was gloriously no–fuss – hearty, fresh and generous, and all washed down with robust local wine.

We made only one excursion during our stay – to the cute hilltop village of Stavros for huge portions and a quick gander around the fancy Orthodox church. There we witnessed a devout young lass kiss each icon in turn and an old girl in widow’s weaves gossiping with God on her phone.

And then came the tempest. Greece has endured a biblical summer season – heat, fire and flood – with devastating consequences. Storm Daniel – the most deadly and costly Mediterranean cyclone ever recorded – rolled over Ithaca trapping us in a harbourside taverna. Locals feared the worst as they rushed about battening down the hatches. ‘Best order another carafe,’ Liam said. And so we did.

In the event, we got off lightly. Tragically, this can’t be said for other parts of Greece – or, a few days later, for Libya.