The Alternative Queen’s Speech

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.

Christmas Card 2012

Talking Raw Turkey on the Radio

radio2The 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

Saraswati ParkNorwich 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.

Going Once, Going Twice…

Earlier today I suffered from a premature slip of the wrist and mucked up the publication of Going Once, Going Twice. So, I’m re-blogging the post. Please ignore this if you’ve already seen it. Apologies from knackered of Norwich.

Jack Scott's avatarPerking the Pansies

The National League of POW/MIA Families is an American organisation incorporated in 1970 to obtain the release of all prisoners, establish the fullest possible account for the missing and secure the repatriation of all recoverable remains of those who died during the Vietnam War. Each year there is a fundraising event in Washington DC. I was recently contacted by a member of the League asking if I would donate a signed copy of Perking the Pansies to be auctioned off to help raise some cash. I have to admit that I was surprised and not a little intrigued. How did a book about a couple of old homos living in a faraway Muslim land (and written in a peculiarly British carry-on style) come to the attention of a Yankee society with serious business on its mind? I was told that someone specifically requested it. Good enough for me I thought…

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Going Once, Going Twice…

Going Once, Going Twice…

The National League of POW/MIA Families is an American organisation incorporated in 1970 to obtain the release of all prisoners, establish the fullest possible account for the missing and secure the repatriation of all recoverable remains of those who died during the Vietnam War. Each year there is a fundraising event in Washington DC. I was recently contacted by a member of the League asking if I would donate a signed copy of Perking the Pansies to be auctioned off to help raise some cash. I have to admit that I was surprised and not a little intrigued. How did a book about a couple of old homos living in a faraway Muslim land (and written in a peculiarly British carry-on style) come to the attention of a Yankee society with serious business on its mind? I was told that someone specifically requested it. Good enough for me I thought and off it went in the post. Let’s hope the book raises a couple of bucks for the cause.

Buttoned-Up Britain

By common consent, Fifties Britain was a grim, buttoned-up time of austerity, grinding poverty, back-street abortions, bomb craters, back-to-back slums and hard labour for the love that dares not speak its name. People left their doors unlocked because they had nothing worth nicking. Suffocating social conformity and knowing your place ruled the barren and humourless post-war roost. Woe betide the unmarried girl who found herself in the family way or the boy caught with his willy in the wrong hands. Moral outrage came with razor-sharp teeth – rebel at your peril. It took the Swinging Sixties to loosen the corsets and un-stuff the shirts. Or did it? Take a look at this hilarious piece of 1951 social history from British Pathé News. Presumably shown in picture houses up and down the realm, it’s the campest thing I’ve seen all year. I wonder if any of these boys were caught with their willies in the wrong hands?

Thank you to I Should Be Living in Bora Bora for finding this little gem.

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Grey Britain?

Dear Old Blighty

Ten Reasons to Ban Gay Marriage

The airwaves are full of noise about the Government’s proposals to permit same-sex marriage here in old Blighty. Whereas the original intention was to legalise civil marriage only, the Cameroons are now speaking as one voice about allowing those religious institutions that wish to conduct religious ceremonies to do so. I suspected this would happen. The original proposal was discriminatory and could easily have been challenged in the courts. Religious marriage is not for us, but for those that want it, fair enough. A church wedding can be a high-camp affair. Think period costumes, flying buttresses, dreaming spires, gold finery and swaying incense, the full production number. Come to think of it, the promise of a gay gig at the Abbey might well swing it for me.

It’s been made crystal clear that no priest, imam or rabbi will be legally obliged to do anything against their beliefs. Nevertheless, some of the dusty old men in frocks and dodgy hats are spitting fire and brimstone from the pulpits (mostly to an empty crowd) and a cabal of reactionary old Tories is talking about the end of civilisation as we know it. Now, civilisation as we know it is threatened by all sorts of things (environmental meltdown, the proliferation of nuclear weapons, a chronically unstable Middle East, etcetera, etcetera) but giving people the right to get hitched to the person they love isn’t one of them. The ever-sensible Canucks introduced same-sex marriage in 2005 and last time I checked, the lights were still on in Canada. Just ignore the silly nonsense and get on with it, I say. Then perhaps, the Government can turn its full attention to things that really matter to everyone – jobs, education, health, proper help for those who need it and sorting out the dismal state of the British economy.

On a  lighter note, the splendid Bitten by Spain sent me this satirical piece. It appeals to my sense of low wit and sarcasm. It has a Yankee bent but a universal message.

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Same Sex Marriage in the UK

Turkey, the Raw Guide – Out Now!

Turkey, the Raw Guide – Out Now!

After months of blood, sweat and tears, a lot of ripe Old English and a few hard boiled debates, the first episode of the Best of Perking the Pansies, the Turkey Years is finally off the blocks. So here comes the hard sell:

PtP Episode 1 (1000 x 1600)aHave you ever wondered what it’s really like to pitch your tent in a foreign field, particularly a Muslim one? Guidebooks and travelogues only go so far. To get a real feel, you need to ask someone who’s been there, done that and bought all the fake t-shirts. When Jack Scott and his Civil Partner, Liam, moved to Turkey nothing could prepare them for what was to come – heatstroke, frostbite, biblical floods, Byzantine red tape, lazy censorship, blackouts, bugs from Hell, rancid drains, lunatic drivers, dirty politics, spring-loaded waiters, jaw-dropping sunsets, kindness, generosity and acceptance. They stumbled upon what Jack infamously described as the mad, the bad, the sad and the glad. Jack decided to write it all down in a blog for all the world to ignore. He called it Perking the Pansies. Against the odds and quite by surprise, Perking the Pansies grew into the most successful blog of its kind in Turkey, attracting a loyal following, the attention of the Turkish national press and hatched an award-winning Amazon number one best-selling book.

Now that Jack and Liam’s sweeping Anatolian adventures are behind them, Jack is publishing the best of the blog as a two volume e-book. The uncensored director’s cut includes previously unpublished material and some solid home-spun practical advice about living the dream. Visas, tax, banking, working, customs, healthcare, schools for the ankle biters – all the boring stuff is in there. Jack likes to be functional as well as decorative.

Buy a Kindle edition from Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.com and from all other Amazon stores worldwide. Alternatively, buy an e-Pub version from me directly and I get to keep all the dosh. The e-Pub  format can be read on most non-Kindle readers (Nook, Kobo, Sony, Apple). The e-books are priced at just £2.99 and $3.99 – cheaper than a pint of cooking lager in Soho (or about 0.00005 pence per word). A bargain.

I’m still working on the second episode – Turkey, Surviving the Expats. Watch this space. For more information and to read a short extract, please check my author website: jackscott.info

Plonk and Gossip

Jenny EclairWe played hosts at the weekend. Well, I say hosts. Apart from a short stroll to the Playhouse Theatre to enjoy the lavatorial humour of Jenny Eclair, the only hosting we did was to pop the celebratory corks. Our house guests, my old mucky mucker, Ian, and his young Celtic tiger, Matt, were grabbing a few days away from the Smoke and the Christmas scrum. Matt’s generosity at the bar meant that I can’t remember much of Ms Eclair’s high-velocity act though I can confirm it was deliciously funny, full-on, filthy and packed with an abundance of menopausal references to female plumbing. An arctic snap swept across the flatlands and the big skies dribbled with sleet so we decided to cancel the city tour. Instead, we settled down to a warm summit of plonk and gossip with a boozy interval of Strictly Come Dancing on Auntie. Our guests steadfastly refused to let us put our hands in our pockets which was naughty and typically stubborn but gratefully received by these poor old provincial poofs. We sent them packing with a couple of Tesco’s bags (to transport their livers in).

World AIDS Day, RIP

A few weeks, back Liam and I watched a biopic of Kenny Everett on BBC4. ‘Best Possible Taste’ documented cuddly Kenny’s struggle to achieve personal happiness and professional recognition. The film was cleverly narrated throughout by the pantheon of Kenny’s comic creations. Kenny and his characters were brilliantly reconstructed by Oliver Lansley, who perfected Kenny’s high camp mannerisms and anarchic style. I’d forgotten just how funny and original Kenny was, and how far he pushed the boundaries. For most of his adult life Kenny was resolutely in the closet even when it was obvious to everyone (including his long-suffering wife) that he was as bent as a nine bob note. Abstinence wasn’t his game, just denial. For very good reasons, the closet was a crowded house back then. Like all of us, Kenny was entitled to his privacy and, as far as I know, he never said anything negative about gay people (unlike some of his closeted contemporaries). He came out just before the tabloids forced him out and he did so in typical OTT style. I didn’t know Kenny but I saw him occasionally, usually at the Sunday night gay gordons at the Dog and Fox in Wimbledon Village. He was always attended by fawning acolytes, as is the way for the rich and famous.

Kenny was an irrepressible one-off whose off-script ad-libbing frequently got him got him the sack. His ill-judged appearance at a Tory Party Conference where he urged delegates to “…kick Michael Foot’s* stick away,” did him no favours but he redeemed himself by telling a very rude joke about Margaret Thatcher live on Radio 2. He was instantly dismissed for the misdemeanour. Kenny died of an AIDS-related illness in 1995. He was 50. That was the same year I met John. Those who have read my book will know that he died of an AIDS-related illness in 2003. John was 36.

Today is World AIDS Day. It doesn’t get the coverage it once did. In the rich world people aren’t falling off their barstools like they used to. It was not always so. One balmy evening in the summer of 2004 I was having a drink with an old friend in the Colherne, once the grand old dame of London gay bars. I looked around.

“Just a load of old uglies in tonight,” I said.

“That’s because all the handsome ones are dead,” he replied.

Cruel and cutting or just a bald statement of fact? The truth is, most of the gay people I knew in my twenties are dead.

When AIDS first hit the headlines the Reagan Administration across the Pond shamefully sat on its hands (well, it was divine retribution on fags and smack-heads after all) until it became blindingly obvious that, unlike Reagan, the Lord’s wrath wasn’t the least bit discriminating. Ironically, given the Thatcher Government’s abysmal record on minority rights, it was the Tories who chucked money at the problem – into research, awareness and care. From the mid-Eighties right through to the late Noughties, Britain had some of the best services for people with HIV and AIDS to be found anywhere in the world. These days, HIV is something you live with not die from (unless you have the misfortune to be born in much of Africa, but that’s another depressing story). But, AIDS is still with us, stalking the bars and the chat rooms. There is no cure, no vaccine – maybe one day but not yet. It pains me to see young people playing Russian roulette through some misguided notion that AIDS is an old queen’s disease or thinking that if they do get it, a pill a day will keep the Grim Reaper at bay. This is no way to think or to live. Heed the advice of an old pro who ducked the Reaper’s scythe by the skin of his teeth. Pick up the condoms that are still freely available in gay bars. Go dressed to the party. It may save your life.

*Michael Foot was the Leader of the Labour Party at the time and used a stick to help him walk.