Communication is a wonderful thing. It ties us all together in a neat little fabric that is life. It can make the most isolated feel connected. Alexander Graham Bell brought the humble telephone to the modern world. An ingenious device that could send sound through a little wire. It baffles me to think how marvellous these little boxes are. The first telephone I remember was a green little thing with a dial that had to spin round. So you would put your finger in the little hole at say… number 4… dial it all the way down to 0. Then dial a 5…. dial is all the way down to 0, and so on and so forth. Quite novel actually albeit rather clunky by todays standards. If you want to find one in 2018 you need to make your way to the Northern Quarter or your local hipster hangout and no doubt they will be sitting next to a stack of vinyl’s and a dusty penny farthing.

We then moved onto the mobile age. I can remember my father having a battery pack larger than a briefcase for his first mobile. It looked like he had the keys to a nuclear launch and was ready to invade. Things quickly progressed to the age of ‘pay as you go’. Before this mobile phones were far too expensive unless you were a Wall street stock broker. You know the 80’s yuppie cliché? Pay as you go tariffs brought mobile phones to the mass market. The market boomed. My first mobile was a BT Cellnet (precursor to O2). A horrible brick of a thing with a tiny screen with one colour, a dimly lit green background with black writing. I loved it! I would put 10 pounds into my little BT phone and text everyone for my 10p a go. Those thousand texts would last…. a week tops! Then I would have to wait another 3 weeks to get enough picket money to afford my next go.

I was 15 when I got my first mobile. Up to this point everyone passed notes folded up in a triangle and threw them across the classroom so stealth like to ensure teacher wouldn’t catch us. In many ways I miss that excitement and purity of communication. Kids today will probably never know the excitement of the little triangle flying across the classroom to see if your friend from across the room agreed with your solid takedown of whatever teacher had the misfortune of showing up to work that day. Now all witty discussions in the classroom will take place at the touch of a button, aided by Google finding the most important internet meme to fit the occasion. Where is the creativity in that? I do love a good meme though…..

As the years went on I upgraded as mobile technology became more and more sophisticated. It had left its infancy of being just able to make a half decent phone call to more powerful than most laptops. This Siri women who randomly talks to me sometimes sounds terribly knowledgeable. I actually think she is a bit of a know-it-all. Silly cow telling me where the nearest coffee shop is. I know where I’m going SIRI!! I’m feigning being lost to seem a lot more mysterious than I really am! Silly bitch….. I find myself walking an extra mile just in spite of her!

When I moved to Manchester communication was key. As I’ve talked about many times myself and mummy were on the phone most evenings. The conversations would always start with two obligatory questions.

1. How was your day?
2. What’s your weather like?

The first one seemed logical enough to me, she couldn’t have prior knowledge of this without speaking to me, unless of course my mother lied to me all these years and had a sophisticated spy network that would rival the CIA. That does seem a little unlikely though. Perhaps.

The second questions always puzzled me. The reason for this is because my mother watched the weather forecast every morning and always said, “tomorrow it is going to be raining in Manchester”. She knew better than most meteorologists what cold front was coming from where. In a way it is a very typical British thing. We are obsessed with the weather. Why I will never know as Its not exactly the most stimulating thing to talk about. If we find ourselves in a social setting with unfamiliar people, we default to the weather. If its a customer/client/colleague… we default to the weather? How many conversations start with, “Its very muggy today/We have had a lot of rain/Did you see all the pink ponies falling from the sky this morning?”. Ok so maybe not the last one….

Once we had followed the flowchart of conversation routine to completion we could get into the heart of our chats. These chats could be 5 minutes or 5 hours. Usually the 5 hour scenario involved a bottle of pinot Grigio for me and a merlot for mummy. We could talk about anything together. And we did! Literally anything! My mother was the first person I rang when Donald Trump was announced to have won the election. It was a cold dark morning (mother nature was not pleased… like the rest of us) I rang mummy before I got on the train and her first words were “Don’t tell me, I’m scared to know!”.

Other times we would talked about the most silly of things. Who we loved and hated on the Real housewives of whatever season was on. We could literally spend hours talking about the lives of strangers we had never met. Their were also times were we just talked about life and the mundane things happened. She always had a great catchphrase for me,

“well anything exciting been happening Michael”.

No mummy its been 8 hours since we last talked and 7 of those I’ve been in work.

One time I was walking to the tram stop after work. I looked up and read the neon sign, “Tram out of order, bus replacement”.

That’s all well and good but when your an Irish boy with zero to no sense of direction that’s another thing. I could of asked Siri but unfortunately I think she was feeling a little arrogant since the time I asked her to pick a song at random and I ended up liking her choice. No Siri wasn’t the answer. Plus I couldn’t hang up on mummy and tell her I had to ask Siri how to get this bloody bus. I can hear the questions now “who is Siri and why would she know?”. I decided to walk to the next tram stop and see if their was one running from there. All the while mummy is on the phone getting more and more worried her baby boy is walking the streets of Manchester at night. I assured her that it was only 9pm and most drug dealers and rapists only clock in at 11pm. So I had a couple of hours grace right?

Eventually I got to a stop via halfway round the world (remember how I said my sense of direction is bad, I wasn’t joking!) I caught the glimpse of the tram out of the corner of my eye and ran to it. I was so relieved. Before this I had checked on Google how long the walk would of been. 3hrs. I didn’t particularly fancy this on a Friday evening, or any evening to be honest. So there I was safe and sound on the tram. I hung up from Mummy (I have a real pet hate of people on mobiles on public transport) and When I reached my final stop dialled her up again. We resumed normal conversation etiquette after the drama that had already happened. I look back on that night and it fills my heart up. She was always there for me when I needed her. No matter what time, or what she was doing she would always be free to talk.

So many things have happened since Mummy passed away. Some amazing, some silly and some just plain ordinary. I have wanted to tell her all those things. I would love to be able to ring her after work and have her ask me what the weather in Manchester is like. I would love to have a silly chat about whatever not-so-exciting thing happened that day. I find myself having imaginary conversations with her at night especially. I talk to her.

I know she is listening. She always did.

Tonight’s blog was actually inspired by a Facebook update today. It popped up in my memories. I clicked into and their it was,

“Beach Party/Welcome to England party getting well underway”.

Until today I had completed forgotten this had even happened, but what a night. Dazzles had been living with me in Manchester for about a year at this point. Lady Constance has stormed off and got the first boat back to Ireland (more on that soon). My friend ‘Rosatron’ had met this guy from Ireland on a night out and they had kept in contact. This guy was ‘DVC’. DVC came back an forth to England to meet up with Rosatron and a romance was blossoming.

Family is a funny thing. People often equate it to the purely biological connection. These connections are important. We are born into a family and these bonds are with us for the rest of our lives. The ‘family’ we meet in life is rather unique as we have selected these individuals to become part of our own , chosen family. We have all been introduced to Dazzles who would become the first member of the Manchester family. DVC was the next.

DVC had decided he would be the next gay Irish to take the plunge and venture over to the big city of Manchester. The allure of the shiny lights of canal street and romance were too much to resist. Like myself DVC grew up in a small town in Ireland but had always dreamed of leaving for the big city. Bags were packed, goodbyes were said and there he was off to a new life. I had arranged to meet him a few days after he had moved, Rosatron was at work and he knew no one else in they city. I thought it would be a nice time to bond and welcome him to the big city and a friendly face. We met a Piccadilly gardens bus stop. Stood there we exchanged welcomes and a traditional hug. We had met a handful of times before but didn’t really know each other very well. With the aftertaste of ‘The Girl’ my guard was up.

This guard has remained with me most of my adult life. I guess ‘the girl’ contributed to this with my experience with her however she cannot take all the blame. As we continue this blog perhaps some more light will be shed from where this default setting came from. Maybe I have always been like this, maybe not. My resting bitch face however has and probably will always remain. This guard has been used as a shield to protect me over the years. To the outside world it keeps them out and keeps me safe. Usually after a few beverages the guard can slip, however once the after effects of alcohol wear off it suddenly surrounds me again and resumes normal operating parameters. With guard in place and hugs exchanged, Myself and DVC proceeded to have our first drink together, of many, in Canal Street.

Myself and DVC have the best chats when we are drinking together. We can solve all the problems of the world after two pints of beer, we also become budding sociologists who can examine the world around us with such an impressive gaze (or so we think) that can unmask the issues of everyone and anyone around us. This time was no exception. We went for our first cocktail. I wanted to show him what the big city had to offer compared to small town life in Ireland. We both ordered an espresso martini. This was an odd choice.

Most people will think of an espresso Martini as a digetif that should be drank after a meal. Unlike a cosmopolitan or a long island iced tea (which features regularly in my cocktail rotation) its not really a starting drink. Myself and DVC needless to say have never had another espresso Martini together and I for one have probably never had one at all. It was perfectly tasty, all together fine. It just now feels like an odd choice? Was I trying to seem the height of cosmopolitan living? No doubt I would of failed in this regard, the boy from Ireland who had been living in Manchester for a year still had a  lot to learn…

That afternoon we laughed, we giggled as we chatted, the guard would come down. It all felt like I was speaking to one of my oldest friends, very easy, very comfortable. It was nice. We talked about throwing a welcome to Manchester party. We both started to plan and get excited about this. I think it was my idea that it should have a theme, I love a good theme.

“Beach Party!!!!!”

The idea just clicked. DVC agreed and possibly was being far too polite to disagree with my extreme over excitement. I love throwing parties and I especially like them to be out of the ordinary. I got home that night and switched on my laptop. I searched party supply websites well into the night. Still tipsy from the afternoon of drinking. I searched all sorts of crap.

Hula skirt, add to basket.

Hawaiian Leis, add to basket.

Inflatable parrots and monkeys…. too far? add to basket!

I had gone nuts and spent over £60,00 on the most tacky crap imaginable. It would be worth it I told myself. Everyone must love a theme as much as me. The week in work seemed to take forever. I just wanted to finish that Friday and start preparing. 17.00 came and I was out the door. I jumped on the number 22 bus to Monton and I was bursting with excitement and anticipation. Luckily for me all my inflatable crap has arrived the day earlier. I had rang mummy to tell her all about my plans and what I was doing.

“that’s lovely Michael, random, but lovely!”

I had neglected to tell her how much I had spent as I would of been on the phone for hours discussing the sensible use of money. She had the luxury that she always had the brain of an accountant. I had the spending brain of teen star on the down turn of their career. Blowing through cash at an exponential rate. She was excited for me though. I could tell. She would always tell me to ring her on the Sunday and tell her about my night. I guess we both missed those drunken chats at 3am on her bed, this was the next best thing. She would always say the same thing, “even if your tired we don’t have to chat for long I just like speaking to you”. Yes mummy was always thinking of my tiredness. Their were times I would neglect to ring on the Sunday after a hangover kicked in. The Monday would come and the response would be “oooo, so you haven’t forgotten the phone number”. I would always giggle and we would resume status quo.

The Saturday had arrived. Alcohol was purchase. Cigarettes bought. I was ready to meet the boys and set up. Myself and Dazzles spent the best part of an afternoon blowing up inflatables and hanging garlands. We had a punch bowl filled with some form of brown ugly liquid that although not aesthetically pleasing, really hit the spot. David arrived in shock and possible horror to find his new home filled with crap everywhere in  every colour in the rainbow. It looked like Claire’s Accessories over Gay pride.

It was gorgeous.

As the party got underway we thought about booking our taxi to head to the glittering lights on Canal Street. Hula skirts on, Leis round our necks. We were ready. We arrived and decided to head to Oscars. Now again this was an odd choice. Myself and the Belfastonian with the American accent would have a love affair with this bar in future years however DVC not soo much. Oscars is a little basement bar with 20 seats maximum belting our showtunes. You can hear everything from Doris Day to Barbara Streisand. Sounds really gay doesn’t it? It is. Its amazing. So we all turned to the entrance looking like we had been shipwrecked from a really dodgy cruise where we were the budget entertainment.

“sorry you all cant come in wearing all that”.

We were all outraged? How dare the bouncer not look past those tacky outfits and see the fabulous creatures standing before him. We reluctantly  complied. Went down the stairs. We put all the tacky crap back on once in the bar and continued our night. We were such rebels, it was exhilarating! Sticking it to ‘the man’!

I can recall very little from the rest of the night apart from the laughter. We all laughed so much that night. Every night we would go out. We both got each other and it was lovely. Maybe id met a new friend? Maybe the guard  would come down. Eventually it did. That is how I met the second member of the Manchester family.

That Sunday I wasn’t too hungover to ring mummy. I told her all the escapades from the night before. I remember her laughing uncontrollably, she knew what I was like. I was her son and she had experienced similar antics before. She was amused. She was happy. She talked about ‘the girl’, as we often would reflect on from time to time. She said,

“things happen for a reason Michael, cutting that girl out of your life was the best decision you ever made, I am so proud of you”.

She was right.

Memories are a funny thing. The science behind it one would believe are synaptic impulses sent to the brain. Sounds very cold doesn’t it? Nerve impulses sending electronic information down the brain super highway. The thing about memories is they do serve a very natural purpose. They teach us how to learn. From a Darwinian point of view this could be observed as learning from ones own mistakes, to a certain extent I’m there to agree.  Natural selection can be observed everywhere apart from the highest office in the united states (trump girl I’m look at you!). How do we explain the memories that don’t serve any survival purpose?

I’m just of the phone with ‘Big Girl’ and we had a usual short conversation of over 2 hours. We had many recollections about every second of our 33 years of live,(we are pretty efficient with our time). We talked a lot about memories and how they make us feel, they don’t prepare us for the upcoming Armageddon scenario, they just make us feel good. I had these conversations with mummy. Usually over the obligatory glass of red. We would settle into conversation and I would ask her about her childhood.

I could listen to those memories for hours on end. Red or not… She had such a flare for storytelling. She knew when it was time for comedy. She knew when it was time to be sombre. The women could just grasp the art of telling a good story. My mother was born in 1950. I always called her a 1950’s housewife even though she would of been 9 at its penultimate year,,, she always giggle at this.

As me and Big girl started to reminisce we talked about how mummy was apart of all of our lives. She was very much living in her sons life. Some people will probably read this blog and wonder…. why does he keep introducing all these people. That weirdo narcissist talking more about his friends than his mother. Big girl said something that really resonated with me tonight.

“your mummy was apart of all our lives”…

Tonight on the phone I held back the tears and let her speak on. She explained how we all grew up together from school to adults with kids (not me, not yet), and how we will always be friends. We literally discussed the next few chapters of our lives. So much more to come and my heart filled with pride. I am so lucky so have a mother that was so heavily involved in my life.

I also am so lucky at all the amazing memories to look back on.

Some people ask me all the time, as is common in grief, “are you angry?”

No.

I had the luxury of having a wonderful best friend for 33 years of my life. I couldn’t of asked for better, couldn’t of whished for it even. Some people may read this and think… what a cliché. His mother was his best friend… yeah right.

she was.

Everyone in my life knows that we talked every single night on the phone. We chatted, even for ten minutes, every single night in life. The least I can do is write for 365 about the women I loved, admired, respected and adored. I miss her. I will never stop missing her.

Memories are a gift. We should always cherish them. Mummy did. Sometimes we feel sad. sometimes we feel happy.

The most important thing is.

We feel.

 

So last seen Michael and Dazzles were back from an adventure in the great city of Belfast, Fun and Frolics all around.

I just  sat up with mummy telling as usual all the escapades from the evening, to be fair I cant recall precisely what but I’m sure it was a great night. So over the next weeks and months we would settle into a regular routine. We became fast friends. Funny isn’t considering the circumstances we met under? Life is kind of funny that way. We are all born into this world alone and get catapulted into each others lives. Whether it be school, work, family. Who we choose to spend time with can often define us. Some people come into our lives for a brief period. Short and Sweet mummy would say. Others would remain a permanent fixture….. Dazzles was one such friend.

So as I was saying before I became all philosophical in my tangent. We had settled into out regular routine of midweek drinks at my house and weekends out in Belfast. Both of use were part-time workers so we had the luxury of time. Every Tuesday or Wednesday would start the same,

“Are we having a wee drink tonight?”

“Aye!”

On some occasions mummy would join us sat in our living room. She would be on the red and myself and Dazzles quite often on the Strongbow. That gold velvety liquid that would make us feel like giggling school girls after two pints. Maybe even one. Mummy always said to me I had the gift of being able to socialise and converse with anyone of any age. I think the apple really did not fall far from the tree. Mummy would chat to all my friends, be it Dazzles, Billy, the ladies, or even in the future the boy she would come to think of as her third son. That tall American sounding boy from Belfast….. Any guesses who that is? She was always relaxed and comfortable with my friends. She was always a good source of advice for my friends, she was the cool mum, but still a mum. She never tried to live vicariously through her son and pretend she was teenager. She always remained the lady she was.

On many nights she would sit with myself and Dazzles, more often than not with a cup of tea instead of the red, though the nights with the red were the best. If she was drinking Tea she would sit for an hour and retire to her room to watch the rest of the soaps. If she was on the red however she really shined. She would sit that little bit longer than usual. If we played music she would get a cheeky request in there, “ummm guys can we listen to something everyone likes as well?”. This was code for Mummy wanted to listen to something she liked. This would follow a very standard routine

1. Run by Leona Lewis
2. Run by Snow Patrol
3. Anything from the catalogue of Simon and Garfunkel

Then like a good hair routine, rinse and repeat!

We always indulged her in her music as she was giving up her living room to two teenage boys so they could have a cheeky midweek drink and chat. Plus her little face when we did comply would light up, in fact it would

“light up, light up, as if you have a choice!”

God she loved that bloody song.

After a lot of music, some red and a lot of the golden stuff, myself and Dazzle would be in the mood for that one film that we new each and every lyric too.

Hairspray!

Now I know what you are all thinking, that’s a very butch choice for two emerging Divas like Myself and Dazzles however we can get really gritty sometimes….

The first beat would come on….

“Gooooood Mooooorrrrniiiinggg Ballltimmmmooorreee”

Mummy would look up, smile and say, “right that’s my queue to leave, you boys know every word to this bloody movie”.

Away she would retire to her room, to then shout down the stairs, “ill bang the floor if I want a drink or some crisps, of If you boys are getting a bit loud.” Quite often it was the last option God love her. The two of us butchering the music to a beloved musical.

One time during our 100th playthrough we were dancing to the final song and Dazzles was so exited me punched me in the arm and through me against the sofa, all right came down Dazzles!! Once the golden juice was finished we  would either stumble up to my room or fall asleep to hairspray on repeat in the living room.

The next day mummy would usually make us a wee fry and then drive Darren the two minutes down the road home. These nights happened almost on a weekly basis, and I think she loved them as much as we did. She enjoyed her son having fun and also enjoyed the company of his friends. Mummy loved a bit of craic,

1. Craic, Verb, Irish for having a bit of fun, enjoying the night, the banter etc

I would love to be sat in her living room right now with her opposite me and a glass of red. We could play Run all night love if she wanted.

 

Today has been a really reflective day, a day harder than most by all accounts. I had a lovely weekend with friends and let my hair down. That’s the thing, the distraction of company is exactly that, a distraction. When I’m alone with my thoughts that’s when you really start to feel it. The mind wanders into the most ridiculous of places. Thankfully It wondered into the bizarre and funny.

Growing up I always felt more comfortable in female company, I had a natural affinity with female companions, it was felt so much easier. Later I would go onto have more and more male friends to the point where now I am surrounded by a group of fabulous make divas that only Maria Carey could top. First we had ‘Billy’, this story is about the second main man to enter my life ‘Dazzles’.

At 17 years of age I was busy discovering who I was an navigating the awkwardness of teenage adolescent coupled with the discovery of what it meant to be a gay man in 21st century Britain. Alas this tale does not entail the hardships of those pioneers that came before, no back ally exchanges, no coded handkerchiefs, no ‘special cinemas’. For all those heterosexuals reading this you may need to Google the last three points as this is not an essay on queer culture thought it may allude to certain elements throughout, I am not a queer theory scholar just a typical Irish boy who happened to fancy his own gender. Anyway back to Dazzles.

At the age of 17 I was still defining my personality and discovering who I was. Yes it does sound very coming of age, almost ‘Huck and Finn’. One day Billy was telling me he had met a guy on some social media dating site. These were long before the days of Tindr and Facebook. Meeting a young gay guy in Ballymena could prove difficult at times. Needless to say Billy was all over it, he had a prematurely developed into this confident gay diva over night while I was still growing my ‘wings’ (which of course were a fabulous shade or bright pink). The date was with a young gentleman called Dazzles.

I have always been incredibly competitive and to my detriment sometimes this is my downfall. Upon Billy informing of this upcoming tryst I was seething with red mist, I felt really uncomfortable, Why was I this uncomfortable.

I was Jealous.

The little green monster had developed and I was feeding him deep in the dark pit of my own Super Ego. For anyone who has experienced this rush of jealously will attest that it is an ugly emotion, one of the worst in fact, however knowing this rational thought process as a 17 year old is not always possible. Billy asked me if I wanted to meet them ‘uptown’. This was Ballymena slang for lingering about town not actually doing anything practical rather just loitering around the place. We were too young for pubs so this was possibly the next best thing. I think it was a Saturday afternoon, pretty sunny as I remember wearing sunglasses. I think I wanted to appear a lot more cosmopolitan than I ever did, also the shades would disguises to some extent the resting bitch face that resided underneath my fake Gucci glasses.

I met the boys and we had a very short exchange, I cannot recall the precise conversation however it to an outset perspective probably would resemble something between Alexis Carrington and Crystal Carrington. I of course was Joan Collins in this scenario. I had said something to Dazzles that Billy of course did not care for and gave a proper good telling off. I turned with my fake Gucci’s in tow and stormed off. The funny things we do as kids would always make me laugh. My behaviour did not. I knew I was in the wrong however telling that to a 17 year old was no easy feet. My mother being the rational person tried to explain this to me, I (leaving out the jealous part as my mother still had no inkling of my own secret).

A few years came and went, Dazzles attended university in Scotland, Billy in Coventry and myself in Ireland. I would love to say this was a great love story of two of my best friends however I think after the first couple of dates things fizzled out pretty quickly. At the ripe old age of 21 myself and Dazzles would cross paths again, having both returned to the motherships in Ballymena fate would intertwine these two ‘enemies’ once more. We became aware of each other and usually if anyone brought up the others name the resounding answer would be ‘I hate him’, and we did.

We bumped into each other In a nightclub once and had many mutual friends, I had a few too many cocktails and thought, right lets end this Dynasty Feud. I walked over to him, a little stumble here and there and said, “Hi Darren, I work with you mum, she got hired me”. He looked at me pursed his lips and said, “and?”.

I deserved that response. After our last meeting I’m surprised he didn’t spit on me. Well maybe not spit as that is gross. A stern telling off might of been appropriate.

I had started going to Belfast for nights out more and more. Ballymena had no gay clubs, granted Belfast at the time had 2 but that was 200% more than Ballymena so it was the only viable option at the time. One evening Lady Constance (remember him) and myself were due to head to Belfast on the train. Lady Constance had been chatting to Darren and recently struck up a friendship, why was fate propelling this person at me? Seriously!?!

Lady Constance for whatever reason was not feeling her usual regal self and wasn’t well enough to attend the evenings festivities. That meant myself and Dazzle would end up going alone? That sounded like a nightmare. What would we talk about, would we just glare at each other? I thought to myself well its either I go with Dazzles to Belfast on a Saturday night or I sit at home.

“Mummy will you give me a lift to the train station?”,

“Of course son”.

It first ten minutes of that train journey were probably the most uncomfortable either of us have ever felt in our short lives. It was excruciatingly dry. We had a saviour in the form of a beautiful Russian Hero.

Smirnoff.

After the initial 10 minutes my self and Dazzles started to relax as the inebriating effects of Comrade Smirnoff kicked in. We started to talk a bit more casually and less formal. Hello became Hiya after the third glass. This was odd, he’s actually good craic?? Gone was my mortal enemy and replaced was this person who I felt I’d known all of my life. The night is a complete blur really as me and Dazzles made short work of comrade Smirnoff. Knowing him as I do now I’m sure we danced the night away until we were about to drop.

I got home from a night out as always and as quiet as a heard of elephants I would creep up the stairs to my room.

“Michael are you home?”

This was a familiar greeting. She would always waken when I arrived. The ritual would always go the same, I would knock on her door walk in and sit on the bed. I would start to talk about the night I just had. She would put on the lamp in her bedroom, put on her glasses that would sit on the beside cabinet and sit up. Sit up and listen to the silliness of her little drunken son. She was always great like that. She loved to hear all my stories, even if it was 3 o’clock in the morning. That was the night she first head about Dazzles.

It wouldn’t be the last.

Tomorrow will continue this little tale. Until then hope you all enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing. XX

 

A problem shared is a problem halved. A very succinct and simple philosophy to live by. Over the years I found these words useful at times, both for myself and mummy. We shared all out problems, usually over a late night conversation and in her words, “talked it out”.

Lets return to the all boys school. Last seen I was just of my first day. Navigating the big school world was scary. Going from one teacher you spent your whole day with to having up to 9 different teachers in a day, who trying to stamp their authority early on, seemed like they were auditioning for a line up of Dragons Den. I wasn’t looking for a business investment I just wanted to figure out where all the classrooms where!! Every corridor looked the same. Every door looked unfamiliar. It was a labyrinth that was something I needed to adapt to quick.

On top of that we of course had the obligatory task of finding social companions. The people that would be our comrades for the  next 7 years. A daunting task to an 11 year old who up to this point had the same set of friends all through primary school. The social groups started to form rather quickly. Their was the ‘lads’, mostly sporty types who were usually at a further advancement of adolescence than myself. The ‘geeks’ who would have a plethora of techy interests and spend many an afternoon watching the latest sci-fi television show. Then their was ‘Billy’.

Billy did not fit this mould at all.

I first met Billy in Art class. He was assigned the Chichester house in royal blue. To be honest I was rather envious to start at Billy as Royal blue made my eyes pop. I remember one of the first exchanges myself and billy would have. We were sat in art and the project was a rather predictable, draw something you are passionate about. I have no idea what I did for myself. I do know it would have been influenced by the rest of the room. I always like to order last in a restaurant as I like to hear the other options. In school it was the same. I would gleam the information from the other boys. Partly for inspiration and partly trying to decided what was the socially ‘safe’ option which would avoid ridicule. Billy either did not have this fear, or he didn’t care.

Billy drew a picture of a horse. He at the time was interested in horse riding and loved horses. This was an ‘unsafe’ option. Horses were not footballs, cars or any of the typical masculine approved pastimes. Horses were seen as, a bit girly. Billy was chatting away to me about horses and at that moment I remember thinking, here’s a potential friend. Sure he was a bit  effeminate but I wasn’t winning any prizes in the butch department myself. So pens and pencils put down, projects submitted to the teacher. The bell rang and myself and Billy were onto separate classes. We said our goodbyes and off to the next class.

The first few weeks were a bit of a blur and everyday I was greeted by that warm face, always the same question, “How was your day son?”. These were not empty platitudes, she was always genuinely interested to hear how her baby boy was getting on in school. “did you make any friends today?”.

“I think so, I met a few people and talked with a boy called Billy who I got on with.” She would look at me with that warm smile and say, “Well isn’t he a lucky boy to have met you”. Mummy would and always be my biggest cheerleader. Don’t get me wrong we could have the most blazing of fights at times, and I will absolutely be sharing them but her default setting was always that of the proud, protective lioness.

“ok son lets get home and make a lovely dinner to celebrate”.

 

I was all geared up to rush into part two of day 8.  Something happened today that made me want to come home straight away and document it. (don’t worry last nights particular story will resume tomorrow night).

I’ve always been a rather spiritual person I think. I do not believe in any particular organised religion and quite frankly am usually someone who believes men’s interpretation of religion is what causes an awful lot of problems. I do not believe the intricacy of life came into being by accident. I think it is definitely one of life’s great mysteries. For example if we look at the humble bee. The bee is getting a lot of good press at the moment with hundreds sharing over Facebook their videos of feeding these little creatures sugar to prevent death. I admire this but the tongue alone freaks me out, kind of gross to be honest. The humble bee has a purpose. If not for the bee who would fertilise the flowers and crops? This we depend on the little bee. Also amazingly its honey product is the only food product that will never spoil. We could live on honey alone and survive.

That is just one example of what I believe to be a grand design. My mother shared this philosophical view and we discussed it many times. We don’t know what ‘It’ is however we are convinced their is a much large plan going on than we can all comprehend. We also believed in signs. When someone passes away they would have a way of letting you know they are there.

After my mummy’s death I was looking everywhere for a  sign. I was determined to experience some metaphysical manifestation that would alert me to an after life and to know my mummy was okay. Alas the weeks went by without one. I was getting a little disheartened. Today I was with my friend DVC(more on him soon) and we were sat outside a bar on canal street (the scene of the broken wrist). He excused himself to the toilet at one point and I was sat alone just staring at the world going by. Something was in my mouth and irritating me. What was it. It was a hair.

It was one of mummy’s.

Now Many will probably think why I would think it was her hair, it could of been anyone’s. I just knew, It was an auburn hair the exact shade as my mummies. I’m sure a psychologist would tell me I was creating a delusion to fulfil a lost connection as part of the grieving process. Yes this all sounds very rational and logical. Its bollox.

That was my mothers hair that blew into my mouth. In that moment a comfort rushed over me like no other. I looked around the crowded canal street, looked up and smiled. She was here. One of the last things my mummy said to be was we will get that last drink on canal street together. Unfortunately we never did.

Until today. She was there with her son.

When life gives you lemons you obviously have been trained to make lemonade. Sometimes easier said than done. I mean their is really a lot of effort involved In making lemonade. What is wrong with lemons in the first place? Sometimes when life gives you lemons you just need to accept that.

Mummy always had a great way of dishing out the sage advice. She hopefully will be remembered as one of the great 21st century philosophers. In the same vane as Aristotle and Voltaire, Mummy will be known for her sage advice given to all across the land…. well Ballymena anyway. I mean lets me honest, a middle class Irish Mammy knows more than what is going on than the whole of Teresa Mays cabinet. She was a also a better dresser too!(just saying)

Let me take you back to the early years of the old boys school. Years before the introduction of the ‘ladies’, I was just a snip of a lad. I was apprehensive about attending secondary school as many I’m sure will relate. I had left the safety of my primary years and was embarking on the unknown. When you consider it, this is quite a lot for a young 11 year old kid to comprehend. Leaving a world you know for 7 years, going from the big kid to the small kid again is quite daunting. What was more worrying was the fact that none of my primary school friends were going to the same one as me, yeah It was just me.

I remember my first day like it was yesterday. We were sorted in our houses. I was Raphael whose house colours were red (not quite as sexy as Gryffindor I will admit but apparently it was the done thing for Grammar Schools to seem pretentious). My house dictated the majority of the classes I would be sorted into and also whom I would play sport with for the rest of my School career. We hadn’t been ranked into intellectual capability, that was a second year ritual used to stamp out any lingering self esteem one would have from our primary years. After the sorting exercise, which unfortunately did not involve a magical talking hat, we were ushered off into our form classes.

We all sat down assigned seating in Alphabetical Order, being a Mc, I sat with all the Mc’S ( those not familiar with the term It is Surnames that start with the letters MC common in Ireland, not amateur DJ’s, just for clarity). To say it was awkward would be an understatement. Unlike the fairer sex, a bunch of prepubescent boys in a room does not make for the most enlightened of conversations. After the lecture on ‘how gentleman should conduct themselves’ speech was over, and what a well oiled speech it was, we were commanded to attend our first lesson of the day.

The lessons all rolled into one and all followed the same basic format, “young gentleman will be seen and not heard”, I’m pretty sure the boys at Eaton or Harrow were having an altogether different speech however they were paying £12,000 per semester so I guess it would have dissimilarities. At break times It was probably the most awkward. Where do I stand? Who do I talk to? I wasn’t on my own in this regard as everyone had that nervous energy about them. Of course their was the occasional boy who was peacocking all over the place but fortunately they were very much in the minority. Most boys just wanted to find their little corner in this world, not piss all over it.

I got in the car at 3.20pm sharp. Mummy greeted me with a huge proud smile. She was either proud or hysterical that her baby boy was wearing a suit that looked like he would get the next three years out of, and incidentally did! The obligatory questions arose “well how was your first day?”. It was fucking amazing. I felt like a lemon the whole day and spoke to three people in a forced conversation. Bloody marvellous.

“Did you make any friends?”

Yeah of course I did. I socially navigated the political hierarchy and firmly established myself as Alpha male. Well Those are the words I would of loved to have said, however the reality wasn’t quite as astounding:

“Not yet but I’m sure I will”.

She looked at me smiled and said in the most reassuring way, “Well I have no doubt you will, who wouldn’t want to be your friend”. Every mother says these kind words to their sons and I’m sure most only say it to be kind. I firmly believe my mother was deluded enough to believe them. Maybe deluded is the wrong word. Optimistic.

As it is now 10pm on a Friday night I must depart to my glass of wine. Otherwise the next few paragraphs will devolve into nonsensical gibberish (well probably no more than previous installations). So I feel now is the appropriate time to end this section and will continue tomorrow.

Stay tuned tomorrow for such highlights as :

• Michael gains super powers
• Michael runs for political office
• The crazy case of Michael, the candlestick and the larder…..

All these and more in the exciting adventures of

Grieving, loving and living.

MichaeMMmivdaMicah*

Mummy had great poise, elegance and a quiet dignity about her. She was the sort of women you would look at and think “she has it together”. Though this is all true the other hard truth is, she was the most clumsy person on earth. I myself have inherited these fabulous genes. My feet cause more of a hindrance to my mobility than a gain. My sister would no doubt make reference to my clown feet I’m very certain.

My mothers wake is a bit of a blur to me. The house was filled with mourners every day for three days (as is the tradition in Irish families). People were visiting round the clock bringing buns and sandwiches enough to fill a small café. It was very comforting those three days, we shared stories, had many giggles and generally celebrated my mothers memory. One day in particular fills me with great joy. I was sitting in the kitchen as my aunty and uncles filled the living room. I was in and out of my own little world when I heard a familiar story being told, well it was sort of familiar…

“Do you remember when she fell off the plane at Manchester and broke her wrist?”, “I thought she had broke her wrist shopping in the Trafford centre?”.

This sent me into a roar of laughter as yes my mother did indeed break her wrist however those two accounts were definitely not accurate on how it occurred.

Myself and Mummy always cherished our couple of weeks in the summer together. We would plan all sorts of things to do and usually not do any of them. We usually just enjoyed each others company. One thing we always did was go for a little drink down Canal Street. Mummy loved Canal Street as it was nothing like she had ever seen before. From end to end filled with colourful, loud, interesting characters, she loved to watch everyone with the same focus she would give to one of her characters on Coronation Street.

This one particular time we were heading out for the evening and decided to have a meal. With us meals are always accompanied by some wine. The meal is almost the obligation that makes us look half respectable and not diving straight into the wine. After what was a lovely meal we decided to head down the cobbled streets into some ‘quieter bars’, I could not take my dear mummy to some of the establishments on Canal Street as she would find them terribly brash and distasteful.

Eventually we had enough wine between us that filled us with a merry glow and a gentle spring in our step. It was time for a dance. My mother has a very eclectic taste in music but I wanted to take her to a place with a variety of eras. Not just modern music. We headed to New York New York, a bar known for a mix of age groups and song choices. Anything from Beyoncé to Tina Turner would be belted out from the double doors. We skipped in and headed for the dance floor. We were enjoying the music and dancing away like two teenagers on their first night out. It was hilarious until my clown feet kicked in. Before we knew it I had lost my footing, grabbed her and we both plummeted to the ground.

SNAP!

We both knew something was wrong. The pain set in her wrist and any effects quickly wore off my mother as the shock took over. Our night of frivolity was cut short. We were in a taxi lickity split and headed to the hospital. We waited in A&E for about an hour and were then seen. The doctor examined my mummy and confirmed what we both were fearing, she had broken her wrist. She needed a cast and would have restricted movement. What a fantastic way to start our two weeks together. As the doctor was getting some paper work, Michael (who had not the luxury of shock to dull his inebriation) gave mummy some really sound, logical and well thought out advice.

“Don’t sign a thing!!! Don’t Sign anything until we read through it! This is how they get you!”

What a could of possibly meant is beyond me. In that moment I had an instinct of a lion cub I can only imagine. My mother rolled her eyes and tried to ignore her intoxicated son, and prevent any further embarrassment. All the pain killers in the world wouldn’t shut her baby boy up unfortunately.

The wrist did heal and I’m happy so say we laughed about the experience over many late night phone conversations. The day of the funeral I couldn’t help but let my aunty and uncles  the real story. The fact mummy had fabricated this ‘socially acceptable’ tale to hide the truth was gold to me. It really brought a smile to everyone there and remembering what a funny character she was. I guess I should feel guilty about breaking my 60 year old mothers wrist.

I would, If it didn’t make me laugh every time I thought about it.

According to scientists love is release of chemicals into the brain. These endorphins cause us to feel a sense of euphoria. This makes sense as it is the same release when we eat chocolate, exercise or for some take illegal substances. The human body and by extension the human brain are amazing things. Biologists have a reason now for every thing we do, they even have a biological reason for why we experience de ja vu. Apparently it is caused by one eye receiving the signals of an image and sending it to the brain before the second eye. Kind of like an echo on a dodgy mobile phone reception.

As much as I apply myself to rational thinking and am quite grounded in science. I do believe science is only half the tale. Some things in my opinion cannot be explained by science. Sure it is easy to explain love from a purely biological point of view. It furthers the propagation of the species. The chemistry of the brain amplifies a psychological need for attachment which further guarantees human beings as the dominant species on the planet. I do not believe that something purely chemical could inspire some of the best art, poetry and literature if all we were experience was an advanced chemistry kit.

Mummy and I discussed relationships and love a lot. Unfortunately for my mummy she had the love of her life end… without her permission. That love was replaced by a love for her children and grandchildren. She always was an amazing lioness.

My own experience with love has at times been really intense, bittersweet, at times hurtful bit in general a lovely experience. Sure not all relationships work out, for better or for worse people can drift apart, fall out of love and even grow to intense dislike. To quote Alfred Tennyson, “tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all”. These words can often sound like empty platitudes spun to a recent devolved relationship, yes on the surface. They are something I subscribe too, like many experiences good and bad (‘the girl’ to name one), they shape us, inform us, they teach us and ultimately we are better versions of ourselves due to them. The term formative years is usually applied to our adolescent years however I feel we are always becoming ‘informed’ and love plays a big part of it.

This particular tale is not about the greatest love of my life, the life changing Jack and Rose moment. This is actually about something very simple. Very brief. Very formative.

At 19 years old I embarked on my second holiday with friends. The destination: Shagaluf! Myself, Big Girl, ‘Velvet’ and ‘Jasmine’. The last two will feature soon enough…. Yes I realise I do a lot of foreshadowing however we have 360 days to go so I’m positive we will get around it all, If not I owe you a Big Mac! Ok a big Mac sounds good…. with a strawberry milkshake…. No that’s not this story. My love of food is for another day!

So the holiday was booked, the plane was inbound, Magaluf Via public indecency, bring it on! This would be our second holiday as friends so I knew it was going to be exciting. The previous holiday had 10 of us, so this one was going to be a lot more ‘low key’… yeah of course it was. Myself and Big girl had progressed from those cute kids who had a joke on the way to the school play to inseparable soul mates who under different circumstances would probably be married with kids. Needless to say she did meet her prince charming, have two beautiful kids. She made a friend extremely proud of the women she had become. Don’t get me wrong it was a long journey before she met prince charming, long, funny and filled with many chats around a bottle of wine.

Anyway enough of that mussy crap, I’m a strong butch male who used to be forced to play rugby!

So we were inbound to the party capital of the world. You know the type of holiday? 18-30’s, reps gone wild, people performing sex acts in public…. all that crap. I guess if that’s your thing you will find it, however we found it relatively tame. Maybe we were looking in the wrong places? Don’t get me wrong I’m sure we had our wild times but it was definitely not media worthy. We were good Irish boys and girls.

We had arrived in downtown Magaluf, checked in to our apartment and quickly proceeded to grab a cocktail. With luggage in hand, cocktail in the other we checked into our domicile for the next couple of weeks. The most glaring thing that stands out at the time was the total lack of air conditioning. We felt so Neanderthal having to live in primitive conditions…. they had a ceiling fan…. you know the type, they were the 70’s style ceiling fans that were installed in every conservatory….

Conservatory; Noun. a room with glass roofs and walls, attached to a middle class house trying to feel superior to their neighbours… also see hot tub, decking, French doors.

First world problems of course but we all need something to complain about pre trip adviser!

So lets set the scene. We were living our best lives, a week of cocktails, pool life, tanned bodies and the best giggles. We were the shit! we walked into BCM like we owned that joint. The last thing on my mind was a cute doctor. Up to this point I had met a few guys who I liked and kissed some of them. On this holiday I had not made myself unavailable but I also wasn’t ruling anything out. I was in the straight capital of pulling so my expectations were quite low. How could this little gay boy from Ireland stand a chance?

We were having pre drinks:

Predrinks: Verb, the ability to have drinks before the main event, foolish behaviour, a way to save money, a precursor to ending up inebriated.

Normally the custom is to have pre drinks at an apartment or home. On this occasion and the custom on a holiday is to ‘pre drink’ in a low key venue before the main event. We had decided to venture into the ‘strip’ and partake of the many aperitif’s on offer. Im sure the French would be outraged that we refer to a peach schnapps and lemonade as an ‘aperitif’, but that’s what the British do well. We have an excellent ability to turn ‘haute’ into ‘wont’.

Meanwhile in the STD capital of the world we were enjoying the sunset, the ‘pre drinks’ and the company of four friends enjoying their young lives. I seen from my periphery vision a young gentleman staring at our young, brash group who had clearly had too many peach schnapps. He was wearing a blue stripped shirt and tanned shirt. He had beautiful blond hair. It wasn’t styled. It flowed naturally in the Spanish wind. We exchanged looks and his gregarious friend caught my gaze, then he caught big girls more than ample assets; she had blossomed since puberty and acquired a really impressive set of ……….. eyes.

As the friend stared at big girls ‘eyes’ he reached over to us in his extremely eloquent way and said, “use havin a good night like?”.

Of course we all responded in the affirmative. I think Jasmine had too many fishbowls and maybe agreed multiple times. We didn’t mind as Jasmine was always at her most funny when she had several fishbowls! So the group re-formed. We had socially adjusted to this external force and realised, we are adapting. I looked at the Dr. and sheepishly shrugged, almost explaining the behaviour of Jasmine and his friend, however secretly grateful it gave me a chance to have a chance to talk to this interesting stranger.

He was dressed very classically. Imagine a ralph Lauren model on a polo campaign. Ready for golf and ready for fiscal planning. I had never experienced this before. The before was a Ballymena guy. A Ballymena guy is someone who can be described as someone who like myself had been very insular. We are good people but when we someone from an outside perspective we loose our shit…. lets try and remain cool here. we are sophisticated, we are valid….. we have eaten fois gras even though we morally have issues with eating a product produced from force feeding geese…..

I digress, as always.

We have all met that person we want to impress with all our being and in our young naïve way probably don’t. Its fine, We don’t always have to have our full together selves all the time! That’s one thing I’d love to go back in time and change. But alas…. we have to deal with the messes we present at the time. Its ok. We are human. What I’ve learned over the years…. those things are amazing!

As we chatted in the ‘pre bar’ that evening I could feel the flirtation levels reach maximum velocity. I had little experience of this to this point. I wasn’t particularly dumb in this regard but It was a new sensation in regards to flirtation. “Was he flirting, is he even gay? am I imagining this?”.

The number one thing every gay man goes through, its not coming out, its not body issues, it is navigating the landscape of “is he gay or not?”. I envy the straight community as this is implied, in our community this is denied, and a risk.

So myself and the doctor ( I call him such as he was doing a medical degree) were chatting and really connecting. It turned out he himself was in the closet. I can relate. It is not a nice place to be and sometimes a necessary evil. When that story is shared I hope the heterosexual audience to this blog will understand that we are not being overly dramatic gays seeking attention ( all the time). Coming to terms with ones sexuality can be a life defining moment, “I’m different”. That is not always the easiest thing to come to terms with.

sorry I keep digressing in a random political tangent, I’m not a militant gay. I don’t have a rainbow flag tied to me bed. Though If I did, it would be the best damn rainbow flag ever! 10’s across the board!

Myself and the Dr scurried ourselves off the toilet. We knew it wouldn’t be accepted. we knew we were different. We met, in secret, at the toilets. We shared our first kiss. I don’t know for a fact but I think he probably had his first ever kiss. In secret. Away from his friends. Most people boast….. he couldn’t.

We went separate ways that night however I did manage to take his number. I was always savvy like that. I asked him what apartment he was staying in and as luck turned out it was just around the corner from mine.

The next day: obviously we had a few headaches, big girl wasn’t feeling too well. velvet needed a shower to recover and Jasmine was contemplating her place in this world. standard Shagaluf practice.It was probably midday, when we had decided to get our walking dead asses out of bed…. finally. I looked out over the balcony.

the doctor was looking up.

What????? Hold on…? is this for real? This connection apparently bizarre and uncommon connection was real! We had each others phone numbers but I had neglected to act on it, Bad Michael! I would learn this lesson in later life. Life is about taking chances, making moments, risks….. why not?

So after this less than Shakespearean display (even though I felt like a Capulet!) we had arranged to meet that evening. He was still very much in the closet, such things which made me apprehensive. His apartment was by the seas (he was a trainee doctor after all), so that evening I decided I would meet him. We spent that evening in Magaluf having fun with all my friends. I will admit that I kept looking at my watch/phone. I never would leave them however I was waiting on the opportunity to escape and meet my beloved doctor.

My chance finally came. I’m sure it was around 3am when my friends dancing shoes had been worn out. Unlike their shoes my excitement hadn’t. I was going to meet ‘my’ Doctor! This handsome English gentleman. I bid my friends farewell. I cant remember the exact words now but I would imagine big girl would have filled me with encouragement, Velvet with sexual advice and Jasmine with lyrics from Disney songs that would of caused a lot of encouragement. I felt good.

In that moment I did feel like a Capulet, searching for my Montague. I approached his apartment. called him down. He approached is balcony and saif:

“my cousin is asleep, climb up and see me”

So I climbed up the two story building. It was pouring down with rain. It was almost a storm. My clothes were soaking wet. I was nervous shaking. I reached the balcony, my shivering body tired from a night of endless dancing. I wouls nervous what to expect, what would he think?

I reached his balcony, he grabbed my back, It was pouring down, both our hair was wet. We looked at each other, smiled;

He gave me the most passionate kiss I had ever had.

The rain was pouring. We were smiling. I would love to end this story that we fell in love and the rest is history. Unfortunately not. In fact that was the last night we ever spoke. We didn’t even exchange numbers/facebook/Instagram/ …. you get the picture.

I don’t blame him for that. He was at the beginning of a journey and I was halfway through mine. We both were in different places at that point in time. What I am grateful for though Is that experience. It sent tingles through my whole body. It was exciting. It was fun. It was real!

We all have those experiences, I personally think those experiences contribute to who we are. I know Mummy did. She loved this story. We talked about this many times. We joked about ‘the one that got away?’. I know Mummy would have loved her baby boy to have married a doctor, what self respecting WASP wouldn’t? That moment was really significant for me as It really opened me up to… love. Yes I wasn’t In love…. I didn’t love the doctor… but It made me think. It made my pulse race! Surely that’s what it’s all about?

 

Mummy and me talked about this many times. She knew.

We both knew.

Mummy I will meet my doctor, whatever he does, on my wedding you will be proud.