Category: Marriage

Okay, You, One Sentence Should Do It

Our double anniversary has sneaked up on us again – 19 years since our eyes met across a busy West End gay bar fit to bursting with a gossipy after-work crowd, and 17 years since we got hitched. This year, we’ve decided to push the boat out and paddle down the Seine. Yes, we’re off to gay Paree for a gay old time. For these gay old timers, this means a gentle stroll along the handsome boulevards and a big slice of café culture rather than painting the town pink in our disco pants. Our tush shaking days are long gone.

In the meantime, I stumbled across this old Faceache post written by him indoors to mark our seventh anniversary. Liam was challenged to say it all in a single sentence and he did it in style. He wrote…

Seven years ago we met in that bar in Trafalgar Square, shared that Sloppy Giuseppe and over-priced Pinot Grigio, argued about the bill, eventually went Dutch, courted for months like a pair of 1950s Catholics (for heaven’s sake), collapsed out of exhaustion into the world of jiggy-jiggy (terribly messy but strangely exciting), fell madly in love, got married (nice suits), moved in together (delicious scandal), watched the curtains twitch (mostly nets), gave up everything sensible and moved to Turkey (what was wrong with Spain?), fell in-and-out-and-in-and-out of love with an extraordinary (no, challenging, misogynistic, homophobic, primitive and God was it cold – okay I loved it) place, you writing ‘that’ book, ‘that’ book getting critical acclaim and big sales (cha-ching) but ‘that’ book largely ignored by those close to us (discuss?), coming back to look after our own (good call), becoming poor, well poor-ish (bad call), discovering the great city of Naaaarwich (nuff said), having more jiggy-jiggy (apparently unnatural, but terribly good with central heating and an injection of Radio 4 LW), re-discovering UK culture like a long lost friend but afraid to tell the expats how wonderful it was in case it came across as boastful (fine line), you becoming ‘properly’ recognised as a ‘proper’ writer (hurrah!) not to mention radio star (OMG), me re-learning Bach fugues (they are SO hard to play, even harder than Mozart, you really have no idea how my fingers ache), both of us weeping like candles at the latest Cinema City flick (okay, mostly Dame Maggie and thank God for the discounted tickets and blood-warm Merlot at the bar), getting over-excited about that converted railway carriage in miles-from-nowhere (yes, I could wash my bits in a sink with a view like that), improvising those make-shift nappies during the messy norovirus days (thank you Blue Peter and Morrison’s super-padded 2-for-1 kitchen towels, we owe you), people-watching at the Playhouse and longing to be young (clearly, we need to avoid Death In Venice comparisons here), gasping at Bonnie Langford’s amazingly flexible crack (and boy, can that Dolly can write a tooone) but most of all, keeping our focus, always, on making sure our glass is resolutely full. I’d say it’s been an extraordinary seven years, husband.

Cutting Room Floor

I’m off-air while Liam and I are perking our pansies on pretty Paxos. While we’re away, here’s a selection of photos that ended up on the cutting room floor, blog-wise. It’s an eclectic mix of random snaps – local and London – plus a really ancient polaroid of me back in the eighties on godfather duty. The babe in arms is now in his forties and his own babes in arms have reached school age. Yes, I feel really old.

Banquet at The Angel, Loddon
Norwich Ukulele Society
School LGBT Helpline
Glitzy London Minaret
Spooky London Church
Easy, Boy
Drippy Garden
17th Century Weaver’s Cottage – Our First Norwich Gaff
Our Vows, Renewed
Yuletide Dino
Bond Bug
The Godfather – Yes, That’s Me!

Red Bus Rover

It was our ‘wax’ wedding anniversary last week – sixteen years and counting. We’ve already got enough candles to light a small chapel, so they were off the gift list, and since we’re not part of the huntin’, shootin’, fishin’ set, waxed jackets were out too. So, we went for a celebratory bite instead. Our venue was the Unthank Arms, a traditional boozer in the heart of Norwich’s ‘Golden Triangle’ – a popular residential district west of the city centre. The Unthank is noted locally for top-notch pub grub, and we used to be regulars before we emigrated to the country.

As we tucked into our meal, I looked up and clocked this old enamel sign above the entrance to the loos.  

I’m fairly sure the sign refers to the old 37 bus route in London. Memories of my misspent youth came flooding back. The 37 was my main ride back in the seventies when my dad ran a ‘Bottle and Basket’ convenience shop in South London, making a decent living out of booze and bread. Back then, the 37 bus plied its trade between Hounslow in the west to Dulwich in the south. I rode the 37 to school in Battersea, my Saturday job in Feltham, my youth club in Richmond and my bestie’s gaff in Clapham.

The 37 still runs but the route’s changed since my teen heyday. The iconic Routemasters, famous for their open rear platforms –  just right for jumping on and off at red lights – and the (sometimes hunky) conductor and his clickety-click ticket machine, ding-ding to the driver to move on and ‘move down the bus please, plenty of room inside’ mantra have all been pensioned off, more’s the pity. These days, it’s all-electric vehicles that barely make a sound, bored-stiff drivers and bleep-bleep DIY card readers. More efficient, I’m sure, but unlike the seventies, not much of a ride.

The Good Old Days

We’ve all heard the tedious line about how the good old days were so much better. It’s said by those who yearn for a bygone era of stiff upper lips, Sunday church and honour on the cricket field, a time when the buttoned-up knew their place and respected their betters. Of course, the reality for many was very different – backstreet abortions, cold water slums, consumption and rickets. And let’s not forget; the love that dares not speak its name could get you banged up. Oh, the smug joy of seeing the past through rose-tinted glasses. Sounds like a nasty dose of false memory syndrome to me.

But then I saw this on Faceache and started to wonder if maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

If this is genuine, it must be from an American rag. New-fangled miracle machines like dishwashers were but a pipe dream in post-war, bombed-out Britain. But I am drawn to the notion of a doting homemaker who never complains and whose only function in life is to service my every need. If only I could get Liam to ‘fix his makeup’ and ‘put a ribbon in his hair’ just before I get home after a hard day at the office. And ‘be a little gay’ to give me a well-earned lift.

Fat chance. I should have slipped ‘obey’ into our marriage vows. He calls me his ‘little gay’.

In Sickness and In Health

It’s been a year since my old girl died. She was 93, but even though she was frail and a bit mutton – well, a lot mutton – in many ways she was blessed. She lived a long, eventful life and she kept her marbles right up to the end. Others are not so lucky. There can’t be many people, directly or indirectly, untouched by the cruelty of dementia. Even though science and wealth have kept the Grim Reaper at bay, our minds often can’t keep up, and it’s miserable. The Big D must be particularly tough for the wives, husbands and partners of the sufferers. There are no happy endings, just ’til death do us part.

But all is not lost. Dementia is gradually revealing its dark secrets, and with light comes reward – earlier diagnosis, better treatment and maybe a cure one day. The trouble is, it’s a hard slog and it all takes cash. The Alzheimer’s Society here in the UK are currently running a TV ad campaign called The Ultimate Vow to raise awareness. It shines a light on the everyday struggles of couples living with dementia. It’s brilliant and it made me cry.

We give not just for others but also for ourselves.

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

Liam is away visiting an old friend from his wayward early years as a young gay about town. They worked and played together when Liam did a proper job with a pension attached. It’s the first time I’ve been home alone since we moved to the village over three years ago. Liam left to catch an early train and I fell out of my pit to an empty house, silent apart from the morning squawk of the horny birds outside. It felt odd and a little unsettling. But, as I went about my domestic chores, I kept finding post-it notes hidden here and there. Here’s a sample…

I did as I was instructed and jumped on the bus to our local garden centre. It was a warm and sunny day and the place was packed with people taking tea and talking shrubs. I cannot lie, I felt out of sorts. As I went to pay for my trolley-load of horticultural supplies, I opened my wallet to find this…

Soppy old sod. Amen to that.

Fifteen-Year Itch

For our fifteenth wedding anniversary we were itching for a big city scratch with a difference. Despite my heathen leanings, I do like an impressive church, and few are more impressive than London’s St. Paul’s Cathedral, Christopher Wren’s tour de force topped with its heavenly dome. The earlier Gothic pile was torched along with much of the old medieval city in the Great Fire of 1666. It’s reckoned the blaze started in a bakery in the appropriately named Pudding Lane, bringing a whole new meaning to the hallowed phrase ‘give us our daily bread’.

Meandering around the flashy Baroque splendour brought back happy memories of my first pilgrimage – back in my spotty teens when I accompanied my grandmother, who was over from Ireland.

According to the annals, there’s been a church on the same spot since 604 AD, and possibly as far back as the late Roman period, as suggested by a plaque listing the pre-Norman bishops with their glorious tongue-twister names.

In stark contrast to the lavish decor above, the crypt is simply appointed and stuffed with the tombs of kill and cure notables from days long past, from Florence Nightingale and Alexander Fleming – who discovered penicillin quite by chance – to the victors of Trafalgar and Waterloo, Nelson and Wellington. Napoleon must be spinning in his monumental Parisian grave. Wren is there too, of course.

After piety came avarice, with indulgent afternoon tea and bubbles in The Swan at Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre followed by mother’s ruin at Halfway to Heaven, the homo watering hole near Nelson’s massive column, where Liam and I first met. They knew we were coming judging by the ultimate gay megamix playing on the jukebox – Pet Shop Boys, Erasure, Marc Almond, The Communards, Frankie Goes to Hollywood, Dead or Alive, Gloria Gaynor and Hazel Dean – with Liza Minnelli’s ‘Love Pains’ bringing up the rear. Liam’s shoulders shimmied to the beat. Perfect.

Labours of Love

As a superannuated member of the grumpy grey herd, I still read newspapers, those quaintly old-fashioned printed sheets of paper that leave ink smudges on your fingers. I recently read in one daily rag that renovation, decorating and domestic chores can cause tensions in relationships. Really? Who knew? This month, Liam and I celebrate our 15th wedding anniversary and we decided very early on in our career that the only way to avoid the divorce court was a clear division of labour in the home.

Here’s that newspaper list and how we stay (mostly) harmonious:

  • Flat-pack furniture: me. I’m a sucker for an Allen key. It makes me come over all butch.
  • Bathroom cleaning: Liam. Getting my hand round an s-bend is an insertion too far.
  • Painting and decorating: Liam. I’m no Jack of all trades and he’s handier with a brush.
  • Loading the dishwasher: both but I reload it when he’s not looking.
  • Clearing out the shed. Jack’s man cave – keep out! It’s where the smut is stashed.
  • Laundry: me. I’m happy to rinse through Liam’s knickers. That’s real love for you.
  • Putting up a shelf: neither. Get a lesbian in.
  • Cleaning the oven: Liam. Life’s way too short to drop to my knees for a cooker.
  • And the hardest of all… interior design choices. Have you ever seen two old poofs throw a hissy fit over some scatter cushions in IKEA? It wasn’t us, obviously.

Tickling the Ivories

It’s our wedding anniversary today – 14 years (and counting) since we tied the proverbial and Liam slipped his ring on my finger. What adventures we’ve had. I have a feeling in my water there’s many more to come but then that could just be a UTI. According to tradition, ivory is the anniversary theme but it’s not exactly ethical. Of late, Liam has taken up his keyboard once again so I guess we’ll have to make do with ivory tickling instead.

What a ride!

In Step with Modern Britain

With all the endless doom and gloom swilling around us, it’s easy to forget just how far we’ve come. It says something incredibly powerful about our society when the three finalists of Strictly Come Dancing – the most popular show on British TV – were a black woman, a deaf actor and a same-sex couple, as voted for by the viewers. As critic Barbara Ellen put it in her Guardian review:

“A ground-breaking Strictly final in step with modern Britain.”

“… Strictly, and the BBC, at its best: everyone welcome, and everything all the better for it.”

Hot on the heels of Strictly came the BBC’s Sports Personality of the Year, also a public vote. It was won by the child of Chinese-Romanian immigrants with a gay diver bringing up the rear in second place.

And then came the out-of-the-blue and very public marriage proposal on the stage of Norwich’s splendid Theatre Royal at the end of their Christmas panto production of Dick Whittington. When Joe popped the question, the kids went wild. Just as well Luke said yes!

Watch it on Facebook. Congratulations boys.