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Here is a new series featuring Narvel's cycling adventures. For this first installment, here is Dreams of Derbyshire, taken from Chapter One of his book, Secret Summer.  Simeon Hogg was homesick. As usual, to ease this chronic misery, he indulged himself by replaying a pleasant memory of cycling along leafy Derbyshire lanes. He selected a recollection from his early teens, a ride from Belper to Wirksworth, a cool bright day in late September. The boy stood hard on pedals. Slowly, very slowly in low gear he pumped up a steep, pretty little lane, up, up to those windswept heights, up into the scent of fern and browning bracken.
This trip was memorable for its beauty, and also for its challenge. Simeon was often stopping to study his precious, cloth-bound, 'one inch' Ordnance Survey map in an effort to carefully navigate through a confusing myriad of many narrow, winding country lanes, all going everywhere. There were lots of crossroads with intriguing signs pointing to odd sounding places - Gorseybank, Shottle, Alderwasley, Alport Height, Idridgehay - all so very strange - all so very Derbyshire. Illuminated by dazzling autumnal sunshine, brilliant white clouds were chased by the wind across a heavenly vault of deep blue. This same wind roared through a battle-scarred ash tree, danced the bracken, flattened the open meadow but appeared to have no power over a stubborn craggy old hawthorn at the edge of his pretty lane. Tirelessly, it speeded Simeon and moved a million different weeds matured over a long summer, weeds deep green and weeds beautifully brown flashing by as the lane sank into a ravine and then suddenly ascended to reveal magnificent views to the west. The physical exertion, the physical pleasure, the rhythm of waving trees was consistent with Simeon's own body rhythms. Breaths of sweet fresh air, his increased heartbeat born of ecstatic exercise could never be achieved in a vast ugly conurbation called Detroit. Here he was home. Here, over a swath of impenetrable prickly gorse he could see forever. Here, on his bicycle, he was on top of the world, could see a view of the whole world endlessly stretching out until it dissolved into a misty distant ... and, as the reverie weakened ... the scene dissolved and resolved back into the present reality ... a grim reality. These were not the sunlit green hills of Derbyshire in late September 1959. These were the hideous, blighted, flat expanses of an endless, benighted conurbation in early January 1966. A sadder Simeon, barely out of his teens, navigated his car off the I94 Edsel Ford Freeway to join the John Lodge Freeway which would speed him into Downtown Detroit. A signed copy of Secret Summer is available from Narvel directly. Please email [email protected] Hello Readers,
Narvel has a new Information Sheet that has now been posted online. To read this, please click on the link below: Information Sheet 184 On Saturday, August 2nd - Terry, David, Bill and the Father of Belper Friends - Fred Bray - were proud to march behind our ‘Same Sex Attraction’ banner as we do every year on Pride in Belper day. I’m especially grateful to the above loyal Belper Friends for assisting my husband Terry whose health has seriously deteriorated since last year. We were delighted he was able to complete the full ‘Strutt’. Fred’s excellent organization made the Belper Friends march possible, and I sincerely appreciate his efforts in taking all the photographs. The email address on the banner should now read – [email protected] Sadly, our Belper Friends group meet infrequently, by invitation only. I’m indebted to good friend Allan Morton who faithfully continues to post items to my website -including this superb slide show. Narvel Annable  In writing my novels, I often draw upon the worst night of my life to effectively describe abject despair and grief.
In 1966, my American lover called Ahmed in Secret Summer - had stormed out of our apartment in Detroit. The relationship had been teetering on collapse for some months and I knew this was the end. I recall every moment of that terrible sleepless night including closing my eyes in an effort to suppress a welling up of tears triggered by a paroxysm of despair and grief. Salty liquid blurred and smeared the distant city lights and illuminations of automobiles endlessly on the move. It was cold on that balcony. I used my handkerchief to take a grip on myself and went inside. I’d been alone, so very alone in that Great Bed. It seemed larger than ever. My mind, ever searching for answers, raced through all the ramifications of recent events. Just past midnight, in a fury of mixed feelings, I decided that sleep was never going to happen. I tried to analyse these feelings. Grief? Yes, it was effectively – grief. I’d lost Ahmed. I was bereaved. We all deal with grief in our own way. Something drew me to my lover’s wardrobe. I reached out to touch one of his shirts and then noticed the bomber jacket he wore on the night of our first meeting. Holding it close, I cuddled my face into the inside lining in an effort to draw some spirit, some actuality, some essence of the man I loved. It was there, in the fabric; the familiar warm body scent seeming to whisper an aura of gentle affection. Overwhelmed by a multiplicity of teenage problems, a yearning for that lost love, the lost security together with an appalling mess of conflicting emotions – it was all too much. Tears flooded back with redoubled force. Fell on the bed and gave way to a seizure of heavy sobs which shook a nerve-racked body at the very edge of despair. Eventually the sobs subsided leaving me in a bleak state of emptiness, deep gloom and melancholy. In this sad condition it is difficult for anybody to be completely rational, but the mind never gives up. The thought process is always trying to make sense of life, and so it was with Narvel in the middle of this long, dark, sleepless night. A miserable young homosexual in the homophobic world of 1966, it was even more difficult to analyse my predicament. This particular boy was isolated. I reasoned that a normal boy would have found a nice girl and that relationship would have been approved by all other heterosexuals in the wider community. Approval and support would have been demonstrated by smiles, nodding heads and polite enquiries. If the relationship ran into any difficulties, friendly advice would be offered by family, friends and colleagues. The world at large would bless and encourage the union of Narvel and his girlfriend in the form of weddings, family morals, numerous films and the general media ever pushing and promoting heterosexual values. My older self occasionally looked back at the boy. Like millions of other gays, I felt the suffocating weight of heterosexual reproach and rejection. To compound problems, I was inarticulate - was too callow and too young to mount an effective challenge to all the perverted brainwashing of the previous 19 years. It’s not easy coming to terms with being different. That particular form of education is sometimes a bitter experience. Take an example which occurred many years after this unhappy dark night. Take the teacher who was given tragic news, the sudden death of her mother. She collapsed into a flood of tears, was inconsolable and had to leave her duties immediately. She was helped out of the staffroom and taken home. All other colleagues were distressed, rushed over to be supportive, kind and sympathetic. As a witness to this event, I was also distressed – but not in the same way. My distress was caused by my own extraordinary response to this upsetting scene. I did not feel sorry for the poor woman; on the contrary, I resented her! Why? I knew that I was ‘damaged goods’, but was no psychoanalyst. I was unable to probe the Freudian darkness, to examine the monsters that lurked inside my own id. Was the hostile reflex connected with a comparison? Let us assume that Narvel receives similar bad news – his long-standing partner has died. Dare he weep? Dare he show pain, as she did and risk admitting to a ‘degenerate’ relationship, an unnatural, illegal closeness? Perhaps the callous reaction was linked to envy. A close maternal bond existed between the teacher and her mother. That incident of a grief-stricken daughter caused me to reflect upon my own response to the passing of father and mother in 1972 and 1993 respectively. Nothing! Nothing was felt. Not one tear was ever shed. Yet, in the small hours of that dark morning - to use a Derbyshire expression - ‘buckets’ were shed for the sudden loss of my lover, Ahmed. I wonder if these dark memories have been triggered by trials and tribulations involving my current husband Terry who is suffering multiple health issues including Alzheimer’s dementia. Narvel Annable Secret Summer is available here I was joined by good friend, Allan for a walk in the Crich area yesterday. This was a walk I had done many times with husband Terry, over many years and in all seasons. With spectacular views across Crich, Whatstandwell and beyond, we climbed the path from The Common, up Sun Lane, and past the Crich Fire Station. Observing the round-walled, Queen Victoria Jubilee tree housing, we continued further upwards on the path towards The Tors. From there we enjoyed the magnificent vista of the surrounding countryside, as we looked out from our high vantage point over Fritchley, Wingfield Park and beyond.
The sheer drop from this giddy viewing point, although safely walled, was quite breathtaking, and that was not just due to our steep ascent! Continuing along this path, looking across the opposite side, we were enthralled with the splendid views of Crich Chase woods, the top of Whatstandwell, Shining Cliff Woods and the prominent white Alderwasley School on the horizon. It is even more wonderful in Winter, with clear, crisp views of the surrounding fresh countryside. Terry has fond memories of this favourite walk, and would have very much liked to have joined us today, had his current health condition been more favourable.
I’ll soon be 80 and Terry will be 86 this year. In 1965 at the age of 19, I visited an elderly friend who said to me – ‘Do you know where I have to look for my friends now?’ ‘Where?’ ‘In the Church Yard!’ He was 80 – a good age in those days. In recent years, Terry and I have seen several of our contemporaries pass on. Sadly, the most recent was Jason who died in the arms of his long-term partner Mark on Saturday, May 17th. These men were held with considerable affection. They first met up with each other when they both read my novel - Lost Lad. In 2010, I was looking forward to the publication of my fourth novel Secret Summer - the only book published in the United States. Good friends Mark and Jason were also excited and encouraging about this rather special event. Most of my characters are based on real people. Accordingly, I asked their permission to borrow their looks and personality for roles in this story. Delighted to receive consent, I sent them details. Jason would become the manager of the famous Royal Baths in Harrogate and Mark would be cast as a victim of homophobia. Jason was described as a thirty-something with friendly, light brown puppy-dog-eyes on a round smiling face which gave him an appealing child-like innocence and modesty. In the book, I am Simeon and Mark becomes an upbeat teenager of my own age. Mark, a strong personality, does most of the talking. All the messages from those enthusiastic dancing eyes are encouraging and friendly. I needed Mark to endure the cruelty of my own mother and ignorant sisters, but I wanted him to be braver than I was in fighting back against gay hate. I lumbered him with typical ‘Middle England’ parents and two older sisters until one chance remark changed all their lives and inflicted horrendous damage on that family. Responding to a newspaper item, one sister said – “Dirty sod! He should get more than that. Two years is no good. Corrupting the young! It’s terrible. It’s these teenage lads experimenting with sex together. That’s what it is. It turns them queer. You see if it doesn’t.” Mark was incensed by an unjustified draconian punishment inflicted on a teenage boy for committing an act of ‘gross indecency’ with a younger teenage boy. Unknown to his sisters and mother, they were Mark’s friends, consenting partners who were deeply in love. During an impassioned drama, he attempted to reason with these three dense women who ganged up on him, shouting him down with outraged bigotry. At the height of the fury, Mark attacked his family using his most potent weapon. Aiming directly at that brick wall of prejudice - he fired a missile - his own homosexuality. He told them he was queer. Into the stunned silence which followed, this intelligent and articulate student tried to educate, tried to explain the reality of being a homosexual. “If teenage boys can be ‘corrupted’ to be homosexual, then why wasn’t I corrupted into being a heterosexual? Don’t you understand? I was born a homosexual in the same way that the girl next door was born a redhead and the chap at the corner shop was born with dark skin. All my life, I’ve seen boys kissing girls and men marrying women. Why hasn’t that turned me?” With his back against the wall, Mark had nowhere else to go. His earnest appeal failed to produce the understanding and tolerance for which he had hoped. It did have one effect. It made him homeless. Not at once – there followed further recriminations during which he was urged to seek medical ‘help’. He refused.  Simeon was horrified to learn that Mark was kicked out of the house he had lived in for 19 years. He spent months of vagrancy on the streets during which time medieval ‘bible bashers’ in the Salvation Army, taking full advantage of his emotional weakened condition, nearly broke his spirit with the repeated mantra – ‘You can’t help what you are, but you can help what you do’.
Eventually he met a man who gave him a home, work, self-respect and love. They were very happy together - just as the real Mark and Jason triumphed and succeeded against fearful odds. Narvel Annable
In early February this year, good friend Allan Morton heard portrait artist Melissa Speed being interviewed on BBC Radio Derby. It was to highlight Melissa’s We Are All Derbyshire project, created to celebrate the people of Derbyshire. After the radio show, Allan reached out to Melissa to suggest Narvel as a potential subject, given his work as an author and campaigner for LGBT+ issues. Melissa agreed this was a great idea and contacted Narvel directly to arrange a sitting a couple of weeks later, on the 22nd February. Narvel previously wrote the following article about this portrait sitting, and this can be read either below or directly using the following link: https://narvel-annable.weebly.com/latest/derbyshire-portraits The exhibition was launched at the Glossop Labour Club on the 28th March and has since been touring different venues in the county. The exhibition having already been shown at Glossop and New Mills, arrived in Heanor on the 2nd May and was split across two venues, the Heanor Baptist Church, and St Lawrence's Church.
On Monday 5th May, Narvel, accompanied by Allan, visited the exhibition at St Lawrence's Church, Heanor, to see his portrait in person for the first time and to meet Melissa again. Pictured above are Narvel with Melissa, and also with Allan. A big thank you to Melissa for Narvel’s inclusion into this wonderful project, and for such an enjoyable exhibition and support throughout. All fifteen portraits showcase Melissa’s very talented artwork, and a booklet containing the portraits and stories behind each one is also available.  The We Are All Derbyshire exhibition continues to tour the county and is scheduled to travel to Marston Montgomery Village Hall (16th to 18th May), Elvaston Castle (25th May to 1st June), and then on to Bolsover (date and venues to be confirmed) and Sharpe’s Pottery Museum in Swadlincote (23rd to 30th June).
More information can be found on the We Are All Derbyshire website: https://www.weareallderbyshire.com/  After my recollection of Mario’s [the first gay disco in Nottingham] - a man told me he was there when it first opened in 1972. ‘I was gobsmacked to see a fellow postman on the door!’ When you kept a guilty secret in those homophobic days, half a century back; it was easy to hide within a heterosexual majority. Few of us were brave enough to be open and ‘out’. I recall several embarrassing incidents when stumbling across familiar faces in same sex venues. I once came face to face with my university professor in a Detroit bath house! Both of us were paralysed with fear. Nothing was said. After a few agonising seconds, he moved away and was not seen until a few days later at the university in the usual lecture theatre. During the session, a moment came when I needed advice and clarifications on an essay he had assessed. His usual demeanour of reserve and professionalism was total - not even the slightest hint of a twinkle in the eye. I was relieved, yet saddened, because he must have been disturbed and fearful. I wanted to assure him of my complete discretion and reliability but remained mum. This drama took place in the same year as the race riot which tore out the heart of Detroit City in 1967. The atmosphere was thick with ethnic hatred. Detroit was gripped by racial turmoil eventually leading to an explosion of burning riots which left city blocks gutted resembling a war zone. The afore mentioned professor was an African American teaching the subject in which I majored - Black History. It was a first. We were a pioneering group of about forty - myself being the only white face. On day one, we were all invited to introduce ourselves. At my turn, they were transfixed by an unfamiliar foreign accent known as broad Derbyshire. One militant boy called Laurent was clearly hostile. Suspicious - he interrogated my reasons for studying his people and culture. ‘Yeah! Heard it all before. Ya say how sorry ya are - but you can never know what it’s like to be ME!’ I was a homosexual, disowned by my own family who threw me out to the wolves. I was on my own. I knew exactly what it was like to be hated and discriminated against. I couldn’t admit that to Laurent. He would have called me a FAG - the African American equivalent to queer or degenerate. In 1960s Detroit, gay youths were the despised minority in hiding. We were the love that dare not speak its name. The difference between me and Laurent is that I can pretend to be heterosexual - but he can’t hide his black face. And yet our shared humiliations were endured on a regular basis. ‘Look!’ I implored, ‘I’m no different from you! I’m not pretending I’m better. We’re about the same age and there is no need to be belligerent.’ Frustrated, I launched into an angry spiel describing my background of Stanley Common mine workers emerging from the bowels of the earth with faces encrusted with coal dust - so deeply ingrained - no amount of soap and scrubbing could ever remove the blackening which marked the lowly status of a common collier. At £8 per week, existing in a primitive terrace cottage, there was precious little difference between a coal miner and a cotton-picking slave. For good measure, I threw in the fact that while black people in Detroit drive around in huge automobiles, my kin folk get around on pushbikes. Decades on, I sometimes think about Laurent - the fiery militant. I wish I’d had the courage to explain that, in reality, we had so much in common. Narvel Annable  I lived in Detroit from 1963 up until 1976 - returning to Derbyshire each summer for as many weeks as could be afforded. In these annual vacations, I was keen to explore the English gay community - so different from the scene of the more butch well-scrubbed United States. My adventures took me into a fascinating underworld of crones, queens, toads, goblins, gnomes, feral boys and social-climbing snobs of Derby and Nottingham in the 1960s and 1970s. Each year I cycled around leafy lanes and discovered a secret subterranean world, a unique collection of curious characters all taking shelter in their twilight existence; monsters, clowns, the high and the low, the pretentious and the pompous, the scented and the sneering, the common and the crude. Many were warped by homophobic cruelty of the day. 1972 saw a breath of fresh air which revitalised the City of Nottingham with its first gay club called MARIO’S on Stanford Street which is now the Broadmarsh Centre. The DISCO was a new and exciting concept of continuous dancing. The quiet old fashioned pit village of Horsley Woodhouse, where I stayed with dowdy Aunty Joyce, was only 16 miles from the glitz and glamour of Mario’s. She kindly accommodated me and garaged my bicycle during each holiday over those 13 years. Public transport from deepest Derbyshire into the vibrant city lights was impossible on a Saturday evening, so I mounted my humble Raleigh Triumph and pedalled to Nottingham through the balmy summer air arriving at about 9pm. In the process of securing my bike to the lamp post outside the Disco door, a concerned manager advised me to bring the bike into his office. He warned – ‘Nay lad! Left out there - you’ll ave no bike left!’ By Mario’s standards, it was early - but the dancing area was already vibrant with the intoxicating and exciting strains of Motown Music. I could have danced all night - but tore myself away at midnight when the whole place was rocking - crowded with sexy teenage boys in tight fitting jeans jiggling and jumping under flashing lights. Fast forward to 1976 after I’d met my husband Terry who had just discovered the gay life. It was Saturday night. We stood near Stanford Street, but I’d lost my bearings, unsure of the position of Mario’s Disco. Terry noticed two police officers on their beat. Immediately, in his innocence, he asked them – ‘Where is Mario’s?’ I dived behind a phone box! Thirteen years of Detroit living had taught me to stay well clear of the law especially in the vicinity of homosexual gatherings. To their credit, helpfully, they pointed to the entrance which was just over the road. ‘You can come out now,’ laughed Terry. We enjoyed our Saturday night dancing and socialising in the famous friendly atmosphere of Mario’s, Nottingham’s first club especially for kindred spirits sharing same sex attraction. Narvel Annable  Allan Morton heard an interesting item on BBC Radio Derby about a portrait artist - Melissa Speed. Her new Derbyshire Portraits initiative is gathering interest and is now publicised in Derbyshire County Council’s newsletter, the Derbyshire Times and on BBC Radio Derby. The project is called We Are All Derbyshire - Celebrating the the People of Derbyshire, and the website link is below: https://www.weareallderbyshire.com Melissa is currently busy talking to people in Derbyshire who have freely given their time and effort to improve the lives of others. Finished pieces of work will be accompanied by inspiring stories from each subject. Following Allan’s recommendation, I’m honoured to have received a visit from Melissa on February 22nd. She came to discuss my work as an LGBT activist with a view to include me in her collection of portraits. On arrival, she took a keen interest in our Belper Friends banner together with various newspaper cuttings chronicling 30 years of campaigning. During the interview, Melissa took dozens of candid photographs of me from which she will eventually produce a portrait. Many paintings have originated by this process. By means of lengthy conversation, an artist needs to receive inspiration from the subject to get a true understanding of the real person behind the face. Having written three biographies and seven novels focused on my homosexual life, Melissa and I were able to compare and contrast our professional approach to producing a portrait on her part - and a book in my case. As a painting medium, she works with pastels rather than paint. During these discussions, I was reminded of the modernist artist and eminent painter Graham Sutherland. He was commissioned to paint the portrait of Sir Winston Churchill in 1954. Famously, he and Lady Churchill hated the result – ‘Looks like I was on the toilet straining a stool!’ he bitterly complained. Sutherland retaliated with – ‘It was an honest and realistic representation.’  Above: Portrait of Winston Churchill (1954) by Graham Sutherland Melissa Speed made it clear that I should not expect the picture to be youthful and flattering. She quoted Oliver Cromwell who insisted on being painted ‘warts and all’. I was in complete agreement with this view. A Judge Too Far is the worst book I have written! Sadly, I gave Judge Keith Matthewman QC complete freedom to edit the text into what turned out to be, not a biography, but a third-rate hagiography. The meeting was a huge success. Having met so many pretentious and pompous snobs in the world of gay men, Melissa was a breath of fresh air! She came over as honest, warm and completely unaffected. I was immediately put at ease by her cordial demeanour as our useful tete-a-tete took its gentle progress - a skill so essential for her profession. We have a lot in common. Melissia is fired up in her zeal to discover commendable aspects in Derbyshire folk, just as I am equally committed to helping those of us who share same sex attraction. This event was extremely enjoyable - and a gift for my husband Terry Durand who will become 86 this year. Suffering from multiple afflictions including dementia, he was fully engaged making valuable contributions. I’m especially grateful to Allan Morton for introducing me to the Derbyshire Portraits initiative and the laudable artist who made it happen. Narvel Annable  A grim and bleak frosty February has inspired this account from Chapter 11 of Heanor Schooldays. I describe the glorious unfolding of my 14th spring in 1959.
True to the old adage, March came in like a lion and left like a lamb. In the warming sunny days of April, my thoughts turned to cycling to William Howitt Secondary School in Heanor – a culture of kindness. The morning ride out of the old pit village of Stanley Common was slightly different each day as the season advanced. The excellent sunny summer of 1959 started early and was still clinging to life in late October amid a blaze of colour. I savoured every moment of every day, watched buds develop into bright green leaves, discerned flowers come and go, perceived magnificent views to Crich Stand and the distant Derbyshire hills beyond. An embryonic love of our ‘scept’red isle’ developed which would soundly defeat a later attempt to settle in the alien city of Detroit. In May, approaching the top of Crown Hills, a distant westerly patchwork panorama opened out. To my left, fragrant nodding bluebells, a sea of colour from a part of Morleyhayes Wood. Cycling north up to Smalley Green between thick thorny barriers of hawthorn with the occasional tangle of white flowered bramble - singing his little heart out at the same spot each day, a spirited soaring skylark seemed to share my zest for life. Glimpses of glossy yellow celandine and patches of wood anemone flashed by before the leafy inviting Bell Lane appeared on the right. Pretty little Smalley Church set in its shady glade on the left preceded a speedy ride through the heart of Smalley Village. Racing down Derby Road into Heanor, a left turn at the old Empire Cinema in Red Lion Square and down High Street completed my four-and-a-half-mile journey. At William Howitt Secondary School cycles simply lent against a wall completely safe until needed at the end of the day. These treasured memories, now 66 years old, are embraced in the intoxication of delirious happiness. 1959 was the happiest year of my life. Narvel Annable  I’ll always associate Claud Hoadley with a dark and fusty public bar at the Friary Hotel, Friar Gate in Derby. Like other quirky characters in my novels, he is based on a real person appearing in Scruffy Chicken. The very fabric of ancient drapes, worn carpets and leather chairs seemed to have absorbed a century of snobbery emanating from snooty, stuffy old men in dingy suits. In that place of soft silence, fading grandeur, Hoadley was the head of a power structure of sneering disciples. The Friary Hotel of 1965 was a temple of theatrical affectation. Approaching the bar, I gradually discerned a low murmur of ornate voices in conversation. The most striking aspect of Claud Hoadley was his posture. Possibly this gave him that indefinable air of authority. Hoadley was bolt upright, straight as a pole with clear-cut features, shrewd, cold, grey eyes and cruel lips. He was the very essence of good taste and excellent grooming, from the top of his perfectly combed hair down to his highly polished, expensive shoes. His orgy of enunciation and lavish articulation – hit my Derbyshire ear like a thunderbolt. I began to absorb the subtle middle-class values which were being communicated from that group of superior homosexuals on that evening. Members of the club were encouraged to appear to be, at all times, inwardly assured, stable, smug - even arrogant. I was experiencing culture shock. Unlike in the United States, here in Derby discussion of money was considered vulgar, unearned privilege was admired and American pushiness deplored. Steered by Hoadley, the conversation meandered around various subjects, but the correct code of conduct came out loud and clear; manual work, technical skills, people in trade, self-made types and all manner of 'doers' were to be despised by these nodding heads. I reflect upon that sad elite of oppressed people who (to make their own position safer) felt the need to denigrate other human beings regarded as inferior in mid-20th century British class structure.  Good friend Allan recently visited the Albert Docks, Liverpool and took the above photograph of the statue of the late, great Billy Fury. The original version of Maybe Tomorrow by Billy Fury can be heard on YouTube via the following link: https://youtu.be/2Dvb_PI7dJY The extract from Heanor Schooldays below explains the life changing significance of this record during my adolescence After four horrific years at Mundy Street Boys School in Heanor, attending William Howitt Secondary Modern School down the road in September 1958 - was a life changing experience. Each lunch hour, I walked up the hill to the café on Heanor Market Place and chose from various items on the menu. 'Something and chips' cost two bob, add three pennies for a cup of tea. The cafe had two halves. To the right of the central corridor was the snack bar and to the left a quieter dining room for meals. Above the clatter of pots, cutlery, comings and goings and the continuous hum of conversation, I could hear and enjoy pop music which travelled across the two rooms. The music came from something new and different: a space aged, push buttoned chrome and gaudily illuminated cabinet called a 'jukebox'. It needed to be fed - a threepenny bit for one play, a silver sixpence for two plays, or five plays for a silver shilling. Not many of those went in. Fascinated eyes watched a mechanical arm lift when a record had been selected. A popular seven-inch record would be located and then placed precisely on an automatic deck. As the needle fell into the lead groove, an anticipatory delicious electronic 'thud' would precede the ecstatic sounds to follow. The previous July, I became a teenager. Munching through my beans on toast (or whatever) each day at that café; I experienced the birth of, for me, real music. The charts of 1959 and 1960 were the very epicentre of my musical experience. I’d spend the rest of my life worshipping at that shrine of talented excellence. Forever more, I’d listen with nostalgic reverence to the lush orchestrations and sexy boyish voices which sang out through that small window of creativity. Marty Wilde, Bobby Vee and Adam Faith crystallised and defined fresh green hopes, inspired my dreams and fuelled my fantasies. One day was very special. I was entranced by what seemed like a sweet-sounding choir of heavenly angels ascending and descending the scale, complemented by a resonant twangy bass guitar. Into this euphonious mix came, exactly at the right time, a deep masculine voice with just a hint of the sexy adolescent croak so typical of this new young genre. He could easily have been mistaken for Elvis but, these dulcet tones were a touch lighter and, for my taste, with great respect to the King – better. This sensuous singer had composed both the music and lyrics for this beautiful work which lasted barely more than a precious two minutes. After such an orgasmic audible experience, in complete contrast to the hateful pious dirges of Mundy Street Boys School just a stone's throw away; this new music now became an important part of my new life at William Howitt Secondary Modern School – a culture of kindness. During the following weeks, the same record was played several times every day. I struggled to hang on to those illusive, hypnotic notes, above the ambient din of the busy Market Cafe. A few occasional words were discerned - " ... and in the evening, by the moonlight ... " I knew not the name of the singer nor the song title to be able to ask for it in a record shop. A pointless exercise not possessing a record player, let alone the expensive seven shillings needed to purchase. Eventually, the time came when, nervously, this scruffy youth entered a shop and held the precious vinyl disc, with its grooved integral encoded magical music, bearing the legend - Maybe Tomorrow. Later, in that same store, examining the sleeve of a prized long-playing record - I stood very still and looked. I peered long and hard into the stunningly handsome features of my teenage idol - Billy Fury: a typical image of the popular culture of 1959. Fast forward to May 2023 when Terry and I were watching Mike Read and Noel Cronin on TPTV’s Footage Detectives. They were discussing Billy Fury and his backing voices heard in Maybe Tomorrow! Suddenly, after 64 years, I was able to identify that sweet-sounding choir of heavenly angels ascending and descending the scale. They were the Vernons Girls - three session singers led by Maureen Kennedy on many hit singles in that period. Maybe Tomorrow was their debut as an angelic backing group. Narvel Annable Narvel also chose Maybe Tomorrow as his final record on the Desert Island Discs piece we recorded in May 2020 during the first national covid-19 lockdown. You can hear him talking about this from 1:20:50 onwards via the link below. This is followed by his 1998 Radio Derby interview with John Holmes where he also discusses the song: https://www.mixcloud.com/narvelontheradio/narvel-annable-desert-island-discs-lock-down-special-may-2020/ My novels are driven by a fascination of the odd bods and quirky types I’ve met in the gay world. Occasionally, I’m asked to choose a favourite. Here follows an extract from 16 in 61. It features two very colourful and amusing characters based on real life gay men who lived in the Belper, Derbyshire area in 1961 when I was 16.  16 in 61 is available to purchase by clicking on the book cover above. Tongue in cheek, a little fat queen called Dolly narrated to me a horror story about a hideously deformed old man called Jasper Wormall. He sat, for hours, in a crumbling old cottage – gay parlance for a public toilet. ‘He’s like a ghastly spider,’ said Dolly, articulating carefully with beautiful round vowels through flabby fleshy cheeks. ‘He’s humped and bent - patiently waiting for prey.’ Teenage Narvel was being initiated into the art of cottaging in a tour of Victorian lavatories. We left the shopping area in a colliery Derbyshire town and turned into an ill-lit alley. Due to a sense of menace, the boy slowed, but Dolly urged him on with promises of pleasure at the entrance of a primordial gentleman's lavatory. I’m attempting to reveal the sordid secrets of homosexuality to the heterosexual majority. In so doing, it is important to make clear that I do not recommend such promiscuity to the youth of today. I’m simply saying that in the 1950s and 1960s - this was the reality for repressed teenage boys who shared same sex attraction. In that grim lavatory, Dolly guided his novice past the ghostly outline of several dark, silent figures lined up at the urinal. There were three WC cubicles. The first two were closed and occupied. In the faint dirty amber light available, I saw that the door of the last one was ajar several inches. Gently, Dolly urged his young friend forward, placing him in front of that partly open door and gave him a soft push. My eyes strained to adjust to the darker gloom of that cave-like entrance, to penetrate, to pierce the dismal depths, to discern, to make sense of that strange crooked shape within. In that silent moment, a silence which seemed profound, there came, from inside that cave to my ear, a short sound - a sort of 'click'. ‘Did you hear that?’ whispered Dolly. ‘Lucky boy! The click of a crone. It's the prelude to pleasure,’ sighed the little fat man in sibilant round vowels. ‘Advance! Yield! Offer yourself to this master of the extended orgasm. Give yourself - and know true bliss,’ he lisped rather theatrically into my youthful ear. But an instinct told me to stand my ground. I felt grateful for the protection of strong, form-hugging blue jeans and had high expectations with regard to the choice of a sexual partner. In my 1957 Heanor Mundy Street days, I was accustomed to the quick removal of false teeth in connection with the local paedophile - Guzzly Granddad - together with his ancient toothless bum chums who lived near the school. I’d also become accustomed to sex with boys my own age. In the Derbyshire coal fields, I had a romantic inclination and dreamed of meeting strong, masculine boys who had a full set of beautiful white natural teeth. On this tour, I was hoping Dolly would push me into the arms of a strapping young footballer of firm straight body - a footballer with no hump. Or, alternatively, a virile coal miner of rough manners who would not be too gentle and might 'bend me over t' bog'. Alas, as gradually became clear, this particular bog was not inhabited by a footballer, a miner - or even a young minor such as my hopeful self. There was a man in that bog, but not the man I would have chosen. It started with two points of reflected lecherous amber light, gleaming with lewd intent which, as my eyes continued to adjust, eventually revealed two grizzled leering eyes - horrible to behold. These deep, salacious sockets were set behind a rough-hewn beak of a nose - thrust forward - bent forward in eager anticipation of the juicy morsel at hand. Out of a drooling slash of toothless mouth emerged a snake of oscillating tongue, inviting, beckoning, urging its prey to enter, to be caressed, stroked, slurped and finally drained with oodles of Jurassic slobber. But this was not Granddad’s familiar cobra. Granddad was a real man, as butch as a brick. Everything about the Belper Crone was womanly. He was an effeminate ugly old queen! The dark, the damp, the sudden horror of being confronted by that grotesque goblin who dwelt within his murky cavern. It was all too much. A sudden panic!! I fled that cottage as if the very devil were at my heels. Such a quick exit alarmed other loiterers who quickly departed. This appalling spectre stayed in my mind for decades. It was something like the old hag in Snow White. How apt! ‘Mummy dust had made him old. Cackle of crone and scream of fright had greyed his hair.’ Later, Dolly tried to calm me with a short history of Jasper’s rough boyhood days in the late 1800s. He explained that Jasper was one of a gang of night-soil men who emptied garden privies before the introduction of water closets. These were the shadowy workers who emptied large buckets of ‘jollop’ into filthy carts during the hours of darkness. The boss was a local character - one Smelly Sam! His brother was known as Dirty Don and the night-soil cart was pulled by a horse called Wiffy Willy. An undersized ragamuffin called Jasper was the limey-lad. It was his job to walk ahead of the cart with a naked flame torch and spread lime over any spillages - ‘To get rid o’ stink.’ This smelly story has a happy ending. By way of a personal apology to Jasper, Dolly insisted that we visit him at his humble home in Belper. ‘He’s an intriguing charming character who enjoys entertaining visitors with tea and freshly baked cakes.’ Jasper lived in a simple stone cottage located up a rough track under a raucous rookery of constantly screaming crows from a crown of tall trees.  Above photograph: Could this be Jasper's cottage? He lived a mediaeval existence. There was no electricity, no gas and no running water. The loo was a rough hole in the garden over which you had to crouch. The ugly hunchback with his deep-set leering fish-eyes eyes behind a large beak nose, told us interesting tales of gay life in the old mill town of late nineteenth century Belper. In the years which followed, I enjoyed many visits to the medieval man in his crooked old cottage under the screaming crows from a crown of tall trees. Narvel Annable Information Sheet 183 is now available to view online. This is shown below, but for the best readable version that you can also download, then please visit the following link: https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/v3mg0iusahvnl15es3u5g/Info-Sheet-183.jpg?rlkey=phzvaa366qtsjv8yk7o97b8t6&st=9tof4wkv&dl=0   GHOST 1990 Ghost is a fascinating fantasy film - romantic love reaching beyond the grave. Sometimes spooky, this mystery thriller blends comedy and horror focusing on the grief of Molly Jensen [Demi Moore] when her lover, Sam Wheat [Patrick Swayze] is suddenly shot dead in a quiet New York street by Willie Lopez [Rick Aviles]. Big shock! It’s bad enough to be held up by a ferocious looking gunman demanding your wallet, but what followed is much worse. Sam is not a man to easily part with his cash to a snarling little mugger emerging from the shadows. Molly begs him to surrender, but a deadly scuffle ends in a gunshot. In the heat of the moment, we are delighted to see Sam giving chase to the running runt. He fails to catch the criminal, but, remembering Molly, he runs back to comfort her and gets the shock of his life – or death. Molly is cradling his dead body! She is pleading for him to come back – ‘Please don’t leave me Sam.’ She cries out – ‘Somebody! Please! Somebody help us.’ Sam, now a ghost, crouches down and tries to touch himself. An ambulance arrives and removes his dead body to the hospital where attempts of resuscitation are futile. Helplessly, Sam stays with a distraught Molly watching the unfolding of the whole miserable drama. The story, told from the point of view of the dead, inspired my 2019 novel Double Life subtitled – A Ghost Story set in Derbyshire. It was a shock when Sam discovers that his colleague Carl Bruner [Tony Goldwyn] in league with Willie Lopez, is working with drug barons in laundering their ill-gotten gains. Effectively, they are responsible for Sam’s death. Willie Lopez is an ugly frightening little character totally devoid of any conscience. It was a further shock for me to find that the real-life Willy [Rick Aviles] is a standup comedian! He didn’t make me laugh. But there were plenty of laughs from Oda Mae Brown [Whoopi Goldberg] who deserved her Academy Award for best supporting actor. Oda, is a feisty bubbly spiritual fake advisor and medium. Sam was appalled to see her taking advantage of vulnerable elderly ladies ‘milking them for every penny’. Observing her con artist methods, he openly castigated her cruel conduct - safe in the knowledge that nobody could see him - or hear what he said. But Oda was astonished to hear every insulting word at her sham séance. This proved that she was, in fact, a genuine spiritual medium! A friendship is established between Sam and Oda to thwart the evil axis of Carl and Willie who were intent of robbing the bank of four million dollars. Sam’s spirit is able to get about and observe Carl’s crafty computer work - including phone calls to the drug barons who are planning to launder this fortune. Just before the fraudulent transition is about to take place, Sam persuades Oda to attend the bank and pretend to be the fictional Rita Miller – holder of the account. Oda casually walks out of the bank with a cashier’s cheque worth millions. A frantic Carl sees on his computer – ACCOUNT CLOSED. He and Willie are now sure to be murdered by the mafia. A gloating ghost says – ‘Your dead, Carl! You’ll end up like Jimmy Hoffa.’ It is thought that Hoffa, a corrupt union boss, was thrown into an icy river wearing concrete boots. Meanwhile, Oda Mae Brown is joyfully striding through Manhattan telling Sam all the wonderful things she will do with all that lovely money. Oda thought she could keep the money. Sam explained – ‘No, this is blood money! I was murdered for this money. Your only guarantee of safety is to give it away – to a charity.’ She is outraged, but grudgingly hands the cheque to nuns collecting for the Catholic Church. I too was horrified! Peter Tatchell would be a much more deserving recipient. Sam learns that he can move through solid objects shown by special ‘PASS THROUGH’ effects - most impressive. He also acquires the skills of a poltergeist and is better able to protect Molly and Oda in the dramatic closing moments of the film - enhanced by beautiful digital effects and the emotional music of Maurice Jarre. The final minutes also brought tears to my eyes when Sam, ascending into heaven, tells Molly – ‘The love inside, you take it with you.’ Narvel Annable In my November bulletin, I referred to health issues which have crippled the smooth running of our home during the last six months. Belper Friends gay support group is now only a shadow of its former self – but - we try to keep cheerful and were glad to host a further modest gathering of the loyal few this December. Our meeting was another success. Bighearted Fred Bray fed us with delicious high-quality sandwiches - helped by generous contributions to the feast from all who attended. Conversations were entertaining, interesting and amusing. We experienced the vibrancy of camaraderie and a warmth of welcome. As in all our meetings, free food and hot drinks were enjoyed. In spite of the cold on a bleak midwinter day, our Christmas fuddle was a triumph! Excellent cake together with hot drinks kept us warm, cosy and fully involved in the discussion. We continue to be assisted by Fred. Over the years, he has electrified each meeting with his dazzling, powerful personality and eloquent delivery. Like a breath of fresh air, PC Bray came to our first 2017 event - and has attended nearly every meeting since. He has always taken time and trouble giving counselling, comfort and has solved numerous problems for members in need. A whirlwind! A bundle of energy! Fred made sure that we all received a hot drink with several more to follow. I make special mention of my Actor / Producer and Director friend - Bill Smith - who has enriched several previous meetings. He was sensitive enough to pick up my current state of anxiety and made a kind conscientious effort to enliven the meeting with hilarious stories from our youthful days at the Ilkeston College of Further Education Drama Group. Some of the anecdotes are much too naughty for this bulletin, but were well received by his audience. After all, entertainment is Bill’s business and doesn’t he do it well! Thank you, Bill. Heartfelt thanks must go to my good friend, (assistant in all technical matters) and fellow writer Allan Morton. For years, Allan has played an important part in bringing to life these newsletters by proofreading, assisting with imaginative illustrations, slide shows and posting to my website and beyond. Allan has worked hard as a publicist promoting all my efforts including the novels which carry an important LGBT message. From my husband Terry, and all who read my words, we wish you a Merry Christmas and a very Happy 2025. Narvel Annable  Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner 1967
I’ve often made comparisons and contrasts between racial prejudice and homophobia. When attractive white girl, Joey, introduced her black beau to her white parents, it was immediately clear that John was a Negro - as he would have been politely described in 1967. Had John been a homosexual, that could be masked by his silence on the subject. To this day, many gay men choose to hide their sexuality because of ingrained prejudice. Distinguished black doctor, John Prentice [Sidney Poitier] is a brilliant research physician who meets and falls in love with Joanna Drayton – ‘Joey’ [Katharine Houghton]. Her father, Matthew Drayton ‘Matt’ [Spencer Tracey] is an enlightened, successful crusading publisher. She assures her new fiancé that mixed marriage will be totally acceptable in the Drayton home. Matt’s initial opposition causes much soul searching and social turmoil. Eventually, Mr Prentice [Roy E Glenn Sr] and Mrs Prentice [Beah Richards] meet the Draytons and discuss the racial issues – which were considerable and fraught with emotion in the 1960s. Christina Drayton [Katharine Hepburn] and Mrs Prentice find they agree in favour of the proposed marriage. On the other hand, Matt and Mr Prentice are both opposed. In a heated exchange, Mr Prentice vehemently attacks his son for aspiring to marry a white girl. ‘Ya don’t know what ya doin! Yad be breakin the law in some states. And supposing they change the law – that don’t change what folks think.’ In a rage, John fires back – ‘You think of yourself as a lowly coloured man. I think of myself - as a man!’ Tillie [Isabel Sanford] is the feisty and primitive black maid of many years service and considered to be a member of the Drayton family. Alas, she insults, abuses and threatens Dr Prentice - ‘You are one of those smooth talking, smart-ass niggers!’ She complains to Joey – ‘He calls himself Dr Prentice! Just don’t like one of my race getting above himself.’ Tillie also complains to Matt Drayton – ‘In this house, all hell done broke loose!’ Matt Drayton admits he is shocked by Joey’s intention to marry a Negro. His best friend of 30 years, Monsignor Ryan – ‘Mike’ [Cecil Kelloway] says - ‘I’m not shocked. I’ve come across many interracial marriages in my time. Strangely enough, they usually work out quite well. Perhaps it’s because they need to make a special effort to stay together.’ Matt responds – ‘I happen to know that they haven’t a cat-in-hells chance in this rotten stinking world.’ Mike responds – ‘Committed couples like John and Joey will change this rotten stinking world. Those two good people make me feel extraordinarily happy!’ As a gay man who has spent his life combatting ignorance, bigotry and gay hate - this excellent film resonates in so many ways. Narvel Annable  Due to the tsunami of health issues which have crippled the smooth running of our home during the last six months, the Belper Friends gay support group is now only a shadow of its former self.
Since May, several meetings have been cancelled because Terry was in hospital or simply unable to cope with stress of welcoming our loyal guests. We are in decline and seriously forgetful. The house is full of notes to tell us what needs to be done this week, days of putting bins out, medical appointments – everything has to be notated even showers and bowel movements. Terry has breathing problems from scarred lungs resulting from a lifetime of working in attics infested with fibreglass particles. He is now 85, has Alzheimer’s, cancer and heart complications sometimes getting into a muddle with medications. However, we try to keep cheerful and were glad to host a modest gathering of the loyal few on November 13th. The days of ‘just turn up’ are now over - yielding to ‘invitation only’. Our meeting was a success and Terry fed the few with his usual excellent sandwiches. Alan, David, John and James greatly helped bringing their own generous contributions to the feast. Having viewed a multitude of impressive Facebook photographs of Scotland in my inbox, I was surprised to see John [not his real name] at our door. During the last few years, John has enjoyed frequent holidays in that wild and craggy northern landscape. He spoke of adventures meeting new people exploring gay venues - even a Celtic version of Belper Friends! John’s talk was entertaining, interesting and amusing. All the more appreciated considering a life blighted by ignorance and homophobia. Over the last 20 years, John has suffered appalling cruelty from hateful bigotry. He learned of the death of his long-term partner by overhearing a conversation in his local pub. Being slightly autistic and socially isolated – nobody told him! He has been forced out of his home several times. During covid, a gay hating neighbour made his life so unbearable that John reluctantly accepted help from the local Hate Crime Police Officer who interviewed the perpetrator under caution. All being well, Belper Friends will gather for our Christmas Party on December 11th. Narvel Annable Murder Most Foul is the third of four Miss Marple films based on Agatha Christie’s Mrs McGinty’s Dead.  Constantly homesick during 13 years of living in Detroit, I have a special fondness for Margaret Rutherford - a quaint, quintessentially whimsical and very English character actor.
Thrilled to be returning to Derbyshire on an extended holiday, I saw this entertaining movie aboard the Empress of England bound for Liverpool in 1965. Many scenes and dialogue resonated during that viewing. It opens in an old-fashioned musty provincial Crown Court with a miserable looking ‘Prisoner at the Bar’ charged with the murder of Mrs McGinty. The evidence against him is overwhelming. ‘Caught red-handed’ comments one of the jurors. An intimidating stern judge of grim countenance is summing up for a conviction – black cap at the ready. His concentration is disrupted by an irritating clicking noise just below him. One of the jurors, Miss Marple, is knitting. ‘Madam, either you will have to cease knitting, or I will have to cease judging! Which shall it be?’ ‘I’m sorry, My Lord; it helps me to concentrate.’ ‘It does not help me, Madam!’ Deliberation in the jury room takes much longer than expected. Eventually, we learn that a verdict could not be reached. Alone, Miss Marple was adamant in the defendant’s innocence. After dismissal, the frustrated Police Inspector complained – ‘If ever there was an open and shut case, this was it. One member of that jury was being perverse!’ Miss Marple responded – ‘Many more than one, I assure you, Inspector; Eleven, to be precise.’ In an attempt to uncover the real murderer, Miss Marple’s investigations lead her to join a floundering theatrical troupe including a dangerous killer. Along the way she has to negotiate red herrings and various motives lurking amidst her fellow actors who are consumed with distrust, jealousy and spite. Starved of all things English, after living in the USA, I was emotionally affected by being reacquainted with half-forgotten images from my past. Most notable were much admired cars parked outside the Crown Court. Greatly desired in my early teenage years were the Ford Zepher, the Ford Zodiac and the Vauxhall Cresta. We also saw a shop window displaying early 1960s state-of-the-art televisions and radiograms – items completely out of reach in coal mining villages such as Stanley Common. This thoroughly enjoyable amusing star-studded vintage who-done-it, never fails to fascinate I have seen many times and will continue to see it many times in the future. Narvel Annable  Shelagh Delaney was criticised for the ‘unsatisfactory’ ending of A Taste of Honey. It was seen to be both sad and, somehow, incomplete.
She argued that it simply reflected real life which does not always turn out as we would wish. She told people not to worry about Geoffrey - the gentle and kind homosexual who, in the final minutes of the film, was turned out of his home with nowhere to live. ‘Geoffrey will be OK.’ In composing Secret Summer which is about my great love, I was faced with the same problem of how to conclude my novel. If readers want a happy ending, where should the story end? Along the continuum of life, there are days when we are happy and days when we are not. Real life is like that. And all my titles are about real life and real people within the LGBT community. On the last page of Secret Summer, I address my readers directly. My boyfriend and I would have preferred to be ‘strangers in paradise’- lovers who meet in a lovely garden, under the whispering leaves of a mulberry tree, as did the Caliph and his true love in Kismet. Alas, we met in the orgy room of a gay bathhouse - but that did not make my great love any the less great or less fulfilling. Many gay men of my generation met in a urinal. This does not diminish a life changing, profound relationship. Real life is like that. Under pressure from well-meaning friends, I contrived that the lovers in my book were ecstatically happy on an evening of blissful reconciliation and delightful reunion against a backdrop of magnificent sunset of brilliant red, purple and gold. It was cold, but they cuddled together to keep warm. It made an all-important physical connection which continued to weave its magical spell – continued to keep them together. I resisted the temptation to reach for the traditional ending to a fairytale love story. The old cliché - and they lived happily ever after - would have to be implied rather than spoken, if I was to be completely honest. Narvel Annable  Hello Readers
I’ve received a strong response to my dementia letter recently printed in five local papers - Derby Telegraph - Nottingham Post - Worksop Guardian - Derbyshire Times - and Ilkeston Life Please look in the LETTERS section on this website. One gay man in particular gave a harrowing account - ‘Forgetfulness happens when you reach a certain age. ‘I went to the Goose Fair. Watching the time, I thought I’d better catch the 10:30pm bus back home. It was Friday and I wouldn't be able to use my bus pass after that time. ‘Chatting to another passenger at the bus stop, I discovered that my bus would not arrive until 11.25. The reason - it was not Friday – it was Saturday! ‘What caused that lapse of memory? God knows. But that is what actually happened. ‘It was particularly frightening because I live on my own. I do stupid things like leaving the gas on in the kitchen. ‘I could end up as a gas casualty - or blow the house up - if I forgot! ‘The other week, I woke up at 3am and smelled burning permeating the house. The enamel was burned off the saucepan which I had put on a low light at 9pm. The peas were like black charred bullets!’ This is indeed alarming! In a recent email, Peter Tatchell told us that LGBTs are at a higher risk of dementia and depression than their heterosexual peers. Researchers found a 14% increased risk of being diagnosed with dementia and a 27% higher risk of depression in later life. This study blames a variety of contributions including the constant stress of homosexuals hiding their secret lives from friends and relatives. The unfortunate single man above suffers the double whammy of being gay together with living alone in isolation. I’ve been with my husband Terry for the last 48 years. We bounce off each other and constantly check on each other in a supportive relationship. Terry has Alzheimer’s and I’m his carer. I’m very concerned about all elderly LGBTs who live alone. Narvel Annable Hello Readers,
I was very moved by a Facebook item from my Facebook Friend Peter Burnham. I’ve been anxious about memory problems since my husband Terry received a formal diagnosis of Alzheimer’s disease in June. Terry and I are in decline. I’m seriously forgetful. The house is full of notes to tell us what needs to be done each week - days of putting bins out, medical appointments – everything has to be notated even showers and bowel movements. 2025 will be my 80th year when Terry turns 86. Peter began his piece by saying - It’s cruel and sad to see this happening to your loved one. ʀᴏʙɪɴ ᴡɪʟʟɪᴀᴍs ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ʜɪs ᴏᴡɴ ʟɪғᴇ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ʜᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴅɪᴀɢɴᴏsᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʟᴇᴡʏ ʙᴏᴅʏ ᴅᴇᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴀ. ʙʀᴜᴄᴇ ᴡɪʟʟɪs ᴊᴜsᴛ ʟᴇᴀʀɴᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜɪs ɪʟʟɴᴇss ɪs ғʀᴏɴᴛᴏᴛᴇᴍᴘᴏʀᴀʟ ᴅᴇᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴀ (ғᴛᴅ) ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴇᴡʏ ʙᴏᴅʏ ᴅᴇᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴀ. ᴏɴᴇ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀʀᴅᴇsᴛ ᴛʜɪɴɢs ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇss ɪs ᴛʜᴇ sʟᴏᴡ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏᴠᴇ. ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ ᴀ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇʟʏ ᴅɪғғᴇʀᴇɴᴛ ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴ. ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇs. ᴊᴜsᴛ sᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ... ɪᴛ’s ᴄᴀʟʟᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴏɴɢ ɢᴏᴏᴅʙʏᴇ. ʀᴀᴘɪᴅʟʏ sʜʀɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ʙʀᴀɪɴ ɪs ʜᴏᴡ ᴀ ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ ᴅᴇsᴄʀɪʙᴇᴅ ɪᴛ. ᴀs ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴛɪᴇɴᴛ's ʙʀᴀɪɴ sʟᴏᴡʟʏ ᴅɪᴇs, ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇ ᴘʜʏsɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ғᴏʀɢᴇᴛ ᴡʜᴏ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴏɴᴇs ᴀʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʟᴇss ᴛʜᴇᴍsᴇʟᴠᴇs. ᴘᴀᴛɪᴇɴᴛs ᴄᴀɴ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʙᴇᴅʀɪᴅᴅᴇɴ, ᴜɴᴀʙʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴏᴠᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴜɴᴀʙʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴇᴀᴛ ᴏʀ ᴅʀɪɴᴋ ᴏʀ ᴛᴀʟᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴏɴᴇs. ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ᴡɪʟʟ sᴄʀᴏʟʟ ʙʏ ᴛʜɪs ᴍᴇssᴀɢᴇ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ᴀʟᴢʜᴇɪᴍᴇʀ's ᴏʀ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ғᴏʀᴍs ᴏғ ᴅᴇᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴀ ʜᴀs ɴᴏᴛ ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍ. ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪᴛ's ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴏɴᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ʜᴀs ғᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴏʀ ɪs ғɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ ᴀ ʙᴀᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴀɢᴀɪɴsᴛ ᴀʟᴢʜᴇɪᴍᴇʀ's ᴏʀ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴋɪɴᴅs ᴏғ ᴅᴇᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴀ (ᴛʜᴇ ᴜᴍʙʀᴇʟʟᴀ ᴛᴇʀᴍ ғᴏʀ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ 𝟸𝟶𝟶 ᴅɪғғᴇʀᴇɴᴛ ᴛʏᴘᴇs). The NHS website provides more information about this cruel disease: https://www.nhs.uk/conditions/alzheimers-disease/www.nhs.uk/conditions/alzheimers-disease/ Belper Friends Bulletin for September 11th 2024. It nearly didn’t happen! Coming to terms with Terry’s dementia and his multiple health issues have left us exhausted and fragile after months of constant anxiety including frequent hospital visits. Terry was cheered and benefited from an extremely useful and enjoyable meeting with Iain, James, Alan, David and PC Fred Bray the Father of Belper Friends - to whom we owe so much. Back in February, Belper Friends closed ranks and agreed that ‘small was cosy’ and accepted my reluctance to canvas for new members. We just wanted to welcome our faithful few by invitation only. As usual, they all brought something nice to eat and Terry made his delicious sandwiches. We thank Iain for taking the photographs and Allan Morton for his splendid ongoing technical contributions. My former pupil, resident poet and drummer, Tim Blades, sent his apologies to this meeting for today's gathering due to getting various things done. I’m delighted he is now doing a Full Time Degree in 'Creative Writing' at Nottingham Trent University. Tim sends his love and best wishes to all fellow BF attendees. In any support group of older men, it is inevitable that life and death can enter the conversation which brings us to our loyal INVISIBLES who are always with us in spirit - if not in the flesh. Like Terry and myself, the INVISIBLES are vehemently opposed to traditional religious funerals and hostile homophobic relatives who, after a death, would aggressively present themselves at our door concerned by such irrelevances as choice of hymns, scattering of ashes etc. In a recent exchange of emails with our unseen friends, I described my horror of confrontation with such gay hating types haranguing me at my door should I survive Terry. In grief, we are ill-equipped to deal with such a nightmare. However, I danced with joy when enlightened by a few MAGIC WORDS which are on the very first line of the Will of the wonderful INVISIBLES. It clearly states - I desire that my body be cremated by direct cremation without ceremony This way, there are NO ARGUMENTS from hostile traditionalists who, if they could, would impose a canting clergyman droning along with miserable music from a church organ. This can’t happen when the deceased person’s wishes are clearly stated in black and white. On a more cheerful note, I shared a recent success with our Belper Friends group. Being anxious about memory problems since Terry received a formal diagnosis of Alzheimer’s disease, we attended sessions at Dovedale Day Hospital in Derby to help us living with dementia. I wrote a letter to several newspapers and was thrilled when they were all printed in full! The Derby Telegraph printed it on August 28th under the heading of - Colleague’s advice has helped with being gay The Nottingham Post on August 30th Cherished keepsake unearthed secret life The Worksop Guardian on September 6th Memories of 1961 The September edition of Ilkeston Life. Disapproval felt at dementia meeting My piece ended with sage advice from a good friend who was known as Dolly in the secretive gay community. ‘You have a lot to learn, young man,’ cautioned Dolly. ‘We queers are all born criminals into a hostile world where the majority hate us. We are constantly stressed by always having to hide our true selves; many of us are tainted with mental quirks and dysfunctionality. Think yourself fortunate that you’ll always be able to pass as a well-adjusted heterosexual. Click on the link below to see the letter https://narvel-annable.weebly.com/letters.html All being well, Belper Friends will meet again on Wednesday, November 13th Warm wishes, Narvel  I’ve been anxious about memory problems since my husband Terry Durand received a formal diagnosis of Alzheimer’s disease in June 2024.
We were invited to attended five informative sessions at Dovedale Day Hospital, London Road in Derby. Each week a different theme was presented to help us living with dementia. One meeting in particular resonated with my early personal experience as a gay man. Evidence suggests that experiences between the ages of 10 and 30 sticks with us right up to old age. This phenomenon is called the ‘memory bump’. 2025 will be my 80th year when Terry turns 86. We heard that a certain stimulus might untap a feeling, time or smell that went along with it. Feel-good hormones called endorphins can be triggered which may ease depression and anxiety. This also helps us to connect with the past by evoking memories and emotions. People spoke of music, photographs, familiar places, scents, tastes and keepsakes. We were asked to produce any personal item which was special or precious. My offering was a key-ring handmade for me in 1961 when I was sixteen. As a craft apprentice in Spondon Power Station, I became friendly with a small fat man called John who was especially sympathetic. In the Instrument Department, he stamped out NARVEL on an identity disc attached to my key-ring. I have kept it with me all these 63 years. The group leader encouraged me to develop my affection for John. In contrast to the other rough workmen, he spoke with beautifully rounded vowels in a soft sighing voice. There was something comfortable and old fashioned about this pleasant little rotundity who was known as Dolly in the gay community. I sensed disapproval in this small audience of older heterosexuals as I tried to explain the intense anonymity of men who hid behind a nickname like other LGBTs in the 1960s. Above all, they were vague and secretive. Dolly had perfected a system of disinformation, misdirection, deception and sleight of hand to create an impenetrable wall of secrecy around himself. His protection, guidance and good advice still improves the quality of my life to this very day. ‘You have a lot to learn, young man,’ cautioned Dolly. ‘We queers are all born criminals into a hostile world where the majority hate us. We are constantly stressed by always having to hide our true selves; many of us are tainted with mental quirks and dysfunctionality. Think yourself fortunate that you’ll always be able to pass as a well-adjusted heterosexual.’ Narvel Annable |
