By process of elimination, I think I would introduce myself as Lexie. I met Michael and Billy early into lower 6 in just the way he’s described. I was never keen on new friends coming into my little friendship group and could be standoffish at best but Michael and Billy snuck in before I realised. They made me laugh and that was something I really loved in a person.

I met Michael before he came out and actually to the surprise of many. I think a lot of people thought Billys ‘flamboyancy’ had rubbed off too much. Not to sound smug but I had always believed that was not the case. To find out your date to the school formal was gay on the day of the formal (or a few days before maybe my memory is crap) made it a little more awkward for both of us, the giant pink elephant in the room. Not that he was gay, but more that we didn’t mention it! It was like a, he knows that I know and he knows we all know but he doesn’t know we know he knows kinda thing. At dinner, Billy had ordered a bottle of wine for his date so I demanded Michael do the same and he obliged. Turns out the only thing you need to kill the awkwardness of our newly outed date was a bottle of the houses finest and that was that.

I hadn’t always planned on going with a male friend you see. My then boyfriend ditched me the month before and Michael really was my knight in shining armour. The horror of being dumped and attending the 6th year formal alone was unthinkable. The picture of our formal hung in his ‘good room’ hideous as it now appeared to be. The picture, not the good room.

We all met that evening at Michaels house. The limo was to pick us all up there. I happened to be last out of the limo that night and for some reason wasn’t charged and got a free ride! Don’t think anyone else knows that! I can’t remember exactly who we shared with but we all, with our parents in tow, hung out in Michael’s kitchen being entertained by his mum. She had provided us with drinks and nibbly snacks and did the usual awkward parent conversations with them all.

I can’t remember the first time I met Michaels mum (it could actually have been when planning the formal at their house) but I do remember the last. I was walking into the local Sainsbury’s as she was walking out. We stood and chatted maybe 10 minutes mostly about Michael and the kids and both parted ways. I think id maybe saw her a year previous to that in her house seeing Michael. Michael has definitely inherited at least that one thing from his mum, no matter how long it’s been since u last spoke u can always pick up right where u left off. Just like old friends.

At that age, we had the usual hangouts big girls, the spinning mill, lady jaynes and Michaels. All dependent on whether parents were in/out. Except Michaels. His mum either didn’t mind or we tore on regardless but any day was good at Michaels. We sat in his back room and smoked by the packet. His mum would always warn us before heading to bed that smoking was done outside. But we never did and she most certainly knew full well (the room was like a walk-in ashtray complete with the ash)but never did she say a thing. The poor woman’s house was wrecked on several occasions and once we burned right through her new bbq. Nights in or nights out even could go from fabulous to disaster almost instantly with us.

One of such nights was a night out in Belfast. We went to a club then called Milk. Some of us had been a few weeks previous and thought it was just amazing. All the places in the big smoke seemed amazing at the time. I bet it was actually a hole. Myself, Michael, Billy and 4 more travelled up to Belfast. The night started with Billy asserting himself as the man about town drinking way too many strawberry daiquiris and throwing himself at me lips first across a bench. It was a really great night though. I don’t have the best memory but I can remember that much. On leaving the club, we were all pretty worse for wear and waited on (nicolas) bf to pick us up in her car. He arrived to a packed pavement on a busy street and on parking up, accidentally ran over someone’s foot. The poor injured reveller in question started banging the car roof and kicking the car then (nicola) starts shouting at the dude as her bf gets out. More concerned about our ride home, we all bail-in. All 5of us in the back as (nic) and bf sat up front. It was 15 odd years ago and personal safety was placed under a cheap ride home. We sailed off into the night superspeed before the injured party had a chance to realise. 

As we’re driving home, sitting awkwardly in the back as (nic)and bf argue about the damage to the car, you could have heard a pin drop. Hitting the motorway, Billy started to snigger loudly and really inappropriately. I was sitting in the middle and turned round to see what the hell he was playing at when I realised…he was more, being sick through two clamped hands than laughing. My hysterical screaming alerted Michael who had the best seat in the place, slap bang on Billy’s knee. He whipped around and started the hysterical screaming also (just a bit lower pitched) as his lovely shirt was being decoupaged by vomit down the back. As the smell of daiquiri and sour cream filled the air, we all shouted for bf to pull over and he agreed but only after (nic) apologised. After what seemed like too long we pulled over on the hard shoulder of the m2 as all affected parties got out. 

Billy needed a few mins to control the projectile, (nic) and bf had it out and made up, while Michael stripped to the waist. After a quick clean up and seat swapping, we continued home with Billy’s head hanging out the front window the rest of the way(It took me a long time to not associate that night with strawberry daiquiris but I’ve powered through those difficult years and can now drink them with ease)His mum told Michael the next day she found him asleep in the bath the following morning.

In all honesty, I think between all of us we could write a book about the things we all got up to and we all have our favourite tales. We had some of the best nights out and holidays together. Our holiday to Kavos Michael’s mum had dubbed our ‘last hurrah’ before we all left school and went off into the world on our own. She had mentioned to Michael that once we all went to different unis, cities and countries even, we would probably all drift apart and this would be our last big gathering together. In some ways, she was right…

But for the most part, it didn’t turn out that way and for that, I’m really thankful.

So as I sit on the tram waiting to pick dazzles up I’m starting to get very excited, in a few short hours we shall be landing into sunny Spain, Moses specifically Benidorm. So I have to revisit the formal story as I left it on a bit of a cliffhanger and their is so much more to that particular episode in my life. So am I going to have time while on holiday? No. For one I won’t have access to a computer and I can’t write on my phone or it would drive me crazy…..

In the meantime I will hand over to the people who know me the best. This week will have my friends who all have featured in this blog. I’ve been writing about them so I only found it fair to give them a voice …. (please be kind).

I handover to my darling besties for a week and will return refreshed and tanned in 7 days

Xxx

As I stared at my computer screen I had a look of shock, anger and befuddlement all rolled into a nice neat little package. To be honest I think I was mostly angry. I was perfectly polite and perfectly pleasant in my communications to Mr Toad. We had bonded over the few weeks leading up to this point and truth be told I probably didn’t see a lengthy friendship resulting from this however at this point in our lives it was nice we both had someone to confide in and share our experiences. The tales of my night from the Gay Bar in Belfast had not completely circled and I was avoiding Big Girls probing questions like mad (the resulting ‘gay get together’ had yet to take place. I was still feeling anxious about everyone knowing my own little secret. Change can often we unwelcome and a difficult process. Especially for a 17 year old. Already in our lives so much was changing. We were at the end of our scholastic adventures pretty much and in a few short months we would all be departing for university. I think I wanted so much to stay the same. Toad was a welcome distraction as I could talk about what I dare not speak out loud. I had found a semi-anonymous companion to show the ‘real’ me to. It was nice.

In our first year at school when myself and Billy were just becoming acquainted, I was invited to Billy’s house for a play-date…. well I guess it wasn’t really a play-date when you are burgeoning on adolescence however that is exactly what it felt like. Myself, Billy and Toad were sat in Billy’s front garden. This was unusual and I’m still rather confused as to why I agreed to go. I didn’t really know Billy, and Toad was someone I said about two words to. I think I was still trying to establish myself and make my way through the thorny bush that is secondary school. As we sat in the garden chatting it became all too clear that I was far too immature for Mr Toads social taste. Have you ever met a teenager that you doubted was ever a child. Toad had this old man quality about him. He talked about politics and his position on certain socio-economic topics. This all flew over my head as I was not politically savvy nor was I particularly worldly. I was interested in music and video games. I found the whole thing rather pomp and droll to be honest. He would also speak I this weird affected tone that made him sound rather constipated. He would let a weird groan after finishing each sentence. I would often give him a look of complete wonderment. Billy would be the more social of the two and attempt to entertain Toad by blagging his way though this most bizarre conversational platform. I would look up at the blue sky and wonder when the moon would fall on top of me. At least it would be interesting.

That was the last play-date ever arranged for us. In your first year you are very experimental in your friendships. Its like shopping for a wedding ring. You try on loads of cuts and styles until you find the perfect one that fits. Toad and I did not fit in the slightest. Both being quite academically bright however we would both excel in very different areas. He would come out with top marks in Religious Education which I alas would always struggle with. Its not that I don’t find theology fascinating. In fact now I probably know more than I ever did as the subject really interests me. Back then it was dusty old books taught in sermon style and expected to memorise half of Psalms In an hour. Not my idea of education. I however did excel in English literature. Something about the subject just clicked with me. I always loved reading and analysing the characters in a book. You can capture the complexity in a character far easier than in a movie. Rarely is everything black and white. The grey is what always intrigued me. Lady Macbeth for example, ruthless ambition or tragedy of circumstance? Toad used to glare at me when I received praise for my English essays as he would was a typical A personality type who would settle for nothing rather than second place. To be honest it is a surprise we weren’t better friends as we actually had a lot in common.

I shut down my P.C and proceeded to kiss mummy good night. We always had a tradition where I would kiss her goodnight and she would yell, “get to your bed”. It was our little tradition. I lay in bed and tried not to let the nights events over MSN messenger annoy me and soon fell into a deep coma. The next day was like any other except our social group was already planning a new weekend activity. Our little group lived for the weekends. They would alternate between nights in the pub/karoke bar, house parties or sometimes we would attempt to go to a nightclub. I say attempt as being 17 I always got asked for I.D. When I was 17 I looked about 12 and was still feeling my way round my fashion. Needless to say this scrawny Irish boy could not pass for 18. Billy who had the gift of height and maturity never had an issue. The girls could put on make-up and wear low cut tops. I had to just stand in queues and hope to god no one would even notice me or the game would be up. We were all sat in our usual place in the common room and decided we would go to Kellys. For the Non-Irish, Kellys is an institution. It is a massive nightclub in Portrush and houses one of the biggest dance floors in Europe. It also has an amazing chip shop inside the nightclub.

AS we made plans who would go with who and how we would get there we all fell into regular conversation. I am actually really surprised any of us made it to  University as we spend more time talking about our social lives than Hamlet or Equations. Kellys has two big nights a week. One on a Wednesday which is student night (my more likely option) and one on a Saturday night. We were all going to attend the student night. Looking back I gave no thoughts about going clubbing and straight into class the next day. Now I would shudder at the thought and would prefer to order a Chinese and have an early night so I am well rested for work….. the follies of youth ….. how I miss those times.

We all dashed into school on the Thursday morning. Our favourite time as a group was always the mornings. We would all start to congregate earlier than was expected and spend the first 15 minutes before class having really good chats about absolutely nothing. Perhaps which teacher was shagging another or who had been caught smoking behind the gym (usually Billy). Even after a night of somewhat mad clubbing we would still bounce in early all catch up. We were never that late as we still had parents who wouldn’t allow us out too late on a school night. As I sat looking at big girl telling Lady Jayne the scandal from the night before (lady Jayne was also cursed with looking about 10 years too young to club) I had a sudden tap on my shoulder. I turned round and the Head of 6th year was glaring at me with his raven like eyes. “Principals office now!”, he bellowed at the 17 year old with a slightly fuzzy head.

I stepped into the principals very opulent and ridiculously sized office. Seriously I believe the Oval Office would be pale in comparison to this ridiculously functional Principals office. In a room with no less than 4 Sofas I sat down in my oversized jacket with my green deputy head boy badge gleaming. “Michael You have conned the board of Governors, me and this school into believing you would be a reputable Deputy head!”.

I started to waken up more at this point. He did not look happy at all. What was worse is I think I further enraged him as I had zero clue what he was talking about. “May I ask what I have done that has lead you to this conclusion?”. My slightly arrogant/hungover tone was not received at all well. As he glared at me with his glasses filling with steam he took a loud breath a expelled the words;

You were supposed to attend the prize giving ceremony last night, this is the first time in the schools history that a deputy head boy has not attended. You instead found it appropriate to go out drinking and clubbing, which is illegal as you are underage!

Ok so this was obviously very serious. However I was usually really good at remembering stuff like this. I always had a great memory for dates and events. Wait, no I definitely was not aware of this! Surely I would of went to a meeting about this to discuss the details? “How was I meant to know this? No one told me, I honestly didn’t even know!?!?!”.

“The Head Boy has informed us that he indeed did tell you and that you said you would prefer to go drinking with your friends!!!!”, he snarled at me.

A light bulb went off in my head…. ahhhh, Toad was supposed to have told me and didn’t…. things were starting to become clear.

 

To be continued (again)……..

Ok so as many of you know my disjointed story telling can take many turns and reverses. That is probably how my brain works, or at least a good indication into the chaotic nature of my thought process. This is almost a pre story.

The one thing I admire about out American cousins is they really know how to make an occasion festive. Halloween for example. I used to watch movies like Hocus Pocus and see Americans flock the streets to trick or treat. Meanwhile in Sunny Ireland I was carving my turnip (pumpkins were not readily available) in my black bin liner wrapped round me pretending I was Dracula. Lets face it. In the USA they really know how to put on a spectacle, and that of course was everything I love. The other occasion Americans really know how to do justice is the right of passage known as ‘Prom’. Nearly every teen movie I can think of reached its crescendo at the high school prom, though hopefully more high school musical than Carrie. The ritual of prom was always something alien to the Irish. We had a leavers formal that was always rather …. pedestrian at best. That was until my year…..

So as the deputy head boy (more on that ironic twist soon) I was immediately head of the formal committee. The head boy would best be described as Toad from The Wind in the Willows. He had a portly belly and a rather pompous demeanour. Our paths had crossed at various points in my scholastic career but nothing of particular merit. The head girl was an Oxford wannabe with straight A’s and zero aspirations of being a social butterfly, which is perfectly acceptable, I mean they never get up to mischief whilst reading at Oxford! Ok so I sound a bit mean in my description, particularly of the head boy here however my intention is not to be mean but rather present a realistic portrayal. At least my realistic portrayal. He genuinely reminded me of MR Toad, all he needed was a little red sports car.  So to say the two heads had zero interest in an event that openly encourage teenage alcohol consumption would be a little bit of an understatement. The burden fell to the schools rebellious deputy head boy. A burden I was more than happy to comply with.

So the next task was to form the committee. The night I had envisaged in my head could not take place without my favourite gal pals now could it? So the formal committee was due to be selected by popular vote. Unlike the USA we preferred the democratic popular vote as opposed to the collegiate vote (imagine segregating the clichés, nightmare). I can see it now… we only have the Goths and the skater boys to win the vote!!!! Everyone voted and of course I was counting. So yeah the vote was a bit of a landslide for most of my friends however some of them needed an additional bit of support from myself (think Florida Bush Election 2000). Ok so maybe some dead people secured a vote that year, I wasn’t taking any chances with my Prom…. I mean formal. So in the end it was myself, Big Girl (landslide), Lady Jayne, Lexus and Elsa. Unfortunately our beloved ringer had left school that year to go to technical college, though she would not be missed out on the big night.

This was the time when MSN messenger was all the rage. It seems like a quaint time when dial up modems where a thing and your mum would tell you off for hogging the phone line. Lots of people in school all communicated through MSN messenger. It was before Facebook and Snap chat and actually rather fun. Everyone would log on from school and interact on the days events. Seems silly now, especially as we had mobile phones but It was kind of a thing. Updating your profile pic depending on your mood. Using abbreviations like AFK (away from Keyboard) and BRB (be right back). It was using this forum that I got talking to the most unexpected person from school, I have no idea how it even initiated. The boy would not really speak to me in school but it soon became a bit of a pen pal relationship. Asking how my day had went and what I wanted to do after school. It all started really mundane and ordinary. Then came the day the bombshell had dropped. Those three little words with so much power to change things…..

I Am Gay.

I read the words from my side of my computer in my dining room (no laptops kids…. too expensive). I read them over and over. I just thought to myself, has this kid just came out to me? Was I shocked? To tell you the truth I was neither surprised nor shocked. This boy was the kind of fella who no one could picture with a wife. I mean he was overtly effeminate, kind short and a little bit odd. The boy I was talking to on Messenger was not the boy I knew from school however. This boy had genuine feelings and actually was quite witty and sweet. The next six words then really flummoxed me. They were unexpected and blunt.

I have a crush on you.

I was kind of left wondering what to say. I left it a good five minutes before another message was sent,

You don’t feel the same do you?

The truth was I didn’t. I enjoyed our chats and was getting to know him as a person but I equally was not attracted to him, especially due to the fact he barely acknowledged my existence in school. I replied with what I thought would let him down gently and was rather non-committal for a 17 year old, I said,

Thank you I am really flattered but I am not looking for a serious relationship right now.

It was kind of the truth to be honest however even if I wasn’t I am pretty sure the response would of been the same. Its not nice to be rejected and this boy and I had an internet friendship and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Its never nice to be the one who gets rejected so I tried to be as kind, yet transparent as I could. It is a lot worse to lead someone on than reject them. My head was still spinning from the nights revelations and I was wondering what the hell was happening. Was this why he started chatting to me in the first place? My adult self knows the answer very well however at 17 I was rather green round the gills and to be honest never seen motive in anyone’s actions. Very much face value in my interactions. Then he went offline, deleted my contact on Messenger and that was that. I felt bad but I tried to be as gentle as I could, I just did not reciprocate the boys feelings.

Mr Toad had deleted me off Messenger……..

To be continued…………………………….

Ok I may have alluded to before but me and mummy ( or rather mummy and I) had a very unique sense of humour that no other person really understood, but we did. We could be on the phone and say the most random things to each other. It never really mattered if anyone found us funny. It was like we had our own secret world that only we were apart of. I loved our little world. As much fun as it could be, it didn’t stop the pair of us getting into trouble from time to time. Most notably when I was a child, say about 8/9.

We had all went for lunch. Mummy, my big sister, big brother and of course me. We went to this local café of no real imporatance, just a normal everyday café. It was kind of odd thinking about it as its really the only time I remember the four of us going for lunch. Not that we were all antisocial, it just sticks out as something we didn’t do a lot of. As usual my sister was chatting away at 100 words per minute, my brother patiently listening, and me trying to chirp up when I could. In my youth my sister could always out converse me. She took it to the degree of an Olympic sport. I however grew into the little chatterbox myself and slowly but surely the apprentice soon became the master. Not that it was a competition of course as we all loved to chat. I can still ring my sister up and have a 3 hour long conversation about absolutely nothing, usually over a glass of pinot. My brother is not a talker. I wouldn’t just randomly call him up and start a conversation about how I had a shit day and needed a chat, however if I rang up and asked for help he wouldn’t even flinch. That’s the thing about familys.. We are all different and we all play our part so to speak. So back to the story….

We were having lunch in our little non-descript café in Ballymena. Completely uneventful lunch, we eat, mummy paid, we left. Usual family stuff. We walked out and as we were walking in twos (brother and sister at the front, lioness and cub at the rear) my mummy looked at me with that familiar look of devilment. I knew this look well. She was up to no good, and wanted my involvement. She looked ahead and turned to me with biggest grin… “look at my two wee puddins ahead.”, the reaction was priceless. I don’t know who looked more disgusted, my brother or my sister. They were enraged that their dear mother would pass remark in such a fashion. At the time, and years later, mummy would always maintain that the comment was meant to be a compliment, or a cute phrase she had came up with. True mummy liked a nickname.

ergo – Michael was – Peanut, her little peanut to be precise.

At no point in our family history, before or since, has the word “puddin” ever been used. She knew this also. You see, this is where the naughty side of her comes in. That day, for whatever reason. She was feeling naughty and her two eldest were taking the brunt. Now if you are reading this thinking, what a cruel bitch. You are entirely missing the point. She was a lioness to all three. She loved all of us equal. I think their is always a different relationship with the youngest. We are the last baby, and mummys have a hard time shaking this image off. Also my brother and sister were older (obviously) and I was a child on my own. They were closer in age, so it was really just me. Me and Mummy. We bonded together over the years and developed well into our very co-dependent relationship of mother and son.

The four of us would always talk about this particular story. The brother and sister would look at each other and slightly grump their faces, though I know their was a little smile inside… deep…. deep down.

I think if when she was alive I told my mother that she was going to feature in a blog about our lives she probably would have gave me a stern face and in her high tone say… “now Michael!”. Though I hope she would read the words and appreciate the sentiment behind them. Words cannot really do the women justice…. though I have another 294 days to try.

 

 

night night xx

Ok so the thing about pride and my lack of blogging for a week is mostly to do with pride. Ever year I swear to myself I will eat right and look after myself. This brings us to the Friday morning of pride…. I had a sore throat…. great I thought. I had a mild temperature and knew I had to carry on. It was pride of course so I needed to power through. As usual though I didn’t eat properly that weekend and consumed far too much alcohol. Everyone does it however my body seems to reject it like the antichrist rejecting the cross. It just doesn’t work for me. I am such a crap Irishman.

So needless to say I have been convalescing for a week now. I made it out on the Friday and Saturday then curled up with Queen L.A on the sofa on Sunday evening. Extremely rock and roll if you ask me. I know my body and even though I dressed to go dancing…. my body had other plans. Junk food and a movie, it was saying. I also lost my voice which was a nice bonus for my friends. It might have something to do with singing Disney songs until 6am…. who knows?

Anyhoo normal practice will resume from tomorrow. One thing I do miss though as I was showering this morning was having that post pride chat with mummy. I had a little cry in the shower as it seems to be the only place I can cry lately. Gosh this sounds awful pathetic doesn’t it? I am actually annoying myself right now. So this evening I will curl up with a good book and think of what I would say to mummy. I may even tell a few anecdotes tomorrow from the weekend of frivolity.

I did have a great time, its always better when I could share with her. Her voice would always light up when I talked about my little adventures.

I am sure she was watching, at least I think so.

 

night night xx

Dear Mummy,

Tomorrow is that time of year again, Manchester Pride. We always joked around about how you would be turning up in a float, this year I will look out for you. Every year we talked about what marvellous sights I had seen and who everyone got up to. I will miss telling you all the stories this year. It will be odd not being able to lift the phone when I’m feeling that little bit worse for wear and you consoling me wit the fact that I would be right as rain the next day. This year will be odd as usually we don’t talk much over pride as I’m too busy socialising with my friends. Funny how this year you will be on my mind a lot. I will want that phone call that we rarely had over pride.

You always told me to take loads of photos and being the poor son I was I usually neglected to do so. I remember how it gave you so much joy to see me out enjoying myself. If I had the chance I would gladly swap it all for a nice evening with you in front of the television while you watch your favourite soaps. You and I could sit there in silence just content in each others company night after night. We didn’t have to fill the silences as we were both just comforted by the other being there. I would ask the odd question about who that one was, or who was she related to. You would look at me trying to hide your frustration as you just wanted to watch your programmes. You never let it show, you would calmly sit there and tell me who each person was as I bombarded you with 20 questions, one after the other.

I think this year I will find myself finding a quiet moment to have a little glass of red. I will look up and think of you in that moment. Surrounded by all the noise and music. I will think of you as I sip my little glass of red, just for you. You never made it to pride but hopefully this year you will see it in all its glory.

Missing you always

Peanut xx

It is that time of year again often referred to colloquially as ‘Gay Christmas’. Pride season is generally throughout July and the last one in the pride calendar is usually Manchester around the August bank holiday. I have been attending Manchester Pride for a lot longer than I would particularly care to admit. Mummy knew this was the one time that my phone would go on a temporary hiatus and all communication would resume after the bank holiday… much like public transport. I would always get the same message every single year, “Make sure and be safe, have fun and try to ring me for a quick 5 minutes at least some point over the weekend”. The last part I must admit I was shamefully bad at. I was usually out enjoying the music, the food and the dancing or….. I would be recovering a comatose state trying to get a shot of adrenaline to help me cope with the 4 days I had to power through.

Their is something magical about pride, and the thing is you don’t have to be particularly gay to enjoy it, though it does help. It is very much like a festival catering to many a different crowd. Music lovers rejoice at all the live acts to choose from, be it pop, indie or straight up dance. The party goers revel in the many bars and pop-up beer tents scattered across the gay village. Their is also arts and craft stalls for people who like to fill their houses with an assortment of rainbow themed merchandise. The entire weekend culminates in a candlelight vigil to remember those who have lost their battle with the HIV virus. Many people today will wonder what the correlation between gay pride and HIV is, however many will remember the 1980’s with Thatcher’s section 28 and the 80’s gay disease. Back then HIV was very much promoted as a gay disease and to some it very much still is.

My mother was all for pride and one day she started to quiz me on why we have it? Now as far as mothers go she was very enlightened for her time. She was definitely a fag-hag back in her day, the closeted gays of Ballymena would flock to her side. She asked me quite innocently why in this day and age we needed gay pride? My response to her and to anyone is very simple.

Be thankful you never needed one.

In all the commerciality and frolicking that upstages the pride message we need to recall a time when homosexuality was illegal. It was the Stonewall riots that really kicked off the pride movement. During the swinging 60’s gay liberation was starting to take affect. The cultural movement for both homosexuals and heterosexuals was that of sexual liberation. A counterculture was forming across the western world that was in face of the de facto status quo (now theirs a mouthful). People were embracing sex like they never had before and celebrating their differences. The dark-side however was that many gay, lesbian and trans  people were getting arrested all the time, for living their lives. The most common reason was if they were wearing 2 pieces of clothing not traditionally associated with their gender. The police would use any excuse to arrest and humiliate these fringe citizens who they seen as an attack on traditional family value and their way of life.

On June 28th 1969 the NYPD decided to raid the Stonewall Inn under the pretence of a lack of liquor licence (though that is a grain of truth I can imagine). This community had been pushed around for years. They were finally starting to taste freedom and poke their heads above the sand and being shoved right back down their by the people sworn to protect them. The people had enough. The exact nature of how the riots started varies, though many accredit infamous Gay Rights icon Martha P. Johnson as the instigator. The riots spilled out from the Stonewall Inn, out onto the streets of New York. The had enough! This was the beginning of it all. Worldwide demonstrations were taking place for Gay liberation. The fuse had been lit and is was never going to go out.

Aside from the Rainbow flag another iconic Gay rights symbol is the inverted pink triangle. This was used in the Nazi concentration camp to identify gay people, intended to shame and humiliate those wearing it. It has been reclaimed as a badge of honour and second to the rainbow flag as an international symbol of gay rights.

So why do we need gay pride? Lest we forget….And I repeat what I said to my mother, be thankful you never needed a straight pride.

Ok that sounded very lecturing and that’s probably how my mummy felt too. She knew her baby boy loved a soap box every now and then. What she always acknowledged though was I would always show my passion to 150%. Sometimes though, as she would say, “Rain it in a bit Michael”. Too which I would roll my eyes and agree to it. What a wise old Lioness she was.

So it is great that in this modern world we can paint our faces with glitter, dance to our favourite bands and importantly love who we want to love. For me that Is what Pride truly embodies. A celebration of love, and having the right to love who we want.

Sidebar – if this was a movie narration the trumpets would be playing against —“All you need is love”………. “dooo dooo doo do do!!!!!!!”

So with a few short days I welcome the time to spend with my friends and celebrate life, love and Living………. I’m sure I have heard that somewhere before?

 

xx

This one is always a funny topic when I think about the habits myself and my mother shared in regards to our grooming, yes grooming as like our canine companions we always seen it as a necessity not a luxury. After my week long sabbatical done the slippery slope of stage 4 (depression) I can actually say with a smile I feel fresh and a lot more positive. I needed my exterior to match my interior. I decided to have a new colour treatment done by my lovely hairdresser. Many of you who have known me for a long time probably know me in recent years as blond (ish). I have been every colour known in the spectrum to be honest, except green…. I mean why? I remember that fateful ski trip (which we will be returning to soon) with myself and Billy using blue hair gel to tint our dark locks into a weird dark blue mess. We thought we were cutting edge…. safe to say advancements in hairology have expanded much since then. In recent times I have been a lot more conventional though I do remember a time 7 years ago having the misfortune of being bright orange for a week.

The problem was I was trying to be too clever and decided to strip my hair and replace my beach blond with some nice auburn locks. In theory it worked…. strip the hair of all colour using a rancid bleach concoction then apply a colour afterwards. All sounds relatively simple. The women on the box alludes to how easy it would be. I mean she wasn’t a chemist judging by the dim light behind her eyes so if she could achieve it then anyone could right? At this stage I need to point out that I am fully aware that the lady on the box is a model and she has definitely not used this product however we do tell ourselves these little lies to put our minds at rest.

Stage 1: Apply bleach all over and leave for X amount of minutes… simple

Stage 2: Wash out bleach…. straight forward

Stage 3: Live with the abomination that is left in the devastating wake of this awful procedure…… not easy…. not even slightly.

As I dried my hair immediately I could tell that all the goodness had been striped away like an exorcism of nutrients. My hair was in shambles….. and bright orange. How orange? Imagine those leprechauns you see in ever Irish novelty shop… that colour of orange. Yikes.

Ok so I knew it was stage one and to be honest I wanted to go a nice caramel colour so thought ill wait until the following evening. I had to wear a hat for work at this stage so I wasn’t worried about showing off this dead awful look. That was until my manager removed my cap and declared in front of everyone what an eegit I was for dying my hair this atrocious colour. Me being me I decided to go along with it and pretend that It was intentional. I picked up my swagger and strutted away secretly burning from the inside out. I went home that evening and got my beautiful caramel dye and followed the usual steps.

Step 1: Apply colour all over and leave for x amount of minutes… sounds familiar

Step 2: Wash out colour….. Am I noticing a pattern here?

Step 3: Basque in the colour of my beautiful caramel hair………. wrong!

Ok so it turned out again this weird orange colour. The smiling Siren on the box was mocking me with her gleeful gaze, almost with a sly wink. What a bitch she was, I thought. How dare she have beautiful caramel hair that I am almost certain she paid more than 5.99 for! I blow dried my hair to see would it look any better dry. It actually looked nicer wet. It was luminous. I wanted to cry. My now straw like Worzel Gummage doo was not a good look. Thankfully I had arranged this little experiment next to my day off. I rushed to boots the next day and purchased black…. surely you cant go wrong with that tone… or is it a shade…. I know its definitely not a colour…. never mind that’s not really the point.

So as I followed steps one two and three for the third time I was returned to semi normal looking hair. Ok so I looked a little emo like…. All I needed was painted nails and eyeliner and I would of been good to go in a mosh pit. It was definitely better than orange. I rang mummy that evening to tell her about my hair nightmare and the pair of us had such a giggle over my little misadventure.

Mummy was always extremely proud of her hair, as she should be. I seen photos of her as a teenager with hair down to her tush. I kid you not? She resembled a brunette Rapunzel type, though she would never let a man try and rank our her proud roots to get into her chambers, I assure you! Mummy had a weekly and monthly ritual for her beautiful locks (which later turned into a Diane Keaton Bob). Once a week she would get a wash and blowdry. In my whole life I seen her wash her own hair once. She would go every Friday around 13:00 to her local Salon which she adored. She would return with the usual look in her eye to say, “where is my compliment?”, which of course I would oblige in this particular ritual. Once a month she would book her appointment for her roots. Mummy, like myself, was at times an aspiring blond. Not an all over just highlights. Naturally she had a brunette colour with a red tinge in just the right light. Sometimes I catch myself looking in the sun at my own hair and can sometimes see this genetic trait. I only ever seen my mothers roots once, when she became ill. That’s how we knew how sick she really was. My mother would climb over hot coals than let her appearance fall short of her own demanding expectations.

It would always get to Thursday when her hair would start to flick out at the sides and she would tell me that she couldn’t wait to get her weekly blow-dry. It always amazed me how it sat to perfection for 6 days. My hair and most normal humans hair takes one nights sleep. She was rather superhuman in this regard. When we were saying our final goodbyes to mummy her hair looked weird. Her fringe was wrong, it was a weird parting, and she wasn’t wearing her glasses. I had seen my mum in one light her whole life and this really disturbed me. My aunt went in to see her and in great fashion came back and said, “She doesn’t look right!”. I loved this about my aunt. She cut all the respectable bullshit and called it like it was. I agreed and she asked would she like us for her do her hair. “YES!”, I exclaimed. We went in 5 minutes later and after a quick comb and a bit of Clarins lipstick I looked down and seen my mummy. She looked like an angel. Ok so the hair wasn’t perfect, we could hardly ask someone to do a quick blow-dry, could we? Is that a thing? She looked much more like the mummy I was used to.

I always thought I was rather Zen about the whole post-death thing. I always thought I would think of it as she had passed and this body is just a ‘vessel’, mummy is not here anymore. To a certain extent I still believe that however when you are looking at the woman who raised you for 33 years, it changes the rules of the game considerably. I just wanted her to look herself, and in the back of my mind I was thinking more about what she would think than anyone else. With her glasses on and her blond Diane Keating Bob I was ready to say goodbye….

We think of our hair in such simple terms however it meant a lot to my mother and we even discussed getting her a fabulous wig if it ever came to that point. It didn’t needless to say. She fretted that it would look cheap and awful and I assured her that wigs have came a long way and I would take her to a drag queen shop as they do the best wigs imaginable. I can picture me and her sat in a fabulous studio requesting a Diane Keating Bob. I’m sure it would of been a great story in itself. She did not need one in the end though and I am rather glad in a way as she worried more about that than most people would. She was very proud of her hair.

So after a week of feeling rather glum and turning a corner I decided to write todays blog on hair.

 

My mother would of loved that.

 

xx

So I’m not going to lie. The last couple of nights have sucked. I’m sure most of you have read it and thought that was rather apparent. I think stopping helped me to start again. Ok so that’s a whole love of oxymoron-ness going on right there. Its really true though. I have had time on my own to reflect and really grieve. Their has been tears, lots of sleeping and a little bit of junk food eating – that stops tomorrow! With it though I feel I have a whole new outlook on things. I feel I was trying to be too strong, for myself, my friends, my work, for everyone. I wanted people to see the strong me that my mummy raised me to be. In the process though I kind of combusted slightly.

I actually think combustification (my new verb) is actually a really healthy thing. Their are plenty of egg related metaphors to back this up; you cant make an omelette without breaking a few eggs, humpty dumpty ….. ok bad example but I think you get the picture. I feel that I have been through all 5 stages of grief at some point in the past 3 months. I have felt every single one of them. I have digressed back and forth between them as well. I am sitting here typing this remembering the reason I am doing it all the first place. Jennifer. That’s the first time I have used her name and  I feel tonight it is appropriate as it reminds me of who she was. She was an amazing woman. She was my inspiration, my mother.

So we are 65+ days into the blog now. So another 300 to go. Are they all going to be a laugh riot and filled with witty dialogue about how well I am doing.

probably not.

They are hopefully going to let me continue to voice my thoughts, feelings and stories. I want to share so much more about Jennifer for the world to see what an amazing person she was. Also how she had such an epic influence in every aspect of my life. A very good friend yesterday came to visit, and sort of politely gave me the kick up the ass I needed. She also said something which really resonated with me. She said my outlet for everything used to be mummy. I would tell her everything. I then used this blog to do the same thing. Only I wasn’t getting the sage advice I once had from the Lioness. I need to find a balance and find a new outlet. I also need to be more open with people and let them in.

Ok maybe one step at a time, Rome certainly wasn’t built in a day. Though it must be classed as progress that I acknowledge this right?

I am also very excited that in 3 weeks I shall be departing on a plane for a week. While I am away I have asked 7 friends to write a blog a day for me. I want their voices on the amazing impact my mummy left. Also it gives me time to lie in the sun…. he he.

This week has been such a mixed blessing and I am truly thankful for it.

#itsoktobesad

night night all, have a good evening. xxx