The Three Witches

The Three Witches

Comptons of SohoA while back, I took a little trip to the big city to catch up with old friends, a regular gig and a tradition going back years. It’s what we call the witches coven, a time to conspire, bitch and stir the pot without the distractions of coupledom getting in on the act. We leave our significant others at home to do the washing up. I’d like to claim it’s a carnival of sparkling wit and profound insight but the excess tends to dull the repartee.

I waited for the coven to convene in Comptons, a Soho bar of some infamy and a regular haunt of my dance hall days. I was early and ordered a pint. Little has changed at Comptons down the years but bog standard beer has been cynically replaced by premium ales with premium prices to match. Even by Soho’s inflated tariffs, the cost is extortionate; I’ve been on cheaper Ryanair flights. It was ever thus. Having a gay old time has always come at a price.

As ever, the beefy bar staff were useless. Getting served at Comptons is like a game of chance and what little change you get back is shunted towards you in a plastic tray, a kind of begging bowl for the minimally waged. Company policy, I assume. Us Brits tend not to tip bar staff but I suppose the ruse works with unsuspecting tourists. I scooped up my coppers and found a quiet spot to sip my beer, thumb through the gaypers and wait for my fellow witches to arrive. Before long, a young Asian man sidled up next to me and began a nervous conversation. From his awkwardness and stuttering babble, I guessed he was a Soho novice. To the uninitiated, even the oppressed can be oppressive and I knew from experience that being gay and Asian doesn’t always make a great cocktail. I was more than happy to put the young whippersnapper at his ease. As it turned out, he was an air traffic controller at Heathrow. That’s all we need in these paranoid times. A jittery air traffic controller with secrets.

Dragon On

Dragon On

As prophesied by the oracle, Go Go Dragons has proved to be a huge hit with children and adults alike judging by the legions of buggies, brownies, cubs, dinkies and wrinklies, brats in caps and overheated parents following the Dragon Trail during the summer break. In all, there are 84 large legendary creatures huffing and puffing along the streets and 120 baby dragons sniffing around various window displays. It’s quite a trudge to get round them all. Here’s a sample that caught my eye. My personal favourite is Dragon Nelson.

Something Funny Happened on the Way to the Forum

Something Funny Happened on the Way to the Forum

On the day of the Lord Mayor’s Show last month, we took a circuitous route to the Forum, the party’s thumping epicentre. As we walked along Bethel Street, we stumbled across the Old Skating Rink, a barn of building set back from the road. Liam was curious.

Let’s take a look inside.

So we did and this is what we found.

Built for roller skating in 1876, the listed building is now an Aladdin’s cave of oriental rugs, textiles, traditional and antique furniture, ceramics, wood carvings, accessories and decorative objects – all directly imported from Asian regions extending from Anatolia to Java. Part-shop, part-museum, the owner, Country and Eastern, is doing its bit to help to keep traditional skills alive by supporting the South Asian Decorative Arts and Crafts Collection (SADACC) Trust.

Liam bought me a little brass cow bell. I placed it by the side of the bed. Now I can ring for service.

Turkey Street: Jack and Liam move to Bodrum – Review

A big hand to insideoutinistanbul for the thoughtful review of Turkey Street. I’m chuffed!

Turkey Street: Jack and Liam move to Bodrum – Review.

The Plantation Garden

The Plantation Garden

Close to the heart of Norwich, adjacent to the Catholic Cathedral, lies a hidden garden tumbling into a former chalk quarry. The Plantation Garden was a labour of love for one Henry Trevor, a prosperous Victorian cabinet maker. For forty years, eccentric Henry lavished time, effort and considerable money on his enchanted folly. But by the Second World War, it had been abandoned and almost forgotten. That was until a dedicated group of volunteers rolled up their sleeves, hacked away the weeds and restored the garden to its former ornamental glory. Today, the lush shrubbery plays host to jazz picnics, open air film screenings and vintage fairs. But most days, it’s a tranquil haven from the city that surrounds it. Henry may have been bonkers but his legacy is rather magical.

Did She or Didn’t She?

Helen McDermott is a radio and TV presenter who, back in the day, was one of the most popular faces on Anglia TV, the local commercial television franchise-holder in these parts. These days she keeps her hand in by presenting at Mustard TV, a local community station. Recently, though, Helen hit the national headlines by calling her fellow presenter a naughty name – a really naughty name, in fact the naughtiest of names – after he referred to her as a relic. The gaff didn’t end up of the cutting room floor. Oh no. It was aired and before the watershed, too. But  as only one man and his flock actually watch Mustard TV, who would ever know? The tabloids, that’s who. But did she actually say it? You be judge (or change channel, if you’re easily offended).

Thank you to the multi-talented Mark Gracey who suggested this post one night over a sweet sherry.

Last Tango in London

Last Tango in London

At the arse end of another weekend in the Smoke, we found ourselves with time on our hands at Liverpool Street Station. Liam’s bright idea to kill time was a detour to Old Spitalfields Market for a browse and a bite. I say ‘old’ but Spitalfields has been relentlessly gentrified since its heyday as an East End fruit and faggots emporium. Apples and pears have given way to arts and crafts, jellied eels to corporate fare. The place was heaving and the tourists lapped up the fake authenticity. There was a surprise round every corner and this was the biggest surprise of all. It was mesmerising.

Quacky Races

Quacky Races

The Gay Pride marching season is in full mincing swing. But while 40,000 and 160,000 well-wishers lined the parade routes of Belfast and Brighton (respectively) last Saturday, we amused ourselves with something to give even the glitziest of drag queens a run for her sling backs. The Grand Norwich Duck Race, starring oversized bathtub playthings draped in outrageous livery, is a plucky battle fought each year for charity. Once in the waters of the sedate River Wensum, Daffy and his flock all tried to float the wrong way and had to be marshalled up the course by a man in a canoe. Congratulations to the duck from City College for a worthy victory. We retired to the bar of the Playhouse Theatre for a celebratory tipple in the beer garden. Norwich really is quackers.

Cilla Black, RIP

Cilla Black, RIP

The inimitable Cilla Black has just died at the young age of 72 at her home in Spain. It’s a sad day. I grew up with Cilla (née Priscilla White) from her glory days as Britain’s premier power balladeer in the Swinging Sixties to her reign as undisputed queen of Saturday night TV in the Eighties with programmes like Blind Date. So I do hope when Cilla pitched up at the Pearly Gates, St Peter asked:

What’s your name and where do you come from?

I think Our Cilla would have liked that

Farty Pants

Farty Pants

To (badly) quote the glorious Victoria Wood, you know you’re getting old when you walk past a shop window displaying a pair of Scholl sandals and think to yourself Ooh, they look comfy. I had a similar revelation when I was thumbing through an Independent on Sunday glossy supplement and came across an advert for flatulence filtering underwear called Shreddies. And there was me thinking breakfast cereal made from wholegrain wheat. But then too much bran can brew a lusty whiff, so perhaps that’s the association. And while we’re on the subject of our grey days, why are the models advertising a product obviously targeted at the winking-sphincter brigade, young and lithe with rings of steel?

Shreddies