Brighton Rocks

To mark our joint birthdays, Liam and I are off to Brighton (London-by-the-Sea) for a couple of days in the company of a pair of drunken old playmates to take in the sea air and drink the town dry. Thankfully, the lashing remnants of Hurricane Gonzalo have already cylconed over otherwise the air might have been a little more bracing than we had bargained for. After the Brighton booze cruise, we’ll be in London to mark the coming of age of my nephew and namesake, Jack. He’s having a bit of a do with the class of 2014. And yes, we’ll be the old farts hiding in the corner sipping on a sweet sherry and trying hard not to leer at the young men in big hair and skinny jeans. No doubt we’ll be bringing our livers back in a Sainsbury’s bag.

Here’s Jack with the old girl earlier in the year.

Jack and Mum

 

The Great British High Street

High_StreetNorwich Lanes, a hotchpotch of mostly medieval streets and alleys and home to over 300 independent retailers, cafés and bars, has been nominated for the Great British High Street Awards 2014. Let’s face it, these days, the British high street needs all the help it can get to survive the relentless onslaught of samey out of town retail parks and the likes of Amazon. So far, the Lanes have managed to buck the depressing trend and are holding their own by offering something unique and quirky to please the punters. Well, who wouldn’t love a shop called Belly Button? So if you’re an East Anglian (and even if you’re not), why not show a little support? Visit the Norwich Lanes website for more info.

Belly Button

National Coming Out Day

Coming OutIt’s National Coming Out day today. I highly recommend it. It’s good for the soul. Easy for you to say, you might think. After all, I grew up in metrosexual London not the bible-bashing Prairies or Koran-thumping Steppes. New York may be the city that never sleeps but London is the city that doesn’t give a shit. And, to a certain extent this is true. It was relatively painless for me to trampoline out of the closet, disco dancing to ‘I am what I am,’ (The Village People anthem not the later more famous song from ‘La Cage aux Folles’). Still, it wasn’t quite the walk in the park some might imagine. It was the Seventies and, at the time, few people joined me out in the cold. And anyway, this post isn’t about me. I’m old hat. It’s about those still struggling to come to terms with their sexuality. So to mark National Coming Out Day, I am republishing my classic 2012 hit ‘Letter of Hope to LGBT Teens’. If it helps a bit then I’m glad.

Rainbow Stripe

Dear 15 Year Old Me,

That was Then…

Jack, what the hell are you doing? She’s a nice girl and all that but, really, you know you’ll never get beyond heavy petting. Come on, be true to yourself. You’re leading her down the garden path to frustration and disappointment; she deserves better. Just admit that you don’t like ‘it’. Her pretty bits are all in the wrong places, aren’t they? Okay, it’s 1975, it’s the decade that fashion forgot and you’re only fifteen, but you know you know. It’s not just a phase.

London may well have swung through the Sixties when androgynous men wore makeup and liberated ladies burnt their bras, but it’s not stopped you thinking you’re the only one. Yes, trendy Chelsea is just across the river but it might as well be on a different planet. Pick up a newspaper, any paper, and it’ll scream ‘pervert’ at you. ‘Paedophile’ even. The thing is, you don’t feel like a pervert and you’re certainly not interested in pre-pubescent boys. You’re just different from your brothers and the other boys in your class. Stop beating yourself up and get a grip. It’s okay to be different. Your parents will love you regardless, though I admit the conversation might be awkward, perhaps painful. They won’t like it. There may be tears and recriminations. No parent wants their child to stand out from the crowd for all the wrong reasons. It might be dangerous taking centre stage in a hostile world but you’re strong enough to take the flak. Come on, Jack. You learned real pride and you learned it at your father’s knee.

This is Now…

Jack, what the hell are you doing? Turkey’s a nice place and all that but, really, it’s a Muslim country and you and your partner are living openly as a gay couple. You are 51 and resolutely ‘out’ to everyone, take it or leave it. I hear you got ‘married’ back in 2008, a splendid fanfare of friends and family. So, they came round then? You’ve had a life full of peaks and troughs, good times and bad. This is life as it should be. So, your sexuality is only one of the things that define you but it is one of the important things. You’re a happy, rounded individual. You don’t compromise. You change attitudes just by being you. You see? You did it.

Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell

Marakech

Ray Cole from Kent was recently released early from a Moroccan prison after receiving a four month sentence for ‘homosexual acts’. Mr Cole had struck up an online friendship with a local Moroccan man and popped over to see his new beau in the flesh (as it were). Nobody else’s business, you might think. You’d be wrong. The couple were arrested at a bus stop, after which the Police apparently found incriminating images on Mr Cole’s phone. Like most African and Moslem countries, homosexuality is illegal in Morocco. Mr Cole knew this but went there anyway. After all, Morocco isn’t Saudi Arabia or Iran where execution is de rigeur. It was, I guess, a calculated risk. The North African kingdom has a reputation for a relaxed don’t-ask-don’t-tell attitude, particularly for Western foreigners who indulge in the many exotic pleasures that the country has to offer. But discretion is the order of the day. Moroccan life, like so many others around the world, spins on hypocrisy. Why were Mr Cole and his young paramour targeted? Who knows? My suspicion is that they were unlucky. I doubt the Moroccan authorities have any wish to deliberately upset Europe or damage the tourist trade. Mr Cole was released after a concerted legal and PR campaign by his family. A week later, his partner in ‘crime’ was also released. So that’s something, I suppose. There are many lessons in this sorry tale. Keeping the camera out of the bedroom would be the first on my list.

Billy Elliot, Live from London

Billy Elliot1September was a bit of a cultural marathon ending in a theatrical flourish. Liam surprised me with an early birthday present, a broadcast of the musical Billy Elliot streamed live from London. Set in a small mining community in the northeast of England during the 1984/85 miner’s strike*, Billy Elliot is the tale of a young boy’s unusual ambition to become a ballet dancer set against the backdrop of a divided community on the edge of defeat and the inverted snobbery of his family.  Obviously, his nearest and dearest get behind him in the end and Billy goes on to play the lead in Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake. What we didn’t know when we took our front row seats at Cinema City was that the show was also going to be beamed to 554 cinemas in Britain and Ireland and to others around the world – simultaneously across Europe and with time delays to Asia, Australia and North America.

The performance began with a tribute from Elton John (who composed the score), a back stage tour from one of the current quartet of Billys (and our Billy for the day), the incredibly gifted Elliott Hanna, and an introduction by Stephen Daldry, the director of the musical and of the 2000 film on which the stage show is based. The gloriously uplifting finale was a specially choreographed foot-tapping mashup by 25 Billys from past and present. The raw energy and mesmerising talent made me feel distinctively average.

I have to confess that I’m a bit of a Billy Elliot disciple. I blubbed all the way through the film, cried buckets during the stage show (which I saw in 2008) and wept uncontrollably into my large glass of Pinot Grigio through the broadcast. I wasn’t the only one failing to get a grip. The broadcast became the first live event to go to Number 1 at the UK Box Office. It was seeing those hunky miners in tutus that did it.

I leave you with Grandma’s Song (different Billy, same grandma). If you don’t like a little bit of swearing, you’d best change channels now.

*This was the second strike-themed show of our September culture-fest, the first being the fabulous film Pride which we saw at the beginning of the month.

Would You Credit It?

credit cardsA letter from the Co-operative Bank dropped on the mat the other day about a credit card I’ve held with them for donkey’s years. I’ve always had a soft spot for the good old co-op. It’s a movement with a long and laudable tradition of using the clout of collective ownership to deliver goods and services fairly, transparently and equitably. So. What does the letter say? I quote:

“As a responsible lender we have recently reviewed your credit card account and have noted you do not regularly use the full limit available to you.

Having an unused credit limit on a credit card account registered in your name can negatively affect your credit score; as such we are planning to reduce your limit in line with your previous spending.”

It’s a topsy-turvy world when your credit worthiness is determined by how much debt you have to juggle. It’s even worse when the Co-operative Bank encourages its customers to pile on the debt in an attempt to reverse its own well-documented slide into ruin. The whole point of a co-operative society is that it’s supposed to do things, you know, differently. What’s laughable about the letter is that I only use my account to pay a small quarterly premium for a life insurance policy. If they really wanted to match my limit to actual spend, I’d have a credit limit of only £3. It would be more honest (and, perhaps, closer to their founding principles) if they just admitted that they want to close my account because they’re not making any money out of me. Now that would be worth the price of a stamp.

Catch of the Day

Gumusluk2

My tuppence-worth contribution to Roving Jay’s latest travel book, The Gümüslük Travel Guide, the first of an in-depth series about the Bodrum Peninsula from a lady in the know:

One sultry autumn afternoon, Liam and I rode the dolly to Gümüslük, a pretty picture-postcard village set among the ruins of the ancient Carian city of Myndos. This was a well-trodden excursion for us, a frequent and welcome distraction from bustling Bodrum Town. As a protected archaeological site, Gümüslük had mercifully been saved from the rampant over-development that afflicted much of Bodrum Peninsula.

As we bussed along the meandering heat-cracked road, I imagined how different the scenery must have been before the mad march of little white boxes up hill and down dale. Stunning, I was sure. Nevertheless, the hinterland surrounding Gümüslük still managed to impress; snapshot glimpses of pine-smothered hills and Tiffany blue waters cast a beguiling spell. We arrived at the small otogar perched above the village and meandered down the hill to the rows of craft stalls peddling multi-coloured knick-knacks, eclectic artwork and small pieces of fine silverware. Liam liked to potter, umming and ahhing at each stall and chatting to the hawkers. Sometimes he even bought a trinket or two. Just ahead of us, the glassy harbour gleamed beyond the quay and drew us to the water’s edge. The sheltered anchorage has been a sailors’ safe haven for millennia. This is where Julius Caesar’s chief assassins, Brutus and Cassius, moored their galleys during the ensuing punch-up with Mark Antony, something that even gets a mention in the famous Shakespearian tragedy.

Gumsuluk Travel Guide1A late lunch was on the menu. We’d long since learned to avoid the overpriced identikit fish restaurants with their press-ganging waiters reeling in the catch of the day. As emigreys on a fixed income, we left the fishy eateries that lined the bay to unsuspecting tourists and well-heeled Istanbulers who equated price with quality. Our destination was our favourite low-cost lokanta, a ramshackle kind of place with mismatched furniture and wipe-down table cloths. Dalgiç Restaurant was set off the main drag and served our favourite fast food – freshly prepared gözleme – delicious savoury rolled pastries laced with a tasty selection of meat, cheese or vegetable fillings. Our effervescent patron attended to our needs out front while his pantaloon’d missus rolled, chopped and griddled out back. The flat-bread feast was washed down with a ripe bottle of red, a cut above the ancient Myndoan plonk that was reputably mixed with sea water and caused unending flatulence. Sated, replenished and wine-mellowed, we wandered down to the headland and waded across the partially sunken causeway (submerged by a long forgotten earthquake) to Rabbit Island. Here, as was our tradition, we tumbled over antique stones*, bunny spotted and settled down on a grassy ledge to witness one of the most sublime sunsets the Aegean has on offer.

*Sadly for visitors,  Rabbit Island is off limits to waders due to renewed archaeological interest. Don’t let this put you off. The sunsets are gorgeous from every angle in Gümüslük.

Godspell Reloaded

Godspell Reloaded

Godspell from Mixed Voice

September has been a bit of a culture fest – a fabulous film about rainbow comrades rattling the tin for the cause, Liam’s born again experience when kooky Kate flew out of reclusion and, right at the start of  the month, a musical treat from Mixed Voice at the Norwich Playhouse. Every year, Norfolk’s premier entertainment company asks the audience to vote on a show they should try on for size. Last year it was Rent. This year, the vote went to a revival of Godspell, the retelling of the parables attributed to the famous Galilean. With its happy clappy tunes, a flower power cast in primary colours and a newly polished script fit for the iPhone generation, it’s huge fun. Not nearly as successful as the unstoppable and overhyped Lloyd Webber juggernaut, Jesus Christ Superstar, Godspell offers more of a playground intimacy and really suits a smaller venue. Believers and non-believers alike, who could argue with the carpenter’s message of peace and love, particularly when it’s delivered by the multi-talented players of Mixed Voice? But I did spot a small congregation of dog collars fixed firmly to their seats during the standing ovation at the end. Maybe they didn’t like the frocks. There’s no accounting for taste.

Murder, She Wrote

Murder on the Orient ExpressAfter I survived the surgeon’s knife, I was told to put my feet up and let nature do the healing so I’ve been doing the bare minimum to keep the wheels on the bus of Jack Scott enterprises. I must admit, my lolling about on the sofa has involved a fair amount of daytime TV – a thin diet of magazine programmes, flashy quiz shows, racy gossip, silly soaps, mindless vox pop, meagre news and convoluted whodunnits. It’s all been quite soporific and great for helping me catch up on my sleep. This healing lark is so exhausting.

Occasionally though, a classic grabs my attention and holds it for the duration. Such is the 1974 film version of Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express with a stellar ensemble headed by Albert Finney in the role of Hercule Poirot, Ms Christie’s fey and fussy Belgian detective. I’ve seen the movie loads of times. It’s hugely OTT and I can only assume that the cast laid down bets during the first read-through on who could ham it up the most. My vote goes to Wendy Hiller as the ageing Russian princess, all lacy widow’s weaves and truly dreadful Romanov accent. She would have given the Bolshies a run for their money. Sadly, along with Dame Wendy, most of the players are now dearly departed – Anthony Perkins, Ingrid Bergman, Rachel Roberts, Denis Quilley, Colin Blakely, John Gielgud and, of course, the fabulous Lauren Bacall who popped her clogs just last month.

It’s rumoured that Agatha Christie wrote at least some of her famous book when she stayed at the Pera Palace Hotel in Istanbul back in its glory days, the digs of choice for princes and presidents visiting the Ottoman capital. I’ve lodged there myself a couple of times during its more recent rundown years. Or as I put it in the new book (cue the plug):

“The Pera Palace was once the opulent end of the line for the Orient Express but had fallen on hard times, a piece of Istanbul’s neglected family silver in dire need of a good buffing.”

Chapter Eight, The Best of Times, the Worst of Times

It was Liam’s first visit to old Constantinople and we endured four seasons in three days – driving snow, bitter winds, low grey clouds and sparkling sunshine under blue skies. Our room at the Pera Palace was so cold, we were forced to share the huge antique bathtub to keep warm. It wasn’t too much of an imposition. Since then the hotel has been buffed to buggery with a multi-million lira facelift. Even the prolific and profitable Ms Christie might now baulk at the rack rate (if she were still alive, that is).

Pits and Perverts

Thirty years ago, the National Union of Miners (NUM) was in a desperate battle with the Thatcher Government to save their livelihoods and their communities. It was a war of attrition that went on for twelve long months. It was also during the dark days of the gay ‘plague’ with John Hurt scaring the life out of OAPs with crashing tombstones every night on national TV and a certain fire and brimstone chief constable saying that gay people were ‘swirling in a human cesspit of their own making.’ Believe me, it was no fun on the picket line or the dance floor. The Police had a habit of raiding both. At the time, I was living with a quantity surveyor who was neither ‘out’ at work or to his family. What sexuality has to do with counting bricks I shall never know but that was the way back then – most closets were firmly locked from the inside. Society had a habit of making hypocrites of us all. I was his guilty secret (needless to say, he wasn’t mine).

So what do striking miners have in common with dancing queens? Not very much you might think. I didn’t think so either until I saw Pride, a new BBC Film by Marcus Warchus, the new Creative Director at the Old Vic. On general release today, this funny and illuminating movie is based on the true story of a small group of London activists who raised money to help the families of the strikers. They called themselves ‘Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners’ and they did exactly what it said on the collecting tin. Officially, the über-straight, blue collar, backs-to-the-wall-lads NUM weren’t too keen on accepting the support of a gaggle of dirty pervs, even during the worst of times. So the brave pervs took their cause direct to the coal face by sprinkling a little fairy dust (and quite a lot of cash) on a small Welsh mining village. Cue the considerable talents of some seasoned pros (Imelda Staunton, Bill Nighy) who know how to deliver a line or two and some gifted fresh faces to inject a dash of youthful angst and exuberance. The clash of cultures is pure magic. Moving without being sugary, political without being preachy, candid without being gratuitous and clever without being patronising, the film is a joy to watch and one of the best British films I’ve ever seen. Really, it’s that good.