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’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.
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.
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
It’s been a quarter of a century since I last visited Dalyan on Turkey’s pine-clad south-west coast. Back in the day, it was a sleepy village on a dreamy, reed-lined river stuffed with turtles. I’d been told that Dalyan had since grown into a full-on resort stuffed with young Russians avoiding the call-up. As they say, forewarned is forearmed.
And what did we find? Yes, Dalyan is much livelier, centred around a buzzy bar street with a smiley hawker at every door and the obligatory flock of peacocking waiters. But the resort has retained much of its old laid-back rustic charm with a hint of Bohemia. The river too is busier these days, but the turtles still pop up for air. As for the Ruskies, they were nowhere to be seen. With tourist visas expired, it seems most have returned to the motherland hoping to keep their heads down.
Our waterside family-run hotel delivered a cool pool and pretty wooded gardens running down to a jetty – the perfect place to decompress with a good book and a glass of cheap plonk. Wi-Fi was more notspot than hotspot, but that meant we took a welcome break from our glued-to-the-phone lives.
Built in quirky faux-Ottoman style, our digs were kept squeaky clean by a small gaggle of headscarved ladies who didn’t bat an eyelid at the prospect of a couple of old fairies shacking up together. And talking of wrinklies, compared to most of our neighbours, we were just out of short trousers. So much so, we thought we’d booked into the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel – one of my favourite films – with paramedics and a defibrillator on standby, just in case.
Not that all the residents of our retirement village were retiring types. Our next-door neighbours were a couple of full-throttle sisters from North Wales. Both widowed some years back, the racy ladies had decided life was for living and have been living it large ever since. The widows were merry most nights. Naughty but nice. They were a scream.
Lazy days on the loungers were followed by leisurely meals in town; but just like Cinders, we were tucked up by midnight. The slow stroll home was usually escorted by an assortment of street dogs – ten a penny in Turkey. Two middle-of-the-road mutts reminded us so much of cartoon characters that we called them Hanna and Barbera.
Hanna
Mid-way through our return to Paradise, we hooked up with a belle from our old Bodrum days. She and her Turkish beau had left the hassle and bustle of Bodrum to build their picture-perfect home in the village of Köyceğiz, on the shores of the large lake of the same name. They gave us a winding road tour with a lazy meze lunch up in the hills where diners can cool their toes in ice-cold melt waters. We were the only tourists at the table. I’d forgotten just how beautiful Turkey is. This image of the meandering Dalyan River does not do it justice. We were too busy taking in the view to capture it.
It was a truly wonderful excursion. Thank you, you know who you are.
The definition of boredom is cleaning out the bathroom extractor fan with an old toothbrush. Let’s face it, there’s only so much knick-knack dusting a boy can do when home alone. But I’m not yet ready for a meagre diet of daytime TV for the sofa-bound brain-dead – all idle chit-chat from nobodies about nothing. I know it’s only a matter of time before I too become glued to the box with a milky cuppa and a gingernut.
So I went for a walk. We’re fortunate to live close to water, not too close to worry about flooding – not yet anyway – but close enough for a rejuvenating stroll along the River Chet. The cottage is on the Wherryman’s Way, a series of long-distance paths linking Norwich with Great Yarmouth on the coast. The route is named after the north folk who worked the Norfolk wherries, small sailing barges that used to ply their trade along the waterways hereabouts ferrying people and cargo. All gone now of course, replaced by leisure boats for landlubbers.
June is a good time of year for old Ma Nature. She puts on her best show in exuberant emerald before, come August, she gets a bit frazzled and floppy.
On my walk I passed a small herd of grazing cattle. The white-faced bovine at the centre of the image above stared directly at me. I’ve seen that face before; I knew what she was thinking – come on then, if you think you’re hard enough. Memories of my last encounter with a white-faced alpha cow came flooding back. She was back and ready for another pop at me. Praise the Lord for the watery ditch between us.
Liam’s back tomorrow to save me from terminal tedium and mad cows.
Liam is away visiting an old friend from his wayward early years as a young gay about town. They worked and played together when Liam did a proper job with a pension attached. It’s the first time I’ve been home alone since we moved to the village over three years ago. Liam left to catch an early train and I fell out of my pit to an empty house, silent apart from the morning squawk of the horny birds outside. It felt odd and a little unsettling. But, as I went about my domestic chores, I kept finding post-it notes hidden here and there. Here’s a sample…
I did as I was instructed and jumped on the bus to our local garden centre. It was a warm and sunny day and the place was packed with people taking tea and talking shrubs. I cannot lie, I felt out of sorts. As I went to pay for my trolley-load of horticultural supplies, I opened my wallet to find this…
If you’d said a few years back that one day I’d be in a small provincial theatre watching a bunch of kids bounce about in a Lloyd Webber musical with a book by Julian Fellowes (he of Downton Abbey fame), I’d have laughed you off the stage. “Not my thang,” I would have said. “Give me Superstar and maybe Coat of Many Colours, but his other stuff? Nah, not for me.”
But there I was last night settling down to watch Echo Youth Theatre’s performance of School of Rock at the Maddermarket Theatre, along with rows of nervously proud friends and family, a buzz in the air. And I can report that Lloyd Webber’s eclectic, guitar-heavy score is a revelation. Andy’s back to his rock roots, and as the opening number blasted to the back of the auditorium, we all knew we were in for a foot thumping night.
And the talent on the stage last night was astounding. But then, that’s something I’ve come to expect from Echo Youth. It’s an ensemble piece and it would be unfair to single anyone out, apart from Chris Davidson in Jack Black mode. Oh, and Rory Peck, our favourite shake, rattle and roller. Suffice to say, the energetic and gifted cast produced a joyous and uplifting account of Lloyd Webber’s hit, and the standing ovation at the end was instant and richly deserved.
If you’re anywhere near Norwich, grab yourself a ticket for this rocking show and get yourself down to the Maddermarket (it runs until Sunday). And if you don’t come out humming Stick It to the Man, I’m the Queen of Sheba.
We binned the car in 2014 so, unsurprisingly, good public transport is important to us. That’s why we chose a village close to Norwich with a decent bus service – regular and reliable. And Norwich has fast and frequent train services to London for our big city fixes and family stuff. All in all, it works well most of the time. But when the wheels come off, they come off in spectacular style.
Our most recent jolly was a trip to The Old Smoke for a family affair – lunch and a stopover in London’s Spitalfields district.
But then…
… a water main burst, blocking the main road to Norwich. Buses were on divert. That’s ok, we thought, we’ll just give ourselves extra time. After a grand tour of the pretty hamlets of the county, we made our train – just.
And then…
… some poor soul was killed on the tracks just outside London. All trains on the line ground to a halt while emergency services attended the scene. That’s ok, we thought, we’ll just be a bit late. No big deal when compared to the loss of a life.
We were late, but not too late and the lunch went ahead without further ado. Afterwards, we checked into our trendy digs for the night and happened upon a traditional East End boozer to finish off our jolly with a flourish. We were safely tucked up in our comfy bed by drinking up time.
And then…
… we awoke fuzzy-headed to find the water was off the menu – for us, for everyone. You can imagine the commotion in reception. That’s ok, we thought. We had just enough of a trickle for a whore’s wipe, and we’ll get a refund too.
At least our train back to Norwich left on time.
And then…
… a vehicle damaged a level crossing. All trains on the line ground to a halt while emergency services attended the scene. That’s ok, we thought, we’re not in any rush.
We were late, but not too late. Back in Norfolk, the burst water main was still bursting water and buses were still on divert to a hit-and-miss schedule. We waited patiently at Norwich Bus Station. We even had time for a coffee and a custard cream. The bus eventually arrived and we started another grand tour of the pretty hamlets of the county.
And then…
… as we approached a roundabout, the bus ground to a halt. We saw a plume of nasty black smoke in the distance and spotted a vehicle on fire at the roundabout. We were held in a queue while emergency services attended the scene. This is not so ok, we thought.
Our driver finally received orders from Mission Control. “Turn back and we’ll find you a different route.” U-turning a double-decker bus on a minor country road with nose-to-nipple traffic is no mean feat but our valiant driver managed it, ably assisted by a couple of gung-ho passengers. Back on the road, we went on another grand tour of the pretty hamlets of the county. Brooke is particularly pretty. I should know; we drove through it twice. Mission Control then sent us down a pretty country lane and pretty country lanes aren’t really designed for double-deckers.
And then…
… a double-decker approached us from the opposite direction. “That’s ok,” our driver said. “I’ll just reverse into a side road – simples!” And that’s what he did. The oncoming bus passed without further ado. Off we went to the next pretty village along the pretty lane.
And then…
… the lane narrowed and a second double-decker approached us from the opposite direction. With cars backing up, we had nowhere to go except forwards. Our driver attempted inching past the other bus. And it almost worked. But, with a loud metallic bang, bus scraped bus and the window next to us shattered, spraying us with shards of safety glass. We leapt from our seats. The game was up. We were on the road to nowhere.
After mooching around for a while waiting for something to happen, I said, “Sod this for a game of soldiers, let’s walk.”
Home was about three miles along the pretty lane.
And then…
… it started to rain. “That’s not ok,” I said.
After about a mile, a passing car stopped ahead. Hallelujah, it was someone we know. A knight in shining armour. We were saved. Also saved were a couple of other strays from the bus crunch. Thank you, Sir Galahad. You know who you are.
So then…
… we went straight to the pub.
With thanks to members of the Loddon Eye Faceache group for the burning car and bus crunch images.
Essex, the home county to the east of London, has the reputation of being, well, a bit chavvy. But there’s more to Essex than big hair, gaudy bling, fake tans, assisted tits and impossibly white tombstone teeth – and that’s just the men.
Beyond the faceless towns of the commuter belt, Essex is a green and pleasant land, and its county town, Colchester, has ancient roots. Although not officially awarded city status until 2022, Colchester can reasonably claim to be Britain’s first proper city, sitting as it does on top of Camulodunum, the first major settlement of Roman Britannia and the province’s first capital.
Even before the unstoppable Romans slashed and burned their way through village, forest and field, the settlement was already a centre of power for the locals, including King Cunobelin – Shakespeare’s Cymbeline. When the Romans displaced the tribal huts with their first legionary fortress, it was like saying ‘we’re top dogs now’.
Following the Boudican revolt of AD60, when the seriously pissed-off Queen of the Iceni slaughtered everyone and burned everything in her path, a defensive wall was thrown around the town in an after-the-horse-has-bolted kinda way. Not long after, Camulodunum lost its status as provincial capital to the better-placed Londinium but continued to thrive as a garrison town, something which continues to this day.
We’ve passed through Colchester many times – it’s on the mainline from Londinium to Norwich – but we’d never stepped off the train for a gander. So, we thought, let’s give it a go, and we stayed overnight. The main event for us was Colchester Castle, which sits in a pretty park populated by picnickers and grey squirrels. The park also contains remains of that post-Boudica Roman city wall – the earliest ever constructed.
The castle keep is eleventh-century Norman, built on the foundations of the massive classical temple of Claudius the Divine; Roman emperors just loved to be worshipped. The castle is now a rather splendid museum dedicated to the long history of the city. Roman-era relics are what really draw in the punters. We were lucky enough to avoid the modern-day legions of over-excited schoolkids in hi-vis jackets screaming their way through the exhibits.
Museum’d out, we took a slow stroll around the ruins of St Botolph’s Priory, where Liam caught forty winks; then we withdrew to a local tavern for a bottle and a bite.
Our bed for the night was at the historic George Hotel, along the High Street. We chose well. Behind the hotel’s Georgian façade lies a timber-framed building said to date back to the fourteenth century, although the hotel’s extensive cellars may be older and feature the ruins of a Roman gravel pavement. A few years back, the hotel underwent extensive renovation and refurbishment. We fell for the lavish and distinctly quirky style.
I posted this image on Faceache of little ol’ me in a funky, over-the-top, oversized wing-back chair. It prompted this response from an old mucker of mine…
PUT THAT CHAIR IN YOUR HANDBAG AND STEAL IT FOR ME *NOW* PLEASE!
Perking the Pansies 
