Beer is All Around

The big screen at Cinema City flickered green – Gremins green. So that was the end of that. No matinee at the flicks for us. What’s a couple of likely lads to do instead on a damp and dismal afternoon in old Norwich town? Find a pub, of course. Down the years, we’ve supped at most city centre watering holes and one of our favourites is the Murderers on Timberhill, a traditional ale house stuffed with old world charm, oak beams and exposed brickwork. The pub has a dark past – hence the name – and it’s usually our last port of call before we stumble onto our bus back to the village.

They serve a very quaffable house wine at the Murderers, at a very good price. And quaff it we do. At the time of our visit, the bar was rammed to the crooked beams with hard-drinking young bearded types. Boisterous but good-humoured, it turns out the hairy merry men had parachuted in from the North Sea gas rigs. And the riggers were hell-bent on spreading the love by offering sambuca shots to everyone from a loaded tray. It would’ve been rude to refuse.

Not to miss a PR trick, the Murderers has stepped into Christmas with a brilliant parody of a famous scene from that perennial festive favourite, Love Actually. So folks, I give you…

Ghost Post

Apologies for the ghost post, folks. A slip of the wrist. Normal services will resume soon! 🙂

Cruising Down by the River

I stumbled upon a strange fella lurking among the trees who gave me the old ‘come hither’. So I came hither. Okay, that’s not true. I’m a little long in the tooth for that old malarkey. Having said that, while my sell-by date might have long expired, I like to think there’s still a bit of mileage left in my use-by date. Liam, on the other hand, may disagree.

In reality, a glorious autumn day took these two old codgers for a shuffle down by the River Chet. We’re making the most of the fine weather while it lasts – it keeps us out of the pub. It won’t be long before the trees will be totally bald and the bone-chilling drizzle will force us back to the bar for a hot toddy. Tod had better brace himself.

It’s Showtime!

For our two-day birthday bonanza in old London Town, we hit the theatrical jackpot with a double bill of top-drawer shows. First up – The Curious Case of Benjamin Button – is a foot-tapping bundle of heart-warming folksy fun, despite the strange and, at times, bleak plot of a man born old who gradually regresses to a babe in arms. Based on a short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald, the tale is relocated to a Cornish fishing village at the turn of the last century. Unique, funny, charming, fast-paced and complex, the entire ensemble remains on stage throughout – singing, dancing, swapping instruments and characters in a dazzling display of talent. At its heart, Benjamin Button is a moving tale of love against the odds, and it’s a triumph.

Images © Marc Brenner

Talking of love against the odds, second up was Moulin Rouge, based on Baz Luhrmann’s iconic 2001 boy-meets-girl basque-and-knickers glitterfest. The show was our emergency stand-in for the cancelled performance of The Devil Wears Prada, Elton John’s new musical. Lavish, brilliantly staged, slick, bawdy and addictive, the disappointment of missing The Devil evaporated within minutes of us taking our seats. Superbly delivered to a clever karaoke mash-up, including (ironically) Elton’s Your Song, I have a feeling in my water that this spectacular high-octane, all-singing, all-can-canning tale of consumption and doomed love in a Parisian garret will run and run. Ooh la la!

Images courtesy of The Piccadilly Theatre

The Devil Wears Prada

Picture it. October, London, Liam’s birthday and the much-anticipated new Elton John stage musical, The Devil Wears Prada, based on the acclaimed 2006 film. So imagine our disappointment to discover, quite by chance, that the performance we were due to see had been cancelled – no notice, no explanation. We contacted the Dominion Theatre Box Office to establish what was what. They said they’d emailed. Well, sweet Fanny Adams received this end – zero, zilch, zip, nada, nothing, nowt. Lost in cyberspace or so it seems. Or was it? A first-world problem, I know, but annoying nonetheless. We could have arrived at the theatre to find it ‘dark’, as they say in the trade. Many happy returns.

Anyway, once prompted, the theatre refunded the cost of our tickets and we booked to see Moulin Rouge instead. Because we can-can!

A Family Affair

This week has been a double bill of showbiz fun featuring our local innkeeper’s talented family. First to mince across the boards was the master of the house himself, Simon Peck. Simon played Roger De Bris in The Producers, Mel Brooks’ notorious black comedy. The story centres around a dodgy theatre producer and his accountant who together hatch a get-rich-quick scheme to swindle investors – by staging a gay romp about Hitler that’s designed to fail. De Bris, an uber-camp, cross-dressing director whose shows rarely get past the first reading, is hired to make doubly sure the musical flops.

If offence is easily taken, then Springtime for Hitler, the musical within a musical, is superficially offensive on every level. But it’s outstanding, a satirical piss-take at its most piercing. And Simon Peck was brilliant in it as the OTT limp-wristed luvvie – as camp as a row of tents – a role he was simply born to play.

Down the years, The Producers has achieved cult status and expectations were high, but we needn’t have worried. The entire top-notch cast at The Pavilion Theatre Gorleston put in a stonking performance. These two old gay luvvies loved it.

Talking of cross-dressing, next up was a stage version of the 1998 film romcom Shakespeare in Love from The Echo Youth Theatre at The Garage in Norwich. Echo Youth always put on a good show. And for this production, gender roles were mostly reversed. Whether this was due to a shortage of boys in the company or as a statement about the ban on female actors in Shakespeare’s day (a key theme in the plot), it worked extremely well.

Young starlet in the making, Alice Peck, played one of the leads as playwright Christopher Marlowe, a contemporary of the Bard. In the show (as in real life), Marlowe comes to a sticky end in a pub brawl. Ms Peck gave a glowing performance, lighting up the stage. And she died well too. In a good way, of course. Alice’s brother, Rory, whose principal role was playing clarinet in the chorus, had a hand in her undoing. Did he volunteer? We can’t say.

A special mention must go to the young chap playing Elizabeth I. Let’s face it, Judi Dench is a tough act to follow and he did a great job. Oscars all round, we thought.

The Canterbury Tales

A family wedding took us to rural Kent, the so-called Garden of England, with its rolling downs, dripping orchards and bountiful fields. We padded out the nuptials with a good gander around pretty Canterbury. The city has ancient roots – think Celts, Romans, Jutes, Anglo-Saxons, Vikings, Normans and Huguenots. Canterbury’s city centre was flattened by the Luftwaffe during the Second World War, but unlike many other British towns and cities, it was sympathetically rebuilt. Today, Canterbury is a university city and a huge tourist draw, principally due to the vast cathedral – a UNESCO World Heritage Site – which dominates the skyline. The largely pedestrianised cobbled streets are charming, if a tad Disneyfied (no doubt to keep modern-day pilgrims progressing).

Without a doubt, the cathedral gets top billing and is not to be missed. Despite my dim view of religion in general, I love a big holy pile, and they don’t come much bigger or more holy than Canterbury Cathedral. There’s been a house of God on this site since 597, after Pope Gregory sent Saint Augustine over to save the heathens from their evil pagan ways. What visitors see today largely dates from the 11th and 12th centuries.

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The Cathedral’s fortunes really took off after the murder of Archbishop Thomas Beckett in 1170. Beckett had become a right royal pain in the arse for King Henry II, who threw a queenie fit and exclaimed (allegedly),

“Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?”

Some knights took Henry at his word and martyred Beckett in the north-west transept. Like you do.

The posthumous veneration of Beckett transformed the cathedral into a major centre of pilgrimage and a money-making machine. And then came Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. The rest, as they say…

Canterbury is also famous, here at Pansies HQ, as the birthplace of one Jack Scott. Dad was a soldier and I was born at Howe Barracks in married quarters on Talavera Road – number 24, according to my birth certificate. The barracks are long gone, replaced by a new housing development, though Talavera Road remains. That’s my Canterbury tale.

Clickbait

We live in a digital world of information overload with stuff coming at us from every which way, all day, every day. If you’re plugged in and switched on, it’s unavoidable. I like to think of myself as a savvy reader with mostly moderate views. I find it relatively easy to ignore the bile from the keyboard warriors and the bedroom bores – misfits, axe grinders and ne’er-do-wells, the lot of ’em (that’s me being not so moderate). And don’t get me started on the so-called social media influencers and make-believe ‘experts’ conning the gullible. But now, the ‘respectable’ traditional media is at it too, grabbing attention with sensationalist and totally misleading headlines. Clickbait, I think it’s called. A good example is a recent online headline from the Manchester Evening News:

“ITV Emmerdale regular sacked after harrowing abuse revelations come to light”

So some dodgy soap star has been up to no good? Sounds alarming, doesn’t it? Except it’s not true. It was a plot line for the show – not real life at all. A relief I suppose, but utterly cynical.

Pigs in the Proverbial

It’s now been five years since we moved out to the sticks. One day we were enjoying city centre living like pigs in the proverbial, the next we were in the smallest cottage in the county surrounded by the stuff. Such is country life in the Norfolk flatlands.

We’ve been invaded by ants, spiders, moles, slugs and rabbits, been charged at by a seriously pissed-off heffer and kept awake by bloodcurdling screeching and the unforgiving dawn squawk. We’ve also endured fierce storms, leaks and the occasional power cut. And like everyone else, we were put under house arrest by a pandemic.

Local wildlife of the human kind is mostly friendly, though. No doubt, the odd blue-crested bigot still lurks in the undergrowth, but they’re an endangered species nowadays.

It’s our sixth move since we met that fateful evening 18 years ago in a West End gay bar, and unless we end up in a maximum security care home for the bewildered, I reckon this’ll be our final resting place. Never did I imagine as a young gay about London town that I would end my days in the middle of nowhere. But I’ve never been happier or more satisfied with my lot. I feel blessed.

Everyone’s a Critic

We’re big fans of Sir Ian McKellen, star of stage, screen and gay bars – or ‘Sirena’ as he’s affectionately known by the brethren. Sirena is at his devilish best when working to a witty and waspish script. And he clearly revelled in the role of Jimmy Erskine in The Critic, our latest movie jolly.

Jimmy, a fearsome and feared 1930s theatre critic, writes for a right-wing ‘family’ national newspaper. Despite the rag’s political leanings, Jimmy’s predilection for ‘the love that dares not speak its name’ is barely concealed. After all, a theatrical gay is hardly front-page news (even back then). But when it gets him into hot water with the boys in blue, the scandal also gets him the sack.

Staring at an impoverished future preaching to an empty house, Jimmy hatches a dark plot to get his job back. He persuades an up-and-coming young actress – played by the marvellous Gemma Arterton – to seduce the newspaper owner. Jimmy has blackmail on his mind. What’s in it for her? Glowing reviews, of course. She craves Jimmy’s affirmation. These days, everyone’s a critic. But before we all got in on the act, a bad newspaper review could make or break a budding star.

McKellen is deliciously wicked as Jimmy and gets all the best catty put-downs. And he’s ably supported by a first-class cast. How does it all end? Well, let’s just say the critic and the critiqued do not make great bedfellows. Here’s the trailer…