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.

o

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…

Waking the Dead

Recently, our sleep has been rudely disturbed by bloodcurdling screeching coming from outside our bedroom window. It’s really spooky, and loud enough to wake the dearly departed in the hallowed churchyard next door.

We couldn’t think what it could be so we asked around. Friends suggested it might be feral cats indulging in a bit of night-time nookie. We weren’t convinced. We remember well our Bodrum days, when we were regularly serenaded by an ear-splitting cat’s chorus as local litters indulged in orgies of Roman proportions. In any case, feral felines aren’t that common round here. No, this sound was altogether different and more sinister. So I did a bit of Googling, like you do, and it turns out it might be foxes. This is what we heard…

Here’s the thing. While foxes are a familiar sight on the mean streets of London, in all our time as village people, we’ve not once seen one. Plenty of rabbits, hedgehogs, squirrels, mice, rats and even the odd muntjac deer, but never a fox. Clearly, our ginger-furred friends are more elusive than their urban cousins.

Apparently, foxes scream at night for a variety of reasons – mating rituals, marking territory, communicating with other foxes. Having been woken up by that chilling racket, I reckon that’s why people of yore believed in ghosts, ghoulies and things that go bump in the night.

The Ties That Bind

My oldest friend died in January 2020. He’d just finished his shift as a drama teacher at a North London school and was about to drive home. He had a cardiac arrest in his car. It was sudden and without warning. He died shortly afterwards.

We met in the first year of our secondary school and meandered through life together – the fab times and the not so fab times, the love affairs and the broken hearts, the loss and the recovery – just like family. And it’s fair to say that, also just like family, we didn’t always see eye to eye. In fact, we sometimes clashed and quarrelled. But through it all, we remained truly bonded, more like brothers than friends. He even remembered me in his will, which was completely unexpected.

Rather than commemorate his death, instead we celebrate his life. And we do this around his birthday. It’s that time of year again so we’re off to old London Town to raise a glass or four with a few choice friends. It will be a day of gossip and giggles. He would have loved it.

Early Yuletide Logs

Anticipating weather on the turn, we took advantage of cheap summer supplies for the log burner. We’re now fully-stocked for the shorter days to come and the cosy candlelit nights in. We don’t actually need a real fire to keep warm. Our central heating does that job just fine. But most wintry weekends we light up anyway because it looks pretty. It’s particularly snug come Christmas. A bit of an extravagance, I know, but we’re lucky enough to afford it. But there’s a downside to a blazing fire in a small cottage. It can get too hot. To stop Liam from stripping off down to his undies and startling the dog-walking passers-by, I open a window to let in the cold.

Making Hay While the Sun Shines

After a damp start, our East Anglian summer warmed up nicely during August. It dried up too, with hardly a drop for our thirsty plot. It’s been perfect weather for bringing in the crops. Ancient lanes hereabouts have vibrated to the rattle of massive farm machinery driven by burly farmhands. Time to make hay while the sun shines. Such is harvest time in England’s breadbasket.

August also witnessed the bonfire of the boats. A row of pleasure craft went up in flames on the nearby River Chet. The inferno spewed thick, choking smoke that could be seen for miles around. We’re used to the never-ending march of walkers passing by our gate. We weren’t expecting fire crews from across two counties. Fortunately, no one was hurt.

Courtesy of Facebook

And we saw an increase in pretend dogfights above our heads – loud and menacing. Jet fighters from a nearby NATO air base thundered across the hazy skies, playing catch-me-if-you-can. Let’s hope it remains just a training exercise.