Lordy, Lordy!

Lordy, Lordy!

There was no rain on the Lord Mayor’s Parade. Clear blue skies and one of the warmest days of the year provided the perfect excuse for the good citizens of Norwich to throw a giant party. Last year, we watched the pageant from a neighbour’s balcony, the surreal highlight of which was Alice Cooper’s ‘Poison’ blaring out from a giant float. This year, we got down and dirty with the great unwashed. Singers, dancers and musicians from also-rans to best in breed kept the ample crowd entertained on street and stage across the city. The inclusion of so many children and young people with disabilities was a joy. The surreal highlight was a primary school dance troupe strutting their stuff to Alice Cooper’s ‘School’s Out.’ Obviously, the north folk of Norfolk are partial to a bit of shock rock. The carnival was topped off with a spectacular firework extravaganza over the Norman keep. Fabulous!

As you can see, we took a few snaps. They got progressively worse as we got progressively worse for wear. Liam has chucked together (and I mean chucked) a video compilation from the wobbly out-takes. Listen if you dare, to a drunken and tone-deaf sing-a-long-a-Liam during the pyrotechnics. The next day we had wine flu.

Ten Degrees of Drunkenness

Ten Degrees of Drunkenness

Drunk2The other day, I was Facebooking (is that a word?) with Philip, an old mucker from my bean counting years. Actually, he did all the bean counting while I took all the glory. Philip was one of the first to buy a copy of Turkey Street. In fact he bought two. I mentioned in passing that a little drink might help turn the pages. He took me at my word and attempted the first chapter on a Brighton to London train. Apparently, he was too pissed to remember any of it. This got us into conversation about that tipping point – when a night out on the tiles in your best frock turns into no-knickers in the gutter. We came up with the ten degrees of drunkenness and reckon ‘smashed’ is the point of no return.

  • Warm
  • Glowing
  • Merry
  • Tipsy
  • Sozzled
  • Smashed
  • Paralytic
  • Dribbling
  • Comatosed
  • Dead

I’ve never been beyond ‘dribbling’ whereas the old pro, Philip, has died many, many times.

Istanbul Pride, Turkey Shame

Istanbul Pride 2015Yesterday, at the very last minute, the Turkish authorities banned Istanbul Pride. A peaceful celebration of difference and diversity was savagely dispersed by water cannon, rubber bullets and tear gas, the weapons of choice for the Turkish State. Memories of Gezi Park came flooding back. It seems the holy month of Ramadan was the feeble excuse offered up by the Police. Yet, last year’s march also occurred during Ramadan and passed off without incident. Perhaps this was the last hurrah of a president on the skids. I do hope so. Watch the footage of a young man waving a rainbow flag being blown clear off his feet by a water cannon. Is this the image of a modern Turkey President Erdogan wants to convey to the world?

Images courtesy of Occupy Gezi and Twitter

London Pride

London Pride

London Pride, Attitude Magazine

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).

Poetry in Motion

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.

What a Gay Day

Freedom to MarryYesterday, 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.

Take a Stroll Along Turkey Street

Turkey StreetA splendid read. Funny, informative, tearful. Something for everyone who has a heart.

Turkey Street, Jack and Liam move to Bodrum

The Bells, The Bells

The Bells, The Bells

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.

Bell Ringing Contest

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.

The Cocks of the County

The Bell

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?

Retiring Norwich

Retiring Norwich

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.