In Bruges (but sadly, no Colin Farrell)

Tuesday, May 27th, 2014

What a beautiful place Bruges is! I was so sorry to have to leave it last week because I felt so at home and at rest there, and also very welcome.
It's a quaint place, and there's a lot of history oozing out of every brick, so it's my kind of place. I suppose it might be said it's a bit too quaint in that it's pretty much stayed untouched and unchanged (and certainly unbombed) for hundreds of years, to the extent that it's almost become a theme park attraction for enthusiasts of medieval Europe.
Certainly during my stay I saw few of the trappings of your usual "city break" - I saw no golden arches or Starbucks logos. It didn't feel like a working city beyond the essential focus on catering for tourism - there were more coffee shops, restaurants and chocolate shops than Rolf Harris has had sleepless nights. But beyond that, I saw very little evidence of any other industry (except for a brewery, but then that is also catering for tourists in part).
So while I told my fellow travellers I could see myself living in Bruges, I've changed my mind. I'd love to live there, but to work there you'd have to be a waiter or a tour guide or something like that, and I'm not sure that is very me.

A view of Bruges and its markt from the top of the Belfry

Anyway, what did I like? I loved the people and the language. Most of the communication in Bruges was in English thankfully, both verbal and written, and even if the odd Flemish phrase popped up, it was rarely hard to decipher. Just take out a couple of extraneous a's and j's and you're halfway to getting an English word!
We did all the usual touristy things - a trip on the canal boat (and in doing so, seeing the famous Dog of Bruges dozing on his pillow in the window), a tour around the historic centre, a frankly exhausting climb up the 366 steps of the 83 metre high Belfry, a tour round the Half Moon Brewery with one of the most fantastic, funny, entertaining people I think I have ever met in person (Inge Vermeire, I salute you!).
One thing we didn't manage to do was the chocolate factory, because on the way there something awful happened - my mum was hit by a scooter. Bruges may be behind the times in the way it looks but it's certainly busy enough with motorised scooters, bicycles and horse and carriages.

Tyne Cot War Cemetery

We were warned from the outset to be careful of the roads as the bikes of Bruges basically own the place. Cyclists and riders take no prisoners as they speed around the city ringing their bells and peeping their horns - except one particular scooter rider who failed to peep his horn when my mum stepped into the road on the way to the chocolate shop and the two collided with force.
The scooter rider fell off his vehicle and landed at my feet, which shocked me at first, but little did I realise he'd bounced off my mother. She was on the other side of the road in agony, clutching her arm and in tears. To cut a long story short, she was essentially fine, but the impact was on her right side, which is the side most affected by her Parkinson's, so it really did not help at all. She has since blossomed with huge bruises (the bruises of Bruges!) and is a little achey, but it could have been a lot worse.
As the scooter rider said: "As long as the lady is OK... and my bike!"
Another trip we went on was the First World War day, first going to Tyne Cot memorial cemetery near Zonnebeke in West Flanders, a typical site festooned with what seems like acres of brilliant white headstones for those brave men who fell during the Great War.
We also went to Ypres to go round the In Flanders Fields museum, which was very well done, cavernously involving and also rather moving, especially when I watched a video of an actor recounting the personal tale of one Eric Hiscock and his unrequited love that dare not speak its name for his dying comrade. Hiscock's ill-fated friend told him his favourite poem was The Great Lover by Rupert Brooke, quoting the "rough male kiss of blankets". I admit I left the museum with dampened eyes.
One place I very much disliked and would recommend to nobody was Hill 62, a ramshackle museum owned and run by one of the richest (and to my mind most dispassionate) men in Belgium. His family has owned much of the land known as Passchendaele since just after the war, and since then has blatantly and outrageously cashed in on the memorial tourism that comes with it, especially now as four years of commemoration and remembrance are due to kick off.

Tyne Cot memorial

The museum is a dusty, dirty, pokey, musty hole with plenty of vaguely interesting exhibits picked from the battlefield and (sometimes quite horrifying) photos, but presented in such a disrespectful, uninvolving way that I just wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible - I literally felt grubby when I left.
One interesting aspect of the visit was the genuine, preserved original war trenches, the only ones to survive to this day, and it is humbling to see them. You can literally walk over them and through them, but they do get predictably swampy and muddy so many people don't follow in the footsteps of the fallen.
Hill 62 is a desperately sad place, where so many men died fighting for liberty, but it's also depressing because of the neglect and disrespect from the people who own the land and the museum. They take 10 euros per person, and it seems to me not a single cent has been invested back into the attraction for the best part of a century. Criminal.
Oh, and if you do go there, do not eat or drink any of the food in the cafe. You'll see why. And you'll see all the roaming, stray cats too...
But I was sorry to leave Bruges, it's cobbled streets and historic architecture, it's friendly people and straightforward cuisine. I am usually ready to come home after a few days away on holiday, but this time I was not, I wanted to stay. There was so much more to see and do, which means I'll definitely be back.
But next time I might well wear a hi-vis jacket to cross the road...

Me with Dave the giraffe. And why not?

Me with my lovely mum (the day before the scooter
 incident meant she had to wear long-sleeved tops)

Me with my lovely husband

Better late than never (pics from the Big Day)

Thursday, May 1st, 2014

One of my favourite pictures, of me and Gareth at the strawberry prosecco reception

I promised some time ago to let those people interested see some pics from the civil partnership ceremony back in February, and it's taken time to get pictures from friends and family and even more time to get round to collating them. Here's a selection of our very happy day and the "honeymoon" (argh!) afterwards...

Him and me, my mum and my dad

The newlyweds

I love this photo. Me with my mum, captured in a moment which
wouldn't be out of place on the cover of a Carry On film DVD

This was a double-selfie taken in the hours before the ceremony.
I was ten times as nervous as I look here! Gareth was Mr Chilled.

Where we had the reception, the Marco Pierre White restaurant at
 the Doubletree by Hilton, Chester. Excellent venue and amazing service

The laid table before the guests dined.
That helium-filled balloon lasted a month!

Another of my favourite pictures: me with my mum and good friend Erika.
I felt like I was in a maternal sandwich!

One of the few pics taken of the both of us on "honeymoon" in the lounge of
 Langley Castle, Northumbria. Beautiful, fairytale place.

The civilly partnered rabbits handmade by my good friend Eva, who sadly couldn't make it on the day.
 These guys are ace though (and they came in a really gay spangly shoebox!).

The amazing decorated and present-laden desk that I came back to work to after the "honeymoon",
 complete with more flowers than I have ever seen in one bunch (I had to split them into four vases),
 as well as balloons, a banner, the inevitable sprinkles, a cake, champers, cards and vouchers.
A special day.

Monkeying around at the zoo

Friday, April 25th, 2014

"God am I sick of these monkeys staring and pointing at me..."

Gareth and I had a fantastic day out with the godchildren on Thursday. The sun was beating down so we headed for the Welsh Mountain Zoo in Colwyn Bay, which is worth the price of admission alone for its stunning views.
The kids - aged three and seven - had a whale of a time, as did their mum and dad and baby brother, catching up with the birds of prey, the sea lions, tiger, lemurs, red panda, penguins, wild horses, deer, reptiles, farm animals, gibbons, chimps, camels and macaws (to name a few!).
It's well worth a trip up there for anybody living in or visiting North Wales. They even have a stone circle to eat your picnic on!

This chimp looked like he was cold, but it was actually a very warm day

These lemurs hopped out of their huddle to catch some rays every time the sun came from behind the clouds

A very friendly wild horse. I christened him Peter. No reason.

Deer. Or "Bambis", as the children insisted!

Gareth's god-daughter, looking like butter wouldn't melt.
But, I can tell you, it DOES!

And here's my god-daughter, photographing the birds of prey.
 Like father, like daughter, obviously

An example of the beautiful views over the bay from the zoo

Some scruffy touristy looking guy.
He photo-bombed my picture of a landscape...

Two-minute warning

Sunday, April 20th, 2014

Tapes up at Belle Vue stadium, Manchester, on Good Friday

Back in the mists of time, when I was a twentysomething at university (so long ago that it was in the last millennium), I used to regularly go to the speedway. I studied in the north-east, in Darlington, and travelled over to Middlesbrough to watch the home meetings for the speedway at Cleveland Park.
I got into it through a friend on my uni course who was a lifelong speedway fan, and one night he asked if I'd like to go along. I was going through a particularly tough period at university at this time (around 1995) and was grateful of anything that got me away from the student digs I was sharing.
Going to the speedway sort of saved me, and I'll forever be grateful to my friend Steve ("Beardo"!) who took me along. We used to travel over from Darlington to Middlesbrough in a rackety old three-door car driven by Steve's speedway-obsessed friend who barely registered my presence because he was too busy talking about the various injustices that had happened in the speedway world that week, or which riders had been chosen (or not chosen) to take part. He wasn't rude, he was just a fanatic (and I wish I could recall his name).

These bikes have no brakes

People who know me these days might find it hard to believe I like speedway. After all, it's a little-known, sadly ailing sport which exists in a very masculine, "blokey" world - not the sort of thing expect me to be into. But not all gay men are into Barbra Streisand, Kylie Minogue and RuPaul's Drag Race; some men do defy the stereotype!
What do I love about speedway? I love the atmosphere at a meeting, the smells and sounds. The smell of the oil mixed with the dusty gravel of the track, and the burgers and chips; the compelling roar of the four bikes' engines as they rev up in unison, then step up to top gear simultaneously before the tape rises; the excitement mixed with trepidation as the riders approach and negotiate that first bend, where they could either steam ahead past competitors, or topple over and skid at high speed into the barriers.
It's not a complicated sport: four bikes from two teams compete in 15 races, each of four laps. The winner gets three points, the second placed gets two, third place gets one, and last place diddly-squat. Add all the points up at the end and plug it into a league table. And that's it, simple.
But I'm not into the stats, I'm into the sheer excitement of watching the racing. I couldn't do it myself - I mean, the bikes don't have brakes, for goodness sake! - but the thrill of watching the ride is enough.
I stopped going to the speedway in 1996 when the Cleveland Park track closed; the following year I left Darlington and I've never been to a speedway meeting since. The number of speedway teams has plummeted in the intervening years, and there aren't so many left these days, certainly not in the north-west.

Belle Vue stadium

But on Good Friday I made a "pilgrimage" back to my speedway days - 18 years since I last attended a meeting, I finally got to go to Belle Vue stadium at Manchester to watch the Aces take on the Wolverhampton Wolves. And it was amazing. The excitement just flooded back with the smell of the oil and the roar of the engines.
It's a pity Belle Vue Aces usually hold their home meetings on Monday nights - a time I find virtually impossible to be there for - but once a year they have a family day on Good Friday, and this year's was packed out due to the sweltering Easter weather.
I had a great time and feel sad that I can't go to the speedway more often. Maybe if I ever get to move Manchester-way, I'll be able to attend more meetings.
But until that time the joy and adrenaline of my speedway days will live brightly in my memory. Memories of the Boro Bears at Cleveland Park and the Aces at Belle Vue.

Happy with my programme

Music is my radar

Thursday, April 3rd, 2014

I don't go and see live music too often - most of the music artists I like are either dead or retired! But just recently things have changed, and some of the most prominent musicians in my life have re-emerged, either from obscurity or the grave!

Kate Bush... back on stage after 35 years

The biggest musical news of 2014 so far surely has to be the fact Kate Bush has announced her first live dates since 1979, and the media furore that surrounded people's difficulty in securing tickets to see this seldom seen genius.
Kate isn't to all tastes, but it's hard to deny that she has a towering songwriting talent and a totally unique voice. When her Before the Dawn live dates at London's Hammersmith Odeon went on sale last week, there was a mad scramble from fans across the globe to snap them up. She may be doing 15 dates, but that'll probably be it, so this is by and large a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see her live.
Luckily, I managed to get some, and I do feel ridiculously lucky to have got them when I see on social media so many heartbroken people who didn't. It was first come first served, and I was lucky enough to be served while they still had some stock in.
And so hubby and I will be off to Hammersmith in August to see the lady herself, and I really don't care what she sings, because it's Kate Bush! She could sing the Phone Book and it'd be beautiful (in fact she almost did just that on her 2005 track Pi, most of the lyrics for which are simply, well... pi! But done so beautifully!).
I'm secretly hoping for This Woman's Work (one of the most heartrending sad songs of all time), Running Up That Hill, Hammer Horror and Somewhere In Between - but really, she can sing what the heck she likes, because I'll be there listening!

Tori Amos... unrepentant

The other major live gig we're seeing this year is Tori Amos, too often cited as a poor man's Kate Bush but actually a prodigious talent who deserves much better classification than that. Tori has been going since the early 1990s as a solo artist but has evolved so much musically over the decades, in recent years even embracing classical scores and writing her own musical.
But it is the cheeky, daring raw emotion she pours into her music which marks her out, alongside her peerless talents at the piano and her soaring, ethereal vocals. We're seeing Tori in Manchester in May, and I'm looking forward to reconnecting with her after a few years drifting apart.
Album-wise, I'm looking forward to Blur frontman Damon Albarn's first ever solo album, Everyday Robots, later this month. I've followed Damon's career ever since the early days of the Britpop kings, Blur being my favourite band of all time, and while I've enjoyed his side projects such as Gorillaz and The Good, the Bad and the Queen, it is his individual songwriting talent, an ear for melody, which I gravitate towards.

Damon Albarn... solo after 25 years

His solo album sounds to be quite a sombre, understated affair, but I am still looking forward to what must be one of the most keenly awaited solo projects of recent years.
And then earlier this week they announced a "new" album by Michael Jackson. Well, I say new, but obviously he's been dead five years so these tracks are from the vaults.
I've always been a fan of Michael, ever since the 1980s (what child of the 80s wasn't?). He is a controversial figure, but at the heart of all the gossip and calumny was a clearly defined prodigy with a near unique talent for performance, and it's great that we can enjoy slices of that talent long after he's left us.
The album of eight "contemporised" songs is called Xscape and is out the same day as Tori's new album, Unrepentant Geraldines, so that'll be quite a big week!
My other musical mainstay is David Bowie, but he stole a lead on all the others last year when he made a comeback after 10 years with his fantastic album The Next Day. I look forward to more from him this year too, but there's no sign of that just yet. Live gigs, David...?
But if Kate Bush can come out of live performance retirement after 35 years and Damon Albarn can release his first solo album 25 years after his music career began, surely anything can happen!

Michael Jackson... Best not to ask.

Coming out again and again

Thursday, March 6th, 2014

The delicious (and I mean delicious) wedding cake from my mum and dad

When you're born a homosexualist like me, growing up is so much more complicated than it is for heterosexualists, and let's face it, growing up isn't easy at the best of times. Just becoming and being a teenager has a wealth of its own obstacles to overcome.
But when you're gay, it's even harder because while all the usual adolescent stuff is going on, you're also trying to work out why you have these feelings which seem different to those of your friends and family, and once you do manage to put a name to how you feel, there is the huge obstacle of actually accepting it and then being brave enough to let other people know.
Some people take years - decades, even - to realise or accept that they might be gay, others know early on and just get on with it. But there's one thing that almost all gay people have in common, and that's the dreaded day they come out for the first time.
I'm not going into the trials and tribulations of coming out here, but what I do want to write about is the phenomenon of the never-ending coming out. Because it doesn't happen just the once, you know. Coming out can happen every week, every day perhaps. You come out the first time to someone close to you, maybe your family or a friend, but then for the rest of your life you're constantly coming out again and again to people who do not know.
Society assumes everybody is heterosexual, it's the default. So every time I meet a new person, that person will automatically assume I am straight and that I have a girlfriend or wife. And so often you have to correct somebody's assumption, resulting in a mini coming out.
This happened yet again last night on my college course. Everybody had known for weeks that I was getting married, and were very excited for me, and yesterday was the first session back since the big day so there were lots of questions.
And then came that question: "And did your wife enjoy it?"
I politely replied: "Husband, actually." And they were very apologetic and not a little embarrassed, but all was fine and we just carried out chatting about the day.
But as the evening wore on and I chatted with more people, it kept cropping up again. "I'm sure your wife was as stressed as you were"; "It's good that you're learning to cook, it'll take some pressure off your wife"; "Now you have that ring on your finger, you're wife has control!"
And to my shame I just stopped correcting them because the first time I'd done it, it'd really embarrassed the person. Now the fact they made an incorrect assumption isn't my fault of course, and I fully understand why they did, but I just felt uncomfortable having to create awkward situations constantly just because I love a man instead of a woman.
Society makes assumptions all the time - even I assume everyone I meet is straight! - but it can get so tiring being the exception to the rule sometimes, and also pretty demoralising. Most people do not have to declare their sexuality every time they meet a new person, but when you're gay, you often do. It's a constant requirement to label and define what you are in terms of who you choose to sleep with rather than any number of other far more interesting aspects about you.
So it's been really bugging me that I didn't correct some people's assumptions last night because now they think I am married to a woman and I never told them I wasn't. The fear of being gay and being disliked because of it never quite leaves you...

Bad dreams in the night...

Wednesday, March 5th, 2014

Me. Exactly me.

I had a bad dream last night. I don't have them very often - or at least I very rarely remember them - and neither do I like having them. Dreams, good or bad, unsettle me, because it demonstrates to me that the unconscious mind has a power over me, that my mind does things I cannot control, and I don't like that thought.
When I was a child I used to have a recurring nightmare which makes little sense to me now, and I've always wondered what it meant. I was in a vast empty black void, but standing on a train track which crisscrossed many other tracks shooting off into the inky nothingness in lots of different directions.
Then, thundering towards me along one track came a giant ball of what I can only describe as Plasticine or clay, intent on crushing me. I would shout "Press the button! Turn the switch!" out loud in my sleep, prompting my mum or dad to rush in and wake me up to stop the nightmare.
I had this quite often for a period of time, always ending, like a Doctor Who cliffhanger, with me shouting to press the button and make it stop. Weird.
Last night's bad dream really did feed into something buried deep in my psyche from childhood. When I was a schoolboy in the 1980s they used to show us schools programmes on the TV - Look and Read, Middle English, that kind of stuff - and they used to have a serialised story called Interference, which absolutely terrified me as a nine-year-old.
It was about a family which went away to stay in a cottage for the summer holidays but discovered that there were problems with the electricity and at night the power would go off. It transpired there was a ghost in the generator in the cellar, and it would manifest in different ways, most pant-wettingly of all as a scarcely-glimpsed crying face of an old woman through the interference on the television screen (even though there was no power to the TV!).
Last night's bad dream involved Gareth and I going to a cottage in the countryside to visit what I seem to recall from the dream were supposed to be quite an odd couple, a man and his wife.
Then the dream started twisting and changing, as they do, until people and situations changed and the cottage became my mum and dad's house, and the odd couple became my parents (I think - even as I type it's fading!).
For some reason I then tried to discover if my mum and dad's house was haunted by asking out loud if there was any spirit in the room, and we established that there was the spirit of a young boy.
I asked whether the ghost boy had been haunting my mum for some time, and then a scratchy moving image of a young boy's face came up on the portable TV, in and out of a haze of interference, and it answered each of my questions my making the interference hiss loudly.
I asked: "Have you been with my mum for a year or more?"
The TV hissed.
"Have you been with her for two years or more?"
It hissed again. My mum was now getting quite hysterical with fear, with the though that she'd been followed by the ghost of a little boy for all this time.
I asked: "Have you been with her for three years or more?"
It hissed again. At this point we all got really spooked because, in the dream at least, it was a fact that my parents hadn't been in this house that long, so the ghost had obviously followed them there from somewhere else!
It was at this point that I was woken from my bad dream by Gareth moaning loudly in his sleep, obviously having a bad dream of his own. I nudged him to disturb him from his nightmare, and when we both woke properly a few hours later I asked him if he remembered having a nightmare. Sadly, he didn't, but I do wonder whether he was "sharing" my bad dream in some way.
Needless to say I won't be telling my mum about this incident, but it demonstrates the reason why I really don't like dreams and nightmares. They are uncontrollable within us, like demons of the mind.