Still Waters Run Deep

Still Waters Run Deep

Norwich’s river is called the Wensum. The name derives from the Old English adjective wandsum or wendsum, meaning ‘winding’. It’s aptly titled. The river caresses like a feather boa, arching around the town and providing ample opportunities for boozy afternoons in riverside inns when the weather’s right. So far, the weather’s been right for much of the time. The Wensum is a lazy river with a slow flow. Apparently, this is caused by a large number of redundant upstream water mills. Plans are afoot to modify the mills to enable the river to behave more naturally. In the meantime, the idle waters are a fertile breeding ground for mosquitoes. We’re well acquainted with the sipping beasts of Anatolia. After four itchy years, our tough old hides eventually developed a natural immunity to their veracious appetites. Their slower, more timid English cousins don’t stand a bug in hell’s chance with these old pros. Top up, anyone?

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Pride Apartheid

Pride Apartheid

A significant milestone in the LGBT calendar has just passed: the 20th Anniversary of Brighton Pride. Off we trotted to immerse ourselves in our sub-culture, travelling south on the queen’s express. We watched in amusement as the line of muscle marys minced towards the loo to fix their looks and say hi to Charlie.

It was the Pride equivalent of the rush hour when we arrived at the park. Our good-humoured band of brothers and sisters snaked around the perimeter in their camp and colourful finery. As the masses queued, the booze was fast-necked; just like the airport, liquids were not allowed gayside. Well, not the alcoholic kind, anyway. We broke through the barrier and headed straight for the bar, bagging a couple of cans before meandering through the frenzied enclosure. We had a ball, bumping into old friends, avoiding long-lost acquaintances and convincing ourselves we would survive the day without a little extra ‘stimulation.’

The open-air little boy’s room was a real challenge. The pissoirs looked like they’d been sawed in half, giving a full view of willies in the round. When the man next to me flopped out his baby’s arm, I withdrew in bashful inadequacy and headed to the Cabaret Tent to catch some drag with my tail between my legs. We really enjoyed our day out at the seaside. Getting tipsy among the brethren and wrapping myself around Liam without having to gaze over my shoulder was rather liberating. I’d forgotten how much. All too quickly, the bash came to an end and we joined the sozzled throng as it weaved its way to the exit. Numbed by alcohol and petting each other like a pair of love birds, we staggered back to catch the evening train. The tedious journey back to the Smoke was made less so by sharing a laugh, a flirt and a king-size bag of mini chocolate hob-nobs with a boisterous gaggle of young things next to us.

Down the years, I have watched Brighton Pride grow from little more than a village fête to a vast enterprise attracting tens of thousands from across the country (and the world). It was no great surprise when it eventually collapsed under the weight of its own success. Something was bound to snap. Two years ago, a catastrophic day of bad weather swept the party into the English Channel and left a stack of unpaid bills for the organisers. To keep the wheels on the wagon, Pride was restructured as a not-for-profit community organisation and Pride in the Park has re-emerged as a gated ticket-only event, run on a fully commercial basis and propped up by a team of corporate sponsors. A water-resistant formula was clearly needed and, for the first time ever, serious cash is now being pumped into the coffers of local charities. Nevertheless, I can’t help thinking that a paid-for event goes against the whole spirit and ethos of Pride. Times are hard. Despite the concessions for early bird buyers and the young (though not the old), the cost was bound to exclude some people who might otherwise have popped along to share in the fun. For me, Pride is about embracing everyone regardless, not about paying a high price to be proud. Have a paid-for festival by all means, but don’t call it Pride. The future of Brighton Pride seems secure but does it deserve to be?

My apologies for my terrible images (blame my not so smart smartphone). I’ve mixed them in with some better pictures from the Pride Parade.

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We’re Having a Gay Old Time

We threw caution to the wind and have a gay old night in old Norwich Town. We are blessed with three bone fide out-and-proud gay bars and one club. Who’d have thought? The Castle Public House was our inn of choice, a popular haunt perched unglamorously on the corner of a ring-road roundabout just outside the city centre. We knew we’d arrived when we spotted their open top Big Gay Bus parked up outside. It’s used to frighten the farmers as it cruises the length and breadth of the county spreading the word. Not quite Priscilla, Queen of the Desert but you get the picture. The bar was a pleasant surprise. We were expecting tired, tatty and torn. We got camp, colourful and clean. The clientele was a manic mix of trendy young things, most of them squeezed into skinny jeans and Primark plimsolls. Metrosexual girls and boys mingled amiably, gossiping and giggling over the latest must-sup alcopop being flogged by the multi-nationals.

We popped across the pretty garden and crept into the glass-fronted club out the back. It was like stepping into a village hall on acid. We didn’t last long. The two old codgers quickly decided they were way too old for the thump, thump, thump and returned to the snug to finish their halves of mild. After a while observing the Norwich queens in their natural habitat, Liam suggested we leave the children to their play and stumble back home for a welcome cup of cocoa. As we strolled past the cathedral, Liam noticed that my ancient legs (the ones that had been given me so much gyp of late) were firing on all pistons. He was right. No pain whatsoever. Remarkable. Sightly sozzled and suspecting divine intervention, Liam looked up at the dreaming spire and spoke to his maker. “Praise the Lord!” he slurred. “It’s a miracle.” Indeed. He’ll be feeding the five thousand next.

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The Big Bang Games

The Big Bang Games
Photograph: Anna Gowthorpe/PA

London welcomed the Parallel Olympic Games with a dazzling display full of guts and gumption, and with a look-up-at-the-stars-and-not-down-at-your-feet message of hope. Only the commercial breaks and a plodding commentary marred a marvellous show. For the first time in Paralympic history, the gig is heading for a sell-out as ticket sales surge. Channel Four had its best viewing figures for a decade. As the tidal wave of cheer and goodwill continues to sweep over the realm like a benign Great Flood, this would not be a sensible time for the Government to benefit-bash the disabled. But then, there never should be a good time to bully the easiest of targets. Pick on someone your own size, I say. Like the filthy rich Fagins who squirrel their money away in tax havens. I’ve nothing against people earning a bob or two (If only I owned the copyright to the Union Flag at the moment) but I do expect everyone to pay their fair share. Here endeth the lesson. Let’s sit back, wallow in the joy and hope for a swag bag full of bling. 

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Hello Ducky

The last public holiday before Christmas brought the crowds to the banks of the Wensum to cheer on the Grand Norwich Duck Race. It was a bit of a plucky ducky frolic for charity and, as far as we could make out, it’s a friendly rival to the much grander Great Norwich Duck Race held in July. A £2 raffle ticket bought us a bright plastic contender and the chance to pick up a prize. The Sheriff of Norwich loudly heralded the release of the ducks which were chomping at the bit behind a mini-boom. I thought sheriffs were employed to chase outlaws around the Wild West and Sherwood Forest, but I digress. The gentle Wensum would hardly qualify as a white water ride so most of the rubber ducks floated lamely downstream while others became trapped in the dripping summer foliage. Neither Daffy, Donald or Daisy nor Huey, Dewey or Louis seemed much bothered by all the fuss as they huddled together for comfort. The daft occasion was fun for all the family and totally quackers. Later the same evening Liam gazed out of the window and, quite by chance, spotted three dragged-up men hobbling down the street in high heels, shock frocks and wild wigs. This is Norwich, city of the tacky, wacky and the wonderful.

The images were taken with my new smart-arse smart phone so they’re not very good (more of the smarty pants later), but you’ll get the drift.

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The Birds

The Birds

Our little quarter of old Norwich is like a retirement village, jam-packed with sheltered housing schemes – from modern red brick to post-industrial grand. We’re surrounded by the old folk of Norfolk, placing us in pole position for the next vacancy. It reminds me of our fright nights in off-season Yalıkavak when we first dipped our toes in Turkish waters. The difference is that round here there are no randy cats or baying dogs to keep us from our slumber.

Our silent nights are a world away from the Saturday night fever that unfolds just a few streets along. Lazy days are regularly disturbed by the street-wise pigeons who coo, poo and screw on the narrow ledges of the buildings around us. The bonking birds cleverly confound the spikes and nets intended to keep them from their lofty urban roosts and happily bestow their blessings on the passers-by below. There’s good luck splattered everywhere. It’s a scene from Hitchcock’s The Birds.

We only have one immediate neighbour. We’ve nodded hello in typically British reticent style. She must be very learned and well-read judging by the constant stream of Amazon deliveries. I must butter her up and generate more commission through my website, it could be a nice little earner. As a fellow blogger and author once remarked “Jack, you’re such a tart, on so many levels.” If the cap fits.

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Homes Sweet Homes

Homes Sweet Homes

The other day, my nephew and namesake asked me how many times I’d moved digs down the long, long years. I had to trawl the deepest recesses of my scatter brain to dredge up faded memories of homes sweet homes, tallying first with my fat fingers, then with my stunted toes. My digital sum revealed that our 17th century weaver’s gaff in Norwich is also my 17th home. It has a certain poetic ring to it don’t you think? Over the years, I’ve done home and away, foreign and familiar, new and old. Until now, I’d never done artisan (that’s homes not men, by the way). I’d never done public house either but it turns out that our new croft was converted into a pub in 1760. The first licensee was a certain Samuel Westall. Sam was a worsted weaver by trade but must have thought pulling pints and spinning yarns would be more profitable than downing pints and spinning yarn. Perhaps Sam saw the writing on the wall (though he probably couldn’t read what he saw) and decided to turn in his wheel before Jenny started her spinning. The pub was called the Kings Head and served up real ale to the drunks of Norwich for over 170 years until its sad demise in 1932. Somehow, I always knew I’d end up on my back in a bar.

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Fifty Shades of Gay

I’ve been asked to answer the question ‘What does writing LGBTQ literature mean to me?’ As a typically liberal fence-sitting Libran, the answer is both nothing and everything. An endorsement from my queer peers is of Oscar-winning significance; it lifts the spirits and brings an immediate rush. However, my sexuality is not the only thing that defines me (though, I suspect, it may be the biggest). I hope I’m more rounded and grounded than that. When I was young, reckless and idealistic, the stirrings in my loins did tend to get in the way. Had I been writing back then, I might well have been a one trick soft porn pony. Now I’ve matured in the oak and reached the vintage years, my pink-tinged ramblings have a broader brush. For me, it’s important that my writing touches, tickles or resonates, whoever the reader is. When I started this blogging lark, the fruity blend of ‘out-and-proud’ and ‘living in a foreign field’ was a successful recipe that brought unexpected recognition. This explains why the subsequent book is about a gay couple living in Turkey, not a book about being gay in Turkey (that depressing tome remains to be written). This may have disappointed some but I think delighted many more. In my view, this wider appeal does a great deal for the cause.

The one theme that has remained a constant preoccupation of mine is all things equalities. I do tend to bang that particular drum rather a lot. After all, it is the universal rainbow thread that unites us all. Equality has never been achieved by anyone asking nicely and saying please. It’s taken hand-to-hand combat with the hard of hearing. Let’s face it, the equalities marathon is hardly off the blocks in many parts of our shared global home, even in some so-called first world countries. Rights won the tough way can be lost in an instant. Threats lurk at every corner and apathy is the greatest threat of all.

I’ve been thinking ahead to a third episode of my pansy brand (the second is already on the drawing board). Now I don’t actually do anything useful for a living, I might as well carry on scribbling, whether people tip me the wink or not. If nothing else, it fills my day and keeps me away from tranquilising doses of daytime TV. I might take a mince down the towpath to my probationary dalliances, in which case, volume three might be an under the counter affair, wrapped in a brown paper bag and served up with individual tissues. How does ‘Fifty Shades of Gay’ sound? Minus the cuffs and corsets, though. Slap and tickle have never really got my juices flowing.

I wrote this post to celebrate and support the launch of Rainbowbookreviews, a brand new and exciting LBGT book review website. To join in the fun I’m offering a free signed copy of Perking the Pansies, Jack and Liam move to Turkey to comments left on this post from UK callers. A Kindle edition or ePUB version of the book is on offer to international readers (please state your preference). Winners will be chosen at random and the competition will end on midnight on 1st September.

D.I.V.O.R.C.E

I suppose it was inevitable. First we had the ‘marriages’ swiftly followed by the ‘divorces’.  I was recently catching up on Faceache and up popped an advert for civil partnership divorce on my side bar. Far be it for me to suggest that unhappy couples should stay together for the sake of the overpriced loft conversion or to save the breakup of the matching Louis Vuitton luggage set. Divorce is a fact of modern life (though I read rates are dropping as couples marry later and stay together longer). Over the last century, falling mortality rates have completely altered the concept of ‘til death us do part. In 1912, life expectancy for men was only around 52 and for women, around 55. Even though women could expect to live a little longer, some still died in child birth and second marriages for widowers were usual. Today, life expectancy has soared to 78 for men and 83 for women. Saying ‘I do’ at 23 and still feeling the love 60 years later? What are the odds? Or am I being a tad cynical?

Back to the advert. As Faceache knows everything there is to know about my vices and habits, from my inside leg measurement (barely functioning) and taste in men (breathing) to my favourite fragrance (Charlie) and my tipple of choice (meths), I assume they match their ads to my consumer profile. Is there something I’m not being told?

Seaside Special

Seaside Special

On those rare occasions when the sun comes out, the wildlife of Blighty flocks to the coast like migrating wildebeest. Not one to buck the national trend, Liam poked his toe out of the front door and decided a day trip was on the cards. He had Cromer in mind, a seaside resort on the north Norfolk coast. The town was in carnival mood and Liam fancied his chances in the knobbly knees contest. To my ear, Cromer sounds like it should be north of the border not north of Norwich. Half an hour across the flatlands, we reached our destination. An hour later, we managed to find somewhere to park. Cromer is a dainty and neat little place serving up the time-honoured seaside fare of battered fish, non-dairy ice cream, snotty sea food and cream teas on doilies. The town was packed to the rafters with day trippers getting in the way of these gay trippers. A bracing wind blew in from the bleak North Sea and crazy bathers braved the chilly waters. We were a long way from the fierce Meltemi Wind or the warm waters of the Aegean. The elusive festival was nowhere to be seen. Slightly dejected, I took Liam and his prize-less knees to the pub for a drink. I ordered a glass of white at the bar. The burly barman dressed in a riot of freshly-inked tattoos (just like the skies, tattoos are big in Norfolk) was having none of it. “We don’t sell wine by the glass,” he said in his farmer’s twang. The scary regulars stared on as they supped pints of the usual (whatever that was). That was that. Time gentlemen, please. As we headed back to the car, I caught a glimpse of a large fading poster flapping in the wind. Jimmy Cricket was the star turn at the end of the pier show. I thought he’d long since dropped off his perch. Perhaps it goes to prove that old jokers never die, they just go to Cromer. That’ll be me, then.

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