Showing posts with label Childhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Childhood. Show all posts

Saturday, 24 May 2014

Lego or Meccanno? Trains or Planes?

I wrote about Boys and their Toys fairly recently.  We love our toys.  And we’re in the enviable positions where we can continue to play with them...

FOREVER!

But when it comes to these specific options, the answer comes swiftly, easily, and without hesitation.

Lego.  A millions times Lego. I’m quite sure you can make some wonderful things with Meccanno. Realistic, working, scale models of real, tangible things – cranes, trains, planes!

But it’s not a toy, is it.  You can’t play with them. Lego is for play.  Lego is fast and colourful and rewarding. And just as creative.  More so in fact - and the minifigures are the best bit!

There are those that would argue that it has changed too much.  The pieces have become larger and less Lego-like, taking some of the creativity and design out of the premise. And some dislike the franchising... the Harry Potter, Spider-Man and Star Wars sets.

To them I say: LOOK UPON THIS BATCAVE AND TREMBLE!



And it’s fan-built too!  Take a look here!

There is something about Lego I never got over.  I’m not sure any boy ever does.  I go to the Lego shop now and look around longingly. I see lots of dads living vicariously through their wide-eyed children. There really is nothing like Lego.  It’s an expensive hobby, granted – but you get the build, the play and then the rebuild and the replay. It is the perfect toy. I have already vowed that my nephew will get Lego for every birthday once he is of age...

And my Lego?  It now sits in my classroom cupboard, and suffers a little bit from time to time, but is largely still intact. And it still gets played with, which is important to me. And I still get to have a little play now and then too – just modelling appropriate play, obviously.

Lego all the way....

And planes or trains?

WHO IN THEIR RIGHT MIND WOULD CHOOSE A TRAIN?!

Don’t get me wrong, there are bad flights, and definite downsides, but flying?  You’re in a chair IN THE SKY!  I never get bored with it.  I like it when the jet-engines come on! I like having a drink before hand, and a drink during, and you’re generally going somewhere nice too.  Flying is wonderful.  Airports are wonderful. Other passengers I can take or leave, and there are bits that stress me out, granted.  But let’s compare...

Trains? Urgh, noisy, crowded, slow, expensive, stressful, late... There is nothing about train travel I enjoy. 



From buying my overpriced ticket, to the scary walk to the door (irrespective of earliness!) where you panic the door may close and your train pull away, to finding a seat without a nasty stain, to avoiding the weirdo, to noisy phone conversations, to impossibly loud screeching and buckling of walls as other trains pass... the whole enterprise is thoroughly unpleasant.

This is why I drive everywhere...




Tuesday, 13 May 2014

Day 13: The story of your life in 250 words. Exactly.

The story of my life in 250 words precisely... can be read here.

But whilst I have your attention, and I have 250 entirely fresh words to kill, I thought I might go into a little more detail about some of the early days...


I liked school. I went to Leverton Junior, a fairly crappy primary school in Essex. It was quite rough in many ways; low-aspiration, low-income, low-expectation - but I did fine. My family were always a bit out of place there. In Waltham Abbey, and within school... We always did homework, attended parents’ evenings, read at home and didn’t have a satellite dish. No wonder we were outcasts; I didn’t think about it ‘til now but mummy always said she felt we didn’t fit in, and it’s only now I realise why.

But it was fine. I liked being the clever one. 
Then I went to Roding Valley, a large Essex comprehensive. Not a good school according to league tables, but I loved it. I finally found people who were a bit like me, who I could relate to, and who are still my closest friends, 22 years later. Actually, we all ended up in Brighton together. Roding was great – a real mixture of people, and some proper Essex characters.  Half of my form were pregnant by the time we did GCSEs.

The female half, presumably.

But I thrived. Academically, yes -  but more importantly I became confident and sociable; I wasn’t at primary school, though hadn’t realised at the time. Having a real group of friends made a massive difference, and despite the league tables – if you worked hard you were totally able to achieve there. 
Not many people I know remember it with any fondness, but I loved it.

There you go, 250 words precisely.

To be fair, would you socialise with this?








Wednesday, 16 April 2014

I have never...

...had a cup of tea.

People don’t believe me, but it’s true.  I think they assume I just don’t like it and haven’t had one for years, but that isn’t it. I was MADE to try it once, in 1987, at my nan’s house. I took a sip and sort of pretended to drink it, but the smell really put me off, so I didn’t actually drink it.

It was under the flimsy pretext of “If you’ve never tried it, how do you know”, but I wasn’t an easy sell. 

You know if you don’t like things, don’t you? As children, we sometimes assume we don’t like things based on... well – not much. But as adults, we become more adventurous (usually) and if we don’t like things, it’s generally because we’ve tried it or have some other, very good reason for dismissing something.

But the tea thing?

PEOPLE JUST WILL NOT ACCEPT YOU DON’T LIKE TEA.

They are unprepared to believe that you’ve not tried it.

And they forget.  They forget that you don’t drink hot drinks, even despite the massive song and dance they make EVERY TIME THEY OFFER THEM. Or they acknowledge your non-tea drinking, but offer you one anyway, “in case you’ve changed your mind.”

Nothing wrong with that, obviously, but it is REALLY WEIRD when it’s happening to you.

Yes, hot drinks in general. I know, right?

How do you know you don’t like it if you’ve never tried it.


I don’t really drink hot drinks at all, though I have had a cup of hot chocolate in the last few years. I think I had one with Baileys in it or something, as long as it is made with half milk and half hot water so it’s... well, not hot.

I just don’t like hot drinks.

I like cold drinks. I like to feel refreshed. Hot drinks are just... it’s weird, okay?

Don’t get me started on my year in Canada. Meeting a Brit who
       a) didn’t like tea, and
       b) had never had it before was conceptually baffling in North America.

People actually doubted my UK credentials.

I’m surprised they let me through border control at all. I’m not sure I’d make it through US immigration in the current climate once they got wind of my inexplicable hot-drink perversions.



Thursday, 9 January 2014

Boys and their Toys

Today I read a tweet about gay men all loving Lego.

This is true.  Gay men DO all love Lego. Fact.

But it’s also inaccurate.  It’s not gay men that love Lego.  It’s just men. They love Lego.

And it’s not just Lego. Men love toys.  Because men, if we’re honest, are generally just little boys who got taller. And boys love their toys... So why, I hear you ask, is there this gay perception pertaining to toys, games, gadgets and geekery? The gays genuinely ARE all obsessed with Playstation, comics, Star Trek, Dr Who, Lego, etc, etc, the list goes on.

Well, straight men are too. But straight men have to hide their enthusiasm for toys, games, comics and science fiction to attract girls. They have to hide it in the first instance, and then once settled comfortably into relationships, they’re just not allowed the free run of filling their homes up with Lego or geeky posters or Dr Who memorabilia.  They’re not allowed to spend loads of time shopping for comics, or playing x-box.


I spend all my disposable income on myself.


Don’t get me wrong -  straight guys with girlfriends still DO these things, but there often appears to be a serious limit on it. They always complain how they never get to play PS3 anymore, because of this and that.  Especially post-child.

But the gays? The gays get to continue to be little children, buy themselves Lego, play computer games, watch Dr Who, watch Star Wars for the 187th time, and spend all their disposable income on gadgets. And when they get into relationships and get a place together?  It doesn’t change. You’re allowed to continue to be geeky, collect crap, watch crap, stay up drinking cocktails and playing Playstation all night because you both like doing it. In fact, you can do it together...!

That’s kind of the best bit about being gay. You get to play together and share boy things, and kind of... be yourself in a way that I often feel straight guys have to subdue. Being straight means you have to pretend not to like certain things, or to like them but leave them behind whilst you pretend to be a grown up. That’s why I see dads walking around the Lego shop with their children, with looks of wonder and longing on their faces. They have to live a bit more vicariously than the gays do...

We’re all still 10 year old boys at heart – so treat yourself.  Go and get yourself some Lego...

Many boys like to lounge around in
pants, playing playstation all day.




Tuesday, 3 December 2013

"Come out, come out, wherever you are..."


So this week, a super hot guy came out, in a manner of speaking. Not gay, not bi, not anything so specific.  But he does guys. At present, anyway.

It’s a win for the gays. Give us that much...

It’s odd. By rights we should hate him. He’s young, good looking, fit, rich, successful, famous, intelligent AND nice. People that perfect are just too annoying.  But he’s just so hot and lovable that somehow I manage to overlook these numerous imperfections.



But it got me thinking about coming out, growing up gay and the scurrying around, hiding it that precedes all this. I’ve had people say to me, even quite recently, how lucky my generation is that they didn’t have to grow up afraid or hiding their sexuality. 

I nearly fell off my chair. I was kind of angry... partially in response to the person who was saying all this perhaps, but they would NOT accept that when I was young, growing up in Essex, kids weren’t happily coming out and leading confident, well-adjusted lives, out ‘n’ proud.

I don’t know where she got this idea from, but it certainly was not the case.

There were no gays at my school. Not a one. But boys who were a bit quiet or a bit camp or not good at football were harassed for being gay with depressing regularity. I was generally quite safe- I was confident and escaped most of this, but still got called gay all the time. But it was true, so I couldn’t really object.

Nor at college. One boy came out at college, and was subsequently hounded ‘til he quit.

It just wasn’t something that happened.  I now realise there must have been loads of gays all over the place, but every one of us was hidden. But it WAS scary. Whilst no-one was looking to out anyone; it wasn’t a case of people being under suspicion or scrutinised or anything; you did feel that you could give yourself away at any moment.

All my friends were girls, I didn’t play sports, I never had a girlfriend. I felt like everyone must have worked it out and it was frightening in a very real way. And now I wonder quite what the scary, unspoken consequence of being found out might have been...

I suppose being disowned by family, rejected by friends, hounded out of school and essentially having nothing left.  Which is pretty scary. Unfounded as it turns out, but the only mentions of gayness growing up were negative references from kids or in television drama, or the odd celebrity being hounded. There was not much positive press about homosexuality. It was a scandal, a shame, a crime or some manner of death combining all three. Whether real life or drama, it wasn’t something people accepted or celebrated.

But you gather confidence, you learn more about the world, you leave school and can select friends more similar to yourself, and you eventually see a world where they might accept you. Certainly for me, a couple of years after leaving school I was living in a world where I could imagine being honest and not hiding. And I was surrounded by people I had more confidence in trusting not to reject me. Not that I was paranoid when I was at school- my anxiety wasn’t unfounded – but you grow up a bit and I suppose you can be a bit more realistic about people’s responses.

My family, for example, far from rejecting me, have never been anything but whole-heartedly supportive. But when you’re 12 and you see gayers on telly booted out for coming out, you kind of have to wonder, don’t you...

But this is why the Tom Daley event spoke to me so much.  I only came out because I met someone, and after a few weeks, I didn’t want to sneak around any more. I didn’t see why I should have to. But prior to meeting Simon, I had no reason to upset the apple cart. Or risk upsetting it for uncertain reward.

But as I say, in a similar situation, at a similar age, I felt the happiest I ever had. A year or so before, I had accepted I was gay, I was generally happy, I had good friends, a reasonable social life, a successful career at school and college and a loving family. I wasn’t doing badly, so I just resigned myself to being single forever and wanking my nights away alone, and got on with things.

I was fairly happy with that arrangement. It was enough...

But then we met, and I had a reason to do it. Everyone else went on dates. Everyone else had partners, everyone else’s parents knew about their relationships. Why shouldn’t I have a bit of that.

And whilst the sneaking around was sort of exciting and dramatic, it was also very scary and was not sustainable in the long term. It was growing close to the time when we would tell our friends and families...

And then Simon’s fucking mother comes home early from work one day and catches us – not AT it, but sort of... well, okay.  Interrupts us and everything goes to blazes for a few minutes, so we just bite the bullet and tell people.

And you know what?  Not a single bad reaction. Not really.  Not from anyone. A couple of friends who felt a bit hurt, and who, if I’m honest, I’m not sure will ever quite understand that it wasn’t keeping secrets.  Not in that respect- just something that HAS to happen when you’re ready.

But friends and family were supportive and loving, if a bit crazy and paranoid, but we were totally accepted. Sometimes I feel guilty that I’d ever feared rejection when nothing of the sort happened remotely.  But it was too scary. Too big a risk.

You have to do it when you’re ready. When you have judged it safe.

So yeah – it IS a big deal when people come out. It’s still a big deal because you never quite know what people’s response will be. People are crazy and unpredictable and you can’t take it back once you’ve said it.

So it is very brave, and it is important.

Sometimes I wonder about being a bit more open about it at school, though that’s another type of risk on another level.  And another story...

In the meantime, after all the heavy stuff that I’m not very happy I’ve articulated clearly, here are some gems from my mum after I told her I was gay:

“I don’t mind as long as you never go to a gay club. It’s not safe. People wait outside and write down your names...”

“I suppose it’s okay as long as you don’t actually do anything together...”

“It will be okay.  We can just tell everyone that you’re two bachelors that live together, and enjoy each other’s company. No-one will ever need to know...”

Dare you open... The Scary Door?





Wednesday, 29 May 2013

Day 29: Five songs or pieces of music that speak to you or bring back memories (#BEDM).

5 songs, not necessarily good songs, that take me back to times past. Some of them in fact, are actually quite bad songs...


Dario G – Sunchyme.
My 16th birthday: My friends and I went to Leicester Square in London, to the Capital CafĂ©. I’d always been a bit worried that I didn’t really have ‘enough’ friends. I know better now, of course. But around 15/16, not only did I suddenly find myself with a nice circle of close friends growing around me, but I actually started to socialise with them, and go out doing exciting things for the first time. And I remember sitting in the restaurant with my friends, this song was playing, and I thought ‘You know what? I’m going to be alright. Life is good, and I am happy.’
And those best friends I had then?  They’re still my best friends now...


Britney Spears – Oops, I did it again.
University. My favourite club- the illustrious Dynamite Boogaloo. It was an amazing phenomenon that I am happy and glad to have been a part of. It was more than a night out- it was a bit special to the people who went there. And at the peak of my times there, before it moved, evolved, grew, then moved on, we used to do silly dance routines dressed in ridiculous outfits. Everyone did. It was that sort of place.
My favourite memory- a BAD homemade dance routine we drunkenly improvised whilst standing on the stairs queuing for coats, ready to leave as it was crazy-late and we were flagging. But Britney started. That instantly-recognisable first double strike- and we just made up this stupid, crazy, drunken dance there on the stairs.
And then? Everyone started doing it; copying our routine like some glittery workout video. It was the strangest thing, but SO much fun... It reminds me of uni, it reminds me of my best nights out, and it reminds me of everything I loved about Dynamite Boogaloo.


David Essex – A Winter’s tale
So yeah- when my dad left AGAIN, and my mum started perpetually crying AGAIN, mummy and I had to go and watch my brother in his school’s Christmas carol concert. And they sang this, and it made my mum cry. I think she’d been told that day that it was over, or she’d told us that day it was over, or something. And it was just horrible.
And then for years later, she always skipped it on our Christmas CD, or turned the radio off for that song. She said she couldn’t hear it again as it made her so sad. Which was a shame because I sort of like it in a melancholy way. Maybe because of all that?  I don’t know. And then when I had to sing it in my Christmas concert I think I lied and told her parents weren’t invited, or that all the tickets were gone so she wouldn’t come and have to hear it and feel sad. I told you I started taking care of her around this point, didn’t I...?
She can hear it now. She quite likes it now, which is a bit perverse, but she’s very much moved on and is a different person now.  Still gets me every time though.


Liberty X – Just a Little
For reasons unknown, we spent an ENTIRE YEAR singing this song in our final year of uni. All four of us had it stuck in our heads for the entire year, all through all 3 terms, all the holidays and right through finals. You’d walk down to the kitchen quietly murmuring to yourself:
“Sexyyyyyyyyyyyyy... Everything about you’s so sexyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy...”
then as you walked in, you’d find one of the others making dinner, singing:
“Just a little bit moooooooooooooooore.... gimme just a little bit moooooorrrrre!”
At a completely different point in the song.
It was amazing, but so amusing. And that became my uni song, just because it was so impossible to shift. It reminds me of the girls- we were such a happy little group.


KISS – Crazy Nights
I was going to choose Do Your Thang- the best song ever and our first dance at our wedding, but I can bet Simon will choose it too, and I want to avoid being twee.  Crazy Nights was a song I learned of relatively late in life. It was at the last ever Dynamite Boogaloo in fact- the end of an era, and all the amazing hosts, hostesses and DJs were dressed as KISS, doing crazy stunts and games and the usual stuff. And they closed, after years and years of amazing nights, and years and years of attendance from us with this song, and I thought- Fuck- they WERE crazy nights, weren’t they. It was the end of an era, and so sad, but so much fun and such an amazing way to go out. It was like you were part of a special little select gang, and you’d all shared in something wacky that most people didn’t know about and it felt so special. A sad night, but a happy memory...




Saturday, 18 May 2013

Day 18: Tell a story from your childhood (#BEDM)


Okay, okay.  I *know* I said I survived parental divorce unscathed, and in the main that’s true. I am undamaged by the process, and it totally was best for everyone.

In the long run.

But a few years prior, when I was maybe eight, maybe nine, my father left the family home to live with another lady. I’m not sure how long it lasted, but he lived there for quite a while, to the point where my brother and I visited him and his new lady friend at weekends, and took day trips and stuff.

And this spell I took much harder

The details are unimportant, but I remember my mum crying a lot. At some point my father moved back in, and we carried on as before, though I realise now it probably wasn’t *quite* as before. But for the duration, my enduring memory is of my mum crying.

A lot.

And me worrying about her.

A lot.

The most striking memory I have of this time is one that has always interested me since, as it was my first encounter with psychosomatic illness. To be brief- I used to walk to school through a residential area, then climb a small fence, then run across a meadow to my primary school gates. It was a sort of short cut that everyone used; all the mums used to walk pupils to the fence, then stand gossiping idly whilst watching the children climb the fence and make their way across the meadow.

Presumably, because they didn’t want their children walking all the way alone, and because they didn’t want to scale the fence in front of the other mums.

Then one day, we were going in late- because of an appointment or something, one assumes –my mum bade me farewell at the fence, I hopped over and made my way across the meadow. And I looked back and waved, as I often did.

And she was standing there on her own. No other mums there talking. And I became acutely aware that she was going back to the house on her own. To be alone. And that she was on her own a lot now. And that she would probably cry.

And she just looked so small.

And I turned round a few more times and waved as I walked across the meadow. And then I stopped walking and started crying and just ran back. I ran back all the way across the meadow, sobbing, until I got back the fence. Mummy was a bit worried initially- I was crying wildly, and having a bit of an unconsciously self-induced asthma/panic attack. I don’t remember the conversation, but I ended up going back home with her.

But she knew.

She knew I’d gone back for her, because I was worried about her, and felt guilty for leaving her on her own. 

She knew what I was doing- so I would be taken home and she wouldn’t be alone in the house. I think it happened a couple more times before she addressed it more directly and nipped it in the bud. I didn’t miss more than a couple of afternoons I expect.

But it was a strange turning point.

In my adult life, I am the emotional support for her and her many, many issues. I don’t tend to need much emotional support from her now- so our roles have reversed a bit. And that was it. That was the point at which I started worrying about her, and orchestrating events to protect her from things, which gradually evolved into me giving her advice about problems and situations.

Which I do quite a bit now.

I suppose I started seeing her as fragile, and adjusted my response, and our roles adjusted accordingly.
It sounds a bit unhealthy when I relate it like this, but it wasn’t really. She just needed more taking care of at that point than I did.

I’m not sure it ever switched back after that, mind...