Perking the Pansies is off-air for the Yuletide. Liam and I are heading to the Smoke for a jolly slice of family life with all the calorific trimmings. But before we head south to the big city, I’d like to take this opportunity to wish everyone, believers and non-believers alike, a season of peace and goodwill. Whatever Christmas means to you, be happy and enjoy.
…as the enterprising Chinese say (well, they probably don’t, but they do make make a shilling or two at this time of year and good luck to ’em). And, of course, I got the translation from Google and so it could say ‘Mao is Chairman of the Board’ for all I know.
I’m no scrooge, really I’m not. The piggy bank may have dropped a few pounds since my days as a senior bean counter, shuffling a pile of papers from one side of my desk to the other then back again, but we can still afford to spend a farthing or two on our nearest and dearest. We just can’t thrash the plastic to make the grand gesture any more. Britain may be finally emerging from the longest and deepest recession since the Great Depression but our days of austerity are permanent (that is, unless Liam’s Lotto numbers come up). It’s fine. We don’t mind. It’s our choice. Let’s face it, I could always stop mucking about with this writing lark and get a proper job.
Anyway, don’t you think festive fever is a bit OTT these days? I’m not one of those old farts down the pub who will bore you with their sad Victorian tales of home-sewn Christmas stockings stuffed with two walnuts and a satsuma – very A Christmas Carol. No, I got a Dalek suit, a Hot Wheels racing set, an action man with all the butch accessories and enough Dinky toys to run Port Talbot (admit it, you thought I played with Barbie dolls, didn’t you?). It just the whole commercial juggernaut seems to start earlier and earlier and by the time the baby Jesus pops out, I’m ready to chuck my lot in with the Devil. That’s why I just love this glorious ad from posh Knightsbridge department store, Harvey Nichols (superior by far to their more famous neighbour, Harrods, only spitting distance away). It’s a breath of fresh air.
The video was first picked up by the lovely Aussie Kym at Gidday from the UK. Ta!
Many moons ago, I nailed my colours to the mast about the scourge of homophobia, particularly hate crime and bullying in schools. I even banged on about it on the wireless when I did a My Pride Life gig on Future Radio. It still goes on, of course. Hardly a day passes when I don’t hear about some pond life picking on the defenceless. Mercifully, I’m not a lone voice in the wilderness. Who listens to me anyway? There are loads of splendid organisations, charities and talented individuals doing their bit. And, if the message of hope is blended with a little harmless titillation, then that gets my vote every time.
Cue the cute rowers from Warwick University stripping for the cause. Oh, to be the cox.
I thought I might take my clothes off in public to raise a few farthings for the cause but I fear people would only pay me to put them back on again.
Liam answered the door of our old weaver’s cottage to a little middle-aged man wearing a bucket hat, wax jacket and supermarket denim. “Sorry to disturb ya, mate,” he said, “Been visitin’ me old girl (at the adjacent granny flats) and I’m goin’ fishin’ later but I forgot me worms. Can I dig some outta ya flower bed? Won’t make a mess, promise.” At the time I was enjoying a cuppa and thumbing through a copy of our local rag, the Eastern Daily Press (the most popular morning regional newspaper in the country, apparently). The front page headline was:
Summertime Publishing has reduced the Kindle edition of five of its most popular titles to $3.99 (Amazon.com) and £2.99 (Amazon.co.uk) during December only. This represents a saving of between 25% and 50% on the list price (depending on the title). It’s a great chance to pick up a selected number of Summertime’s best e-Books in time for Christmas.
Yesterday, the British champion diver, Tom Daley, posted a simple video message on YouTube to tell the world that he was in a relationship with a man and that he was very happy. Tom was a poster boy for the Olympic Team. His buff, pool-trained torso (naked save for the tiniest and tightest Speedos) was plastered everywhere. Even at the tender age of 19, Tom is clearly well aware of his image and public persona. In our celebrity-obsessed world, I assume that he hopes this will sustain him long after the diving career has dried up. I hope so too. I also assume that this very public confession was his own idea. It was brave but was it also foolish? If his agent/manager/PR team had known in advance, I have no doubt they would have cautioned him against it. The revelation has unleashed a tidal wave of poison from the tweeting pond life. This was to be expected. Personally, I applaud his candour and rather think that his popularity will be enhanced by it. His disclosure sends out a message of hope to young people everywhere that it’s ok to be gay. And for this, Tom deserves a pot of gold medals.
Another Monday tea time, another free film preview from Virgin Media. This time it was Saving Mr Banks, a Disney flick that chronicles the fandango between Walt Disney and PL Travers, the author of Mary Poppins. The story goes that the snooty Ms Travers refused to entertain the Disneyfication of her book for nearly twenty years until flat-lining sales and looming penury dragged her kicking and screaming to the studio lot. When she got to La La land, she loathed the entire Disney concept – the jolly sing-a-long tunes, Dick Van Dyke as the prancing sweep with the dodgy mockney accent (she got that one right) and dancing cartoon penguins. In fact, she hated animation of any kind. In the end she caved in to the corporate pressure and the rest, as they say, is history. No doubt the bucket-full of cash helped the medicine go down. If anyone offered me a wad of used fivers for the rights to my book I’d bite their hand off and let them do whatever they liked with it – turn it straight, drop it into Benidorm, make me a lap dancing serial killer, whatever. I have no scruples.
The smart and witty film captures the Technicolor Sixties extremely well and the attention to period detail is superb. Emma Thompson as the haughty author and Tom Hanks as Walt are excellent. Ms Thompson does no-nonsense nanny with imperious style and Mr Hanks shines as the folksy charmer with a ruthless streak. Throughout the film there are flashbacks to the author’s childhood Down Under (she was, in fact Australian, not British) and another performance of note came from Colin Farrell as the author’s dipsomaniac father. I’ve always liked the look of Colin (particularly after seeing his saucy sex tape on the internet) but I never thought he could actually act. Actually, he can. And why is the film called ‘Saving Mr Banks’? Well, it seems that Mary Poppins is really all about saving the father (Mr Banks in the story), not his children and the book was inspired by the real father that the author could not save. Who knew? Certainly not me when I was eight and singing along to Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.
The film went on general release (here in the UK) yesterday. I feel an Oscar coming on.
There’s no doubt about it, if you fancy that swarthy look with a headstrong Mediterranean temperament, Turkish men have it in spades. But beware, my Shirley Valentines, the course of true love does not always run smooth. Having finally emerged from a painful divorce from her hunky Turkish beau sorer but much the wiser, the lovely Natalie from the Turkish Travel Blog is more than a match for the legions of Turkish Lotharios who shamelessly chase Western women with declarations of undying love and promises of unbridled passion. The street-wise scribe has written about it before (as have I here). Now Natalie faces an emotional dilemma, a romantic conundrum. The racy rebound with the come to bed eyes and talented hands who kept her warm during the separation has rather carelessly found himself banged up in a Turkish jail. Not the best move for a fine romance, I would say. Now he’s written her an over-wrought love letter from his overcrowded prison cell. What is a girl to do? Can you help Natalie steer a steady course through the moral maze?
We have an embarrassment of TV choices courtesy of Virgin Media but it’s funny how the more channels we get, the more selective we become. It’s a reflection, perhaps, that more of the same isn’t much of a choice at all. So, as the nights draw in, we camp in front of the box hitting the boxed sets. Our latest televisual distraction is Smash, an American soap-style drama about the birth of a stage musical from kernel to opening night – Glee for grown-ups. Less sugar, more spice. The series was a joint birthday gift from our old friend, Clive. Frustrated music-hall maestro, Liam is a sucker for this kind of thing; the gay cliché cap fits my husband very well. The fictitious musical – Bombshell – focusses on the tragic life of Marilyn Monroe as she is passed around the troops. It cleverly parallels Norma Jean’s descent into Hell with that of the musical lead. With an Emmy, a Grammy and Globe nominations under its belt, the show tangos along nicely with twists and turns to suit even the most dedicated conspiracy theorist. There are a few nice tunes and more than a few nice routines but don’t expect to actually like any of the characters that much (with the possible exception of the impresario played by Angelica Huston). There’s an awful lot of back-biting, bitching, double-crossing and good old fashioned infidelity – all in a day’s work for the Broadway board-treading business. It’s a jungle in there and Liam loved every minute.
Perking the Pansies 