The best neighbours I ever had was Bev and John in Hillsborough, Sheffield
When we first met they were a youngish married couple with a pre teen daughter
I was a lumpy middle aged gay man negotiating the end of a fairly destructive relationship.
We strangely hit it off !
Despite our differences we became firm friends and have been for the past twenty six years.
They have been a constant in my life, always there , always supportive.
They came to my wedding and I braved a white out snowstorm to be at their daughters’ wedding and I know if I needed them they would be there for me as I would be for them.
John was the showbiz reporter for the Sheffield Star and for years I was his plus one , attending every performance at the Crucible or the Lyceum.loving every minute of it.
He is arch and camp and showbiz and fun and has recently dealt with some ill Heath with alacrity and chutzpah
It was lovely to sit and talk to him in Llandudno today man to man,
Not enough time …..
I love them both dearly….
And I want them both to know that x
I met them in Llandudno’s Mostyn Gallery today and bought this Orme Goat on a whim….
Last night was another film night, this time with Gorgeous Dave who dressed up for the occasion ! He has a new rather glam girlfriend so the glam is rubbing off.
As usual I had gravy stains on my t shirt
I won’t review the movie Joy Ride as it was only mildly amusing and not very good, but I enjoyed the night as we always have big chats to and from the venue, in-dispersed with lots of laughs.
It’s been a testosterone filled few days with me meeting up with a gaggle of male friends . Nigel, Colin, Dave and today I’m catching up with an old Sheffield friend John who is in holiday in Llandudno.
He was an old neighbour who turned into a best mate
I’ve always gotten on better with women than I have men. Only in later life have I cultivated male friendships and have a good dozen men, straight and gay who I am close to.
I find that most men are more emotionally intelligent than they used to be.
I know that’s a sweeping statement but for the good of all, I think they are and that, I think, underpins why I have more man friends than I did 20 years ago.
Anyone who grew up in the 1970s may identify with this Emanuel Crialese’s autobiographical study of a dysfunctional family negotiating the ups and downs of life in the affluent suburbs of Rome.
Children growing up with little help and despite the adults of the household .
Clara ( Penelope Cruz) is the loving yet emotionally unstable mother of three children. Her eldest girl Ariana ( Luana Giulani) identifies as a boy called Andrew, middle son Gino ( Patritzio Francioni) overeats and defecates in the closet and youngest Diana ( Maria Charia Goretti) gamely tries to keep the peace as a bemused father ( Vincenzo Amato) shouts and bullies.
Everyone exists in their own bubbles, with Clara’s illness reinforcing the children’s fantasy life instead of helping them.
Ariana is especially affected by her mother’s reinforcement to her differences , as she explores a chaste romance with a local girl from a transient workers camp and together mother and “daughter” with the rest of the family have to face clara’s admission to psychiatric hospital and subsequent return home without the benefit of support or therapy.
It’s a strong, emotionally honest film, which sticks to its guns and Cruz and Giulani are magnificent)
There are no epiphany moments, no high resolution final moments,
Just a sad girl and her loving mom seeking solace and fantasy in tv variety show moments
I forgot it was Chester Pride today and the city was full of rainbows and very jolly people .
I met Nigel and we sat chatting in the cathedral gardens before having a late lunch in the Storyhouse
Midnight Cowboy is one of his favourite movies , so we had a lovely film debrief before he caught the train home to Manchester.
It was lovely to see him and the film which I think I’ve never seen in it’s entirety.
We’ve know each other over thirty years so we laugh together easily using shorthand jokes and phrases
I love him dearly
I left him at the cross in Chester, as he needed to walk to the railway station and I needed to go to my car parked by the racecourse
….and moments later I was surrounded by a gaggle of chubby lesbians all screaming Madonna’s Save A Prayer on Watergate and all wearing rainbow Stetsons
I’m not the teenage mistress of Juan Perón and my suitcase is not standing in another hall but I do sing the phrase to myself from time to time.
Not in a depressing sort of way, but I am just interested in how things will pan out.
How things will go!
I’m 61 and the rest of this year is planned out.
I start University in September. Course fees are paid for.
Time off organized, and there is a psychological shift in my head from Hospice to University.
That much is sorted. I'll work two days and have one whole day studying.
2024 however, comes with its own uncertainties
My mortgage is up for renewal next November , so I have a little time for interest rates to balance and stabilise. But my final year’s fees need to be found and more expenses such as a new car factored in too.
But I have time to look at things without the panic of last minute.
Socially I’m ok….more than ok.
I am blessed with friends in the village and beyond its borders and although there is a yearning to have someone else special in my life I’m not getting bogged down in the game of gay dating. The apps are fickle creatures, often like the men who inhabit them and I’m not settling for anything.
In four years I’ve dated a handful of men, some nice, some not, and I’m too long in the tooth to be cavalier with my own or indeed other people’s feelings.
I want to be like Charlotte York Goldenblatt from And Just Like That….romantic and hopeful where men are concerned but I’m not I’m afraid. I have the Miranda Hobbs “ realist” head on me despite what I say about romantic holes in jumpers.
Romance in older men's lives can be a car crash of sorts.
I’m also well past waiting to be saved by my ex. It’s a common go to place when people are in grief after divorce. Lassie doesn't always come home,
Nothing is neat and tidy .
I’m lucky. I can afford theatre trips and cinema when and where I please. It’s Rome in four weeks and London soon after that…
I’m doing ok, more than ok
Sometimes I need to remind myself of that.
Carrie Bradshaw was right, I’m only as much as a fictional icon be right in a tv programme written by gay men can be right
“Eventually all the pieces fall into place. Until then, laugh at the confusion, live for the moment, and know that everything happens for a reason.”
A time of beige and orange, Watergate and hijacked planes.
Disaster films and second year in secondary school.
My mother often babysat for my sister on Saturday nights so we went along too, not being picked up by my over-the-limit father when the Conservative Club rang last orders around eleven.
Parkinson would be on the tv before we left and even though I often had restless legs from being overtired I can remember his easy Yorkshire tones and his ability to make a guest feel at home.
Michael Parkinson was a journalist, so unlike his American counterparts who often knew their guests before their chat, he researched them forensically.
He was calm and collected and very British in a David Niven like way and suddenly became a favourite with Hollywood stars and politicians alike, all of whom warmed to his character and Northern Ways.
I always enjoyed the natural storyteller guests, who were given space to perform their tales. Peter Ustinov, David Niven, Kenneth Williams, Peter Cook, Spike Milligan
Billy Connolly and Barry Humphrey came slightly later…..I remember them too….fondly.
Best of British Michael Parkinson …..Rest In Peace
Animal Helper Pat dropped by with a gift of a bowl of the. Sweetest and most delicious tomatoes out of her greenhouse. I’ve been eating them all morning like grapes.
I’m not doing much today. I’m back on nights so apart from dropping some chocolate chip cookies off in the telephone box food swap, I’ve only mooched around the cottage,
The weather is changeable with sunny spells and I made udon noodles in sweet chilli sauce as Roger skipped around the garden chasing the fewer butterflies that circle the dying blooms of the three buddliea bushes that screen the cottage from the new build.
I cut flowers for vases and stopped to talk to Mr Poznań who is looking increasingly frail as I cut them over the kitchen wall.
He apologised for not coming to the flower Show but had heard through Pippa at the Rectory that it was a roaring success.
On his way back home he handed me a few stalks of Hedge Cranesbill for my vases and told me to lose weight. He laughed easily as Roger jumped up and down in and out of view in an effort to say hello his eyes crinkling like mine do, in amusement when an old hand touched the young dog’s head.
I’ve not put the radio on today, nor music and the yappers at the new build, for once have been quiet, so the day has passed quietly, with only the wood pigeons, my dogs occasional barks to break over the sound of the breeze.
I feel a bit jet lagged and I wasn’t sure what day it was this morning
