I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Drama and performance can really help young minds build important life skills. But make no mistake, it takes guts and gumption to strut your stuff on stage in front of a bunch of strangers.
Hobart High School have a proud history of giving us the old razzle dazzle with a feast of young talent. This year’s offering – Shrek, the Musical, a fantastic tale of love conquering all from a kingdom far, far away – was up there with the best of ’em. How apt it was that we saw it on Valentine’s Day.
We knew some of the young cast. Jas and Benny were splendid. And a very special mention must go to Rory in the title role. He strutted his stuff with huge confidence, enthusiasm and the most convincing Scottish accent this side of Dundee. Well done, Rory.
Back in 2016, the people at Displaced Nation asked me and a few others about the election of Donald Trump. Now that MAGAmouth has his dainty little hands on the keys to the White House once again, I’ve been looking back at my reaction. This was my take at the time…
I first heard about Donald Trump’s victory on the morning news here in Britain. It was a wake-up call, but after Brexit, not entirely unexpected. I think we all know that both outcomes are a symptom of something deeper and more socially corrosive. There are a lot of people out there who feel marooned in poverty with little hope of rescue, including members of my own family. So it was okay to bail out the bankers but not the steelworkers? Really? If I was a praying man, I’d be on my knees hoping that Trump will be less incendiary in office than he has been on the podium, but I wouldn’t bet my shirt on it. Stoking up the darkest fears of those at the bottom of the heap is what got him elected. How a man born to enormous privilege can possibly understand the worries of the common man or woman is beyond me. But then I don’t understand the appeal of former merchant banker Nigel Farage, either.
So here we go again, another white knuckle ride on the magic roundabout of make-believe with Don the Con. But this time a posse of kiss-his-arse social media moguls and assorted tax-dodging billionaires are hanging on to his coat-tails. I wonder why?
Neither I nor him indoors are that keen on classic Hollywood-style musicals. We tend to go for something a bit more contemporary. But when we saw the all-round talent that is Alex Green taking centre-stage as the poster boy for Singin’ in the Rain, one of MGM’s most iconic musicals, we thought, why not?
The Norfolk and Norwich Operatic Society chose the musical for their centenary production, and the run at Norwich’s Theatre Royal was more or less sold out. As is our habit, we chose a matinee and joined our fellow grey tops on their day out. I’ve never seen the entire film, just the more famous dance highlights, so I wasn’t familiar with the story. What I did know is that famous Hollywood hoofer Gene Kelly was horribly mean to his co-star, the late, great Debbie Reynolds, who was only 19 at the time and new to the dancing lark. Kelly bullied her until her feet bled. It’s the stuff of Hollywood legend.
Getting the gist of the story wasn’t helped by the punter sitting in front of me, with the biggest head since King Kong fell for Fay Wray. I missed most of the action stage left. So much so that Liam and I swapped seats for Act Two – him being taller. A stiff drink got me through it.
What I did see was terrific. Alex Green was joined by an equally gifted cast who really gave us the old razzle dazzle in spectacular style. The famous Singin’ in the Rain sequence was particularly impressive, with Alex Green in the Gene Kelly role splashing across the front of the stage as water showered from above. He got soaked. The front few rows got a bit wet too – I’m guessing the punters were pre-warned.
We also loved the reprise featuring a funkier version – both in song and dance – of the Singin’ in the Rain number by the full ensemble. A great modern touch.
Image courtesy of the NNOS Facebook page
And I’m pleased to write that, in the end, King Kong didn’t spoil the show.
From time to time the odd genuine email drops into my spam folder by mistake, so I check it regularly. Spam-wise, I get targeted with a load of old crap. We all do – it’s the price we pay for being plugged in and switched on. They’re a mixed economy, often amusing and frequently daft. If I wanted Viagra, I’d buy it over the counter from Boots. And why would I need dodgy cut-price US car insurance or bargain-bucket bullets?
Sometimes, though, my scam spam turns more threatening. Recently, some pond life with terrible, often pompous, English calling himself ‘Fergus Bateman’ claimed to have hacked into my devices. Allegedly, he’d been monitoring my activity.
Fergus wrote…
“I found that you’ve been a frequent patron to erotic websites. It seems you have quite a bold side when it comes to finding satisfaction through these platforms.”
And that he’s…
“… come across some adult recordings featuring you, displaying intimate interactions I have that you might not want publicly shared.”
Erotic websites? My bold side? Intimate interactions? Oh no, has Fergus uncovered my saucy seventies Polaroids? And, he says he’s also stolen my address book and social media IDs so I’d better pay him the ‘trivial amount’ of $12,000 within 24 hours* or else.
Twelve grand? Trivial?
Well, Fergus, the bedroom blackmailer, social misfit and all round shit with your silly big words like ‘cognizant’ (US spelling) and ‘elucidate’, extortion may be the name of your game but the only money game I play is Monopoly.
So do your worst. Or better still, get a job.
All joking aside, there’s a serious point to all this. Scammers scam just like muggers mug because there’s money in it. Online or on the streets, theft is as old as the hills. And with social media becoming increasingly toxic, who knows who the good guys are anymore? Maybe it’s time to unplug and switch off?
*Of course, the 24 hour deadline came and went and still no one’s had the dubious pleasure of seeing my wee willy on screen. But I do sometimes wonder what happened to those old Polaroids.
Despite having had both the COVID and flu jabs, from the end of November I’ve endured a never-ending stream of colds which have all merged into one long snot-fest not seen since I was a nipper. And to add to my misery, the start of meteorological winter gave me a nasty rasping cough that kept us both awake with my constant hacking. Why are these things always worse at night?
My dreaded lurgy subsided a little over the festive period – I think over-indulgence of the Devil’s brew masked the pain – only to re-emerge as an ear infection earlier this month. ‘Winter pressures’ as they’re called in the trade, always put a huge strain on health services at this time of year but, according to those in the know, hospitals are fuller than normal at the moment, particularly with grey tops like us.
My sore ear needed more than just a couple of paracetamol so off I trudged to the quack. The practice nurse had her own theory about why coughs and sneezes are worse this winter. COVID’s back in town, she thinks, newly minted. Not so deadly but still dangerous.
Just when you thought it was safe to bin those bleedin’ face masks.
Blimey, you could knock me down with a feather boa. I’ve made it onto Wikipedia. Ok, it’s only the cut-down, ‘Simple English’ version but it’s still Wiki nonetheless. I’ve been cited in a page about LGBT rights in Turkey. The article says:
Jack Scott, a British writer who moved to Turkey with his partner and who is the author of Perking the Pansies: Jack and Liam Move to Turkey, said his “obvious union with Liam has never attracted bad publicity from any Turk”, talking to the real estate company Quest Turkey.
What I actually said was…
“My obvious union with Liam has never attracted bad publicity from any Turk. I just assume, as non-Moslem foreigners, we are infidels and Hell-bound anyway so it hardly matters what we do.”
Not quite the same, but never mind. You can read the full Wiki article here:
Even though my first book is pretty old hat these days, I’m chuffed with the plug. In fact, I have noticed a recent spike in sales across the pond. A coincidence? Who knows?
So it seems I’m nearly famous, in a fly-by-night, here-today-definitely-gone-tomorrow kinda way. We left Turkey in 2012, so infamy has come late in the day. Well, at least it’s not posthumous.
I am bereft. After 14 series over 13 years, we’ve just watched the final two episodes of Vera, featuring the dishevelled and irascible detective from the fictitious Northumberland and City Police Force, played with great panache by the wonderful Brenda Blethyn. Based in and around England’s most northerly county, Vera blends the gritty streets of Newcastle with the desolate beauty of shore, moor and heath. The Northumberland landscape itself is an essential character. Vera wouldn’t be Vera without the dramatic vistas and hit-and-miss Geordie accents.
I love a traditional whodunnit – all that CGI-stuffed superhero nonsense isn’t for me. Vera does it old school in her battered Land Rover wearing her signature outfit of floppy hat and weather-beaten raincoat. Despite the twisting plots and false leads that make the brain hurt, Vera always gets her man. Because not all heroes wear capes.
And I’m not alone in loving a bit of Vera; the show is broadcast in around 180 territories worldwide and dubbed into various languages. But now Brenda Blethyn, at the incredible age of 78, has decided to hang up her mac and hat for good. And who can blame her? I’m missing her already.
The last time I received a sexual health sales pitch from Britain’s favourite high street pharmacy, it was about erectile dysfunction. Bloodycheek, I thought. No floppy problem here at Pansy HQ, no siree. Not yet, anyway. The penny must’ve dropped with the caring people at Boots the Chemist because now they recommend ‘Roam’, a masturbation cream…
“… for better penis play, heightened sensation and more intense orgasm. Unlike lubes, this transforming balm keeps you going for longer. STROKE, GLIDE & ELEVATE your solo play time. Enriched with extra caring COCONUT & SHEA.”
And apparently, it’s great for ‘edging’ and ‘jelqing’. Any idea? No? Me neither. In my day, we just called it wanking. And why ‘Roam’? Something to do while waiting for a bus in the rain? Sure beats fumbling to get the brolly up. Need some light relief in the meat and two veg aisle at Tesco’s? Or maybe getting a bit bored queuing up to ride the ‘Big One’ at Blackpool Pleasure Beach? Best whip out your Roam from your man bag and pleasure yourself instead. The mind boggles.
Still, at £4.99 with 50% off in the sales, it’s a steal. And it’s vegan too, so that’s alright then. Too late for Liam’s Christmas stocking, though.
The 2024 top of the crop had a distinctly thespian theme – gays and the arts. Could it be any more of a cliché? Or maybe it just reflects a need for a distraction in worrying times. Who knows? Also thrown into the mix were celebrating the life of a dearly departed, a fond memory from our lotus-eating days in Turkey, and a few Greek postcards from gorgeous old Corfu Town. Oh, and then there was the little piece about my money-making side hustle as an Only Fans porn star. If only.
For some inexplicable reason, a 2020 post about a game old bird fit for the pot waddling around our modest small holding took off. Why? It’s a mystery.
Also, numbers-wise, Perking the Pansies enjoyed the best year since 2016, so there’s still life in the old blog yet. I thank you.
Happy New Year. Let’s hope for a lot more peace for 2025.
The relentless rise of artificial intelligence (AI) is fast impacting many aspects of our daily lives. I have no insight or wise words about where AI will eventually take us. Doubtless, as with all game-changing inventions and innovations, they’ll be winners and losers. The cottage spinners of old weren’t too pleased when jenny* started her…
Recently, I stumbled across a fuzzy aerial view of Loddon Staithe, the inland harbour which divides our sleepy parish of Chedgrave from our larger next-door neighbour. Traditionally, a staithe was a wharf for loading and unloading cargo from wherries – flat-bottom sailing ships – which plied their trade up and down the waterways. Back in…
A couple of years back, Liam lost his wedding ring. He knew not how, he knew not where. He got really upset about it, but these things happen. We put it down to his increasing decrepitude. On the other hand, as I’d put on a few pounds since we got hitched, my ring was so…
You know you’re getting long in the tooth when Santa brings you a shiny new pair of secateurs for Christmas. It simply confirms my suspicion that old fairies don’t go disco dancing, they just end their days pruning the pansies at the bottom of the garden. That’ll be me, then.
Actually, it just so happens that Father Christmas got my letter. My old secateurs were knackered. I know I’m supposed to keep ’em sharp and clean but I just can’t be arsed because life, as they say, really is too short. The new pair will be handy come springtime for the annual horticultural nip and tuck.
My new pansy pruners weren’t made by bobble-hatted little elves shackled to work benches in Lapland sweat shops. No, like everything these days, they were manufactured in China. Still, they look like they’ll do the business. The same can’t be said of the instructions.
Perking the Pansies 