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.

The honeymoon (oh how I hate that word)

Thursday, February 27th, 2014

The first glimpse that a visitor gets of Langley Castle

It's been a while since my last blog entry, since when I've got married, been on "honeymoon", and returned to work. So while I impatiently await the pictures of the civil ceremony day itself, I thought I'd write something about the amazing few days we spent afterwards. The honeymoon...
Oh, how I hate that word. I'm not sure exactly why, it just sounds so twee and old-fashioned, like something people harped on about in 1970s sitcoms. I looked up the origins of the word, and it seems the etymology is confused, but one opinion says the word originates in the Middle Ages when a newlywed couple would be given a month's worth of mead as a gift by friends and family - a month's supply being sufficient for one full cycle of the moon, in which time it was expected the bride would fall pregnant. And, of course, mead is made with honey, and honey is proven to act as a powerful fertility booster, so there you go. Or rather, there we didn't go!
Anyway, the "honeymoon". After staying our first night betrothed in Chester, we travelled oop north (an old stalking ground of mine from my university days) to stay in York for a couple of nights. I love York, it groans with history and atmosphere and is a rare gem that hasn't been exploited by commercialism too much.

Complimentary chocs

We stayed at a Best Western hotel called the Monkbar, and although it is part of a national chain, you'd never know, because it is family-run, and it shows. Personal service, friendly and down-to-earth, you can just tell it's run by people and not policies. We weren't ten minutes in the room when the telephone rang and it was the receptionist ringing to check everything was OK with the room. Now, I've stayed in scores of hotels across the world in my time, but never in any of them have I had a call to the room to check it was OK.
We also got a little box of four complimentary chocolates, which naturally went down exceedingly well!

These dudes were very kind,
 they stood very still while I
 took my photo

We spent a lot of time taking literally hundreds of photos of York Minster, a vast and awesome spectacle which I had walked past and looked at countless times in the past, but never actually gone inside. The expense had put me off (£10 each), but that entry fee allows the holder to revisit the Minster for free as many times as they like for the next 12 months, which isn't a bad deal, especially if you're local.
I'm not a fan as such of ecclesiastical architecture - the extravagance and immodesty of Catholic church interiors in particular leaves me uneasy - but they are definitely good to photograph, so we had a ball.
Another good haunt in York is the Guy Fawkes Inn, just a hop, skip and jump from the Minster. They do excellent evening meals in a very subdued atmosphere of candlelight and authentic decor. Spooky, but not scary. Hot waiter, too...

The stalls of York Minster... Very M R James!

The awesome chapter house

After York we moved on to Northumberland, to stay in the 14th century castle at Langley, close to Hexham. We'd stayed there a couple of years ago on a press trip freebie and loved it so much that we vowed to return, and we considered a post-nup stay the ideal opportunity.

Looking through from the bathroom to the
 bedroom (see the spooky apparition
 in the chair?)

I've always wanted to stay inside a castle, a proper castle with turrets and 7ft thick walls and suits or armour and flags, and this is it. Last time we stayed in the converted barn lodge overlooking the castle. This time we were in the Greenwich suite inside the castle itself. Not cheap, but truly worth every extravagant penny.
Our room had a window seat overlooking the front of the castle, including a fountain and impressive topiary and a woodland seething with rabbits and birdsong. It was so relaxing, sitting drinking a morning cuppa overlooking such tranquil surroundings.
Langley is just off the A69, which runs roughly parallel to the original route of Hadrian's Wall, so there is a lot of history about this rugged moorland. Various Roman landmarks and tourist attractions pepper the route, so we called in to a couple and really enjoyed our time there. There's the remains of an impressive original Roman settlement at Vindolanda; you can walk around the actual settlement, which has been and continues to be painstakingly unearthed and preserved by archaeologists. There are no buildings left intact, but it's like walking around the foundations of the settlement, complete with doorways and butcher's slabs and the freshwater irrigation channels. A truly inspiring place.

Vindolanda, sozzled in sepia

At the Roman Army Museum seven miles away it's all indoors, but there is a 3D film you can watch recreating Roman Britain, following one handsome soldier on his journey from simple lackey to a full-on centurion (fact fans like me will appreciate the nugget that a centurion did not command 100 men, just 80).
And then it was off back home, but we had an amazing, rewarding and refreshing few days "honeymoon" which we will never forget. You're truly treated like a prince at Langley, and I've always loved York, so the entire trip was well-planned. And who doesn't love a Roman soldier?
Now, where the heck are those wedding photos... ?

The window seat at Langley Castle.
We spent a lot of our time while in the room here!

A marriage is announced

Tuesday, February 4th, 2014

Two rings to bind one love

It's been in the pipeline for many months now, but as I am not the kind of person to crave being the centre of attention (says he, writing on his internationally published blog), I haven't been publicising it very widely.
Until now.
Truth is, in 11 days time, I'll be a married man! On Saturday, February 15th, 2014, Gareth and I will be standing side by side, saying vows to one another in a civil ceremony, exchanging rings and pledging ourselves to one another for the rest of our lives.
It's been a long time coming too, because that very same day is our 18th anniversary. It's taken 18 years to get to the stage where we - as same-sex partners - can finally "tie the knot".
Well, that's not strictly true. Civil partnerships have been legal since December 2005 in Britain, it's just taken us over eight years to pull our fingers out (and slip them into matching gold rings).
And the even truer truth is that we've waited so damn long to do this that we're almost out of date straight away. In March 2014 it will be legal for same-sex partners to get married, so we are only six weeks away from a new improvement in the equality laws.
What will really happen is we'll become civil partners (the first time we'll have been civil to one another for years - joke!) and at the end of March we apply for a marriage licence, which will be granted due to the civil partnership being in place.
Some people might wonder what the importance of doing this is after almost two decades co-habiting, but it's important, both from an equal rights standpoint, and just due to the fact we love each other and why the hell shouldn't we? I won't list here all the reasons why being civil partners or recognised as a married couple is better from an equality point of view, you can Google that up for yourself.
But what I would rather you look up is the lack of equal rights for gay people overseas. The UK is a forward-thinking, liberal society that may have taken its time to get to this point, but at least it's moving forwards, not backwards, as in some countries.
Russia - soon to be in the international spotlight thanks to the Winter Olympics - has a shocking gay rights record. Apparently there are no gay people in Russia (population: 143 million).
In Iran, they have been known to hang people for being gay, and in Uganda they are trying to pass an act of Parliament to make being gay illegal, and punishable with imprisonment. There are also efforts to make it against the law not to report a person you suspect is gay to the authorities.
All this hatred and bloodlust in the name of love, the strongest force we have.
What I am saying is that just because gay rights have made huge leaps forward in the UK, doesn't mean people don't still hate me. Hatred exists in the UK, but sadly attacks on gay people are rarely reported as widely in the media as those on straight people.
And most worryingly of all, hatred for gay people in parts of Asia and Africa is actually growing, not dying away.
And this makes it even more important for Gareth and I to exercise the rights we have as a same-sex couple next week. I hope you wish us well, but please do not ignore or forget those who are not so lucky, those who do not feel as free to simply be themselves.

This isn't Gareth and I, but they're just as good looking as us from the back!

A most memorable Mancunian memoir

Sunday, February 2nd, 2014

I had such a good weekend in Manchester that I felt I wanted to write about it, and you can choose to read about it or not.
It all began on Friday with a lovely meal at one of my favourite eateries in the city centre, Kro at Piccadilly Gardens. It's a Danish restaurant/ bar but has all sorts of dishes on the menu. Having said that, I often find I prefer the Danish dishes, many of which seem to incorporate either fried or poached eggs, beetroot or black pudding. Sometimes all three. It's very hearty food, the sort of solid, meat and potatoes nosh that makes you feel good on a cold, winter's night (which it was on Friday).

Medister sausages. They have
 quite a kick

This time around I opted for medisterpølse, a Danish or Norwegian speciality consisting of a thick, spicy sausage made of minced pork, and it was delicious. In the past I've also enjoyed biksemad, a hash made with pork, onion and potato flavoured with lashings of Worcestershire sauce, topped with a fried egg and beetroot. I often think that most food would benefit from a dash of Lea and Perrins...
After loosening my belt by one notch, we headed to Manchester Opera House for a show I've been meaning to see for years now - Thriller Live. It's been firmly ensconced in London's West End for most of the last eight years, but it's current UK tour was an opportunity too good to miss.

The calm before the storm of hits

Being a fan of Michael Jackson's music since I was a teenager (any "child of the 80s" cannot fail to count the Thriller or Bad album among their earliest memories of discovering pop music) this show was a fantastic celebration of the late entertainer's most popular work. I wouldn't say it had the most imaginative set list, but then if they didn't include the likes of Thriller, Bad, Billie Jean, Beat It or Smooth Criminal, I'm sure the audience would lynch them. It would have been nice to include a few of Jackson's lesser known but just as enjoyable tracks though, such as Whatever Happens or You Rock My World off his 2001 Invincible album.
Nevertheless, everybody seemed to have a riotous time, and it was a great atmosphere in what is a gorgeous little Edwardian theatre (little being the accurate description of its very cramped leg room).

Manchester Opera House managed to look a little like the cinema in Michael Jackson's Thriller video

After a few drinks in my favourite bar in Manchester - the Molly House on Richmond Street - it was to bed, ready for Day Two.
Up bright and early, and a delicious breakfast at the small but perfectly formed Blue Daisy Cafe in the city's Northern Quarter. It only has three tables inside, and a couple outside, but if there's space, this is one of the best places I know of for freshly prepared home-cooked food. They always have delicious looking soups and salads in their chiller, and I always feel I want to sample them all. This time I opted for scrambled eggs with spinach, tomatoes and mushrooms on thick bread, however. The perfect start for a busy day ahead.
We "did the shops", including one of the finest, most exciting, diverse, crazy, bohemian and imaginative places in the city, Affleck's off Church Street, again in the Northern Quarter.

Affleck's, aka Affleck's Palace

If you like to go round shops which sell oddments and knick-knacks, unusual handmade trinkets, vintage clothing and homewares, fancy dress, jewellery et al, this is the place for you - a vast multi-storey warehouse of individual, independent traders, many of whom make their own goods to sell, while others trade in second-hand and nostalgic goods. Marvel at Star Wars figures, 1950s telephones, retro wall paintings, stacks of old VHS tapes and Amstrad game cassettes, 70s lampshades and Army surplus clothing.
I love Affleck's, and after one visit, you will too.
We then drove over to Salford Quays (annoyingly, the Metrolink was undergoing maintenance on Saturday) and parked at the Lowry Outlet Mall, where you can get four hours free parking if you eat at one of the restaurants there. So we did, scoffing Italian breads and meatballs at Bella Italia before nipping across to the Lowry for our second theatrical date of the weekend, this time with Rob Ward of Manchester's own Working Progress Theatre Company, and his one-man show Away From Home (you can watch the trailer at the foot of this entry).
In the space of 65 minutes Rob manages to portray umpteen different characters in a play which addresses homophobia in football, or more accurately the lack of out gay players in the sport.

Rob Ward

Rob plays a gay footie fan (two things that go together rather awkwardly) who is also a male escort, and who one day meets a new client who just happens to be a high-flying Premiership footballer. A relationship blossoms between the two, but it can never be spoken of because footballers just aren't gay, obviously.
The play addresses the inability of players to feel they can come out while still active in the game, for fear of "career suicide" as well as a stream of offensive, homophobic chanting on the pitch from fans.
The play is explicit, daring, confrontational, challenging and most importantly of all, unafraid to address a topic that has been taboo for far too long. The Studio Theatre at the Lowry was packed to the rafters, so congratulations to Rob for coming up with something genuinely brave and entertaining.

The Reading Room at the John Rylands Library

Then it was back into the city to catch the free Subluminal event at the beautifully gothic John Rylands Library on Deansgate. Its cathedral-like grandeur was the perfect venue for Subluminal, which basically used lighting and sound effects to create a spooky, eerie and unnerving walk-through experience.
The main reading room at the Library is impressive at the best of times, but illuminated in deep neon pinks and oranges, it was like being in some dream-like netherworld. The trip into the Library's cellars was claustrophobic and exhilarating.
And it was all for free. Such a good event.
Just one example of the many and varied things you can do in Manchester on any given weekend. I could even have gone on a giant pink observation wheel if I wanted, but I didn't. I did the London Eye a few years ago, but not even the Mancunian skyline can top that!

The Freij Wheel at Piccadilly Gardens