Get Happy

This is my 100th post in this blog

People who read my posts might notice a trend toward analysis of depression or tirades about things that annoy me. This post will be different. To celebrate the 100th post, I want to list 100 things that make me happy (besides friends and family, of course!). They might be books, films, people, foods or anything!

(In no particular order...)

Enjoy!

• Clue

• Playing Cluedo

• Bacon Sandwiches

• Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier

• Fred and Ginger movies

• Kirsty MacColl's Tropical Brainstorm

• Fizzgig

• Victoria Wood As Seen on TV

• Swing Out Sister's The Living Return

• The Day of the Triffids - the novel

• The Day of the Triffids - the original BBC series

• QI

• The First Doctor

• Gillian Anderson

• The smell of fabric Elastoplast

• Danny the Champion of the World by Roald Dahl

• Australian red wine

• New Zealand white wine

• Robin of Sherwood

• Danny Bhoy

• The Bagpuss episode entitled The Mouse Mill

• Little Shop of Horrors

• Joan Hickson as Miss Marple

• David Suchet as Hercule Poirot

• Beverley Craven

• Mary Poppins

• Baking

• Completing a collection

• Ryan Kwanten

• Sausages

• This comic strip...

• Easy Virtue

• Jigsaws

• French & Saunders spoofs

• And, of course, the original!

• Jack Daniel's Whiskey

• Alfred Hitchcock

• Agatha Christie

• Kirsty MacColl

• Cheesecake

• Feathers McGraw

• This:

• Irony

• Shirley Jackson's oeuvre

• All things Torchwood

• The Avengers

• Philip Olivier's nose

• This Life

• Murder Parties

• Bebel Gilberto

• Gin & Tonic

• Schadenfreude

• Two Soups?

• 90s Madonna

• The combination of Roger Corman and Edgar Allan Poe

• Kittens

• The Fifth Doctor

• The Ripliad

• Walks in the countryside

• Absolutely Fabulous

• Derbyshire

• The Haunting "...in the night ...in the dark."

• A Full English Breakfast (without mushrooms, thank you very much!)

• I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue

• Randall & Hopkirk (Deceased)

• Dean Cain

• Daydreaming

• Rhubarb Crumble and Custard

• Sweet Charity

• I Love Lucy

• Alan Partridge

• Reading in the bath

• Pushing Daisies

• Performing

• 24th Century Star Trek

• Will Young

• The X Files

• James Franco's smile

• Waistcoats

• The Vicar of Dibley

• Getting lost in a hedge maze

• Goats

• Journey Into Space

• My apartment

• Puns

• The Tenth Doctor

• My coat

• Jessica Fletcher

• F.U.N.E.X?

• Swing Out Sister

• The IT Crowd

• The Perry Bible Fellowship

• The chemistry between Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell

• Spaced

• Stunning arms

• THIS moment:

• Donna Noble

• Is this a piece of your brain?

• Betty Boo

• Snuggles

Bloody hell. That was a difficult task and it took HOURS! I am sure I'll wake in the middle of the night thinking "How could I forget to add THAT?!" Oh well, the list was never going to be exhaustive.

Happy 100th post, me!

A Hymn to Him

A couple of days ago, my step-father was involved in a nasty accident. I won’t go into details, but suffice to say, he ended up in ICU with numerous broken bones and other internal injuries.

When I learned the news from my mother, I became rather stressed. It’s always difficult being so far away from one’s family during times like these. I felt rather helpless. However, it did encourage me to reminisce about my relationship with a man who is pretty damn flawless.

When my mum and Mac (as he is known to all and sundry – even his own mother – despite being Christened ‘David’) first got together, I was a bit perturbed as I had a slight fear of bearded men. To be honest, I was also scared of curly-haired men, but I blame Tom Baker for that. However, his amiable personality and jovial attitude soon put me at ease.

We didn’t really have a great deal in common, but he certainly tried his best to ingratiate himself with this rather bizarre little boy but he did so without being too intrusive. He took us (Mum, my brother and me) out on day trips at the weekend. I can’t say that I was particularly thrilled about being made to attend truck racing at Donnington race course, but whilst the others enjoyed the roar of vehicular menace, I perched on the embankment ploughing through The ABC Murders or similar.

Yawn

We did go on a number of holidays together; be it weekends to Blackpool or caravanning in Sutton-on-Sea. There was always a wonderful pleasure of visiting these breezy seaside towns and getting curry and chips for an evening meal before sitting around a warm electric fire playing UNO or Whist. In fact, Mac taught us boys to play a number of card games. I wish I could remember them all now. Rummy was my favourite. It’ll probably come back to me if I bothered to sit down and play again. (Pontoon was odd; I don’t think I ever got the hang of that!)

One of the things Mac and I bonded over was the classic 1960s TV show The Avengers. I loved the surreal stories and the debonair charm of John Steed, Mac fancied Emma Peel. 6 o’clock, Wednesday nights, BBC2. A fond memory. (Admittedly, even as a gay man, I cannot deny the allure of Diana Rigg in one of the sexiest roles ever.)

Miss Emma Peel

Although our tastes in some things differed greatly, we both enjoy two specific authors’ books. The gripping equestrian shenanigans of Dick Francis’ novels and the insane farfetched fiction from the mind of the barking mad Robert Rankin. Often we would compare notes after reading the latest tome. I think this proved that we had similar senses of humour too.

One thing he might deny, but I cannot ignore, is his big soft heart. He may have the persona of a strong, gritty bloke, but if there is a sad story on Animal Hospital (or equivalent TV show), he’ll shuffle uncomfortably and shed a tear for the poor creature in distress. Bless!

Mac has always been fiercely protective over my brother and I as if we were sons of his own. One incident in particular was told to me by my mother. Mac was driving past my school at a moment coinciding with break time. As (in those early days of secondary school) it took me a while to make friends, I often became a bit lonely (my best friend William was a year below me, so I didn’t get his company until the year after!) Mac saw me sat on the concrete steps by the playground all alone. Apparently, he wanted to pull over, race into the playground and shout at the other children “Play with him you little shits!” (or words to that effect). That’s the kind of guy he is. Thankfully, he is also the kind of man who would never actually do that.

Years later, when I was 18 and suffering from a bit of a nervous breakdown at Bedford University (long story), he didn’t hesitate to drive all the way from Derbyshire to pick me up and drive me back with ALL of my stuff crammed into every inch of the car. I was not in the best of spirits, but he kept me entertained on the long journey back. He’s a star like that.

One year, he treated us all to a big holiday. We went to Greece for a fortnight. The hours of fun we had playing in the sea or taking trips around local villages… nothing was too much trouble. He’d pay for everything, take everything in his stride, and he went out of his way to make sure we had the best holiday.

Definitely NOT Sutton-on-Sea

A particular favourite memory for me was when I had a premonition in a dream. I woke up just knowing I simply had to see the film Little Shop of Horrors at the cinema without knowing much about it at all. Our local cinema only kept movies on for a week and time was running out. I nagged my mum to take me but she had rehearsals for something (I think). Mac said he’d do the honours and took me to see a musical that would become one of my favourite films of all-time. Musicals aren’t really his thing, but even he enjoyed himself. (Admittedly, LSOH is not your average musical!!) – Apparently it pays to nag.

One of my all-time favourite films!

Mac is one of the most generous people I know. Always willing to give his time and energy to others and is always there to help out in a crisis. This is why it is so touching to hear of the love and caring messages from those who know him at this time when things have gone slightly up shit creek (a phrase he’s more than happy to use himself!) People love Mac and for a good reason.

He was never a father-replacement. Not at all. He would never even attempt to take on that role as he has always had respect for my father. My Dad was ever present and has been critically instrumental in moulding me, introduced me to a plethora of loves (from film to music and more), and has been deeply influential in more ways than he’d probably know! However, Mac has been an integral part of my growing-up and this post is dedicated to him.

Of course, the list of memories could go on, but the brief tales above are some specific highlights from the vast collection of recollections in my slightly decaying brain.

All I can say now is ‘Get Well Soon’ and I hope it won’t be too long before we can catch up again – over a Glenfiddich or a strong pot of Yorkshire Tea. Cheers, Mac!

Somewhere That's Green

I have been single for close to a decade now.

As with many elements of my life, I am rather contradictory; sometimes I enjoy my lonely lifestyle and react with puzzlement when others insist that life can only be experienced to the full with another person by one's side; sometimes I yearn for companionship and, to be sickeningly romantic, someone to love me unconditionally (other than family, obviously).

Modern life is not propitious to the single person, certainly not financially. To live alone one has to earn close to double the amount of others just to enjoy the benefits of socialising - as all the money tends to go on rent and bills. A life shared is an expenditure halved. I cannot deny that part of my eagerness for partnership actually lies in the desire to get out of debt once and for all.

Whenever I even contemplate venturing out to seek a potential date or partner, the sheer terror that pervades my mind can be somewhat crippling.

One of my biggest issues about the prospect of dating is that I honestly believe that it would be cruel to inflict this neurotic mess upon some poor soul eager for fun times and shenanigans.

When I do the introspective dance of negativity, I only see flaws, foibles and irritations which would surely drive another to despair. I know there are good things about me, though. I am clean; I can (sort of) cook; I am caring; and I know how to stack a dishwasher properly. These things don't exactly make me "a catch" but it's a start to a reasonably attractive C.V.

Sex is one of the largest barriers preventing me from achieving full marks in the relationship exam. I have never been perfectly content with carnal intrigue and experimentation. I am one of those bizarre little freaks who find it all a bit unpleasant and dirty. I often look around at others and realise that humans have been sticking protuberances into orifices for millennia, sometimes even without resistance or regret. This knowledge does not stop me from feeling slightly appalled and uncomfortable about it all. Believe me when I say that I don't mind a bit of a hug and snuggle. I don't even mind a bit of a snog, but the full-on rampant anarchy of intercourse panics me as would an overflowing lavatory.

Everyone I know seems to take to mutual physical admiration and subsequent climaxes as easily as they might eat, drink or breathe. It's just another function of their bodies. Couples frequently follow up a date by retreating to either one's abode and partaking in a game of "hide the sausage" or equivalent ("stuffing the taco"?), whereas I would much rather stay in the living room and have a game of Cluedo. The only problem is, that particular entertaining pastime requires at least three people, so most nights I'll submit to a lengthy game of Solitaire.

In addition to this, I also have the monstrous burden of slight body dysmorphic disorder. I absolutely despise my body and feel deeply ashamed of the colour of my pasty flesh, the sagginess of my buttocks, the lack of tone and definition… the list goes on. I even have issue with my face, but I'm not so bad that I feel the need to resort to putting a balaclava on backwards just to pop to the local butchers.

My self-consciousness creates an unintentional vibe that others perceive and it warns them off like a skunk's anal secretions. No wonder I don't feel like anyone has ever "checked me out"; they're far too busy pinching their noses and running a mile.

It doesn't stop me from eyeing-up the various aesthetic beauties who pass me by as I perambulate around the city. As each beauteous Adonis falls into my range of vision, I straighten up, my eyes widen and a drop of saliva escapes down my hairy chin. I often wonder if my reaction is as obvious as a Tex Avery cartoon spying a buxom young caricature. Admittedly, the game is given away when I point like a body-snatching alien and expel an inappropriately loud (yet inadvertent) "Oh, hello! Yes, you'll do, matey!" As soon as these awkward slips-of-the-tongue issue from my uncontrollable mouth, I automatically crumple back into the impenetrable shell of self-loathing with the undeniable knowledge that these models of perfection are way out of my league and, of course, they would never even consider allowing me to buff their shoes, let alone nibble on their bottom lip. Thus, I stomp forth trying to work out how to simultaneously kick myself up the backside and turn invisible without breaking my stride.

This is why I have "straight dates". I have a number of heterosexual male friends with whom I can enjoy all the pleasantries of an evening out with none of the undesirable fears or sweat-inducing panics of inadequacy that usually accompany the malarkey of husband-hunting. Sure, my straight boyfriends and I are not exclusive; they always return to the bosom of their lovers or solitary lives, but at least I know that we have both been treated decently; without disrespect; without irrational judgment; nor do our moods plummet afterward with feelings of self-pity and woe.

In a perfect world, I would live with a handsome, fit and lovable guy (like Ryan Kwanten, perhaps) who brings home good cash (ooh, like Ryan Kwanten) and who isn't aggressive or arrogant (Ry-ry McKwanten!) and I can stay at home, keep things clean, cook the meals and, upon his (Ryan's) return home from work each day, we can snuggle up on the settee, chat and watch an old movie together before retiring to the boudoir for 1950s TV style sleeping arrangements… somewhere that's green.

Bliss.

Two of a Kind

As you may know, I do love to read. Generally, I am fond of fiction - a good old-fashioned whodunit (Can't go wrong with Dame Aggie), a grand-guignol Gothic horror (Shirley Jackson's writing has an insidious way of burying itself into your sub-conscious and lingering there to unnerve you for many dark nights ahead!) or a modern-day humorous fable (if you've never read Dan Rhodes, I urge you to do so. No writer has ever made me laugh out loud more!) – But I do love reading a bit of non-fiction too. Biographies and memoirs tend to entertain my cerebral palate. I have spent many a rainy afternoon splayed on the settee with a mug of hot tea and the condensed lives of certain idols spewing forth from the pages to my gibbering delight.

I ploughed through Stephen Fry’s first two volumes of his autobiography series; Moab is my Washpot and The Fry Chronicles, and found them both deliciously entertaining and beautifully crafted. It won't be long before the third volume, More Fool Me, hits the shelves and I am most excited about this looming tome.

One of the most appealing things about Lord Stephen of Fry is the similarities between his insecurities and those in my own fragile soul. With each turn of the page, I found something else to which I can respond "Oh cripes! Me too!"

Here I shall share some of our shared foibles, flaws and idiosyncrasies (hopefully it won't sound like a lonely hearts column):

• He's cripplingly self-critical, rants about comments on the internet and finds Thomas Hardy's novels unreadable.

• He has dabbled with celibacy*, wallows in guilt over social faux-pas and feels that he is unworthy of anyone's love.

• He enthuses about his passions unashamedly, feels that he is only 90% gay and dwells too often on his mischievous youth.

Sadly, he's also vastly smarter than I, stupendously more talented and far less problematic at a social gathering.

Therefore, he wins and I resign to venerate him with candour from my shadowy corner of inadequacy.

As I compare my life to his, I feel slightly woeful that I have not made the most of my life and, maybe, not been the person/friend/lover I could have been. I won’t deny that, much like a mirror, it has caused me to slump into a quagmire of navel-gazing, egocentric self-pity from which I criticise and admonish myself in a mental flagellation of monstrous proportions.

I begin to ask myself unanswerable questions about why it seems I have a "best before" date when it comes to some friendships; why I don't have a vulgarity percolator to stop my mouth from offending others during my over-excitable attempts at whimsy; why I was unable to remain focussed and studious during my youth nor excel at those dramatic ventures into which I channelled most of my energy; why I am so sensitive that I spend years questioning everything I have ever done or said wrong when, it appears, most others have forgotten…

Oh, the list could go on, but if I go any further, I'll be up to my nostrils in belly-button fluff! But it does make one wonder.

What this post was originally supposed to be was a simple adoration of one of the UK's greatest living National Treasures, but I couldn't help expressing the thoughts that stem from the reading of other, more successful lives. It’s nothing more than the slightly bitter and resentful green-eyed monster that lurks too close to the surface. One can see why envy is a deadly sin..

*Re: Celibacy. His was by choice. Mine is involuntarius; de facto!

Missing You

Whatever happened to the old me? I miss him...

I think back to my childhood and the extravagant aspirations I had regarding my future career of Oscar-winning actor/entertainer. As soon as I was able to walk, I was eagerly attempting to entertain those around me by either singing, dancing or making puppet shows. My father even made me a Punch and Judy booth out of a couple of old blackboards and an easel. It was decoratively painted in red and yellow strips to emulate the cloth variety oft seen on Brighton Beach in the late 19th Century. My Great Grandmother spent most of the latter years of her life knitting dolls and puppets for me whilst chewing on bits of toast to give to her toothless Yorkshire Terrier. I had a puppet Father Christmas, a bear, a snowman, a clown… oh; the plots one could come up with. OK; so I wasn't re-enacting Dombey & Sons with colourful three-ply characters, but I am sure the storylines were just as thrilling. My father also converted a bathroom cabinet stool into a magician's toolbox/table thing. My poor relatives having to sit through my various acts of mystery and enchantment!

The Entertainer

At the charmingly archaic and halcyon Lea Primary School, I was frequently the lead in the school play – partly because I think the teachers thought I might actually burst if they didn't acknowledge my eagerness to participate. When asked for volunteers for anything I would thrust my arm firmly in the air and hold my breath until I was the same colour as the previously mentioned puppet booth (red, not yellow). One would imagine my enthusiasm would irritate my peers, and it probably did but I was much less self-conscious back then.

In those plays, I played Space Captains abducting young girls, a Prince turned into a frog, a rags to riches urchin (I can still sing the song – "Isn't it rich the way fortunes can switch from low to high…") and I would always get an enormous thrill from performing on that stage in the school hall-cum-dining area to the gleeful, yet slightly patronising, adult audience on those glittering nights.

At secondary school (the less-archaic yet still chronically middle-class 'Highfields') I continued to challenge myself in order to entertain. I was in the choir (having done a reasonable stint in the local church choir – although my memories of that are less pleasant. Sure, I sang Who Will Buy from Oliver! and Paul McCartney's Yesterday solo for a congregation, but I also wet myself during the Hallalujah chorus as I was terrified of the Choir mistress and didn't dare nip off to the loo.) and I tried to get involved in every piece of theatre I was eligible for. I even did a deeply distressing stand-up routine for the UK’s first Comic Relief. I believed I could just get up on stage without preparation and make everyone laugh. I did not. Maybe I should have wet myself at that point in my life instead – it may have raised a few chortles.

Given that the great dramatic plays the school put on only came around twice a year (if that), I had to find other avenues to perform; so I volunteered on an embarrassingly regular basis to "present" at assemblies. Yes. I had the gall to stand up in front of my fellow pupils (most of whom had an unpleasant distaste for my slightly demented jocularity) and I would perform – or, as some might say "show-off".

Gosh, I would do anything for the sake of entertainment. I even stripped off to my boxer shorts for one Wednesday morning’s kick-starter. It simply reeked of desperation and a need for attention, but the truth was I simply enjoyed facing a crowd despite the fact that the majority was judging me.

Ooh, it must have been meaningful. See! The world... in human hands! Clever!

The plays we did at school were, thankfully, not the usual tripe forced upon the hormonally dysfunctional teens around the country. We didn't have to do Grease or Jesus Christ Superstar; our teacher, Mrs Phillips, preferred to challenge us with the likes of Terence Rattigan and J.B Priestley. At the time, some parents and their children thought this was a bit bizarre and possibly inappropriate, but I loved it. Sure, we put on a Willy Russell play in which I got to dance like a bonobo chimp having a wave of spasms, but further down the track I got to play an alcoholic RAF pilot who slapped his wife, the husband of a woman in prison for killing her baby, and a septuagenarian who was fond of custard. Oh, the variety!

Of course, I couldn't help myself from getting involved in The Rocky Horror Show. It wasn't a legitimate production, we just loved dressing up and performing the show wherever we could - in the gym, on drama weekends, during mock-political elections...

Me as Frank

I did a bit of amateur dramatics outside of school and appeared in Habeas Corpus, Death and the Maiden, A Lie of the Mind and Oliver! amongst others, but after I left England to move to Australia, my performing days dwindled off to an embarrassing dribble. I spent the first twelve months attempting stand-up comedy (did I learn nothing from my previous venture?) and this time I did do the work beforehand. I just had to put myself through this trial-by-jury to realise that, frankly, I’m just not that funny.

Of course, there were the many, many fancy dress parties and murder parties throughout my youth. My Murder Parties were fun and I often gave myself parts such as 'The Stripper' or 'Jessica Fletcher' for a laugh. At fancy dress parties, I often loved going as some filmic reference...

The Dread Pirate Roberts! NOT Zorro!

So, what happened? When did I become cripplingly self-conscious? I still have the fire inside somewhere to perform – just invite me to a party, give me a gin and tonic for Dutch courage and watch me do the whole 'Party Ben' routine. Give me an audience and I'll give 'em the old "Razzle Dazzle" whether they like it or not.

Instead, I am stuck in a dead-end job feeling miserable and useless, doubting whether I will ever get to do the stuff I love ever again. I am missing you, old me... where did you go?

Just be warned, if I do get back under that spotlight, you might not be able to drag me out of it again…

Ta-da!! (just practising)

I may be in Australia, but I am still an exhibitionist! (Some things can never be unseen!)