The wise people of the Yankee state of Washington have voted in a referendum to legalise both same sex marriage and the recreational use of marijuana. Perhaps the Good Book was right all along.
Leviticus 20:13: ‘A man who lays with another man should be stoned.’
Who knew?
We Are Norwich is a rainbow alliance of political, faith and community groups and individuals who have come together to oppose the presence of the English Defence League (EDL) in the fair city of Norwich. The EDL intends to stomp through the streets tomorrow (10th November 2012) to protest against a decision by the City Council to ban a stall by the Norwich Reformed Church* because of the alleged Islamaphobic nature of one of its leaflets. We are Norwich is planning a peaceful, family-friendly counter-demonstration that celebrates and protects the city’s diversity, multiculturalism and honourable tradition of inclusion. The counter-protest will start at 11am in Chapelfield Gardens. Expect an uplifting party atmosphere. For more information please check the website.
We Are Norwich is a broad church and did not campaign to have the EDL march prohibited. I think this was the right approach. Generally, I’m not in favour of banning this and banning that. It tends to drive things underground and is often counter-productive. As a card-carrying dyed-in-wool liberal, extremists on both sides of the political spectrum tend to leave me frigid, none more so than the EDL, an odious little organisation with obvious links to the British National Party and other Far Right misfits. I don’t particularly want them goose-stepping through this city but I wouldn’t stop them coming either. When an EDL grunt was asked by Chris Goreham on BBC Radio Norfolk’s Breakfast Show what the English Defence League was actually defending England from, the silly young man was unable to provide an answer, any answer, and just rambled on incoherently. A fine example of an education system gone awry, I thought. Conversely, Nick O’Brien, Secretary of We Are Norwich, was able to articulate coalition values with convincing authority and depth. It was just a shame that Nick was abruptly cut off by DJ Chris when he mentioned Hitler. Clearly, Auntie Beeb doesn’t do the Third Reich for breakfast. It might put middle Anglia off their muesli.
I hope events tomorrow pass by without serious incident. We Are Norwich has worked closely with the Police to ensure a loud and lively but peaceful affair. As for the EDL? Who knows. They’re a flaky lot. In a liberal, pluralist society like ours, we must accept that people are entitled to hold different views, no matter how offensive they are. There are lines to be drawn, of course. Preaching hatred is one of them, violence is another. We’ll see what lines get crossed tomorrow.
*The Norwich Reform Church is the only organisation, faith-based or otherwise, to demonstrate against Norwich’s annual pride event. This says a great deal about the package of prejudices these people have adopted to promote their particular nasty brand of hell and damnation Christian love.
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St Andrew’s and Blackfriars’ Halls (known collectively as ‘The Halls’) is a 13th century medieval complex at the end of our street and the best preserved friary in England. The riot of sturdy buttresses, hammer beams and Gothic arches is one of the ‘Norwich 12‘ – a list of the most iconic buildings in the city. When Henry VIII decided to strip the Catholic Church of all its power and wealth, the friary was dissolved, the friars were cast out into the cold and the buildings were put up for sale. They were saved by the intervention of the Mayor of Norwich who took them off fat Harry’s hands for £81, pledging to use the halls “…for the good of the citizens, for fairs and feasting.” The Halls have been used for secular knees-ups ever since. Carrying on the 450 year old party tradition, St Andrew’s Hall has just played grand host to the Norwich Beer Festival, a six day piss-up sponsored by the Norwich and Norfolk branch of the Campaign for Real Ale (CAMRA). Real ales are for real males judging by the herd of nerds in knitwear corralled outside a side door having a quick fag before resuming their drunken orgy and sucking the kegs dry. I was so fascinated by the species that I walked straight into a lamp post and nearly knocked myself out. And I was the sober one. Cheers!
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Two years in the making and, just as Liam and I celebrated the blog’s second birthday with a drop of bubbly, Perking the Pansies received its 250,000th hit*. This may be skinny fry for the big hitters but this fat little sprat is delighted. I had fretted that our move – a wrench from the warm bosom of Bodrum to a quick-step along Norwich’s ancient cobbled lanes – might put people off. I thought I might end up talking to myself. I thought I might end up in therapy. Well, I needn’t have worried, readers have stayed the course, I’ve actually picked up a few more punters along the street and the book is still dropping into the shopping basket. So, whoever you are out there, friends and strangers alike, thank you.
Who knows what the terrible twos will bring? For a start, the equal sequel to the book will be out in 2013. Gird your loins. If you thought the first book was an eye opener, well… Thank you for all the enquiries; watch this space. I will also be releasing two e-books this month, and of course, I’ll continue to bombard you with rambling posts and the occasional bit of not so subtle PR.
On that very subject, the people at iWriteReadRate have shortlisted Perking the Pansies for their book of the month competition. If you can be bothered, please vote. You’ll have to register though, which is a bit of a drag. Who knows? You might like this fancy new book site and stick around. Aw, go on.
* combined with my original Google blog that was blocked in Turkey in December 2010, blah, blah, blah …
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Cardinal Keith O’Brien, leader of the Catholic Church in Scotland, has been named as Stonewall’s Bigot of the Year 2012. He gets my vote. His ‘Eminence’ (these people do so love their titles and do so hate to be questioned) has declared ‘war’ on the Scottish Government’s plans to introduce marriage equality and likens gay marriage to slavery and child abuse. He should know. The Catholic Church is well-acquainted with war, slavery and child abuse.
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With familiar names like Charing Cross, Blackfriars Bridge, Spitalfields, Haymarket and Pudding Lane, you could mistake Norwich for London. But, during all my years in the Smoke, I never spotted a tree swathed in wrapping paper or a multi-coloured tea set wafting in the leaves, not even when flying high on recreational smarties. Other city streets have a distinctive rural feel – Upper Goat Lane (quite Turkish, when you think about it), Golden Dog Lane, Lobster Lane, Rampant Horse Street and my ecclesiastical favourite, St Gregory’s Back Alley. Who was the saintly Greg and why was his back alley so popular? I think those naughty monks should dish the dirt.
Our re-acquaintance, after a absence of 5 years, with the lewd, the rude and the crude of the Isle of Dogs* reminded me of a bit of a gag that Bob Senkow sent me some time ago:
- It’s important to have a man who helps at home, who cooks from time to time, cleans up and has a job.
- It’s important to have a man who can make you laugh.
- It’s important to have a man who you can trust and who doesn’t lie to you.
- It’s important to have a man who is good in bed and who likes to be with you.
- It’s very, very, very important that these four men don’t know each other.
Just a happy gay life? Discuss.
*Contrary to its name, the islands have little to nothing to do with the canary bird. Rather, it is the bird that is named after the islands, not the converse. The name Islas Canarias is likely derived from the Latin name Canariae Insulae, meaning “Island of the Dogs”, a name applied originally only to Gran Canaria. According to the historian Pliny the Elder, the Mauritanian king Juba II named the island Canaria because it contained “vast multitudes of dogs of very large size”. Source: Wikipedia.
This still applies today. Woof, woof.
On the morning of my birthday, we awoke to the thud of wildebeest migrating across the floor of the apartment above us. It coincided with the thud of wildebeest migrating across my forehead. We dragged ourselves out of our pit and wandered into the sunny run-down wilderness in search of comfort food. We found it at Jimmy’s bar and availed ourselves of generous Jimmy’s ample portions. The rest of the afternoon was spent in a semi-coma around the cool pool. Around us, there was an excitable coach party, in from Maastricht. It turned out to be the same rowdy herd who disturbed our slumber by clog-hopping across the floor. Why didn’t I pack my elephant gun? As I nodded off in the shade, Liam slipped away and when I returned to the apartment, I found it decorated with Canarian-style birthday paraphernalia. A cartoon banner was draped across the balcony and a mini chocolate slice was topped with eight multi-coloured candles. We toasted my old age with a glass of plonk Liam had picked up at the local market, a steal at 65 cents a litre (yes, 65 cents), though I admit it could have doubled up as oven cleaner. Once Liam had put a smile on my face, he then took advantage by sitting on it.
Rested, rinsed and sporting a post-coital glow, we headed back to the brothel in our best gay-about-shopping-mall outfits. Even at our age, we scrubbed up rather well. We drank, we ate, we drank some more. Meals on the rock are more ‘hearty’ than haute cuisine. Liam’s steak was the size of the Isle of Wight and I was served up half a sow stuffed with Brie. As we sucked on our after-dinner woos-woos, we watched the congregation of happy gays weaving around us; young and old alike, same sex couples of all genders and hues holding hands, laughing and loving. The security guards looked on in amusement. They were there, not to harass, but to keep us safe. I wonder what General Franco would have made of it?
We bar-hopped the night away before agreeing on a final snifter or two at Coco Loco, a raucous dance and video dive. Everyone was in a merry mood, fuelled by the cheap duty-free triples coursing through their veins. Cabaret was provided by a lithe young thing whose skimpy gold lame shorts gave his religion away. He rode the dance pole like an old pro and shook his booty like Beyoncé. As we meandered through the exotic hubbub, Liam was being stalked by a tall dark stranger, a man whose snout was so large he could have snorted Colombia. I too had an admirer. My foreign paramour was a drunken vision in denim with a face that could grate Parmesan. Liam, ever competitive, leaned over and whispered, “Don’t think much of yours.”
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Eight hours after leaving Norwich, we turned the key on our digs at Playa Del Inglés. Aside from a few up-market hotels, Canarian apartments tend to be standard fare – concrete boxes with a small dark bedroom, an enclosed shower-room with barely enough light to fix your face, a stark balcony with nasty plastic seats, an ill-equipped kitchenette and a wipe-down living space decorated with lopsided Athena prints. We were pleasantly surprised to find that our concrete box was a comfortable cut above, with laminate flooring, trendy fittings and a flat screen TV. Liam flicked through the channels. The only one in English was CNN. They were showing an interview with Mitt Romney’s sons – all Hollywood teeth and apple pie. I wanted to throw up. At least the Osmonds could sing. I swept open the balcony door and the first thing to catch my eye was a sign for the ‘Garage Sex Shop – Cabins, Cinema and Video.’ It does exactly what it says on the tin, a metaphor for the entire mid-Atlantic rock. We’d arrived.
When it comes to a turn around the dance floor, location is more important than lodgings. Happily, we were spitting distance from the Yumbo Center, the throbbing epicentre of gay Canarian low-life. The Yumbo is a naff treat for all the senses, a crumbling multi-layered open air shopping and sex emporium. It started to fall apart as soon as it was built (some twenty five years ago). By day, it’s an over-sized pound shop patronised by ancient slow-lane Germans in busy shirts and socked sandals. But, at the stroke of midnight, the racks of tat are wheeled away, the garish bars throw open their doors and the entire place is transformed into a gaudy cacophonous neon-lit cess-pit of drunken debauchery. After four years of tranquilising sexual ambiguity in Turkey, the no nonsense in-yer-face, up-for-anything style was right up our alley.
Our photos couldn’t possible do justice to the wonder that is the Yumbo Center (we must get ourselves a better camera) but this certainly does:
Next Holiday Post: Sucking on a Woo Woo
Liam and I spent a few days in Gran Canaria to celebrate my birthday and to catch a few rays before the winter drizzle forced us into snug hibernation. We flew Easyjet – On the Buses with a tango tan. As usual, speedy boarding was a nail-biting chaotic scrum. Mindful of our blood pressure, we decided not to leg it to the front. As we queued to board the plane, a lumpy broad with precision-cut bottle-black hair and a particularly miserable expression, ram-raided a wheelchair-bound pensioner through the snaking crowd. “Well, excuse me,” she screamed. “Get out of the way!” Startled passengers parted like the Red Sea, us included. Presumably, the charmless dragon was pissed off about having to do some work.
Thankfully, we managed to get seats together and strapped ourselves in for the full EJ experience. The chief flying mattress was a jolly fat fellow, an extraordinarily energetic thing who cha-cha-cha’d up and down the aisle and nearly took off when indicating the emergency exits. Cha-cha-cha man tried to talk up the over-priced down-market bacon butties by announcing that they came with “an accompaniment of ketchup.” Amazingly, the hype worked and steaming cellophane packs of soggy microwaved rubber were hurtled down the cabin courtesy of the “here, catch,” school of Sleazyjet service. Half the punters suffered third degree burns.
Next Holiday Post: Gran Canaria, Sex Emporium.
Perking the Pansies 