Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow

I was going to pop out for an Americano, but when I peered up from the laptop, I noticed that Norwich was enveloped in an instant blizzard. I thought better of it and decided to stay inside all warm and cosy instead. I can’t afford to break a hip at my age. Naturally, the county came to a standstill with jack-knifed trucks bringing gridlock to the highways and byways. Liam arrived home from his rural office two hours late. “Bugger the dinner,” he said. “Let’s go out for a pizza.” So that’s what we did.

Cue the home video…

Quartet

Anything Maggie Smith does is alright with me. She could break wind on screen and I’d give her a standing ovation. She’s just my kind of actress, like Judi Dench and Joan Plowright. No wonder I have multiple orgasms when I watch ‘Tea with Mussolini’ – Maggie, Judi, Joan AND Cher. It’s a gay boy’s wet dream. Liam didn’t have to ask me twice when he suggested we see ‘Quartet,’ Maggie’s latest flick. Adapted from the original play, Dustin Hoffman’s directorial debut is set in a retirement home for classical musicians and singers. Maggie stars alongside Tom Courtney, Pauline Collins, Billy Connolly and Michael Gambon with a supporting chorus of real-life former divas, fiddlers, and ivory ticklers. We took our seats at Cinema City, our local picture house. The auditorium was crammed with half-cut old folk of Norfolk spending their winter fuel allowance on buckets of booze, illustrating that not every pensioner in the land is living on the edge of malnutrition and hypothermia. The film is a sweet tale of long-lost love reignited in old age. It brought back fine memories of an old friend’s mother who moved into sheltered housing and married the boy next door. At the time, they were both in their eighties and found a little companionship and happiness towards the end of their lives. I was honoured to be invited to their wedding. It gave me hope for the future, something I’ve clung onto ever since.

Naturally, Maggie as a crabby old opera singer was magnificent but, for me, Pauline Collins stole the show. Her touching performance of someone suffering from the onset of dementia, slipping in and out of cognisance, was delicately and beautifully played. Dementia is a subject Liam and I know only too well.

Roving Jay

Santa sent me a bumper prize this year: globe-trotting local lass Roving Jay paid me a whistle-stop visit. Jay currently lives in Los Angeles but grew up in the flatlands and big skies of East Anglia – she’s a Norfolk broad at heart. She parachuted in from La-la-land to spend Christmas with family but took precious time away from the rellies to join me for a natter over an Americano. Dedicated Turkophile, Jay, owns a house near glorious Gümüslük, on the Bodrum Peninsula. Readers may be familiar with her own blog, Roving Jay. Jay has been a faithful pansyfan from the beginning and very kindly wrote a stunning review of Perking the Pansies, Jack and Liam move to Turkey when it was first released. I have to say, it made me blush (really) and I shall be forever in her debt. Because of the vagaries of the rural bus schedule in these parts, we only got to chew the cud for a couple of hours and didn’t get around to hitting the sauce. We still managed to pack a lot into the chat. Meeting cyber friends in the real world can be a nerve-shredding experience and I was a tad anxious. I needn’t have worried. Jay was a delightful coffee companion. Anatolia aside, it turned out we have a lot in common – for a start, we were both forces brats of more or less the same generation (though Jay is younger and so much prettier).

This spring, Jay is publishing her first guidebook, just in time for the summer scrum. It’s Jay’s unique take on the Bodrum Peninsula. Unlike so many guidebooks these days, it’s a first-hand account and covers the small corner of Turkey that Jay intends to call home one day. The book is stuffed with must-sees and must-dos and is a literary and factual treat. For more information click here. Very highly recommended.

Follow Every Rainbow

sound of music2 Safely home after almost a week of festive overload, we uncorked a bottle and nested on the sofa to watch ‘Climbed Every Mountain’ on BB2. Liam is rather obsessed with ‘The Sound of Music’ and can recite the entire film note-for-note and word-for-word. It’s on the job description of all gay men of a certain age. To end the season with a flourish, we expected a sugar-coated, feel-good soft focus trip up and down the pristine piste. We got a dirty Alpine avalanche exposing a nation in denial, a dysfunctional family and a bi-polar singing ex-nun who never was. To pour weed killer on the edelweiss, the Von Trapps didn’t climb any mountain or ford any stream to escape the evil clutches of the nasty Nazis. No, they caught the 5.30 express to Italy. The truth, as they say, should never get in the way of a good story. It was the cruelest of blows; I fear Liam will never recover.

Willy-Wares and Booby Prizes

elf hat The excessive festive recess started with a Soho reunion: old friends, cards and kisses, secret Santa tat and drunken frolics. It’s a Yuletide tradition of our own making. The next day, Liam and I had a parting of the Christmas ways, he to his folks, me to little sis. ‘Twas the season to be separated when love and duty called. Supermum sis cooked up an all-the-trimmings banquet for a small tribe. The ten ton turkey was the size of an ostrich and took two of her strong lads to haul the big bird into the oven. Plates were perched on every surface and piled high with just-right tastiness. I don’t how she does it. There was just one minor fly in the ointment. A kitchen frisk uncovered a sprout-less cupboard. Trifling recriminations were muttered over the sink, but it suited me just fine, not least because it avoided a windy afternoon with my old mother bringing up the rear. As usual, I didn’t lift a finger. My sister never lets me. I always offer, honestly I do, but my pleas fall on dismissive ears. She always makes me feel like a treasured guest. Brimming glasses of wine appeared from nowhere and a hot water bottle was slipped into my pit while my back was turned. Liam joined the fray on Boxing Day, sporting an elf hat and dragging his bulging sack of filthy goodies from Ann Summers. ‘Rude and Lewd’ could be our family motto and Liam raised the tone with willy-wares, booby prizes and lick-me-quick licentiousness. I could show you the photographs but I fear a call to Social Services might be the outcome. Priceless.

The Big Bang

We approached the New Year’s celebrations with the best gay-boy-about-town intentions. At first, we planned to bop ‘til we dropped at The Loft, Norwich’s premier gay club (okay, Norwich’s only gay club). This idea was soon swapped for a more sedate saunter to our favourite watering hole, The Birdcage, an intimate über-fashionable bar with a metrosexual vibe. The evening started in style with a leisurely bite and a bottle. After polishing off our second Pinot Grigio Blush, we paid the bill and wandered down the cobbled street. We peered through the dripping window of the pub. It was crammed with animated revellers. A line of youthful punters in identical skinny chinos queued at the door. Liam and I looked at each other with a can’t-be-arsed expression and, without a word, we tottered off home, arm in arm. I thought I was letting the side down until I gave a round-robin ring to my London life friends. One was watching Graham Norton, the second was catching a film on Netflix and the third was watching Julie and Julia on DVD. All were nesting on the sofa with their respective partners. Age has crept up on all of us. Like the sudden arrival of grey pubes, we didn’t see it coming. I don’t mind too much. Just like the Virgin Queen, I survived the slings and arrows and have entered my golden age. Elizabeth Tudor was no virgin either.

Every cloud, as they say, has a silver lining. If we had danced the night away in the company of trendy nippers barely out of short trousers, we would have missed the pyrotechnic gig on Auntie. With the exception of the brief and barely disguised party political broadcast on behalf of the Tory Party, the heart-stopping show stopper had us on the edge of our pews. See for yourself…

The Cream of the Crop 2012

It’s the turn of a new year, a time to reflect on the recent past. And what a hectic time it’s been for these old two old drunken reprobates. Four years ago, we jumped the good ship Blighty and swam ashore to paradise in search of a dotty dotage of gin and tranquility We found a paradise of sorts and so much more besides. Three years into our choppy voyage, I found a little fame and notoriety, and a new course was set – as an accidental author. 2012 brought change: a rudder slammed into reverse and a return to our damp little island perched on the edge of Europe. So, in the best tradition of the year’s end, I give you the most popular Pansy posts of 2012.

1. Now That’s What I call Old

Who would have guessed that a lazy, throwaway post about the 12,000 year old ruins at Göbekli Tepe in Eastern Turkey would hit the top spot? Although it was published in 2011, like Meatloaf’s Bat Out of Hell*, it never left the charts. In fact, it’s my most popular piece ever, racking up 7,500 hits to date.

2. Expat Glossary

Another perennial favourite. Technically, it’s a page not a post nowadays (though it started off as a post many moons ago). Oft quoted and copied, it’s a tongue in cheek attempt to classify the vintage villagers of expatland. It continues to strike a chord.

3. Goodbye to the Turkish Living Forum

The closest I came to an unseemly slanging match – I queered my pitch with the Turkish Living Forum (or, more accurately, they queered their pitch with me). I stopped the vile conversation in mid-sentence. I can do that. It’s my blog. It gladdens my little homo heart that this post continues to attract punters. If I’ve put just one potential member off the bigoted posts, then my work is done. It’s a shame. Most contributors to the forum seem sane and reasonable. It’s a good idea ruined by the vicious and vocal few.

4. Britain’s Got Loads of Talent

I’m a sucker for a sob story and Britain’s Got Talent is stuffed to the rafters with them. A genuine attempt to discover the best (and worst) amateur talent that Blighty has to offer, or a cynical commercial exercise in crass over-sentimentality? Probably both and so what? This year a dog won. No, a real dog, not an ugly person.

5. No Going Back on Going Back

A slip of the wrist and the cat was out of the bag. A premature posting meant that I announced our repatriation much earlier than I had intended and readers tuned in to read the news.

6. Zenne Dancer

A post about a ground-breaking and award-drenched Turkish film, inspired by the true story of a Kurdish student who was gunned down by his own father for being openly and unrepentantly gay. It still hasn’t been released with subtitles so I’m ashamed to say I still haven’t seen it.

7. Fifty Shades of Gay

I wrote this post to celebrate and support the launch of Rainbowbookreviews, a brand new LGBT book review website. As part of the party, Perking the Pansies, Jack and Liam move to Turkey was offered as a competition prize. What some people will do for a freebie.

8. The Friendly Games

This was my naughty but nice take on the closing ceremony of the London 2012 Olympics. The BBC did a grand job in televising the once-in-a-lifetime event – online, on radio and on TV. Liam had all three on simultaneously. For a brief period, the nation forgot its woes and smiled again. The mother lode of precious metal helped.

9. Bodrum’s Crusader Castle

Towards the end of our time in Turkey, I thought it was high time to give the pansy treatment to the grand centrepiece of the Bodrum townscape – a little bit of history (not too much) and a little bit of humour. It’s a popular cocktail.

10. Gran Canaria, Sex Emporium

Our first ‘proper’ holiday for four years and we chose Gran Canaria, that rocky mid-Atlantic brothel. You can take the boy out of the back room but you can’t take the back room out of the boy.

I leave you with my favourite image from 2012. I know, it’s all a bit predictable but I’m turning into a dirty old man and I intend to wallow in it. Happy New Year everyone and thank you for enduring my camp old nonsense for yet another year.

*Bat Out of Hell stayed on the UK album chart for 474 weeks. God knows why.

Confession, as they say, is good for the soul. I must confess, therefore, to being a tad disappointed with fair Norwich’s festive lights. I was hoping for a Middle Europe extravaganza to suit its Middle Ages cityscape. The grand façade of the over-imposing City Hall is artistically decked out in vertical white lights, the Guild Hall dribbles with LEDs, Jarrolds Department Store is lit up like the proverbial Christmas fir and the central market looks suitably festive with multi-coloured lights chucked round some trees. I’m less impressed with the thin strings of bulbs zig-zagging across the Lanes and poor London Street (one of the main shopping thoroughfares) is bereft of any Yuletide display except for the few stores that could be arsed. Oh well, at least it’s not as miserable as the coastal resort of Herne Bay in Kent. When z-listers, Gareth Gates and Toyah Wilcox turned on their lights, the crowd booed.

We’ve made up for the seasonal deficit with our very own elegantly-baubled bush, our first for four years. We shipped our decorations all the way to Turkey and then all the way back again. In that time, they were never removed from their boxes – we always spent Christmas in Blighty and couldn’t be bothered with all the fuss and nonsense. Not that we went without our tinsel fix. As Turkey-baste (festive gag) readers know, Turks have taken the Christmas razzamatazz to their hearts and grafted it to New Year with a riot of shiny balls, flickering fairy lights, soft toy Santas, and twinkling trees as far as the eye can see. Now that we’re in Norwich and have resurrected the Christmas tree tradition, I’ll be vacuuming needles and glitter until Kingdom come.

On a religious note, according to the latest census, Norwich is the least religious city in England and Wales. This is despite having two cathedrals and more intact medieval churches than any other city north of the Alps. It’s caused quite an ecclesiastical brouhaha. I assume the Church of England is making a killing by renting out the family jewels as cafés, wines bars and exhibition halls. Needs must when the Devil drives.

You’ll be glad to know that I’m closing the show for the Christmas recess. Before I go, let me wish everyone, believers and non-believers alike, a peaceful season of goodwill. Whatever Christmas means to you, be happy and enjoy. 2013 will be an eventful year, I can feel it in my water. Or maybe it’s just a urinary infection. Joyeux Noël as the Gauls say.

Talking Raw Turkey on the Radio

The fabulous people at Norwich’s Future Radio asked me to pop in and talk about Turkey, the Raw Guide on the Pride Live programme. I’m becoming quite a regular on the show and they very generously allow me to shamelessly plug my work.

Norwich, City of Literature

Norwich is the heart of arty-farty judging by the colourful assortment of scholarly fashionistas mingling around the College of Art. Norwich is also a treasure trove of wordy worthiness that rather puts my own inconsequential ramblings in the shade. The rich and centuries-old tradition of proper writing was recognised this year when UNESCO awarded Norwich City of Literature status. My inadequacies were further confirmed when I discovered that our downstairs neighbour is a serious novelist of award-winning, global stature. Her name is Anjali Joseph and, as we chatted about the darkened skies and wheelie bins, she modestly revealed that she’d written a book or two. I did a bit of Googling. It didn’t take long. Anjali is all over the wonderweb. A book or two? Crikey, this pretty young thing has written two internationally acclaimed novels published by HarperCollins, is working on her PhD in Creative Writing during her coffee breaks and is stalked by the national press. I might as well just slash my wrists and be done with it.