Car

I remember the day my Father and I went to pick up the new car with such clarity.

It was a very warm week day. Dad was not at work. My school holidays were in full swing. His break from work had just begun. My skin was a warm brown. His was as white then as mine is now, Britain having bypassed anything close to a Summer this year.

The hairs that made up Dad's wig were rigid. They did not move. All thanks to hairspray for men. Mum's was cheaper and did the same thing, but he refused to use it. The year was 1978, a year in which many gay men were seen sporting lumberjack shirts. Some straight men wore them, too, one being my Father. The shirt was mainly cream in colour with horizontal and vertical stripes of differing thickness in a colour my Mother would describe as brick. His trousers were navy blue; polyester. The belt was plastic and dark brown, as were his shoes, though leather and not plastic. I was six years old and wore, as many a six year old did at the time, open toed sandals or Jesus boots. Some boys in my school told me they were girls' shoes. I wore beige shorts and a white short sleeve shirt.

Mum was washing up at the kitchen sink as Dad and I left for the bus stop. I'd never seen Dad on a bus before, only ever in a car, taxi or van and naturally assumed he'd never taken one in his life. I felt very important thinking I was about to educate my father.

"Bye, Mum!"

Mum kissed me, holding my face with her hot, soapy hands. Bubbles clung to my cheeks.

The car showroom was in Winton, the Moordown end, so we took the number 31 from Fernheath Road. Dad allowed me to believe he'd never been on a bus before. I persued the rôle reversal by instructing my Dad to hold his hand out when we saw the bus come around the corner from Coleman Road.

"And when we get on, you have to say one and a half to Winton, please. The driver will tell you how much you have to pay."

Our wait under the dappled shade from a front garden tree was short. The yellow bus soon made the corner and Dad did exactly as he was told. We stepped into the bus from beneath the tree briefly passing through the vivid light and the warm August sunshine. Dad got the tickets as I waited to dispense the coins he'd given me into the driver's plate.

"This way," I said, climbing the unpainted metal stairs to the top deck.

We sat at the front of the bus, me next to the window, Dad at the aisle. He lit up a fag, took a deep draw on it and sighed. The red plastic seats burned the backs of my legs and I fidgeted.

"This side," he said, winking, and gesturing with a side nod of his head to cross to the opposite seat where we'd find shade from the hot sun. He swapped seats, I followed. This meant I was now sat at the aisle. Mum would never have let this happen, but I said nothing, wondering if perhaps Dad thought I was more grown-up than Mum imagined me to be.

I sat up straight, holding onto the chrome bar before me across the wide front windows of the bus.

"We'll be back in Turbary Park soon," I said, Dad nodding, drawing more on his cigarette. "Then we go up through Columbia and Ensbury Park."

"Oh?" said Dad, feigning interest, staring ahead into space.

I delighted in being right. Children of six often make claims which bear no fruit. But not I. Not today. Columbia Road. Ensbury Park. Moordown.

And then Winton. The first stop in which, was for us.

The showroom contained three cars. All the same (to me), just different colours. I remember it being stiflingly hot. I had no empathy for the man greeting us then, having never worn a suit and tie myself, but here he was, in one and in something of a greenhouse, too, the whole of the frontage being made entirely from glass.

I don't think that anyone in Britain would have even heard of air conditioning in 1978.

"Mr Tapping!"

How did he know my Dad?

"Sit here," said Dad as he wandered off with the man in the suit into a dimly lit space which was too dark for me to make sense of. I sat there on the fabric and chrome office chair for what felt like an eternity. Dad didn't come back. Neither did the man.

Just as panic began to set in, I heard the beep from a car's horn. Looking out into the street, I saw a blue estate car with my father sat in the driver's seat. He was grinning from ear to ear. I leapt from the chair and mouthed shall I come out?

"Yes!" called my Dad, whom I'd heard perfectly.

With no man in a suit so say goodbye to, I heaved open the heavy door from the showroom and raced across the pavement to the car. The passenger window was wound down completely. I rested my crossed arms on the open space and smiled at my Dad. Then giggled.

"Get in," he said.

So I did.

I was happy to be in a brand new car but sad on realising Dad was Dad again and I was the little boy once more.

"You alright?"

"Yes, Dad."

I loved the sound of the engine. Although loud, it seemed quieter than our last car. Another Datsun and the same model, although blue in colour. I wasn't sure about the colour. Our last car was orange and I preferred that.

The noise and the change in the tone of the sounds coming from the engine as Dad moved up through the gears were fascinating.

"Let's go on a drive before going home," said Dad.

We went to Poole. I remember passing the large Barclays Bank building near the Arndale Centre. The next thing I remember was Dad lifting me out of the car back at home in Turbary Park Avenue. I'd nodded off.

I still like to sleep on car journeys, long and short. Some things change, some stay the same, dear reader.

I'm alive. Dad's dead.

Imagine

Ha!

Ha! Ha!!

And...

Ha! Ha!! Ha!!!

Good morning, dear reader and welcome to the catch-up edition of The morbid adventures of Minge. Unlike Captain Oates, I've returned, although I was some time.

I must say, though, at this point. I'm quite uncomfortable with the grammar there. Captain Oates' famous statement, "I may be some time," has always bothered me. How can a person be time? Was the captain hinting at something, that he was/is some kind of deity? Or maybe a well-loved time traveller with a penchant for Earth and Britain?

My recent video blogging adventures were a fun exercise and I really enjoyed doing it, as did Ian. He was the mind behind the camera; the director, editor and interviewer. One of the questions put to me came from David. He asked me to name my favourite Asian dish and suggested I should be filmed while cooking it. As ever, I'm keen to oblige. You can see the results, my love, in the previous three entries, here, here and here.

Oh, and for my anonymous reader who requested it, here's Mrs McGinty's recipe for Cinder Toffee:

You will need

• 200g caster sugar
• 100g golden syrup
• 40g goats' butter
• 1 tablespoon water
• 1 tablespoon vanilla extract
• 1 teaspoon cider vinegar
• 1 teaspoon bicarbonate of soda

Method

1. Line a small baking tray (I use an 8" sandwich tin) with parchment paper.
2. Place all the ingredients apart from the vinegar and bicarbonate of soda into a heavy bottomed pan. Put on a medium heat and stir until the sugar has dissolved.
3. Bring to the boil and heat until a teaspoon of the syrup becomes a soft ball when dropped into a cup of cold water (138°c on a sugar thermometer).
4. Remove from the heat and add the vinegar and bicarbonate of soda. Beat well and watch the toffee mixture foam up.
5. Pour into your prepared tray or tin.
6. After ten or so minutes, once the toffee has begun to set, score it with a sharp knife into portion sizes according to your personal taste.
7. After approximately twenty more minutes, break your cinder toffee along the lines and store in an air tight container where it will remain in good shape for up to ten days.

Experiment with the flavour by replacing the vanilla extract with other extracts such as almond, maple or similar. I've a mind, next time I make it, to replace the extract and the water with a double espresso! I've done quite a bit of travelling throughout the isle quite recently. Much of October seems to have been spent on the roads and rails of the United Kingdom.

The first part of the month took Ian and I to London. We stayed there with our fabulous friend Robin who was kind enough to put us up for a long weekend. Pictures of which can be seen here, my lamb. We went the whole hog and did all the things tourists do; a cruise on the Thames, a trip to Buckingham Palace, a wander around Trafalgar Square, took in the neon lights at Piccadilly Circus, explored some galleries, visited St Paul's Cathedral, toured Television Centre, saw some shows and so much more besides. The shows we saw were Les Misérables, Avenue Q and Wicked. I plan to blog about these, at length, later.

Before leaving the topic altogether though, I will say that all three musicals were absolutely fabulous, well produced and provocative. Human (and animal) relationships can be peculair. I'm left wondering if it's true that everyone's a little bit racist (more later), if wickedness is as black and white a situation as it's often painted and who would be the better king of France should the monarchy there be restored? Louis, Henri, Charles or Nicolas? Which man would you chosse, dear reader? Or do you feel a woman would do a better job?

I'm sure, really, that wickedness is indeed not so black and white. There are many shades of grey in the mix, as is proven by my late Father who died on 11th October. He might have been evil personified to my Mother, Mark (my brother) and I, though he obviously wasn't those things to his second wife or she'd have not been able to say these things. Having said that, she was and is able to lie (his family will NOT miss him - see here). Why she'd want to lie, now, though, I'm not sure. If he was cruel to her, she'd have no need to publish such a sickly-sweet goodbye. Perhaps, after meeting her, he'd become too old to fuck around with other women and pick fist-fights with his friends and relatives?

I was lucky and happy to be in Bournemouth for the week following Roy's death. My presence stopped my eldest brother from using my Mum's house as a hotel, accommodating his appearance at his Father's funeral. Cruel of him, I'm sure, to ask (and he did) my Mother for a bed for him and his son while in Bournemouth for the funeral. Does this man have a heart of stone? Like his Father, does he have no conscience? Did he really expect my Mum to give him somewhere to stay so that he could attend the funeral of the man who made her life a living hell? I'm sure there's irony there somewhere, though I don't care to look for or expose it.

I'm sure she was prepared to, but my presence but a bar in his way. He doesn't speak to me since I confronted him about opening personal correspondence between me and his son and questioning his motives in taking my Mother on foreign holidays.

I wondered if, even though we weren't attending the funeral, we'd be sad and melancholy on the day or open a bottle of champagne. As it was, I'm currently taking anti-biotics for yet another chest and sinus infection so champagne would have been off the menu. Come the 18th October, we'd kind of almost fogotten what was going on until people started turning up at home, wondering how my Mum was. The only person not to come or call on the telephone was my eldest brother, Ken.

We were neither happy nor sad about his death or funeral, though I will admit to being sad about him in general ever since hearing of his death.

As hinted at before, he wasn't utterly wicked. The movie made of his life would be littered with violence and abuse, both of the physical and emotional sort. However, there would be the odd happy scene. I remember him yodeling in the Alps, drawing with me at the kitchen table, showing me how to saw oak and taking me to a restaurant for the very first time at six or seven years of age.

I used to wonder and think that perhaps he wasn't so terrible after all, though I soon changed my mind when I saw the looks on the faces of the people in whom I was able to confide. Good people don't systematically abuse their families on more levels than I knew existed. Good people don't sleep with their wife's family. Good people don't serially cheat on their partners. Good people dont beat their children to a pulp.

He was an actor, too. On divorcing, friends of my parents couldn't believe such a couple could or would ever part.

"But Roy's such a great bloke..."

He could charm the birds out of the trees, buy gifts for his friends' children and be the life and soul of any party. Birds may have been charmed, but we were repulsed. Any Christmas presents, shoes or school uniforms were paid for by the money my Mother earned cleaning during the evenings. In my Mother's words, usual gatherings of my immediate family were given, "...the golden silence treatment..." by my Father.

"Silence!"

"Be quiet, I'm watching telly."

"Go outside and play and stop bothering me."

He's been a major topic of conversation for many years. I really wonder, now, how we'll fill those gaps in conversation. I'm sure, with things more cheerful.

He may have gone and this will do many of us some good, but what will not go are the memories. His snarling face. His awful temper. His fist. His flying kicks.

On some level, his wild behaviour was never as difficult for me to cope with as it was for Mum and to a certain extent, Mark. Apparently, he got worse as time went on. The violence and screaming was normal to me. For Mark, weekly beatings and slanging matches became a daily occurrence. For Mum, a lady who grew up in a home free from hostility and full of love and gay times, her married life must have been an absolute nightmare. Like a story from a soap opera which builds and builds over a few weeks, Mum's life descended into reasoned anarchy over thirty or so years; an anarchy which, however she's tried, she's been unable to recover from since the old man left us cold an penniless in 1981.

I'm still undecided if I'm happy or sad. I can't generalise, though, and find being black and white quite difficult. I suppose I feel grey. I have decided on two things, though. I shall write a memoir in two parts:

My Father and other monsters

and

I remember Mama

I plan on starting next week. Any tips will be gratefully received.

Bournemouth wasn't all doom and gloom, of course. The highlight was spending time with my Mum at and outwith the bingo, my wonderful niece (see evidence of that here, here, here and here), other family members and friends.

Following on from my evening watching Avenue Q, two conversations made me ponder more about the racism issue. Auntie Lil said that Britons are able to be so openly and unapologetically racist because we've never lost a war in modern times and that military superiority implies cultural superiority. No-one in Germany could get away with doing the Nazi salute or calling anyone a money-grabbing Jew. However, people in Britain are called Wogs, Spics, Yids, Pakis and Wops with no-one batting an eyelid.

With my Mother complaining about the number of Poles and East Europeans in the country, my American sister-in-law piped up with a reason why she doesn't want her daughter to learn Spanish. My sister-in-law is fabulous, though a little naive and easily led. She told me how her Father, a Methodist pastor had told her how copious amounts of Mexicans were flooding the United States of America with their extended families, taking from the state without putting anything into the economy and refusing to learn English. Strange for a man of God to have not heard of the story of the good Samaritan.

Always unresolved... I still imagine a world full of good people, though I wonder if it will only ever exist in my imagination. My Mother was grateful, I'm sure, for the home the UK gave her when the German army invaded her home island in 1940. Native Americans - did they complain about white settlers taking and not giving or not learning Adai, Coosan, Tunica or similar?

Will history always repeat itself? Until we learn from it?

You may say that I'm a dreamer (some say I am), but I'm not the only one.

Lists

Regular readers of this blog will know that I'm a fan of lists and am mad for constructing them. Not having done so in a while (I've resisted temptation so many times to avoid being predictable and boring) and being inspired to do so by this article, here is my current top ten most fabulous albums:

10 Cindy Lauper - The Body Acoustic
9 Bent - The Everlasting Blink
8 Amy Winehouse - Frank
7 Sarah Brightman - Dive
6 Kate Bush - Aerial
5 Saint Etienne - So Tough
4 Sandra - My Favourites
3 Madonna - Confessions On A Dancefloor
2 Liza Minnelli - Results
1 Pet Shop Boys - Behaviour

I am a fickle person, though, dear reader. If asked to compile this list yesterday or tomorrow, ten different entries might appear.

Radio 1 is soon to be forty years old. That's only a few years older than me! Scarey! Of course, with that in mind, it's no surprise to learn that the station has long since ceased to be my favourite. When tuning in now, usually by chance, I quickly spin the dial again on hearing nothing but a horrible racket. Queer. That's how my Mother used to describe it when it was the only station to which I'd listen back in the 1980s.

Actually, that's not quite true. I'd sit at the old hi-fi with my finger poised over the play and record buttons on the cassette deck with the tape wound to just the right place, where clear ended and brown began. Sing Something Simple would end and the Radio 2 continuity announcer would hand over to Radio 1 in FM. And the top 40 countdown would begin!

Once a good song began, I'd start recording and pause on a beat just before I thought Bruno Brookes was going to start speaking (talking over the music really cheesed me off). If something came on that I didn't know, I'd record it anyway. If, halfway into the song, I realised I didn't like it, I'd rewind the cassette and cue it up, again, right on a beat so that seamless playback was guaranteed. Usually, pause on, pause off, just to lose Bruno. How, now, I wish I'd kept him. And all those C90 cassettes.

Once the Network Chart programme began on 2CR, I'd sometimes flip between stations, just to see which station said my favourite song of the day was doing best. Pet Shop Boys often did better on the BBC resulting in me berating the Kid Jensen fans at school for their poor taste.

I wonder if anyone listens to any singles rundown programmes anymore. For me and other people of my age, such shows were the only place we could hear our favourite music in good quality sound. These days (There I go again, sounding like an old fart) the youngsters can find their favourite music at the drop of a hat on interactive television, You Tube, the internet in general, virtual jukeboxes and a myriad of different radio stations.

And I suppose, my glee in hearing the UK's forty top selling singles in crystal clear FM is comparable, now, with, well, nothing, only perhaps the omnipresence of music to any listener's ear where ten years ago we had to go into a shop, hand over money and take a CD home with us.

In the 1980s, I'd have to wait all week to hear the music I loved. In the 1990s, I had to wait as long as it took me to go into town and then back home again on the bus or on my motorbike. Now, gratification is instant. If I want something, I can click and have it.

No wonder, then, that we've all run out of patience and the world is an uglier, grumpier and less desirable place to live in.

How strange that a trip down memory lane over the way I listened to the radio could produce something vaguely philosophical.

Imperfect

I spent a great deal of the Summer out of Edinburgh, indeed, out of Scotland. I should, of course, being a gay, be able to liken that to Meryl Streep and Out of Africa, but I can't. I'm a gay, yes, but a bad gay. Most gays know which style of top is hot this week and last, which band should be top of anyone's playlist and how to bitch. The best I can do is bake muffins. I'm sorry, it's true.

And I'm waffling. Again. And sorry for that, too.

So yes, I've spent much of the Summer away from home. For a myriad of reasons; to try and rescue my sanity, to spend time with my Mum and to see some sunshine. I'm not sure if I managed any of that, to be frank, but I tried and if I'd not even tried, I'd feel more of a failure now than I actually am.

On the sanity front - spending much of my time here alone with not much to do afforded me hours of tongue examination and my mind went a wondering. Without given facts but plenty on which to ponder, I'd frighten myself in imagining my imminent death on a daily basis. Anyone might imagine I had too much time on my hands. Perhaps they were right.

There's never a dull moment in Bournemouth. Mum's a very lively personality. She likes to push buttons and surround herself with something of a royal court. I've often wondered if she was a queen in a former life and if, perhaps, that's why her son turned out to be a queen, too.

I certainly did not have too much time on my hands in Bournemouth. In fact, I had no time to spare. Mum woke me up, most mornings, quite early. There was always a plan; people to see, things to do, bingo to play. There was no time to worry about what might or might not be.

It was great seeing Mum. When I initially left Bournemouth in 2000, I planned on going back down to Dorset about once a month. I've never actually managed that. Mum's either been too busy to see me or things have been happening up here. Of course, I have been down to England quite often, sometimes for extended periods and Mum's been here. I'm sure it averages out to about as much time as my planned one weekend in four. So I don't feel too guilty over it. Of course, such statistics, as used by many a government, paper over many a crack. I think I've convinced myself that I'm ok with this. I can be positive about it. Indeed, my eldest sister only lives a five minute car journey away from Mum. I see her much more often than my sister does, the bitch.

If 2007 had abeen a better Summer, I'd have been able to fulfil my other desire - to see some sunshine! Get a wee tan, even. No, not possible. Most days were dull. Overcast skies were the norm and there were as many wet days as there were dry.

But still, there was the bingo! And we won quite a bit. We never left out of pocket, even if we only broke even. One afternoon, Mum, Pat (her wee pal) and I left with just over one hundred pounds. We have a sharing pact, though. If my memory serves me well, we each came away with £34.33 each. Who got the extra penny, I can't say.

Those, I suppose, dear reader, are the bar bones of my Summer trip to England.

In my degenerating mind, it was somewhat different.

Loyal readers of this vile blog may know how my brother's wedding in West Virgina a few years back was a hotbed of hate and homophobia. My Mum still refuses to face facts and accept that her daughter is an evil and twisted bitch with opinions that would make Adolf Hitler look liberal.

I tried, on many occasions, to let sly comments go by the wayside, but once or twice, I did take the bate and debate the point with Mum. Why, I'm not too sure.

I don't have children. I imagine how a woman might feel torn when her children are fighting, but I do imagine and do hope that I'd be able to see right from wrong. No matter how old my children were, I'd like to think I'd intervene and punish where punishments were due, even if said punishment was just a tirade of verbal abuse.

But I'm not a parent. So I don't really know. I cannot judge my Mother. I don't have the ability to walk a mile in her moccasins.

All I am able to take from the Summer is that I don't want to fight with my Mother, I don't want to argue and I don't want another sibling to come between us. I have to accept that Mum isn't perfect. Mum has to accept that her children aren't perfect either. Both sons and daughters.

I love my Mother dearly, even if she is a right wing xenephobe. She's going to be seventy seven years old in November. I don't know how much longer I'll have here with her but certainly intend to treasure whatever time I do have. Quite a poignant statement, actually, especially considering that it's two years ago today that Ian's Mum passed away after a short illness.

There are still some bones I'd like to pick over and contentious subjects I'd like addressed, but I won't let them get in the way of my relationship with Mum. All health scares taken into account, we might not have that long together. No-one knows what's around the corner. And a cliché, I know, but she or I could get run over by a bus tomorrow.

That said, my sister really should do something about the widening rift she's caused within my family. I've never been one for being buddies with a person simply because we're related, but I do care on some level for my bitch of a sister. If I didn't, all this wouldn't bother me. And I know it bothers Mum. So if that bus did come for Mum or I tomorrow, my sister would have to live out the rest of her life with no opportunity to repair the damage she's done.

And what a lot of damage.

To add insult to homophobic injury, she's forbidden her daughter from telling my Mum (her Gran) that she's a lesbian. My sister's story varies from source to source. She's either blantantly vague on the matter, can't bring herself to tell Mummy, indifferent or insisting Mum doesn't know the truth because she's ashamed of her daughter's lesbianism.

But Mum will find out. It's not a question of if but when. Practically every member of the family knows about my niece. The only person who doesn't seem to know is Mum. Whether it's a slip of the tongue or intentional, she will be told at some point. The only question then remaining will be my Mother's: how come everyone else knew and not me?

I'd really hoped, even in taking the brunt of my sister's hatred, she'd learn something from that American episode. No. She hasn't. She's still a homophobic cunt. I pity her, I really do. But I can't help loving her. I'm some kind of glutton for punishment, I think.

Hey, ho. As Sylvia Mason-James once said to me, live for today, hen.

Soundtrack

Although untagged, I'm picking up the baton from A Novelist and Alan. In a pioneering mood, I venture forth, dear reader, with the soundtrack to my life.

I'm getting off to a bad start here, beginning with a song out of chronological order.

Ode to Billy Joe

I was fifteen when I first heard this record. My friend had a country compilation LP with this track on it. I nearly fell off my chair when, early on in the song, I heard my own date of birth, the third of June.

So perhaps this song isn't out of chronological order, really (though strictly speaking, of course, it is).

Kiss me honey honey kiss me

and

Puppy love

The early years of my life are quite horrible and, to be frank, I'm rather glad human beings don't have vivid memories of our first few years.

My Father could not be found as my Mother went into labour. As it later turned out, he was with his mistress in Wareham. Probably fucking her while my Mother was giving birth to me. Horrid imagery is conjured in my mind when I think about it.

I was a poorly child right from the start. At three moths old, my Mum was told I'd probably not live beyond my first birthday. Doctors considered removing my spleen, but then discounted the idea claiming it would neither save me nor prolong my life. But as now, I clung on to life.

Numerous blood transfusions carried me from a babe in arms to a two year old boy, nearly three.

A week before my third birthday, I went into hospital. Again. This time, no-one was really sure if or when I'd come out. Blood transfusions. Steroids. Confined to bed. But I did get better. I remember eating a whole packet of custard cream biscuits on my birthday and then vomiting up the lot in a tiny metal dish shaped like a kidney. The spew went all over my Mum and a nurse.

Actually, that's probably my earliest memory. I always thought it was waking up on my fourth birthday. Strange that only know I realise that this is not the case.

Those are my memories. The memories of others are of me and my record player. I only had two records, apparently, and would play them over and over again. Puppy love by Donny Osmond and Kiss me honey honey kiss me by Dame Shirley Bassey.

Later, when I'm probably about five or six years old, I remember playing the Bassey song in my bedroom. I remember feeling a sense of shame, hoping no-one heard me playing Kiss me... Not because I thought people might think the song was naff but because I actually thought the song was quite rude.

And I love you so

My Father was a strange person. His mood could change like the wind and he had a temper like no other man on the face of the earth. He made Saddam Hussein look kind.

In our car, we had an eight track cassette player. One of the many cassettes which lived in the glove box was by Perry Como. Dad loved And I love you so. I'm always reminded of him when I hear Perry, which is a shame as he's quite a nice singer and the song is actually quite beautiful.

I can't believe how often I use the word nice. It's such a bland word.

I'm in the mood for dancing

The Nolans must have come to the fore in the late 1970s and I'm in the mood... I remember, was a favourite of my sister's when she looked like this. Some of the most splendid moments of my youth were spent with Christine. She's very special to me. And some of those moments were spent in her bedroom. This special moment was spent there with her, I and Debbie. I remember having an old curtain over me. I believed I was an old gypsy woman. The three of us were dancing to I'm in the mood for dancing.

It's such an innocent memory. I had no idea, then, that people might judge someone pretending to be a gypsy woman.

I just remember us twirling, laughing, having fun.

I don't want to set the world on fire

I hated going to Sunday School. I really did. And it was a Baptist church to boot. I really dug my heels in and told my Mother that in no uncertain terms was I prepared to ever go again after the superintendent told me that my dog was indeed not in heaven (animals don't have souls and only Jews and gentiles go to heaven) and I'd been hit on the head by one of the teachers. With an umbrella. Hard.

My Mum loved music. A minibus called to pick me up and take me to Sunday School and then bring me home again. I think, practically every time I came back from that awful place, just in time for lunch, Mum would be playing The Ink Spots on our old hi-fi. The track she liked best was I don't want to set the world on fire. I used to know all the words. Sadly, I can now only remember the second line... I just want to start a flame in your heart.

Chain reaction

By the mid 1980s, I was well into pop music. When I first heard La Ross singing Chain reaction, I nearly had a heart attack. I thought it was the best song I'd ever heard and nothing could ever beat it. I thought that if I had this record I'd never need another.

True blue

and

We don't need another hero (Thunderdome)

I'm never sure, dear reader, if Madonna's True blue or Tina Turner's We don't need another hero (Thunderdome) was the first record I ever bought as, strictly speaking, I bought them together. In W H Smith's in Bournemouth. Of course, the cashier must have put one through the till before the other. Which one, though, I don't know and now, never will know.

I remember there was an instrumental version of We don't need another hero (Thunderdome) on the b side of Tina's single. I'd play the 7" in my bedroom (where there were no mirrors) and then go and stand in the bathroom in front of the medicine cabinet which had a mirror on the door. I'd sing the song, pretending I was Tina. The instrumental version was no quite the same as the a side, though, and I'd often get lost somewhere with in it. I remember thinking Tina was a bitch for that.

West End girls

I saw Pet Shop Boys perform their first ever UK number one single on Top Of The Pops either at the tail end of 1985 or the beginning of 1986. I'm sure, actually, it was 1985 as they weren't yet number one. West End girls didn't get to number one until the first week of 1986 when it knocked Shakin' Stevens (a guy I thought was utterly hot) off of the top of the chart.

I remember thinking that both Neil and Chris were quite dishy. And the song was something else. I'd never heard anything like it before and had to have it. Sadly, though, I had to wait a while. I saved up my pocket money and bought Please in 1986.

Love on a mountain top

I'd been buying CDs since 1987. It's s sin, being the first. But the first CD I bought and played after buying my own CD player was Wicked by Sinitta. Love on a mountain top is my favourite song on that album.

Justify my love (the beast within mix)

The video for Justify my love was the filthiest I'd ever seen. I was desperate to buy the single and the Immaculate Collection video. Imagine my surprise, dearest reader, on having bought said single, to hear the the beast within mix. I was scared shitless.

Time to say goodbye

My Mother's younger sister, Barl, died in 1986. Mum asked me to play Sarah Brightman's Time to say goodbye in the morning on the day of the funeral, just before we left the house. We looked at each other with a bitter-sweet smile and ended up in floods of tears.

After the funeral, Sue, my cousin, Barl's eldest daughter, told me that on going through her things, she'd discovered her Mum had kept a photograph of me in her purse. It was old, somewhat faded and tatty at the edges. It had been there for years. Whenever I think of that (even now) I shed a tear.

Aunty Barl was a dear woman who lived a troubled life. She was glad to die. I could never understand it when she went, but now, eleven years later, I do.

One of the hymns at the funeral was Abide with me. I want that at my own, too.

Dream a little dream of me

Dream a little dream of me is featured in one of my favourite films of all time, Beautiful Thing. It's very special. J'adore it - the film and the song. Ian used to sing it to me.

Schizophrenic

XWiz and I adore being Rumours Of Whores. Schizophrenic, for me, is the highlight of the experience.

It only takes a minute

As I type, It only takes a minute by Take That (it's not shit at all) is playing on iTunes (I've got it on shuffle mode). An apt place to stop.

Fear

As you may or may not know, dear reader, I've just come back to Edinburgh from an extended holiday to England and Ireland.  I must have been away around six weeks.

Six difficult weeks, it must be said.

Some of my earliest memories are of being afraid; of fearful situations.  I recall my brother telling me the funny man was on his way to get me.  That wasn't funny at all.  I recall trips to the toilet.  No relief was to be found there.  I was sure someone was on the stairs, watching me, watching me dart from the living room, across the hall to the bog.  I recall laying in bed at night, alone, unable to stand the fear anymore...  I'd creep down the stairs and sit by the living room door with the voices of adults for comfort.

I've always been afraid of being alone and of being got.  This fear, all too tangibly, has continued into my adult life.

A sickly child, ill health was a constant threat to my very existence.  Mother was very kind to me.  Without wrapping me up in cotton wool, she protected me from death and disaster.  Without explanation, I knew I was safe.  The sight of blood, however, mine or anyone else's, and I was in hysterics.

All those horrid fears; of threat and of solitude came to me like a fist to the face in the early 1990s when my work colleague and I were held up in an armed robbery at our place of work.

As an adult, I had to face things on my own.  I had to cope.  Unable to face these things, unable to cope, I fled from life itself and into my bedroom.  I did not come out, save for visits to the toilet and bathroom, for six months.

Slowly but surely, with the help of doctors, nurses and psychiatric specialists, I emerged from my bedroom.  Not really because I wanted to, no, but because my fear of letting down the medical staff and my Mother was greater than my fear of what might lie outside of my bedroom/stronghold.

However, regardless of the hows and whys, I did it and soon realised the outside world wasn't such a bad place after all.  My fears were based on something I'd suggested to myself rather than on anything real.  My fears were all about what might be, what could be.  Just like my funny man fear.  What he might do to me, what he might look like.  Just like my fear of someone watching me on the stairs and where they might take me if they caught me.

But aren't all fears like that?

What if?

Fear still plays a starring rôle in my life.  He's been a special guest star in The Minge Show since 1972.

Breathe.

Between then and now, fears have also been about self doubt and about a lack of explanation.  Being told I was daft and shouldn't worry have never been a cure for my fears.  I need proof that I'm daft and proof that my worries are groundless.  That's how I came out from my bedroom after six moths of self-imposed imprisonment.

From my Spring trip to Japan and through to my Summer trips to England and Ireland, my fears have been alive and well.  I've been coughing, without much of a break, since the beginning of this year.  Antibiotics have seen off chest and sinus infections, yet still the cough refuses to pack up and go home.

This week, I visited Dr Wendy here in Edinburgh.  I see her every so often for check-ups after the removal of the tumour from my tongue.  She knows of my ever present fear of the c word and understood my hints over the constant coughing.  She also knows about my fear of facing up to things, ever afraid that my thoughts could be confirmed as fact.

"See your GP," said Wendy.

So I did.

First of all, it must be noted that when I first saw the guy, a new doctor at the practice, I thought Alan was playing some kind of trick on me, impersonating my GP.  But no, the guy was either his doppelgänger or his long lost twin with an English accent.  As he called to me, with a wink, "Mr Tapping?" I nearly fell off of my chair.

What a wonderful man he was and put my fears to bed, I hope, once and for all.  And he certainly knew how to do that.  Not with a ruffle of my hair and a, "Don't be a silly lad," but with an explanation.

Apparently, after a chest infection and sinus infection quite close together, my sinuses are inflamed and inflamed sinuses tend to overproduce mucus.  That mucus finds itself on my chest, hence the coughing.  The wheezing is caused, not by an asthmatic lung or even a cancerous one, but by the constant coughing and the bronchioles tightening, then not relaxing.

I'm not to worry.

And spookily, I'm not.

For the first time in months, I'm able to spend moments alone without my mind wandering into the realms of pain, death and funerals.  I've actually read a passage from a book today.  Something I've been unable to do for some weeks.  This afternoon, after I've taken my ladies out for another walk, I plan on watching The Weakest Link.

I love this sense of freedom.

But still, I look back into the past and ponder my theories of fear and regret.

I'd love to be a person who can look back upon their life and say, hand on heart, "No regrets."  Sadly, I regret a lot of things, from ugly romantic relationships, fucked-up thoughts on how to keep a man, smoking and always wondering what people thought of me (and the tests I put them through to discover the answer).

I can't live a life of fear.  I can't.  It's horrible.  The depression that comes with it is like a lid on my kettle.  I want to whistle, sing and let all that steam out.  Crying, lying on the bed in a ball, pulling out my eyebrows - all things I want consigned to the past.  I'm doing my best.

I'm high maintenance, I'll admit that, and a needy person, though I won't ask.  I'm not ashamed of being needy.  I'm not ashamed of myself, though I am ashamed, on some level, of not asking for help.

But I do get help.  Sometimes it's a surprise, sometimes it's from the dependable people in my life.  My fears of being alone are, I think, at last allayed.

I'm still coughing, but I'm no longer afraid.

Words

I love words.  I love playing with words and watching others play, too.  So you should imagine, dear reader, that I love the word verification service offered by Blogger to protect users from spammers and other similar nasty types.  The strange mix of letters on offer are usually dull rendering word verification, for he or she verifying their words, nothing more than annoying.

But word verification on Krafty's blog was far from dull and far from annoying today!

The word I was asked to enter was cunjeta.  Nothing wild, you might think.  Actually, no, completely wild!  Like a new word invented for the lady garden and reminding me of Conchita Martinez.

Fabulous.

3

Kamakura, Japan.  2006.  Those were the days!

Leaving

We left Japan on 6th June 2007.  From the Park Hyatt, Tokyo, to Narita airport by limousine bus. How a bus has anything to do with a limousine, I don't know, but that's not for here.

I was very sad that morning, and being tired always exaggerates emotion.  Leaving is never a delicious experience and saying cheerio to Alan and Junya the previous evening made this one of the longest good-byes in history.  Painful and not at all nice.

As the bus pulled away from the hotel, I began thinking about all the things we'd seen and done in our short stay.  And the things we hadn't done: the fish market, an oxygen bar and a visit to an onsen.  Also, I was sad to have to leave Marie (my birthday gift from Dan and Masumi) behind at the hotel.  There would be no chance of me being able to take her on the aeroplane.  But I had a plan so that she might live.  I removed the cord from her neck and let her float up to the ceiling. Surely, the cleaners wouldn't look up. And the next inhabitants of room #4909 might adopt her.

More sad than leaving Marie, I was upset to the point of tearful at leaving Alan and Junya.  Even now, after this short time, they feel lost in the mists, not only of time, but of the Orient, like another realm, another planet, another reality.  Distance is a horrible thing.  Email, blogging and telephone calls don't make up for physical contact; a brush of ones hair, a hug, a kiss.  Or first hand vision of a beautiful smile.  They are lost.  For now.  But I do feel, honestly, someday I'll find them.

Leaving Japan was much easier than entering.  Were it not for the lack of cheering, I might have imagined they were glad to see the back of us.  On the passenger side, it was time to seek out a toilet, café/restaurant and shop - in that order.

Having tiddled, we sat and watched the Airbus A380 manoeuvre around the apron and then took our traditional yet untypical Japanese breakfast of coffee and cakes, this time, courtesy of Starbucks.  An area was set aside for the consumption of purchased goods, shared with other establishments.  I noticed a couple of menus.  Not exactly engrish, but delightful nonetheless, one asked me if vegetables were enough, another offered the dreaded curry doughnut which haunted me during 2006.

Breakfast over, we headed, with haste, to a shop selling electronics and watches.  Yes!  I was after a new watch.  Impressed with Alan's, I'd decided to bag a Japanese Fossil for myself, though had not seen any up until then.  Thankfully, all that changed in the shop and I purchased a fabulous timepiece for myself.  Every time I look at it, I'm reminded of my time in Japan, not only this year, but in 2006 and 2004.

On our way to the gate, we passed a couple of daft American women, asking a Japanese man for directions to their aeroplane and seemingly unaware of where they actually were, asked, "Do you know where we're at?"

I can be quite rude at times, hen, and, rather loudly, I tutted and commented on her poor grasp of grammar.

Where we're at?  At?

Lord, preserve us.

Our journey home was far from fabulous.  Lufthansa aeroplanes are scruffy and old.  Their cabin crew are at best, rude.  At worst, a bunch of humourless cunts.  The food is dreadful and the entertainment a disgrace.  We were cold, hungry and ignored.

Frankfurt airport is equally vile.  Dirty, scruffy, old and in dire need of a lick of paint and some smiles on the faces of the workers there.  I was keen to get away on our flight to London.

Luckily, our flight from London to Edinburgh was provided by British Airways.  How fabulous to travel with an airline with morals, who believe in new aeroplanes, cleanliness and the occasional smile!  And food, to boot!  Good food.  And copious amounts of booze!

So before long, we were back in Edinburgh, back in our wee house.  Japan, thousands of miles away.

TTFN

Our last evening in Japan was spent performing Karaoke.

Our day in Disneyland over, Ian and I made our way back to Shinjuku to meet up with our most delicious of friends, Alan and Junya. We were unusually early. In waiting, I was flattered to find the Japanese people passing by would stop to admire Ian in his Fantasia/Sorcerer's Apprentice headgear and me in my Minnie Mouse wedding veil. Of course, they hated to be caught looking. When I'd turn around to see them, heads turned, looking back at us, they'd bow their heads of cover their mouths and giggle in that cutesy way, the way only the Japanese people know. Of course, some were brave, would ask where we were from or say, "Cute!" By and large, though, they were shy, yet intrigued to see a fat Westerner in cartoon drag.

The Minnie Mouse gear came in very handy indeed. After meeting up with Alan and Junya, we headed off to a Karaoke place, taking an all you can eat and drink package with karaoke. I adored singing, favourites being a medley of West End Girls/So Excited (I Could Vomit), I Begin To Spin Around and Like A Virgin. Like A Virgin simply cannot and should not be sung without a wedding veil worn. Our waiter did his level best to ignore me singing that song to him when he came into our room with beer, sake and food, though he did leave with a smile on his face. Which was a picture. A better picture would have been the look on his Mother's face when he returned home after his shift. I can picture it now.

"Kon Ban Wah, Ma!"
"Hi, darlin'! How was your shift?"
"Well, you'll never believe it, but this big, fat Western Man dressed up in no small way like Minnie Mouse tried his seduction techniques on me by singing Like A Virgin."
"Have you been at the medicine cabinet again, son?"

Oh, to be a fly on the wall.

Ian's highlight, I am sure, was singing Hung Up. He seemed to really enjoy it. Alan amazed us by singing in Japanese and Junya amazed us with his strong, yet somehow delicate and fragile voice.

We had a blast. We really did. Such fun.

But then it was time to go. Alan and Junya came back to the hotel with us to pick up some Irn Bru and some cables we'd borrowed in order to recharge our electrical devices. After a very short stay, it was time to go in order that they caught their final train home.

A sad goodbye and a sad ending to the happiest of holidays.

I miss Alan and Junya more than I can express, all thanks to the limits of language. Needless to say, I love them dearly and look forward to seeing them soon, God willing.

Birthday

Fib Sunday is gone. It is no more. It is done.

Dead.

Trying to break out from the chains of my comfort blanket into a brave new world, I abandon the old and look to the new. Being a creature of habit, though, I am eager maintain a theme for Sundays and seek out a new one. I'll have decided by next week. Come back then, if you do so wish, Sunday girl, Sunday boy.

Ian Thorpe, though, was the last person to submit a Fib and new topic (a lack of understanding in people from other times). In his honour, I offer, without suggestion of a new topic (for Fib Sunday is dead - did I mention that?):

Back;
Back.
Further.
Further back.
Going back in time.
Grasp feathered birds; not of metal.

Moving on...

Although I hate to admit it, I am thirty five years old, dear reader. As I move, in the Biblical sense, into the second half of my life, not only do I look old, I feel old. Though on the day of my birthday, I felt young, youthful and lithe.

It began, as usual, after rising, washing and dressing, with breakfast. Though not in our usual haunt, a bakery. No. My birthday breakfast was taken in our hotel, the Park Hyatt, Tokyo. I've never paid twenty five pounds for a poached egg on toast before, but I do think it was worth every penny. Well, every ¥en. You see, my little maid, Ian and I were not only paying for the food, but for the view and to experience life how the other half live it.

Intimidated, perhaps, by the surroundings, the millionaries and the staring eyes of the former axis powers, I resisted the buffet table until prompted to do so by our caring waitress. As Jack was baffled by which pieces of cutlery to use and when, I had no idea at which point during the proceedings to go and grab as many pastries, cakes and fine delicacies as possible. My Mother gave me some very good advice when I was a young man and I've always lived by it.

"If you don't know what to do," she said, "do nothing and wait until you do know."

Fine advice indeed - and it works well in all situations, even this one. Unsure when to act, I decided to sit tight and wait. After a gentle and diplomatic prod from our waitress, I knew when the time was right and went for it.

And shit, did I go for it! Not wanting to seem or look greedy and constantly repeating the mantra quality, not quantity, I brought as much back to the table as appeared reasonable. Though in doing so, through nervousness, I'm sure, I made a massive fuck-up. In attempting to transport some cream cheese from a bowl via a spoon to my plate, Minge ended up, with extreme force, splattering a load of white muck all over the floor.

Shit!

What would the millionaires do? What would the former axis powers do? What would I do?

Reverting to type, skivvy type, I got down on my knees and attempted to pick said splat up. Though, now, what to do with it? I checked to see if anyone was looking before wiping the white goo on the corner of the table before returning with my fine fair to Ian where my poached eggs on toast were waiting.

Breakfast over, we headed off to Yoyogi Park. On the agenda: The Meiji Shrine, the museums and the Harajuku girls!

Shinto, a uniquely Japanese religion, is principally based on the worship of spirits, nature and ancestors resulting in a reverence of wisdom, beauty and peace, all easily felt and tangible inside Shinto shrines and temples. More concerned with the here and now than an afterlife, a respect for life itself fills the hearts and minds of devotees, even the simplest of curious tourists like me.

I have a great admiration for Shintoism and wonder what the world would be like if it were the leading universal religion instead of the horror of the Abrahamic blief systems the world is, depending on ones viewpoint, either cursed or blessed with. Of course, Shinto did not stop Japan's aggression during the course of World War II, so perhaps it wouldn't be such a different place. Having said that, I must repeat my notions of joy and peace as felt during my visits to the holier places in Japan, both Shinto and Buddhist and am reminded of my opinion that religions are often hijacked, their peaceful intentions replaced with hatred and used as banners of war.

But that's a whole other debate, my lamb.

Before leaving the shrine, both Phyllis and I wrote out a prayer on a wooden tablet and hung it about a sacred tree. I hope God or at least someone was listening or can read my plea.

On leaving, we, at first, thought we were quite fortunate to see a wedding procession. Fortune had nothing to do with it, however. As soon as one was over, another began. The Meiji Shrine, it was apparent, is THE place to get married. Also, babies are brought for a blessing and prayers offered for the dead. A good place to visit on my birthday, then - and I did pray that I would one day return.

From the shrine itself, we walked through the park to the Meiji Treasure Museum, stopping en route for a drink from the vending machines which seem to be omnipresent in Japan. Small, with only a few articles on display, all having belonged to the Emperor Meiji or his wife. He looked a proper bruiser, she, something like a primordial dwarf. I know I shouldn't, but I have a morbid curiosity and wondered how and indeed if they had sexual relations. My mind's workings went into overtime and I imagined Meiji's penis being as big as his wife.

An annexe, found elsewhere in the park, was filled with nineteenth Century royal garb, totty shoes and fans. It also provided welcome eating facilities where Phyllis and I gobbled up two huge bowls of ramen. Very little Japanese cuisine was on offer, oddly, in such a Japanese place. Everyone around and about us seemed to be stuffing corndogs and hamburgers into their tiny mouths, swiftly followed by whippy ice-cream.

Lunch over with, we proceeded to another area of Yoyogi Park to visit my adored Harajuku girls (and boys). Their look, whether it be the classis Gothic Lolita or Visual kei, never ceases to make my heart race. If I lived in Tokyo, I am sure I'd be there in Harajuku every Sunday aftenoon, perhaps in a wedding dress and kinky boots. Probably bought at Innocent World.

We were offered and gladly accepted free hugs. Japanese teddy boys danced. Victorian costumes were worn. What a fabulous atmosphere. Add to that the live music, the food stalls, the selling of bizarre old calculators, cables and 1980s computer game consoles and Harajuku was alive with all that's strange, all that's fabulous.

The only thing to stop me from living out the rest of my life with the Harajuku girls was the impending arrival of Alan and Junya at our hotel. Read about the day from Alan's perspective here. And there are some great shots of our meal to behold, too!

But I'm jumping ahead of myself...

We met Alan and Junya in our hotel room during the latter half of the afternoon. At five o'clock, we headed up to the New York bar for a round of early drinks, the beginning of my birthday celebrations. Avoiding my boozing comfort blanket, a delicious Margarita, instead, I opted for a cherry cocktail, made with a traditional japanese cherry liqueur, sake and, I believe something else. What, though, I can't remember. But I can remember how delicious it was! Alan and Junya presented me with a fabulous book, Watching The English by Kate Fox. We had a blast. Really, a wonderfully happy time. I glanced over to where Bill Murray sat in Lost In Translation and was tempted to go and sit there, too. After all, it was my birthday. I felt a bit silly, though, so stayed put.

Next, the Ninja restaurant and my birthday meal, another kind and fabulous gift to me from Alan and Junya. I've never been to a theme restaurant before and didn't really know what to expect. Good job. Expect the unexpected. A lady met us from the door and escorted us along some kind of labyrinth to our table, many scares along the way. Once seated in near darkness, Alan and Junya helped us decide how to order from the menu. A huge benefit to us, I can tell you, my love. What I didn't know, was the number of different courses (all of which can be seen, in detail, on Alan's blog entry about my birthday) we were about to consume! Beginning with Lobster Tofu and, some two hours later, maybe more, ending up with delicious desserts. No! I lie! The meal did not end with desserts, no! We were treated to a private magic show by a Ninja! He made coins appear and disappear and then delighted us with card tricks, allowing me to keep the ace of spades, the card I'd chosen from the deck. What a wonderful treat for wee Minge.

On leaving, we were yet again escorted out of the building, this time by a slighty more direct route and waved off, literally until we were out of sight, by the same woman who'd greeted us hours before.

The night was not over yet, however. A return trip to the New York Bar at the Park Hyatt was absolutely necessary. At five o'clock, during our first visit, poor Alan had been refused entry on account of his sandals. Not any rough old sandals, you understand, but high fashion footwear. Why, I can't imagine, as on our return, we were joined in the bar by several scruffy old geezers in shell suits accompanied, quite obviously, by rent boys. High class hookers, the lads may have been, their clients were definitely low class.