London Pride has been handed down to us,
London Pride is a flower that’s free.
London Pride means our own dear town to us,
And our pride it forever will be.
Image courtesy of Attitude Magazine (I hope they don’t mind), lyrics courtesy of Noel Coward (I’m sure he wouldn’t mind) and the idea courtesy of my husband, Liam (I know he doesn’t mind).
Last month, I posted a little piece about street buskers in Norwich doing their thing along Gentlemen’s Walk and Haymarket. I mentioned a nubile young man who does magical things with his crystal ball and one of my regulars asked to see a picture (I can’t think why). I am ever responsive to the needs of my punters so, ladies and gents, I give you poetry in motion.
Notice the oldie at the beginning of the clip cruising past on his mobility scooter. That’ll be me in the not too distant future.
Yesterday, the US Supreme Court legalised same-sex marriage in all 50 states and America joined a select group of nations that have introduced marriage equality. The map I’ve featured from Freedom to Marry illustrates the situation around the world before the Yankee vote. In these damp little islands of ours, only Northern Ireland is holding back the tide, Canute-like. The fire and brimstone lot who dominate the Northern Ireland Assembly are in good company – kiddie fiddling priests, the British National Party, Ex-Soviet republics and religious fundamentalists of all persuasions who fine, flog and hang. The dusty old Ulstermen will lose the fight in the end. It’s inevitable. Reason and sanity are against them. Today, the streets of London are paved with gold sequins. It’s London Pride, a grand celebration of everything that’s been achieved. Doubtless, black cab drivers will cuss and bemused tourists will think they’ve landed in Oz. Sadly, we can’t be there to join the party.
A splendid read. Funny, informative, tearful. Something for everyone who has a heart.
Turkey Street, Jack and Liam move to Bodrum
With Liam away in London on family duties, I was left to my own devices to troll the streets of Norwich. As I passed the rear of St Peter Mancroft, a divine shaft of light pierced the clouds and a sudden crescendo of bells rang out. Blimey. It was almost enough to make this sinner drop to his pagan knees. I resisted Peter’s temptation, it’s not something I tend to do in broad daylight (not even when the better half is away in the Smoke).
St Peter Mancroft is the largest church in Norwich after the two cathedrals. A ring of fourteen Whitechapel bells clanging high in its lofty belfry makes quite a heavenly racket, I can tell you. As it turns out, it wasn’t the Almighty calling, just a practice peel for the National 12-Bell Striking Contest Final.
Who was St Peter Mancroft? No one. The Mancroft bit is thought to be a mangling of the Old English gemaene croft, meaning a common field. Nobody knows for sure. Fancy.
There will be a great cock match at the Blue Bell…to show 31 cocks…Gentlemen shall be accommodated with a glass of excellent wine and care taken to prevent disturbance by the mob.
The Pub Landlord, 1725
Blimey. That’s a lot of cock. Just leave the bottle. These days the cocks of the county strut their stuff along Prince of Wales Road with its grubby hotspots of ill repute. The Bell now serves up cheap ale to north folk with tattoos and bad teeth. Still, at £3.59 for a large glass of pinot, who am I to argue?
Norwich is a retiring kind of town, the perfect place to hang up your boots. The micro-loft is the ideal roost, a lift just wide enough for a mobility scooter (I fancy a tiffany blue number with a harlequin shopping basket in fuchsia), tiny bills that won’t break the piggy bank and a small enough footprint to make light work of domestic drudgery. We’re spitting distance from the local quack for all those inconvenient ailments that get us all in the end. The medical centre comes with a handy on-site Boots for the pills and potions that will keep us going beyond our three score and ten (fingers crossed). And, when one of us does drop off the perch, the Co-operative funeral parlour is right next door (I hear they do a lovely spread, or is that spread you out lovely?) with the Samaritans opposite for the grieving widower. Should either of us try to hedge our bets by finding Jesus at the last minute, we’ve got a church on the corner. Amen to that.
One more pretty beer garden, one more eavesdropped conversation. This time, two young hipsters with ridiculously overgrown whiskers. They were in deep, earnest conclave.
‘Why didn’t you just tell me you were gay when I asked you?’
‘Dunno.’
‘So you go and lock yourself in the toilet for hours? I was really worried.’
‘I know, I know.’
‘Look, we’ve always been mates ain’t we?’
‘Sure.’
‘So what did you think I was gonna do? Tell you to fuck off?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Well, thanks a lot. What kind of arsehole do you take me for?’
‘Sorry, Zach.’
Judging by this and other posts about earwigging, you could be forgiven for thinking we spend all our supping days eavesdropping on the conversations of others. Honestly, we do talk to each other from time to time. Besides, I do like to take a little interest in my fellow man (and woman, of course). If it’s good enough for Her Maj’s secret services…
Now for some pretty pictures of the pretty beer garden at the pretty pub: The Plough, St Benedict’s Street.
Unlike many houses of God poking up through the mishmash skyline of Norwich, the old church of St Giles, so ancient it got a mention in the Domesday Book of 1086, is still saving souls today. At this time of year, it’s ringed by a dripping abundance of wisteria and very pretty it looks too. As the old saying goes:
Norwich has a Church for every week of the year and a pub for every day of the year.*
I took some snaps on the way to my place of worship, the Coach and Horses.
*Sadly, this is no longer true pub-wise though there are still plenty of places to take communion.
I’m a little tied up at the moment (said the the vicar to the dominatrix) with Turkey Street stuff so here’s something silly about shoes prompted by the giant heel currently kicked off in the concourse of our local shopping centre. Cinderella must be massive.
I still have my feet on the ground, I just wear better shoes.
Oprah Winfrey
Give a girl the right shoes, and she can conquer the world.
Marilyn Monroe
They went into my closets looking for skeletons, but thank God, all they found were shoes, beautiful shoes.
Imelda Marcos
Because life’s a catwalk.
Clarks Shoes Ad Campaign
Our incomes are like our shoes; if too small, they gall and pinch us; but if too large, they cause us to stumble and to trip.
John Locke
Perking the Pansies 