Another Day, Another Silly Scam

Spam is just like tax and death – unavoidable. Crafty spammers, scammers and crooks, enhanced by even craftier AI, are at it night and day finding even more ingenious ways to get us to part with our pennies. Sometimes, though, the attempts are just silly. I recently received this email from ‘Weebly’, a website hosting service. For a split second, it sounded plausible – I use Weebly for several websites. But then I looked more closely at the sender’s email address: sillysocklady@aol.com. What a silly lady.

Fifteen-Year Itch

For our fifteenth wedding anniversary we were itching for a big city scratch with a difference. Despite my heathen leanings, I do like an impressive church, and few are more impressive than London’s St. Paul’s Cathedral, Christopher Wren’s tour de force topped with its heavenly dome. The earlier Gothic pile was torched along with much of the old medieval city in the Great Fire of 1666. It’s reckoned the blaze started in a bakery in the appropriately named Pudding Lane, bringing a whole new meaning to the hallowed phrase ‘give us our daily bread’.

Meandering around the flashy Baroque splendour brought back happy memories of my first pilgrimage – back in my spotty teens when I accompanied my grandmother, who was over from Ireland.

According to the annals, there’s been a church on the same spot since 604 AD, and possibly as far back as the late Roman period, as suggested by a plaque listing the pre-Norman bishops with their glorious tongue-twister names.

In stark contrast to the lavish decor above, the crypt is simply appointed and stuffed with the tombs of kill and cure notables from days long past, from Florence Nightingale and Alexander Fleming – who discovered penicillin quite by chance – to the victors of Trafalgar and Waterloo, Nelson and Wellington. Napoleon must be spinning in his monumental Parisian grave. Wren is there too, of course.

After piety came avarice, with indulgent afternoon tea and bubbles in The Swan at Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre followed by mother’s ruin at Halfway to Heaven, the homo watering hole near Nelson’s massive column, where Liam and I first met. They knew we were coming judging by the ultimate gay megamix playing on the jukebox – Pet Shop Boys, Erasure, Marc Almond, The Communards, Frankie Goes to Hollywood, Dead or Alive, Gloria Gaynor and Hazel Dean – with Liza Minnelli’s ‘Love Pains’ bringing up the rear. Liam’s shoulders shimmied to the beat. Perfect.

Echo Youth Theatre Presents Little Shop of Horrors

We had a little taste of Echo Youth Theatre’s Little Shop of Horrors at the Maddermarket’s recent charity gig and thought, yep, that’s right up our alley. The quirky musical comedy features Skid Row florist Seymour in a kinda horticultural ménage à trois with co-worker Audrey and Audrey 2, his pet pot plant with an insatiable appetite and bad attitude. What’s not to like?

Taking on a cult classic, particularly one as eccentric as Little Shop of Horrors, is either brave or foolhardy but Echo Youth Theatre have strong roots and always put on a colourful display. And they didn’t disappoint, delivering an outstanding show from the entire cast with particular stand out performances from the young leads – Korben White as Seymour, Carrigan Matthews as Audrey, George Bartlett-Archery as Mr Mushnik and Jack Rudd as Orin/Martin. We also just adored the Ronnettes, the girl group with a great sixties vibe and all the right moves.

And a special mention has to go to Lily Matthews as the voice of Audrey 2. Sensational vocals, Lily.

We pitched up at the first night so there’s still time to grab a seat this week before the curtain falls on Saturday 15th. Go on, there’s nothing to fear.

Send in the Clones

When, in the late seventies, I took my first tentative steps onto London’s knock-and-enter gay scene, facial hair was all the rage. Walk into any smoky dive bar and you’d be confronted with an ocean of moustaches – the bigger, the bushier the better. It was like a Tom Selleck convention minus the Hawaiian shirts. We called ’em clones – the Frisco Crisco look. Even the limp-wristed tried to butch it up during the clone wars. The entire lookalikee-ness was gloriously sent up by the Village People in their camp 1978 disco classic ‘Macho Man’. I had the 12-inch.

And clones were only attracted to other clones – that was the Clone Law – dancing round each other in some strange narcissistic mating ritual. I couldn’t really grow convincing face furniture, and pretty boys like me didn’t get a look in. Still, it didn’t hold me back.

By the nineties, hirsute was out, supplanted by the clean-shaven and the fully-waxed. Roll on the noughties, and Desperate Dan* wannabees reclaimed the streets with overgrown hipster beards. But now the lumberjack look is old hat and tashes are back among the trendy young things. And so the world turns.

Being older and furrier, I saw this as my last chance to release my inner clone. For about a month, I nurtured my new whiskers with pride; a bit more salt than pepper perhaps, but full-bodied all the same.

Freddie Mercury’s clone phase

But then a young chap accidentally brushed passed me in a crowded Norwich pub. “Really sorry, old man,” he said.

That was the end of my seventies pornstar tash.

*Desperate Dan was a big butch cartoon character from the Dandy comic with a beard so tough he shaved with a blowtorch.

Labours of Love

As a superannuated member of the grumpy grey herd, I still read newspapers, those quaintly old-fashioned printed sheets of paper that leave ink smudges on your fingers. I recently read in one daily rag that renovation, decorating and domestic chores can cause tensions in relationships. Really? Who knew? This month, Liam and I celebrate our 15th wedding anniversary and we decided very early on in our career that the only way to avoid the divorce court was a clear division of labour in the home.

Here’s that newspaper list and how we stay (mostly) harmonious:

  • Flat-pack furniture: me. I’m a sucker for an Allen key. It makes me come over all butch.
  • Bathroom cleaning: Liam. Getting my hand round an s-bend is an insertion too far.
  • Painting and decorating: Liam. I’m no Jack of all trades and he’s handier with a brush.
  • Loading the dishwasher: both but I reload it when he’s not looking.
  • Clearing out the shed. Jack’s man cave – keep out! It’s where the smut is stashed.
  • Laundry: me. I’m happy to rinse through Liam’s knickers. That’s real love for you.
  • Putting up a shelf: neither. Get a lesbian in.
  • Cleaning the oven: Liam. Life’s way too short to drop to my knees for a cooker.
  • And the hardest of all… interior design choices. Have you ever seen two old poofs throw a hissy fit over some scatter cushions in IKEA? It wasn’t us, obviously.

Paul O’Grady, RIP

We awoke this morning to the sad news that Paul O’Grady, AKA Lily Savage drag queen extraordinaire, has died. Even though I didn’t know Paul personally, somehow it still feels like a big loss. Lily Savage was such an important part of my formative years as a pretty young gay about town. Before Paul hit the big time on the telly box, firstly as his alter ego and then as himself, I misspent many a boozy night of slapstick and sequins watching Lily click her high heels on the velvet-draped stage of the Royal Vauxhall Tavern, South London’s premier drag pub. Quick-witted, caustic, filthy and utterly original, Lily always brought the house down. I laughed so much it hurt. Nobody dared heckle Lily when Lily was on a roll. She was more than just drag. There have been countless drag queens down the ages, some great and some dire, but Lily stood wig and shoulders above them all. Lily was comedy royalty.

There are loads of videos of Paul and Lily on YouTube. I’ve picked one – outtakes from the Lily Savage TV Show back in the day on the Beeb. If you’re easily offended, best change channels now.

The Amazing ABBA Voyage

A big birthday deserves a big show and they don’t get much bigger than ABBA Voyage at the specially constructed ABBA Arena in London’s Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park. Discretion prevents me from broadcasting the number of the big birthday. Let’s just say the lady turned 21 again. After a Champagne breakfast at the White Horse generously provided by our jolly landlord – the birthday girl’s other half – the fancily-dressed voyagers piled onto the charabanc to the Smoke. More generosity from the innkeeper saw some of us three sheets to the wind before we hit the M11.

London traffic, as always, was bumper to bumper, but we made the performance – just. And what a performance. It took my breath away. Truly the best light and sound show I’ve ever seen. ABBA split in 1982 and, unlike some ancient rockers who seem to be on perpetual tour, the quartet wisely decided they were way too long in the tooth to squeeze into those skin-tight costumes and hit the road again. So ABBA Voyage is the next best thing – or the first best thing depending on your point of view – a virtual concert featuring ‘ABBAtars’.

At first, it felt a bit weird clapping to a series of holograms, but the show is so technically brilliant, so convincing, that it’s easy to suspend belief and party hard to the fast-paced set of timeless ABBA classics. And who doesn’t like a bit of ABBA at a party? We all had a ball, particularly the birthday girl – because she’s amazing too.

Madder Mates at the Maddermarket

Times are hard and, like so many others, the Maddermarket Theatre, former chapel and the spiritual home of am-dram in Norwich, is feeling the pinch. They desperately need an injection of cash to keep the footlights on. And so to raise a few coppers for the coffers, they put on a three-night explosion of talent. We pitched up for the middle fundraiser billed as…

“Showcasing the talents of some of our closest ‘Madder Mates’, our extended showbiz family are generously donating their time for a magical one-night event ‘CAUSE YOU GOTTA HAVE FRIENDS. An impromptu gala evening of stellar performances from great local artists…”

They weren’t wrong. It was a splendid happy clappy, foot-tapping treat. And if that wasn’t enough, I won some fancy bath oil in the charity raffle.

The theatre has some terrific artwork hanging around the bar. It’s worth popping in for a few sherries just to have a gander. It all helps with the theatre’s bank balance. This particular piece, from Bowie’s Aladdin Sane period, caught my eye. It’s made entirely of postage stamps.

Back in the seventies, I bought Aladdin Sane – a pun on ‘A Lad Insane’ – with an original gatefold cover with my meagre Saturday boy wages. Sadly, the album got lost somewhere along the way. It might be worth a few bob now.

What’s Your Poison?

Every month without fail, Chet Contact drops on the mat. Produced by the Chet Valley Churches, the community magazine is packed with handy information about local community groups and services for believers and non-believers alike. There’s a lot going on round these parts. From bells to balls, bats to bowls, cakes to quizzes, pumping iron to eyeing up the birds, from stage to the silver screen, arts and crafts, knitting to nattering, foraging to growing your own, and much more besides – all country life is here.

I like the regular history piece in the mag. I knew Loddon has old roots – the earliest written reference to the village was around 1042 – but I was surprised to read that there’s been a pharmacy in Loddon on the same site for over 180 years. It’s now a branch of Boots. Long gone are all those jars full of potions laced with opium and mercury from the apothecary’s handbook of old wives’ tales. Maybe that’s why, back then, life expectancy was only about 57.

Back to Turkey

We were struck down with the dreaded lurgy over the festive period and it just went on and on. What’s a boy to do when he’s at his lowest ebb, snot-wise, and he needs to perk up the pansies? Book a holiday of course. And the holiday we booked is to Dalyan in southwest Turkey. We plan a week of R&R with a bit of sightseeing and beach-bumming thrown into the mix.

We all know about last month’s catastrophic earthquakes, which flattened large swathes of Turkey and Syria, killing tens of thousands. It’s truly heartbreaking. We got a small taste of it when we lived in Bodrum. It was just a minor tremor, no damage done, but it still sent us fleeing into the courtyard.

The recent disaster will put some people off visiting Turkey but I hope not too many. The last thing the country needs right now is yet another blow to the economy. As most tourist businesses are family-owned, it’s the ordinary folk who suffer the most.

The situation is desperate and will remain so for a long time to come. If you’d like to help, please give what you can. It all makes a difference. There are plenty of appeals out there to choose from. Here’s one in the UK:

Disasters Emergency Committee

On a lighter note, Dalyan is a long way from the disaster zone. This is how I described it in Postcards from the Ege, a tongue in cheek guide book I wrote many moons ago:

“Back in the day, Dalyan was a quaint and sleepy village on the banks of the Dalyan River. The town first hit the headlines in the mid-eighties when an international campaign successfully defeated a plan to develop the nearby Iztuzu Beach where endangered loggerhead turtles famously lay their eggs. Turtles and tourism now co-exist (just). The soft, white sand is well worth a visit but take a packed lunch, slap on total sunblock and don’t step on the eggs. You don’t want to be responsible for wiping out an entire species.”

And the nearby ruins of Kaunos:

“Stuck in the bog of the Dalyan river delta with a chronology dating back to the 9th century BC is Kaunos, a city lost in the vegetation for over 300 years. Originally a Carian settlement and now a UNESCO World Heritage site, the ruins are a jumble from different periods – Greek, Roman and Byzantine. Kaunos was a regional seaport of some note. However, like Ephesus, the silting of the harbour left the city high and dry and sealed its fate. The site is best reached by small boat from nearby Dalyan. You’ll gently put-put through the crystal-clear river past majestic reed beds belly dancing in the breeze. Today, the city is appreciated as much for the prolific wildlife as it is for the scattered stones. Also, as with Miletos, the surrounding swamp is particularly popular with holidaying mosquitoes. The city was finally abandoned in the 15th century following a malaria epidemic. You’ve been warned.”

The last time I was in Dalyan was over 25 years ago. I can’t wait to dip my toes in the warm waters of the Aegean again. I might even persuade Liam to take in a mud bath with me in a vain attempt to regain our long lost youth. Yes, this was me back in 1997. It didn’t work then either.

Inevitably, the resort will have changed but I hope not too much. I’ll keep you posted.