You’ve Gotta Pick a Pocket or Two

We first heard about one of Norwich’s secrets in the local rag and decided to give it a whirl courtesy of The Shoebox Experiences. It just so happens that under their community hub on Norwich’s Castle Meadow lies a tantalising fragment of a bygone street dating back to the 15th century. What lies beneath is Castle Ditches, once a narrow warren of medieval lanes and alleys skirting Norwich Castle mound, a place where jobbing weavers and their broods were born, lived, worked and died – with their looms and their livestock.

As we descended to the old street level, our charming guide, Ollie, took us back through time with his captivating and comical tales of yesteryear. In the medieval era, the rag trade made Norwich rich, and the area boomed. But by the time of the steam age, traditional weaving had been killed off by the industrial mills of the North and the city had reinvented itself with a brand-new trade – making money, lots of it. Castle Ditches became a pig-stinking slum where no respectable Victorian lady would venture; so the fine and upstanding burghers of the city decided to cover it over with a new road – out of sight and out of mind, so to speak. Castle Meadow was born, turning Castle Ditches on its head – top floors became ground floors, ground floors became cellars.

That wasn’t quite the end. The Ditches lived on for a while longer as the city’s crime-riddled red-light district – think Nancy turning tricks for the drunks after closing and the Artful Dodger picking a pocket or two.

All but one of these images of the sunken street are courtesy of The Shoebox Experiences. My own photographic attempts were a little bit rubbish.

Coincidentally, as I was writing about our time down under, this old painting of Castle Ditches popped up on Faceache. It was found in a shop in Norwich. Amazing!

The Shoebox Experiences run a number of city tours. All profits go to their social enterprise which has a mission to create supportive environments for people to connect. Their Tipsy Tavern Tour sounds right up our alley.

Take a Walk in My Shoes

I gloriously misspent my youth trawling the sleazy dives of many of the world’s great metropolitan sin bins – London, Amsterdam, Paris, New York and Los Angeles among them – and cruising the hedonistic no-holes-barred gay fleshpots of Europe – Ibiza, Sitges, Gran Canaria, Mykonos. My dance card was rarely empty and I had a ball. But, there comes a time when the spirit is no longer willing and the flesh is in bed by midnight.

These days, a gentle week around a cool pool with a good book, a glass of something local and Liam by my side is what gets the pulse racing. Let me take you on a walk through laid-back Frikes, our latest tranquil bolthole, a cute village on the northeast coast of the pine-dressed Greek isle of Ithaca.

Courtesy of JustGreece.com and Jorgos Nikolidakis

Director’s Cut

I’m off-air while Liam and I are perking our pansies on Ithaca. Thankfully, Odysseus’ fabled isle has escaped the terrible wildfires that have torched Southern Europe – and now Hawaii and Tenerife – and brought destruction and misery to many, and death to some. Let’s not kid ourselves, the future’s buggered. Our next-door neighbour and his partner were caught up in the devastating firestorms that hit Rhodes last month and were forced to flee their hotel to sleep in a school playground. They made it back in one piece, I’m pleased to say.

So while we’re here…

…I’ve chosen some random photos that didn’t make the grade, blog-wise, during the past year and ended up on the cutting room floor.

And this is my personal favourite, spotted on the underside of a loo-seat lid on a train to London. It brightened up a dull journey. Who doesn’t appreciate a little toilet humour?

In the Footsteps of Odysseus

According to Homer – the ancient bard that is, not Simpson – it took Odysseus ten years to make it back to his gaff on Ithaca following the Trojan War. Clearly the legendary and less than heroic hero had a truly terrible sense of direction. But I guess an epic just isn’t an epic unless it’s an endless gods-given obstacle course designed to test the mettle of your everyday sweaty beefcake in strappy sandals. We, on the other hand, should make it in just a few hours, gods-willing and assuming the wildfires don’t get there first. I’ll keep you posted.

Right on Target, Right on Price

It’s well known that these little islands have some of the toughest gun laws this side of the Milky Way. It’s possible to legally own a gun but for very specific reasons only – down on the farm, for example. There’s pretty much universal consensus in support of strict gun control. People don’t want to see nutters and ne’er-do-wells wandering around their local supermarket with semi-automatic weapons. As a result, gun-crime is mercifully negligible. But this doesn’t stop lazy spammers targeting me with this:

I realise the message was auto-generated from a dodgy mailing list with my name on it – there’s no actual person thinking “I wonder if Jack fancies some bargain bucket bullets today?” What really alarms me is that, if I did keep an illicit pistol under my pillow, I could massacre 50 people for the princely sum of just 21 pence a shot. Frightening.

Norwich Pride 2023 – a Celebration of Youth

It’s been a dribbly July and more rain had been forecast to drench Norwich Pride. Contrary to the weather pundits, old Ma Nature decided to give us all break and the sun shone on the crowd of many colours who piled into the city for Norwich Pride 2023. All life was there, from the newly hatched to old farts like us – truly reflecting our diverse universe. And with our marching days behind us, once again it was humbling to watch the long chorus line of young people putting it out there, happy and proud. I reckon we’re in safe hands.

I’ll let the photos do the talking…

We were content to wander through the rainbow throng and settle down to a bottle or two at the Forum to soak up the vibe and take in the cabaret. Watching a talented dance troupe of young girls strutting their stuff to Lady Gaga’s ‘Born This Way’ MC’d by a drag queen gladdened the heart. Yes, we really are in good hands.

Bloody-Minded Brits

I’ve always had a fu*k ’em attitude to authority, particularly the do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do hypocrites. You know the kind of thing: politicians preaching ‘family values’ while knocking off their secretaries on the side or hellfire priests touching up the altar boys in the vestry. I’m glad to say that sheer bloody-mindedness is a glorious national trait. And one that goes back centuries, judging by the bawdy carving high in the rafters of Hereford’s medieval All Saints Church. Hidden for centuries, it only came to light when a new gallery was added for a café. The gentlemen reclining in anticipation is now in full view of the chattering flat-white coffeeholics below. Well, it’s certainly something to talk about over the Victoria sponge.

Obviously, as a ‘family values’ site, our randy man’s family jewels have been pixilated. But, be honest, you want more, don’t you? Check out the naughty bits here. Sadly, we’ll never know what pissed off the carpenter. And as it’s Norwich Pride today, I rather hope it’s…

“We’re here, we’re queer, so fu*k you!”

From Tossers to Flonkers

We’ve become part-time groupies for our local village bowls team. To the uninitiated, bowls is a traditional sport beloved of the grey herd in which the objective is to roll weighted balls along a green so that they stop close to a smaller ball at the other end – closest wins. A variant of French boules, the game has ancient roots. That’s all I know.

Following a period of death and decline, a newly invigorated Chedgrave Bowls Club has attracted fresh and younger blood and is on a winning streak, starting with the Marie Curie Cup last autumn. While we don’t really have the first clue what’s going on, it’s a pleasant way to while away a warm summer’s day with a couple of G&Ts – ice and a slice. The fact that the bowling green is adjacent to our local tavern is a bonus.

Can you spot us?

The last time we were on groupie duty, it was suggested we might resurrect the old East Anglian pub sport of dwile flonking. This involves two teams of twelve players, each taking a turn to girt (dance) around the other while attempting to avoid a beer-soaked dwile (cloth) flonked (flung) by the non-girting team.

Here are the rules (according to Wikipedia):

A ‘dull witted person’ is chosen as the ‘jobanowl’ (referee), and the two teams decide who flonks first by tossing a sugar beet. The game begins when the jobanowl shouts, “Here y’go, t’gither” (together).

The non-flonking team joins hands and girts in a circle around a member of the flonking team. The flonker dips his dwile-tipped ‘driveller’ (a pole 2–3 ft long and made from hazel or yew) into a bucket of beer, then spins around in the opposite direction to the girters and flonks his dwile at them.

If the dwile misses completely it is known as a ‘swadge’. If this happens, the flonker must drink the contents of an ale-filled chamber pot (or gazunder as in ‘goes-under’ the bed) before the wet dwile has passed from hand to hand along the line of now non-girting girters chanting the ceremonial mantra of “pot, pot, pot!”.

A full game comprises two ‘snurds’, each snurd being one team taking a turn at girting. The jobanowl adds interest and difficulty to the game by randomly switching the direction of rotation and will levy drinking penalties on any player found not taking the game seriously enough.

Apparently, by the end of play, everyone’s too pissed to give a toss. If it’s not illegal, it ought to be. ‘Normal for Norfolk’ as the saying goes.

Many thanks to Gary Shilling, villager extraordinaire, for the inspiration for this post.

Battle of Water-loo

We returned from our nostalgic dalliance in Dalyan to water trickling down our dining room wall. Okay, it’s a bit of a stretch to call it an actual dining room. It’s more of a dining area. We quickly traced the leak to our bathroom, shut off the stopcock and summoned an emergency plumber. Nice young man, fixed our leaking loo in a jiffy. He was wearing superhero-themed knickers. I could hardly miss them as he bent over, tool in hand. The bathroom flooring needs replacing, and we were lucky the beamed ceiling hadn’t come down. Now we’ve got an insurance claim to sort out which will doubtless see our premiums soar; as if raging inflation hasn’t already forced us to double the wine budget.

John Garner 1967-2003: Twenty Years On

I looked around the tidy cemetery. It was serenely silent except for the sound of birdsong and the trickle of water from the mouths of the dolphins in their petrified embrace. It calmed me. I sat on the bench and inserted the earphones of the MP3 player, already cued for the moment. I pressed play, closed my eyes and sat back. The soulful tones of Boy George’s Il Adore, his beautifully crafted lament to a lost friend, poured over me. I cried as I listened and reminisced. I remembered John cuddling a weeping stranger at London Pride after the red balloons had been released, each one commemorating someone who had died of AIDS. I remembered John buying a McDonald’s Happy Meal and handing it, without a word, to a beggar on the street. I remembered John helping a drunken tramp to his feet because he’d fallen over and cut his face. I remembered his quick wit and winning smile that lit up my life. I remembered his resolute loyalty and steely determination. I missed him for all these things but most of all I missed him for him. His illness had been short, only a few fleeting weeks. His demise was swift and unheralded. His white room fell silent as the machines were turned off and I watched his last laboured breath. I was unprepared. I was felled by the turbulence. I created a ghost within to keep him alive. What of me now? My life as a wanton lotus eater was blessed. It seemed achingly unfair. I’d been given a second time around and I sensed John’s steady hand at the tiller.

Jack’s Guardian Angel – Perking the Pansies, Chapter 15