Art for Art’s Sake

Posters

PWP3_Poster-A3As well as running a little workshop about blogging (a chat with one man and his dog, no doubt), I’m also exhibiting the Perking the Pansies book at Pride Without Prejudice at the St Margaret’s Church of Art. The gig starts tomorrow and continues for a fortnight. Can my irreverent take on the emigrey soap opera with my carry-on capers and titter-ye-not narrative be thought of as art? Entertainment perhaps, but art? I tend not to dwell on such questions. Some people think an unmade bed at the Tate is art. Who am I to judge? I’ll just chuck up my posters and hope for a few sales. The exhibition is presented by Art of Norwich in association with Norwich Pride and the Queer Arts Club. The showcase is open to all artists and entry is free. If you happen to be in the fair city of Norwich and have some time on your hands, come along and soak up the highbrow culture and my lowbrow wit.

Life in the Old Blog Yet

Life in the Old Blog Yet

Art of BloggingThese days, I think I know a thing or two about this blogging lark but when I started in 2010, I hadn’t a clue. I learned the trade the hard way, through trial and error. It was a trial and there were loads of errors. Mine was a solitary journey. I did quite well for a while, a bit of a sell-out tour. But when Liam and I packed up our drag in our old kit bags and paddled back to Blighty, I feared that Perking the Pansies might wither on the vine like some dried-up old fruit. I soldiered on, deliberately posting less but still regularly. Much to my relief, the blog’s gone from strength to strength and I have more subscribers than ever. Now the sum of my knowledge (or lack of it) is about to be put to the acid test. I’m running a Pride without Prejudice workshop called The Art of Blogging as part of the marvellous Norwich Pride Festival. I’m about to put my money where my mouth is. But will I fall flat on my face? Help.

From One Old Queen to Another

From One Old Queen to Another

Gay Marriage

Gorillas in Our Midst

Gorillas in Our Midst

Gorillas

We got back from holiday to face an invasion of psychedelic gorillas. I thought someone had slipped some acid in my gin and I was tripping the light fantastic. Don’t fret, I haven’t taken to class A drugs and mugging old Norfolk broads to feed a nasty habit. Not yet anyway.

Looking like the camp cast of ‘Planet of the Apes, the Panto,’ these unique and rather fabulous specimens of street art form the 53-strong gorilla trail around the city organised by the ‘Go Go Gorilla’ campaign. According to their website the trail will…

“… take place for 10 weeks during the summer of 2013 and will encourage thousands of people to discover and re-discover the city of Norwich, provide community and education projects and highlight environmental issues and the plight of one of the world’s most endangered species.”

At the end of the exhibition, the multi-coloured silverbacks will be auctioned off for charity. Bid early to avoid disappointment. Remember, a Guy’s for life, not just for Christmas (so says Liam). It certainly knocks spots off a naff garden gnome, not to mention the pushy teenagers in the street gripping clip boards to extract direct debits for the World Wildlife Fund.

Here’s a small selection:

The Go Go Gorilla campaign got into a bit of hot water with the Freddie Mercury estate when one of the exhibits aped the late great Queen showman in his cloney stage clobber. Breach of copyright, apparently. It was removed from the forecourt of the Forum – to be repainted. Boo, hiss. Unlike the stuffy suits running his estate, I’m reliably informed that Mr Mercury had a wicked sense of humour and a charitable bent.

Freddie

I rather hoped that Freddie the Gorilla would be resurrected in full drag as a tribute to the ‘I Want to Break Free’ video. Sadly, it was not to be. Freddie was reinstated today, sprayed black and minus his tash, crop top and signature buck teeth. So now it’s just any old primate in a Queen jacket. Still, all the fuss gave the campaign a bit of a boost and got them on the BBC.

Here’s my personal favourite, a mean-looking bugger with a strangely benign face. He’s less adorned than the others with just a light dusting of glitter sparkling away in the sun. Clearly, this Guy is not afraid of his feminine side. Or perhaps Guy’s really a Gal?

2013-07-04 14.23.36

Clang, Clang, Clang Went the Trolley

Clang, Clang, Clang Went the Trolley

Tren de Soller

With hours to kill before our night flight back to Blighty, we plumped for a day trip to Sóller and its coastal sister, Porto Sóller on the north side of Mallorca. The touristy thing to do is ride the antique tren that runs from Palma railway station so that’s exactly what we did. The vintage rolling stock slowly pulled out of the station, chugging through the burbs and breaking free of Palma’s grim industrial hinterland towards a verdant agro-plain bursting with olive groves and pretty market gardens. Thirty minutes into the journey, we began to ascend towards the lush, pine-smothered mountains, passing through a series of long damp tunnels on route. For no apparent reason (Freudian?) Liam was visibly excited about the tunnels. After a couple of photo opportunity pit stops, we arrived at our destination.

Built in 1912, the railway is quite the engineering feat but I do wonder if it was a bit of a folly back in the day; the end of the line is a sleepy village in the middle of nowhere. Still, it’s doing a roaring trade these days judging by the international crowd shifting uncomfortably on the hard wooden benches. Note to self: next time, take cushions.

Sóller itself is a picture-postcard hamlet with a handsome main square given entirely over to tourism. A spot of lunch was on the agenda and we sat down at one of the many eateries ringing the piazza. Our set-price tapas plate was a huge disappointment – overpriced, underwhelming and partially inedible. If you ever find yourself milling around Sóller, avoid the Sacova Restaurant. The next leg of our grand tour was by tram to Porto Sóller, a non-descript purpose-built resort set around a stunning bay in the shape of a Celtic bracelet. The sandy beach was packed with marinated sun-worshippers. Parasols and sunbeds, like much of the clientele, had seen better days. As the sun gave up the ghost, we hopped on an air-conditioned bus back to Palma (half the journey time and a fraction of the price) sated, slightly sozzled and steeled for the Sleazyjet scrum.

You might also like other posts in the Palma series:

abaco2I’m So Excited

Fawlty Towers

Jack and Liam go to Palma

Jack and Liam go to Palma

Jack and Liam go to Palma

Old Palma is a place in which to wander and explore. This is just as well. Our hotel, the Costa Azul, hadn’t quite finished constructing the bar by the miniscule pool or supplied enough parasols to avoid third degree burns on the sun terrace. We spent blissful days meandering through narrow cobbled streets, along grand boulevards, over battlements and across elegant piazzas. Palma is a city with art at its heart and the evidence is liberally littered around the streets.

Come nightfall, the Santa Catalina ward – once down at heel but now dressed up to the nines – seduced us with her trendy bars, cool restaurants and laid-back vibe. Upmarket Old Palma is a far cry from downmarket Palma Nova and eating out comes with a West End price tag attached. We stuck with the set menus to keep a check on the check. Still, a palatable glass or two of Rioja was very reasonable priced wherever we watered, and we did quite a lot of watering. Generally, the crowds were good humoured and lively, without being raucous. The one exception was a small bar called The Escape, a roadside inn tucked into the corner of a pretty piazza and frequented by pissed-up Brits from the yachting fraternity. Typical.

Towards the tail end of our stay, we pushed the boat out to visit Ábaco, a cocktail bar in the old town. Occupying a palatial former merchant’s house, part bar, part museum, Ábaco is a bit of an institution with guests being serenaded by light opera in Baroque opulence as they sip lethal cocktails served by snotty waiters in gold lamé cummerbunds. The entire experience was Disney kitsch with a crazy Catalan twist and only slightly marred by the continuous procession of camera-toting tourists wanting to stand, snap and gawp (image courtesy of MallorcaHoliday.com).

abaco2

We took the opportunity to venture out of town to the small resort of Ca’n Pastilla to surprise an old friend. Welsh rarebit, Bernard, gave up butlering for bar work a few years back and now owns ‘Thai at the Tavern,’ an unassuming little establishment at the end of the promenade. It does exactly what it says on the tin. Pop in if you’re in town. You’re sure to get a warm welcome, a cold beer and a spicy Siamese from the friendly valley boy. Bernard and I used to step out with the same fella (but not at the same time, obviously). I call Bernard El Presidente of the First Wives Club. When the bar closed, we ended the evening in a backstreet dive well away from the main drag with Bernard, a bunch of jovial locals, a bottle or three of cheap plonk and a strong whiff of weed. The next day we had wine flu.

What a Bleedin’ Scorcher!

What a Bleedin’ Scorcher!

Yesterday, it was the hottest day of the year so far and, as Andy Murray served his way to a decisive straight-sets victory at Wimbledon, the temperature at the sizzling Centre Court cauldron soared to 50 degrees celcius. Despite our national obsession with all things meteorological, extreme weather events are relatively rare in Blighty. So too is domestic air-conditioning. It simply isn’t worth the expense for the few days of the year it’s needed. When the mercury rises, some innovative Brits resort to some quirky ways to avoid melting in the midday sun. I snapped this sweaty soul’s sweaty sole along Muspole Street.

Muspole Street Feet

Fawlty Towers

Fawlty Towers

Palma Panorama

Following our fright flight, we arrived at the Hotel Costa Azul in Palma at 2am. Our smart room was a little on the bijou side but we were tired and thought little of it. The next morning we awoke to a rotating mechanical clunk and the sound of persistent banging. Liam leapt out of bed and swung open the balcony doors. Decibels came flooding in. He looked about. Our room was at the side of the hotel with a restricted view of the marina. He looked down over the balcony to the ground floor. A cement mixer was going ten to the dozen and a loud gang of labourers was racing about, fetching and carrying, shovelling and hammering. This isn’t what quite what Liam had in mind when he booked a few months back. Miserable tales of unfinished Spanish hotels are the stuff of legend but here we were staying in an unfinished Spanish hotel. My husband must have missed that little detail in the small print of the glossy brochure. Welcome to Palma. We made ourselves decent, marched to reception and politely asked for the room we’d actually paid for (rather than the room they couldn’t give away). After a bit of tutting, wringing of hands and head shaking by the pretty concierge and a lot of stubborn insistence from us, we were moved to a larger room with a view. And what a view it was with not a cement mixer or sweaty worker in sight.

From Little Acorns…

From Little Acorns…

Jack and John in EphesusOnce upon a time in another life, this seasoned old cynic met and fell for a handsome young man with razor-sharp wit and a glorious smile. His name was John. We collided in a long-gone dive in Earls Court called the Copacabana. He stayed the night and never left. Eight years into our fine romance John fell ill, quite suddenly. Within just six weeks he was dead. He died in my arms. It was quite a Hollywood moment but not one I care to reprise. That was 10 years ago. Even though I’ve been given a second time around, I still miss him.

John liked a slice of Turkey. We’d visited many times. When Liam and I first pitched our yurt in Anatolia, we bought an olive sapling in John’s memory and put it in a patio pot. It did remarkably well and bore fruit in the first year – a lean harvest but a harvest nonetheless. After we decided to wade back to Blighty, I asked Annie of Back to Bodrum fame if she would take care of John’s little twig in her Bodrum garden. Annie went one better and offered a sunny spot in the olive grove of her fabulous country pile.

My old mucky mucker, Ian, and his much younger squeeze, Matt, were our final gentlemen callers in old Bodrum Town. Back in the day, John, Ian and I had been the three muskequeers blazing a gay trail and frightening the locals from Ephesus to Antalya. Annie invited the lot of us out to her rural idyll for a spot of lunch and bit of aboriculture. She knows quite a lot about both. A gorgeous sunny afternoon of feasting, wine and gay-boy banter was polished off with a tree-planting flourish. Notice me proudly holding the big spade. Don’t be fooled. Annie’s husband did all the hard graft. All I did was plop the tree into the hole and pat it down like the Queen at an opening.

Now there is a little corner of Turkey that is forever John.

Thank you, Annie.

VLUU L200 / Samsung L200

Turkish Pride

Turkish Pride

Istanbul Pride

The marching season has got off to a splendid start with Istanbul Pride throwing down the gauntlet with tens of thousands of people (some reports suggested 60,000) parading along Istiklal Caddesi, Istanbul’s main thoroughfare. This is where Istanbulers come to meet, drink, shop, party and demonstrate. The brave souls carried a giant rainbow flag and, in an unprecedented show of unity, held banners demanding justice and LGBT rights in Turkish, Kurdish, Armenian and Arabic. And for the first time there were also Pride marches in Izmir and Antalya. One of the most popular slogans was “Where are you, my dear? Here I am, darling!” Will the increasingly repressive Turkish Government led by the dour and autocratic Erdoğan listen?  Probably not. But, following hot on the heels of the vicious crackdown of the Gezi Park protest, Istanbul Pride goes to prove that it ain’t over ‘till the fat drag queen sings.

Feel the vibe…