Top of the Pansy Pops 2024

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.

Wuthering Heights – Wild and Windy, Moody and Broody

What better way to spend Valentine’s Day than a love story at the flicks? So that’s what we did. But this wasn’t any old love story. Oh no. This was the latest cinematic reimagining of Emily Brontë’s epic novel Wuthering Heights, as sweeping as the desolate Yorkshire landscape it’s set against. This new version was…

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The Ferrow Brothers

Another remarkable little gem lifted from the Queer Norfolk Archive at Norwich’s Millennium Library is the astonishing story of the Ferrow sisters of Great Yarmouth who became the Ferrow brothers. Census records reveal they were born in 1922 and 1924, registered originally as Marjorie and Daisy and then re-registered as Mark and David. Mark medically transitioned in…

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Cottage Ladies

Until modern times, the status of women was Bible-clear – to love, honour and obey – with a particular emphasis on obey. Women had little say and precious few rights, no better than chattels passed from father to husband. The rule makers didn’t see women as sexual beings who had their own drives and juices,…

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Pruning the Pansies

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.

Sprout long new thingses?

Pickling oil?

Body’s each spot?

Inscrutable or what? 🤔

Buddy, Can You Spare a Dime?

Homelessness is a complex issue, and there are so many reasons why someone might find themselves without anywhere to live. But we live in a rich country and I can’t help thinking that the scourge of homelessness is worse than it needs to be. I’m not given to petty envy. I’ve nothing against the wealthy as long as their wealth has been honestly acquired and they pay their dues instead of squirrelling it away in various tax havens. As for tax dodging billionaires, how much money can any one person possibly spend on themselves in a lifetime? As Francis Bacon – the 17th-century former Chancellor of England, not the famous artist – allegedly said:

“Money is like muck, no good except it be spread.”

But, more positively, there is help available to those who both need and seek it, at least there is in Norwich. I recently picked up this Pathways Norwich signposting leaflet.

Is it enough? Is it ever? Sleeping rough must be tough at any time of year. Imagine how much rougher and tougher it gets as winter cloaks the streets. I know Christmas can be expensive and many people struggle to pay the bills but, buddy, if you can spare a dime, please do.

Whatever Christmas means to you, wishing you and yours a warm, dry and peaceful yuletide.

Pantos and Parties

Storm Darragh barrelling across angry skies couldn’t keep us from our annual panto and party pre-Christmas pilgrimage to The Smoke. The London Palladium pantomime this year is Robin Hood, starring the outrageous queen of high and low camp, Julian Clary, and his usual cast of merrie men and women. The vocal act is Jane McDonald – every pensioner’s favourite cruise-line crooner – as Maid Marion. And the likely lass from Yorkshire can really belt out a tune. Lavish, filthy and with a plot as flimsy as a Christmas twig, the show is a belly-laugh sacrament that’s become a firm festive fixture for these two village people.

The gusty winds and horizontal rain drove us into various watering holes to dry off and warm up. Everywhere was rammed. But even these two old merry men don’t drink before midday, so we spent one morning wandering around the splendid Museum of Science, one of the holy trinity of world-class museums along Exhibition Road in South Kensington – the V&A and the Natural History Museum being the other two must-sees. Like the pubs, the various galleries were rammed, not with dripping trippers but with wide-eyed kiddies in backpacks and waterproofs. It’s a fascinating place to spend a few hours, whatever the weather.

We also had the good fortune to catch up with family for much-missed hot gossip and to meet the latest editions to the clan – twin girls. And gorgeous they are too! It made these two old festive fairies very proud great uncles.

Flight, Fight or Fancy

On a recent shopping and supping matinee in old Naaridge, we spent the afternoon watching the macabre horror flick The Heretic. Hugh Grant is bone-chilling as the over-courteous villain who menaces with oh-so-typical English charm as he dissects faith with a pair of nervous Mormon missionaries. Struck dumb as we left the cinema, we needed a drink to loosen the tongues and unpick what we’d just witnessed. Despite – or perhaps because of – a round or two of the Devil’s brew, we weren’t able to make too much sense of the religious experience we’d just had.

When we got back to the village, we had a final snifter at our local. A couple of likely lads in football kit were sitting at the bar. They kept looking across. We couldn’t think why at first. Usually this means one of two things – fight or fancy. Had we pulled? Fat chance at our age. Should we flee? We soon realised that what they actually fancied was the signed Norwich City FC shirt hanging on the wall behind us. Well, at least they didn’t want to beat us up.

Getting the Abbey Habit

We interrupted our recent theatrical pilgrimage to old London Town to have a gander around Westminster Abbey. Regular viewers will know I’m a sucker for an old ecclesiastical pile, and King (and Saint) Edward the Confessor’s ‘West Minster’ is arguably the most famous ecclesiastical pile in the realm. Generally thought to have been founded in the mid-10th century as a Benedictine monastery, the church was rebuilt by the saintly king about 100 years later to serve as his royal burial chamber. What Edward the Confessor actually fessed up to is anyone’s guess.

Following the Norman victory at the Battle of Hastings in 1066, William the Conqueror (or ‘the Bastard’ as he was affectionately known) was crowned King of England at the abbey on Christmas Day that same year; just to make sure everyone knew the old bastard was now in charge. Extended and remodelled down the centuries, the church has been the site of royal coronations ever since. The 14th-century coronation chair sits behind bars to prevent we plebs from getting above our station.

The abbey’s Gothic splendour soars heavenwards while history drips from every statue and every stone. As well as being the most famous house of God in the land, it’s also the most popular. The crowds were too much, particularly when trying to catch a fleeting glimpse of the first two undisputed Queen Regnants* of England – the first Mary and the first Elizabeth – half sisters, one Catholic and one Protestant at a time when you had to pick a side. These two old queens – one Catholic and one Protestant – inched and jostled past the tombs. Of the 16 or so other monarchs buried at the abbey, the tomb of Mary, Queen of Scots is perhaps the most poignant, given her life and times.

*That is, a queen reigning in her own right rather than a queen through marriage to a king.

Mary Queen of Scots
Mary I
Elizabeth I

The list of the dead and commemorated is a veritable who’s who of Britons past: a galaxy of big brains – Newton, Hawking, Darwin; a symphony of composers – Purcell, Vaughan Williams, Elgar; a company of luvvies – including Laurence Olivier; and a society of dead poets and writers – Chaucer, Byron, Lewis Carroll, Dylan Thomas, DH Lawrence, et al.

There is also a parliament of politicians – many either forgotten or best unremembered.

And, lest we forget, the abbey also contains the grave of the Unknown Warrior, commemorating the terrible slaughter of the First World War. It’s the only floor stone on which it’s forbidden to walk. Be warned. Lest you forget.

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