A Murder Mystery set in Belper 1949 Death on the Derwent, a popular novel first published in 1999, rapidly sold out. With mixed feelings, I agreed to a Second Edition reprinted in 2014. Why mixed feelings? In the introduction to the Second Edition (see the photograph below) I attempted to answer this question. In 2014, I also published the gay novel I most esteem – Sea Change which is a factual autobiography concealed inside a book disguised as a work of fiction. A joy to write, Sea Change is the novel of which I am most proud. Death on the Derwent is the title which inspires in me a feeling of shame and betrayal because, still in my closet, I was complicit with homophobia. In 2003, bravely, I made a break with the past and published Lost Lad which revealed my homosexuality. An American publisher in 2010 gave me the chance to take the next step and share with the world a powerful gay love in Secret Summer which gripped me in 1966. Double Life in 2019 and 16 in 61 in 2022 provided further clarifications exposing the pain and suffering of LGBT people in the 20th century. Copies of the Second Edition of Death on the Derwent are availabe from Narvel's Dobba’s Delights Amazon store, by clicking here.
First editions might still be available on the internet. A short film based on Narvel's Death on the Derwent was once made as a college project by Duncan McFarlane. This can be viewed on YouTube by clicking on the following link: https://youtu.be/am_2CXCZJTw On such a cool day the heat felt good, penetrated my bones and caused me to sink into a lethargic reverie. The daydream was interrupted by a toe! Out of the mist at the end of a leg, was a foot with a toe which was touching one of my toes. If it was an accident, it would have been quickly withdrawn. But this toe was persistent in its search to meet other toes. Toe to toe, I had to consider my position and decide a plan of action. Should I see this development as an outrage - or an opportunity? From a brief survey of the males within, few appeared to be under 50 years of age. Consequently, the chances of this particular digit connecting to a young Adonis were somewhere between slim and non-existent. As the toe continued in its naughty communication, I affected an expression of wide-eyed innocence, at variance with the fact that my own foot had not moved an inch! My mind went back to earlier in the year, when I was socialising with the boys in the S & C Coffee Bar in Uptown Detroit. This was the main venue for those under 21, who were not allowed to enter the main bars. I mentioned to these young companions that I had visited the steam baths over the river in Windsor, Canada. They were horrified. "The Vesuvio! OH NO! You go there! "That place!" said another. "Old men! You have to be kidding. You like old men?" I retreated into an offended sulky silence. Like most boys of my age, I certainly did not desire to get my hands on pot bellies or cuddle up to sagging breasts or allow a wrinkly old face anywhere near my own face. God forbid! But – I had already discovered that where beauty is absent, compensatory talent often came in abundance. The more hideous the server, the more exquisite the service. I soon learned that, in this particular culture of age intolerance to 'go with' anyone much over 25 was frowned upon. Thirty was definitely the top limit. To be seen with anyone approaching 40 would have meant social isolation and permanent exclusion from the S & C Coffee Bar. Back in the Derby steam room, someone had opened the door to go out, which had slightly improved the visibility. With difficulty, I was able to glean a better outline of the mystery leg, which appeared to be connected to a soft, white, smiling ball. Ten minutes later, I was being treated to tea and toast in one of the several larger curtained cubicles which resided in the musty, fusty hall of faded maroon drapes. Each cubicle, a virtual room of limited privacy, consisted of two beds with a small bedside table between. All was quiet and calm, save for the gentle sound of munching delicious buttered toast and the occasional clink of tea pot and cups. I was assessing my new-found friend, the soft, white, smiling ball reposing on the opposite bed, happily munching, after the style of an obese Roman Senator. He said his name was John. He had signed in as John. Like most bathers, he was lying. I liked John; most people did. The little fat man of so very soft skin - skin which had never seen the sunshine - spoke nicely through thick, feminine lips, carefully enunciating beautifully-rounded vowels. His ball-like head cocked from one side to the other as he listened intently to the candid boy giving full and frank details of his history to a comfortable stranger. I was mesmerised by his large orbicular eyes and kindly style of rapport. Kindly or not, this teenager was also grateful that physical contact had never advanced beyond the touching of toes with this repulsive little fat man. The talking ball was now giving information about his secret world and very keen to show me - 'the ropes'. Some weeks later, I discovered the gay nickname of John. It described him perfectly – Dolly! Most people in the secretive community of same sex attraction found nicknames a useful way to preserve anonymity. I became a regular at the Derby Turkish Baths and met many interesting people. There was the vicar who carefully concealed his clerical collar under his scarf whilst getting undressed. There were the bitchy, acid tongued queens who became deadly enemies in pursuit of chickens. Most memorable was one old man with deep set leering eyes. Bent and humped, his hideous aspect prompted one overheard comment - ‘I do try to be kind to the old folk. I sent that old hag a packet of Polyfilla to fill the facial cracks.’ Belper Crone aka Belper Goblin aka Becksitch Betty often gave younger desirable bathers a pressing invitation to visit his ancient isolated cottage for afternoon tea followed by a massage. He lived up a rough track under a raucous rookery of screaming crows. I often observed something like a Tom and Jerry cartoon. The grotesque body of a man called Mr Toad looking blotched, hot and bothered, shot out of the hot room in an urgent characteristic toadal gait. Arms in front, up to shoulder level, waggling fingers; he was chasing a rather desirable chicken into the area of the cold plunge. He made valiant efforts, running around, spinning around, as Dolly commented, 'like an over-wound toy'. Charlie and Fred usually badgered and bad-tempered were well tipped to look the other way. In the open fountain area, a little old man smiled at me with a quick skip and funny jig – my first encounter with dancing Nobby the Gnome. And then there were the snooty snobs. A distinguished, well-groomed, well-manicured man made an impression on me. I studied this rather desiccated toff with interest. His slender body seemed to be as white as his very white face, which contrasted sharply with short, neat, raven black hair. He seemed supremely indifferent to everybody, showing no interest at all, described as a 'social-climbing snob'. A big, soft, pappy queen minced by, with a gait characterised by dainty steps, ridiculously too small for the size of the man. Like many others, slug-like skin had been a stranger to sunshine. Predation and activity hung in the air - yet it was so quiet! It was peaceful. Not a sound was to be heard but for the fountain and dripping water, with an echo which came from the cold plunge area. I was comfortable, seated in this central area around the fountain, the hub of the Turkish Bath, which gave on to all other areas, dry room, steam room, cold plunge, showers, massage table and the three hot rooms. It was the best place to observe all the activity, all the comings and goings. I found the shower interesting. Set in a medieval Moorish alcove, it looked like a Victorian contraption; an ornate complication of plumbing - effectively a cage of pipes giving water jets vertical, horizontal and even a few at 45 degrees. Directly above was one massive rose, producing a flow of Niagara proportions. An attractive nicely tanned 30 something called Bob engaged me in conversation. "You should meet Tommy and Martin. They'll be here today. Terrific guys. Legends in their own lifetime. Lots of fun." "Really." "And they throw big parties. They hire professional entertainers and extra staff. Loads of beautiful boys in the swimming pool". "I'd like that." "They're very kind ... do a lot of good." A desirable chicken walked by, drying himself. In quick flashes, the moving towel revealed a recent erection, now in decline. In triumph, like a pale blob, Mr Toad, skipped after him, pausing in front of Bob and me to proclaim his conquest. "There's corn in Egypt!" He addressed us directly. "What! A young lad like you, still sitting there? As Dolly always tells me – 'You've to circulate to be noticed.' He was totally elated and emphasised this with bending knees and flapping arms. "Must dash. My new friend will be wondering where I've got to. I'll order us tea and toast - and then, of course, he'll want afters ... " He concluded this gloat with a giggle, an unpleasant grin, waggling fingers and a quick dash into the dry hall. Bob and I enjoyed another mutual chuckle. This was a public bath - open to all. The vast majority were gay but a cautious eye was always kept open for heterosexuals. To the best of my knowledge, there were no complaints, no scandals. Turkish Bath memories are generally held with great affection to those of advanced years who were lonely and isolated. Lifelong friendships were made and sometimes partnerships. The above is a condensation of more detailed information in Scruffy Chicken - Chapters 9 and 32. Narvel Annable The photograph above is of the old Reginald Street building in Derby - the Derby Turkish Baths. Image found on https://www.riverwyre.com/derbycity The Derby Turkish Baths
Belper Friend Bill Smith and I go back a long way. In fact, all the way back to the Ilkeston College of Further Education where we studied (amongst other subjects) drama in the 1960s. Our paths diverged. Aided by his vibrant entertaining personality, Bill became an actor and executive producer of Westwood Films 2003. Because of his demanding work, visits to the Belper Friends group are rare, but valuable and enjoyable. My activism and writing have always benefited from strong and loyal support from Bill’s enthusiasm and his constant encouragement. In a recent email, he asked me to consider writing about Reginald Street Turkish Baths in Derby together with the repressed queer men who visited in those dark homophobic 1960s. ‘You have the knowledge which will be lost if not recorded.’ Bathhouse activities have been documented in some detail in Scruffy Chicken and in my other novels. However, Bill has inspired me to revisit this subject. On my 1965 six-month holiday in the UK, I intended to seek out a place where kindred spirits of my own kind might dwell. The Turkish Baths on Reginald Street in Derby made a promising start. Gay meeting places (when you can find them) for teenage boys have always been in short supply – much more so 64 years ago. I was further encumbered by an aversion to crowded places and pubs. It was not a matter of principle; I just hated the taste and smell of alcohol. The 1960s was a golden age for cottaging, but police entrapment and yob thuggery were powerful deterrents. The Turkish Bath had several advantages. Having lived in America since 1963, I was accustomed to a higher level of cleanliness from a culture of the daily shower. It would be some decades before the Derbyshire colliery classes abandoned the Friday night tin bath in front of the fireplace. Sex is healthier, safer and much nicer when partners begin with a soapy, slippery start. In addition, steam offered more than just a chance to get wet, warm and clean - it was more comfortable than a cold smelly cottage. Following my early imprinting from the 1957 Heanor days of Guzzly Granddad, the exotic halls of Reginald Street offered older, well-spoken, flabby professionals and those who were older still. The soft, the shapeless and the retired provided a delicious eroticism, born of naked freedom in this tropical, special, secret world just yards from the gloom and rain of Derby outside. Behind the Edwardian green tiled frontage to the old baths (now long demolished) was a self-contained Turkish bath suite. On my first visit, I entered the musty, comfortable-smelling foyer and paid the expensive five shillings entrance fee to the kiosk lady of the Turkish Baths. This price kept out many scruffy youths of my ilk. Through an ancient and expensively crafted oaken door, the carpet became thicker and so did the atmosphere. Here was the silence and restfulness consistent with a gentleman's club in London. It was a scene of deep maroon. Lush curtained cubicles, gently decaying, had seen better days earlier in the century. At the end of this plush hall sat two elderly shabby attendants, lazily sipping tea. The cantankerous, ever-complaining Charlie was bald and plump. Fred, whose mission in life was to do as little work as possible, was tall and gaunt. Since I was assessed as a 'too young to tip' bather, my ticket was received with little interest. I was vaguely directed to strip in one of the individual curtained cubicles. Taking in the air, warm and scented with damp towels and cleanly scrubbed white flesh, I became aware of pale shapes silently moving around, with interested eyes measuring my progress. Like most young first-time visitors, I was a touch shy, carefully covering nether regions with a towel. Leaving the dry hall of curtains and beds, I went through a Turkish arched door and into a 'Cecil B DeMille' set. Suddenly, all was wet and warm, an area of hissing steam, fountains and echoing running water. It was like an ancient Eastern temple dedicated to the god of pleasure and sensuality. In sharp contrast to the cool wet public street, with its fully dressed conventions of just minutes before. A sudden great splash echoed around the tiled central area. It announced a large gentleman who had taken the 'cold plunge', a small pool barely large enough to allow for a very short swim. He emerged from the depths, dripping from his bald head, smiling encouragement to a newcomer in the hope that he might discard the towel and follow the example. But a warmer experience beckoned. I decided to investigate the bijou, cosy steam room. An angry, gurgling, hissing seemed to emanate from the deep subterranean depths of Derby as I walked into an opaque blinding fog of hot steam. Through the grey haze, just for a moment, my eye caught a quick movement. Fleshy parts appeared to quickly disentangle somewhere just beyond the dim, limited visibility in the light of a dull, amber, low-powered bulb. A few moments after groping for a spare seat, my eyes gradually became accustomed to the nebulous atmosphere. Peering into the vapours, I could hazily discern the vague outline of these naked lords of lard who, in British tradition, exchanged no words at all. Ostensibly they were indifferent to my presence and each other, but an instinct told me that the arrival of an unknown teenage face had been noted - and noted well. Part Two to follow... Narvel’s Books Part Six Scruffy Chicken A Mystery set in Derbyshire 1965 I have a tag line for all my titles, for example – Sea Change is the novel in which I am most proud. My best book. 16 in 61 focusses on the year of 1961 when, as a 16-year-old, I came to grips with secrecy and anonymity which still blights gay lives today. Secret Summer, published in the USA, reveals my one big love affair in 1966. Heanor Schooldays, a social history summed up in a Shakespearian quote – ‘A Feared and Frosty February Face’ – encapsulating woe and wretchedness suffered in a sadistic Dickensian boy’s school. Lost Lad is my ‘coming out’ novel about six schoolfriends cycling from Heanor to a remote Peak District village in 1960. Scruffy Chicken – a mystery set in Derbyshire 1965 is my most popular gay novel. Many readers have missed the significance of the cover painting. Look at it carefully. Note the cyclist who is almost obliterated by heavy foliage of shrubs, damp ferns and thick lush moss in cool deep shade. I am that boy immersed in an atmosphere of magical enchantment – yet menaced by massive rocks appearing to be ugly faces forming a gorge with steep sides. On the left is the semblance of a giant toad ogling a hideous old crone surmounted by tree roots. Mr Toad and the Belper Crone are curious characters (based on real people) who dominated my adventures coming to terms with homosexuality in 1965. People ask, why call yourself a scruffy chicken? Scruffy in the title of Scruffy Chicken is not so much a comment on me; it is more a criticism of the Derby and Nottingham snobs who made me feel scruffy – scruffy accent, scruffy clothes, scruffy manners, scruffy education etc. I have often reflected on 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 the British class structure. They enjoyed seeing the ‘lower orders’ quail and flinch. Scruffy Chicken is available to purchase on Narvel's Dobba's Delights store on Amazon, via the following link: https://amzn.to/4aiDk64 ONCE A YEAR ON BLACKPOOL SANDS This moving and often disturbing film is based on the trials and tribulations of two gay coal miners from 1953 to the homophobic cruel AIDS outbreak in the 1990s. For bringing this film to my attention, I thank two Belper Friends who never attend our meetings, but play a full part in the ethos of the group. Our INVISIBLES generously sent me the DVD together with a helpful explanation upon which this review is based. For me, gay themes in books and films have always made for painful reading and viewing. Too many words poke and stab. Due to past experience, I approached ONCE A YEAR ON BLACKPOOL SANDS with trepidation. Homosexuality is too close to home. This surprises people who point out that I’ve written novels which include graphic descriptions of painful homophobia. It’s like, I can write it - but I can’t take it. In the 1980s, I walked out of MAURICE during a distressing scene reflecting an excruciating incident in my murky past. The first 20 minutes of BENT were endured before I fled the auditorium. I nearly threw in the towel after 15 minutes of ONCE A YEAR ON BLACKPOOL SANDS but am pleased to have persevered with it to the final conclusion. It is a powerful drama with a powerful message. This drama is also too close to home in another sense for me. Eddy, Tommy and Narvel lived in the grim shadows of pit hills which featured iconic pit wheels marking a winding engine house above each colliery mine shaft. King Coal had been the life and blood of Heanor. Numerous pit towns and pit villages in Derbyshire and Nottinghamshire had been established for over a hundred years. From earliest memories, my world had been imprinted with images of blackened, dowdy cloth-capped workmen making their way to and from coal mines. Snap tins [food] and billycans [drink] hung from strong leather belts. Kneepads strapped to legs and the sound of pit boots clanking along the pavement were familiar to the boys who were expected to join relatives being lowered into the bowels of the earth. I had grown up with the horror of joining countless ghosts haunting the coal face along miles of subterranean passageways. These were muscular, dust encrusted men who suffered and sweated long dark hours under long gone green fields. In this film, Tommy Price and Eddy Corkhill are Yorkshire miners spending their summers in Blackpool during Wakes Week. Both guys are young and good looking, Tommy is fair and Eddy is dark and swarthy. Wakes Week was a two-week total shutdown in Lancashire, an important feature in the calendar for pit villages in the 1950s when most of Tommy and Eddys neighbours went on holiday with them. On the eve of Wakes Week in 1953, Tommy and Eddy are arrested during a police raid on a local cruising area wood. Eddy is badly beaten up by the police. Cuts and bruises on his face are painfully visible whilst in Blackpool. The stark violence of this brutal beating is horrific! It explains the endemic phobia of police officers which still affects many older gay men here in 2024. Suffering several such atrocities, Eddy said – ‘I’m tired of tasting blood in my mouth because a copper does it, knowing he can get away with it.’ Eddy is easily identified by the dreadful scars and injuries on his face during much of the film. I count myself very lucky to have avoided such traumatising violence inflicted by police officers. Having once been arrested for gross indecency by the Detroit Police, I was held in their cells for a period of several hours. During that time, I feared my worst nightmare. In the gay community, we heard that ‘degenerates’ were ‘done over’ to express their abhorrence at regular intervals. That did not happen to me. In that cell, I just wanted to die. In fact, I must have looked absolutely wretched because the warder twice asked me if I was OK! Eddy, in early teens, was also thrashed by an ignorant uncouth father – ‘I’ll knock the queer out of you!’ The film flashes back and forth between 1953 and 1990 which cause some confusion. At the beginning, it is 1990 and Tommy, covered in lesions, is dying of AIDS among a gathering of the nurse and concerned friends. In conclusion, Eddy also died of AIDS a few months later. It is a hard and difficult watch, but there were beautiful tender moments of love making between these guys. Several scenes make perfectly clear genuine love binding an unhappy union. Excellent actors bring it all to life. As you’d expect from working class rough coal miners, they were as butch two bricks! No hint of effeminacy indicated anything short of two heterosexual guys. Particularly difficult for me was the bone of contention between Tommy and Eddy with regard to their future. There is a scene in which Tommy implores Eddy to accept that there is only one realistic solution to end their misery. ‘Face facts, after this holiday, we’ve got to go back to the homes in our street. We’ve got to live with our families, friends and neighbours. There’s no other way! Eddy – you and me – we’ve got to find a lass, get married, have kids and fit in.’ ‘No, Tommy! No, no, no! It won’t work. It can’t work. I can’t live a lie. I won’t.’ ‘What else can we do?’ ‘I’ll tell you. I’ve been thinking it out, planning it. And we do it now, right now. We pack our cases, go to Liverpool and get on a ship to New York. I’ve got some money saved.’ We receive very little information about the 37-year gap between 1953 and 1990. We do know that Tommy and Eddy returned to their small-town homophobic dowdy existence in Lancashire. I did not enjoy this bleak drama - but acknowledge it to be an important social history telling an under told story about real people – people like my husband Terry and myself. I’m glad the film was made and is now in the public domain - educating and informing all who see it. Narvel Annable Once A Year On Blackpool Sands can be purchased on Amazon here: https://amzn.to/3TI8Btuamzn.to/3TI8Btu Narvel’s Books Part Five
LOST LAD - 2003 A Mystery set in Derbyshire 1960 This novel follows the adventures of my five best school friends cycling from Heanor to a remote Peak District village called Wormhill. The following extract from Chapter 8 - Water-cum-Jolly Dale describes a beautiful deep valley in Derbyshire which made a powerful impression on me. Water-cum-Jolly was tranquil save for a rush of water to their left which required investigation. Smooth, clear, polished water, slow at first, and then bending, dipping, just before getting cloudy and agitated as it tumbled over a rocky fall. For a few moments they were entertained by the occasional leaf which would accelerate and get pulverised in the turmoil below. The waterfall formed a constriction which created a small lake bounded by overhanging, sheer limestone faces: faces which amplified and echoed the evocative euphony of various water birds calling and crying. Nobody spoke, but everybody knew that this was a place to savour, a place to walk rather than cycle. There was a shared feeling of safety in the comfortable seclusion of this 'Shangri-La'. In this deep ravine, a serene, silent world of enchantment, steep rocks painted with lichen and moss gave a protective shield against modern noise. Rocks and trees everywhere. They looked upwards following interesting craggy forms which became ruined castles - crooked medieval castles. But, unexpectedly, above the natural finials, arose out of the high foliage - an unmistakable man-made gothic structure, fashioned after the style of a fairy tale castle. This fantastic riot of sharp pitched roofs, steep gables, ornate tall chimneys and stone mullioned windows - broke the silence. They had discovered the home of Dracula! To confirm the fact, a solitary hawk was hovering high in the distant blue. As they progressed, the lake became a river and the valley narrowed to become a gorge. The warmth of the afternoon reacted with the cold of rocks, water and shade to created sudden gusts which stirred up willows. Zephyrs flashed the underside silver of leaves making a stark, bright effect, which travelled along the riverside, waving in waves and swathes, rippling, swaying, bowing and beckoning - before subsiding and returning the foliage back to green. Ubiquitous ferns with their distinctive smell covered the banks, sometimes marestails pushed out of the mud and sometimes a delightful patch of forget-me-nots turned the riverside blue. The water had mood changes. When it was slow it showed shimmering reflections of ash and sycamore. When it was deep, they saw long, gently waving green weeds stretched out in the direction of the flow. Inches above, cute little black balls of fluff were going 'tweet tweet' and 'squeak squeak' racing along to keep up with mum. Just occasionally, the sun struck through this gorge of contrasts and shadow to glisten, sparkle and twinkle off the river surface - a surface often broken by the quick leap of a fish catching a hapless fly. The valley seemed to get even deeper like a journey to the centre of the earth. The limestone had a multitude of tints from a flash of white to grey and occasional black. Above and beyond, right at the top, smooth, bright, green fields closely cropped by grazing sheep, were occasionally scarred by eruptions of ancient weather worn rocks. Down below the boys were entering Miller's Dale and being entertained by sinister grotesque shapes of long dead trees, still majestic in death as in life: living ivy feeding on the rotting wood. Here they scared each other with ugly goblins, old hags and monsters. Dense foliage formed mysterious tunnels and caves, darkened and obliterated with cascading ivy, lots of ivy, harbouring more unknown horrors. Abruptly, the teasing ceased when they saw an odd-looking boy illuminated by a shaft of sunlight. Narvel Annable Lost Lad was my ‘coming out’ book. After being launched into the public domain, there was no hiding behind a shield of heterosexuality. Subsequent titles became more and more honest regarding sexuality. As a first effort to describe teenage eroticism, this novel is distinctive in its reticence contrasted to the more daring explicit books of later years. The following extract best exemplifies this restraint. After a marathon steep climb, the six friends finally arrive at Well Head Farm guest house in Wormhill, a remote Peak District village where they enjoy an excellent evening meal. Sometime later, much later in the dead of night, Simeon was awakened by bladder pressure. All the tea and milky coffee called the young man from that distant, cosy, mysterious other world of deep slumber. Unwillingly, slowly, he came to consciousness. He disentangled himself from the comfortable arms of Morpheus. In pitch darkness, he fumbled and staggered out in search of the bathroom. Desperately trying to be as silent as that dark night, he navigated along an alarmingly creaky complication of steps up, steps down and acute confusing angles before, very gratefully, reaching his destination. Simeon stood before the bowl and breathed a long, deep sigh of blessed easement. He had never read a word of Shakespeare, but that moment cried out for the words of Francisco the Elsinore soldier - "For this relief, much thanks." The old house was still warm from the heat of the day. Unlike Francisco, Simeon, clad only in underpants was not cold. As he turned to retrace his steps - sudden alarm! His exit was blocked by a dark form who had stealthily crept out of the deeper shadows. Any fear which had initially gripped the startled lad was short lived, when, faint starlight silhouetted the familiar profile of a friend. In the few moments of tense silence which followed, eager eyes and mouth-watering lust scanned down an adolescent trunk to take in the exciting view of an urgent and demanding manhood. Hardened by desire, the unsmiling, unfriendly face gave an unspoken command - "Deal with it." He did not know or appreciate it at that time, but Simeon would eventually look back over the years and view those early, delicious and relatively innocent teenage moments as - 'the Real Thing'. The Real Thing was true ecstasy in stark contrast to the more contrived and planned experiences of adulthood. Natural rough lads, rough-hewn from a coal mining community were totally masculine, totally one hundred per cent butch - butch as the hard bricks which built Heanor. So very different to the many anonymous touches which would follow in later years. Touches becoming repellent when later identified as ministrations from the old, the soft, the slimy, the artificial, the affected, the effeminate, the sophisticated and piss elegant. America, more earthy, less inhibited, would be an improvement and, at its most abandoned, would eventually take Simeon to the heights of excitement with organised marathon mauling in public view but, even this, could not, would not, did not compete with those secret snatched moments of early teens and those forbidden fondles born of a playful grope. Quick opportunities of a stealthy touch arose out of a chance meeting of two boys in the changing room, the toilet or any quiet secluded corner of the school. Any shame was eclipsed by the physical excitement of hot blood and desperate need to reach a climax at the hand of another. Any concern was eclipsed by the unspoken assurance that any such illegal and immoral incident would never be mentioned or even whispered again. Such moments of pure ecstasy would, like this precious incident, begin and end in silence. In silence the two boys returned to their beds never to speak of it again, and, once more, to sleep. Narvel Annable Lost Lad is available to purchase from Narvel's Dobba's Delights store on Amazon - follow the link below: https://amzn.to/3IxDr1mamzn.to/3IxDr1m HEANOR SCHOOLDAYS 1998 It was probably the seemingly endless grey skies with rain dampening the spirits which put me in mind of Heanor Schooldays for my next choice of book in this series. Chapter 2 on page 19 - A Feared and Frosty February Face In extensive research, I interviewed hundreds of people to complete this social history centred on Mundy Street Boys School located in a begrimed and seedy little hill top community. In 1957, my day started with prayers and hymns and ended with a desire to be dead. Humiliating experiences afforded no mercy. I was prevented from using the toilet occasionally resulting in arriving home with soiled trousers. A sadistic schoolmaster encouraging aggressive taunts, brutal insults, screaming jeers reduced me to a very low level of self-esteem. All that was dismissed as a part of growing up. The headmaster, Leonard Smith [1905 – 1979] is responsible for the callous culture in his school. His merciless deputy, Peter Copestake [1929 – 2006] must take full responsibility for the emotional and physical injuries which have blighted my life. An old boy of the 1940s told me such culture of cruelty was already embedded into the ethos of this Church of England school. Barry Foster revealed horrific examples of fear imposed by an infamous hard and severe schoolmaster known as Billy Smith. He cast a fearful shadow dating from 1925. In describing personal trauma, Barry was inspired to quote from Shakespear’s Much Ado About Nothing – ‘Billy, you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness.’ For Heanor Schooldays, I acquired 45 photographs including the one on page 23 taken in 1925 showing the class of brutal Billy Smith. Forty miserable faces and not a single smile! I’m grateful to Joe Mee and his comment – ‘We were a rough lot. You can see the terrible poverty. Water toilets were rare. I was one of the lucky few to get into a tin bath once a week, but a lot of the others … well, they just stunk.’ Under the protection of a kind conscientious teacher, Mr Peter Crofts, I started Mundy Street in January 1955 in a class of 46 boys. In a school with no electricity, Mr Crofts recalled - ‘The soft gentle hissing incandescence of the gas mantle on a cold dark winter’s afternoon and a warm friendly crackling fire well banked up by the coal monitor.’ My days of woe and wretchedness arrived in 1957 with the departure of Mr Crofts and his compassionate regime. We were reunited at William Howitt Secondary School down the hill on Loscar Road in 1958. Chapter 12 – A Gracious and Charming Headmistress – describes a culture of kindness presided over by Miss Mary McLening [1915 – 1977] who filled her school with sunshine. The love of this special lady permeated the very fabric of the building and hallowed the ground. 1958 to 1960 was, for me, a magical and happy period. This headmistress was a stark contrast to the aloof, cold, detached, forbidding, haughty headmaster up the hill. Staff of William Howitt Secondary School in 1960. The Headmistress is seated in the centre. Mr Crofts on the back row is standing second from the left. Copies of Narvel's book, Heanor Schooldays, are available from his Dobba's Delights store on Amazon. Click the link or the book cover below: https://amzn.to/3UWIP5G SECRET SUMMER A Mystery set in Detroit and Derbyshire 1966 Secret Summer was published in 2010 by The Nazca Plains Corporation in Las Vagas. Why secret? Because when you are young, when you are in love and if you are gay in 1966 - it must be secret. You love in secret, lust in secret, hunt in secret, meet in secret and play in secret. The alternative would be unthinkable. In 1966 - if things go wrong, horribly wrong, dangerously wrong, criminally wrong - you can't tell your heterosexual friends, you can't tell your parents and you certainly can't tell the police! 1966 was the summer of my secret love. It was a rollercoaster, a frantic mixture of agony and ecstasy spanning the Atlantic Ocean, with no support save for that which was available from the secretive and frequently unreliable world of gay men who were riddled with all their own personal problems, repressions and hang-ups. I fell in love with a mysterious tough guy I call Ahmed. He called me Booby. He was beautiful; butch as a brick with a powerful controlling personality. On one occasion we climbed a tree. He boasted how desirable youths had been deflowered on that very same bough. He became hard, stern and rough. In that precarious situation 140 foot off the ground, I was in no position to argue or resist – not that I was minded to put up much resistance! Using convenient branches, his quarry was rudely positioned for an oral attack which afforded a few minutes of pure ecstasy. Never was a naughty tongue so titillating or fingers so clever, so fondling: until, eventually, one panting Booby hung limp, satiated, after the desired result had been achieved. And then there followed one of those quiet moments, golden moments which, in retrospect, would be cherished in later years. Only for a short time, yet it was so wonderful, so very precious. I often look back on this great love and savour fleeting minutes when the relationship did work and did prosper. Here was the creation of one such memory. Ahmed’s eyes mellowed to a half smile; divine, deep brown pools of pure love communicating an unspoken promise for a life-time of conscientious care and unstinting protection in a harsh Detroit environment. High up in that beech tree, a dominant primate was wearing an exultant expression, an equivalent of beating his chest. He had captured, conquered and drained a lesser primate of the English teenage variety. Minutes passed. Further into that quiet moment of quality silence, still up in that tree, Ahmed leaned over and whispered into the ear of his lover – ‘License my roving hands, and let them go, Behind, before, above, between, below. O my America, my new found land.’ I received these rather obtuse, erotic words in puzzled silence. I assumed it was a quotation and waited for Ahmed to elucidate. ‘Like that, Booby? Like poetry?’ ‘Is that what it was? Oh! Well … I’ve never really understood poems; they don’t seem to touch me. Did you write it?’ Ahmed threw back his head and let rip a loud guffaw. He seized his boy, still precariously balanced, and forcefully inflicted kisses, interspersed with insults. ‘Oh, my sweet, stupid, ignorant Booby! You need your college education real bad. Those words are 400 years old! It’s the timeless work of an eminent English poet – my poet. ‘Hey, listen up – poems are profound – they live forever. What can I tell you? Hear this – some king in India had a lover. She died. He was grief stricken. He built a mausoleum to honour her memory. You have heard of the Taj Mahal?’ ‘Of course I have! It’s beautiful.’ ‘Sure, but it won’t last,’ continued Ahmed. ‘The elements will get to it - eventually. It will crumble. That king would have been better to have commissioned a good poem which would last forever. ‘Hear this, Booby – my poet … correction, our poet - was writing about us. In just a few words he summed up our love, our pain, our pleasure and all our contradictions. Can’t you understand that?’ Ahmed clutched his lover closer, forcing my head into firm chest muscles – a place where that head was happy to be. Breathing in body scent, listening to a heartbeat and viewing a mass of young, green foliage which had just brightened due to a sudden sunburst; I soaked up more of the secret world of poetry. And those sexy deep throated words of the lusty Arab were now being spoken, more softly, delivered with gentleness and understanding. ‘Pretty boy, I know it’s tough. But we have to keep working at it. Don’t ever give up on us, Booby. I won’t. This Englishman now, this poet - hear him. He’s telling us that love is the Big Chaos! A mental hiccup. ‘Love is chaos – OK? It has the potential to disrupt all our lives. It’s the chaos unleashed upon the one we love. It has fall-out for all the people around us.’ Ahmed shuffled to change his position on that bough and guided his lover to face him. Balancing, with sincere earnest expression, he faced me. He cupped my face with warm hands and continued in tender mode – ‘Listen, Booby - that chaos, we call love, the big chaos – it’s magic! It’s worth the risk. It’s an enterprise worth embarking on. We can die by it, if not live by love. And if unfit for tombs and hearse, our legend be, it will be fit for verse.’ Again, I was puzzled. I followed Ahmed’s words, gleaning some small meaning, but doubted that the last were his own. Also, those last words were frightening. ‘We can die by it, if not live by love.’ What did Ahmed mean by that? I felt threatened. Years later in 2024, I recall that extraordinary conversation which took place somewhere inside the mass of foliage of that great beech tree somewhere in Belle Isle – an island in the Detroit River. Ahmed never revealed the identity of his beloved poet, but I remembered the lines - and one day I came across John Donne 1572 – 1633. I reflected on the effects of a mixture of the Big Chaos with the insidious homophobia which had blighted my life. Take Big Chaos, add gay hating parents, gay hating sisters and terrorism at a brutal junior school – result; the victim sustains permanent damage. Those miserable injuries cause their target to limp through life, hiding his true face, hoping to be invisible. The wounds fester into a terrible rage which eats away at the body. It’s one of many bodies trying to survive in a dysfunctional, closeted homosexual society which, under pressure, often turns on itself and attacks its own kind. Narvel Annable Copies of Secret Summer are available directly from Narvel at the special price of just £3.00 each, and that even includes post and packing!
Please email Narvel at [email protected], or telephone him on 01 773 82 44 83 for more information. Hello Readers, We had an extremely useful meeting with Iain, James, Alan and Tim Blades who was our Guest Speaker during this Gay History Month. Following anxiety due to multiple issues over the last few months, Terry and I were honest about our fragile condition. However, our friends closed ranks and agreed that ‘small was cosy’ and accepted my reluctance to canvas for new members. In addition to the above, another man turned up who must remain anonymous not wishing to join us inside. He gave me alarming and distressing information in our carport. He asked for help from PC Fred Bray the Father of Belper Friends who sent his apologies for this meeting. Mr X asked me to send his contact details to Fred in the hope that he might be directed to the appropriate police department. Following many stressful weeks, the excellent address from our resident poet Tim Blades was an inspiring tonic. Together with friends, Tim is one of the organisers of the new - BEAMSLEY WRITING and MUSIC CREATION GATHERING It is part of the Edward Carpenter Community - located in the former Beamsley Methodist Church near Skipton, North Yorkshire. Tim spoke of a week of creative writing, music, meditation and collective nourishing food creation in the beautiful Yorkshire Dales scheduled to take place from Monday June 3rd to Monday June 10th 2024. Beamsley project website: www.beamsleyproject.org Please refer any enquiries about bookings to Dave Tilley – [email protected] 07984 529673 For other enquiries, contact Tim Blades – [email protected] 07840 400470 I’m extremely proud of Tim, my former pupil from the Valley Comprehensive School in Worksop. His initiative and talent as a writer is a splendid achievement. We applauded his talk and wished him well. Narvel Annable Adventures of a Gay Teenager in 1961 I’ve been looking back over my nine titles from 1997 to 2022. They are all autobiographic novels with the exception of Heanor Schooldays (1998) and Miss Calder’s Children (1997) which are social histories based on my school years. After finishing Double Life in 2019, I realised there was one special year of 1961 which had never been fully explored. It was well after the cruel horrors of Mundy Street Boys School and two years before my life was completely changed in the United States as documented in Secret Summer. I was 16 in 1961 when exciting adventures affected an uncouth youth who met all strands of the ultra-secret homosexual society. A little fat man, known as Dolly (a real person) took me to well-known queer pubs in Manchester and Turkish baths in London. They were enjoyable and exciting experiences, but insecurity and vulnerability led to some rather anguished situations. 16 in 61 is focussed on the secrecy and anonymity which still blights so many gay lives - even in 2024. Most of the people I met were consumed with anxiety having spent their whole lives living in dread, dodging disapproval, fearful of exposure and ever constant catastrophe. I lived in Stanley Common, a pit village near Ilkeston in Derbyshire when Dolly persuaded me to escape from home in the hope of bettering myself. He argued that I was an emotionally damaged, ignorant, poorly educated, credulous, naïve teenager - and could see me heading for disaster. He showed me a bleak future - ‘Look here, young man; I need to give you potential life changing advice. You might not take it, but, if I don’t tell you, I’ll never forgive myself. ‘You’ve been honest with me about your background and present precarious circumstances. ‘At the Ilkeston College of Further Education, you are in an entirely unsuitable training scheme. Do you really want to be a fitter, turner, miller, lathe hand, boiler man, scaffolder or a welder? ‘The majority of teenage homosexuals are exactly like you – horribly frustrated and deeply repressed leading a double life. Eventually, you’ll probably become entangled with an empty-headed working-class wench. You’ll delude yourself that you care for her and live out the rest of your life locked an unhappy marriage. ‘The heterosexual majority will impose this on you. You might try to find solace in religion and then be completely destroyed ending up as a sexless zombie. ‘Believe me, Narvel, I’ve seen it all before. You must simply disappear from your home without any explanation to your parents. It’s the only way.’ I came to know more about the intense anonymity of Dolly. Above all, he was vague. He had perfected a system of disinformation, misdirection, deception and sleight of hand to create an impenetrable wall of secrecy around himself. I came to accept that homosexual encounters had to be quick. Participants needed to tolerate the frustration of frequent interruptions to their ecstasies, often thwarting imminent orgasms. ‘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.’ I came across the high and the low, rubbed shoulders with narrow and powerful cliques, such as Derby Cathedral queens who considered themselves to be elite, superior and privileged. The likes of Claud Hoadley were at the height of their power in 1961. He controlled his fawning entourage by means of highly polished vowels. His number two, Hilary Raymond Hawley, also known as HRH makes an appearance in this book. Effectively, they ran Derby Cathedral on Sunday morning and the sumptuous Friary Hotel on Friday evening. Dolly makes critical comment - ‘You see, Narvel, they are not real. They put themselves on a pedestal. They are trying to be something they are not. They pretend to be in accordance with accepted notions of good taste.’ I was one of untold numbers of queer boys who, out of desperation, escaped queer hating parents. Like many callow teens, I said little because I didn’t know what to say. In contrast, older wiser Dolly had a lot to say. As with previous novels, it is a blend of fact and fiction, while being faithful to real happenings and attitudes. Narvel Annable 2024 You can purchase 16 in 61 through Narvel's Dobba's Delights Amazon store via the following link:
https://amzn.to/3uyARVq Now in my 79th year, for good health, I follow a daily routine. A wholesome breakfast of fresh fruit is followed by a steep, brisk walk up to the very top of Belper. Chesterfield Road meets Crich Lane giving on to magnificent westward views over our old mill town, and distant woodlands on the Chevin Hills beyond. Above: Westward views over Belper from where Chesterfield Road meets Crich Lane. After an exhaustive climb, I’m grateful for the comfortable benches available in Belper’s Secret Garden maintained by volunteers. It was first opened in 1951, hence the formal name Festival Gardens – a charming mix of flowers, shrubs together with a crown of mature trees giving homes to varied wild life. Above: Belper's Festival Gardens. This little-known public park sitting on the roof of Belper is easy to miss. On most visits, I’m on my own. Occasionally, other visitors wander in, but seldom speak. The recent bleak mid-winter cold snap favoured us with a brilliant blue sky making it possible to soak up a few precious minutes of warm sunshine. An old man approached. Politely, we exchanged a few pleasantries before he mentioned my name! I was surprised, but am no celebrity in the main stream media. In the last 20 years, my LGBT activism has appeared in the local press, sometimes on the radio and TV. This gentleman (about my age) had read my novels and seen me in two television documentaries. He expressed gratitude for my efforts and admitted to being a kindred spirit. Like most elderly gay men, he concealed his name, told me nothing about himself and was vague about where he lived. Unlike most older people he was competent with a mobile phone and had a computer. For convenience, I’ll call him Tom. The focus of the conversation was on managing the decline of old age. Tom confided that he was no longer able to maintain his front and back garden which had degenerated into a wilderness to the point where it appeared to be derelict and uninhabited. Ashamed and distressed, he feared losing the good opinion of his neighbours from many decades’ past. ‘I’m a private man and always kept myself to myself, but don’t want to end up like your Guzzly Granddad!’ This reference to Sea Change featuring the old Heanor coal miner in 1957 whose primitive terraced home was completely smothered in ivy - made us both laugh. Trying to be optimistic, I talked about the benefits of rewilding and suggested Tom should be congratulated for his kindness to hedgehogs and birds who would thrive in his ecological joyful jungle. Like many of our generation, Tom feared the future. He was getting forgetful and dreaded dementia. I responded with realism. Terry and I are in decline. At 78, I’m 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. Having read my novels, Tom recalled Mundy Street bullies who inflicted a lifetime of constipation and hearing loss. His main anxiety was being forced out of his home into residential care enduring possible harassment or ill-treatment from residents and care staff who might be prejudiced against an old bachelor. At this point, I dug into my rucksack and gave him information about the excellent work of Callum Roome who made a documentary about the challenges and experiences elderly LGBT people face when accessing care in the UK. Hesitantly and politely - Tom asked - ‘It’s none of my business, but do your books bring in much money?’ The stock answer is – ‘Don’t give up the day job! Not a single penny, even from Secret Summer which was published in the USA. Of course, I had always hoped for financial success – but it never came.’ It was peaceful in the Secret Garden and Tom drifted into a brief revery staring into the middle distance – ending with – ‘Old men shall dream their dreams.’ This sounded like a quote, vaguely familiar. I was enlightened – ‘From the Bible – Book of Joel.’ Eventually, Tom stood up and said – ‘Old bones are the first to feel the cold. I’ve enjoyed our chat. Thank you for being helpful and encouraging. You’ve cheered me no end. Good bye.’ I made a similar suitable response and watched him leave the Festival Gardens. To safeguard his anonymity, I remained seated for a few minutes. Tom was a stranger and somethings are best left unsaid by silent mutual understanding. I sensed that he valued his privacy and asked no intrusive questions. I wish him well. Narvel Annable Above: A peek through the trees - a view of Belper Mill and beyond from the Festival Gardens.
Sea Change
A Mystery set in Derbyshire 1957 and 1958 Here a story of transformation: a journey from despair to delight - a change from boy to man. In early teens I escaped from a living hell of hymns and prayers into an enchanted world of quirky fairytale people inhabiting the nooks and crannies of deepest Derbyshire. Follow me as I transform from a rough and miserable urchin who - ‘suffers a sea-change into something rich and strange’ – as sung by Ariel, the airy spirit from The Tempest. This is the novel in which I am most proud. I disclose confidential, erotic and embarrassing details which many gay boys of the 1950s have taken to their graves. In this autobiographic effort, I expose the Dickensian Church of England Mundy Street Boys School ordeal of sex slavery and bullying in Heanor. Cruelty has a cost. Approaching my 80s, I’m now paying the bill. These true-life adventures are set in a shadowy gay world under the secretive mainstream of a homosexual underclass – a taboo within a taboo. With the help of legislation and enlightened education, the LGBT community of 2024 hopes these horrors, which have damaged so many, have gone forever. The text explodes myths and challenges conventional thinking. Whilst not condoning, it does not condemn. At the brink of self-destruction, my sexual abuser actually became my saviour! He gave me the courage to escape and live - rather than die in a culture where a boy was esteemed by his ability to inflict humiliation, pain and suffering on others. I’m grateful to Emma Clayton of Bradford’s Telegraph and Argus who, in her review, warned that the book was a ‘tough read in places.’ She also said – ‘This novel is really a love letter to Narvel’s native Derbyshire with beautifully written passages devoted to its natural landscape’. You can purchase Sea Change through Narvel's Dobba's Delights Amazon store via the following link: https://amzn.to/3SD9H92 Approaching Christmas 2023, seasonal TV films took me back to my childhood memories in the early 1950s. In the last 20 years, a few kind friends have assisted these recollections by supplying me with photographs long denied to a queer son who was the family shame estranged from parents and sisters. The 1948 photograph below was taken in the garden behind our shop at 28 & 30 New Road, Belper. Today, it is the Sewing Lady. I was four years old sitting in my expensive brand-new pedal car. The racing Number 6 can just be seen behind the driver with our faithful black Labrador called Pilot. Can’t be certain of the cost, but this toy would be in the range of five to seven guineas. One guinea [considered more posh than the pound] was one pound and one shilling - £1.05. In 1948, £7 per week was usual pay for Joe Average. At the time, our Bread Lady at £5 per week changed her job to Bus Conductor at £7 per week. So how could Sam and Connie Annable afford to splash out a fiver on my pedal car? In the late 1930s, my mother met Phillip Daniels on Ilkeston Market Place when she was browsing around his stall selling ladies clothes. The above photograph shows Phil, Edie and their sons Harold and Gerald in 1955.
Phil was a successful and astute businessman taking full advantage of the economic climate during the Second World War. Cash was plentiful, but ladies’ outerwear, coats gowns and costumes, were not. Connie, a born saleslady gifted with a vibrant controlling personality was a valuable asset to her new friend Phil. Mum loved dealing with the public and presented well, always immaculately turned out with skilfully applied make up. She charmed, smiled and bubbled around her customers. Annable family mythology 1939 to 1950 spoke of a golden period in which cascades of cash crashed onto a working-class couple who had only ever known a meagre hand-to-mouth existence, the usual lot of coalmining stock at that time. ‘They spent it as fast as it came. Connie took over £100 a week selling Phil’s stuff on Ilkeston Market,’ – according to one of my cousins who lived in our pit village of Stanley Common. For me, the most visible outcome of this wealth were brand-new expensive toys. Some forthcoming relatives and family friends told me that Philip Daniels was the real owner of our family homes in Stanley Common and Belper from 1939 to 1955. The dress shop in Belper and downgrade to a small second floor flat over a tiny shop called Annabelle in the primitive colliery town of Heanor, were owned and managed by Phil. Mother’s small shop sold hats, cheap jewellery - but failed to make a profit. This ended the business partnership of Connie and Phil, but they remained friends until Sam and Connie emigrated to the United States in 1964. I was sent on ahead to Detroit in the November of 1963 landing one day before the assassination of President Kennedy. Receiving expensive toys suggests parental care and affection. This was not the case. In 1945, Connie Annable at age 34 bore a son. She already had two daughters aged 9 and 13 – Hilary and Cynthia. Narvel, the ‘gypsies warning’ was the subject of a frequently recycled family tale involving this pedlar with her unwelcome and inconvenient prediction. A baby was the last thing Connie wanted. Mum and Dad were busily involved in their employment with Phil Daniels. I lived with an Aunty Olive in Stanley Common for the first few years of my life and have no memory of parents or sisters until 1948 in Belper. From fragments of memory, I can only assume the toys were provided to keep me occupied - not troubling parents and sisters. It was not until the late 1950s approaching adolescence that homosexuality was suspected - giving grounds for hostility towards a disliked and despised son. All early Stanley Common memories were of Aunty Olive and her sister Aunty Brenda because, for the most part, I lived with them. In Belper, 1948 to 1954, alternate weekends were shared by these Stanley Common sisters and my mother’s sister Aunty Ida who lived in Belper. I was dearly loved by Aunty Ida and her husband Uncle George. A woman called Marjorie Kirkland living next door but one to C & S Outerwear came as near to a true mother as was possible to achieve. Shunned by parents and sisters, Marjorie talked to me, listened and played with me. She invested her time and took me on holiday. She cared with affection and compassion. Expensive toys could not compete with cardboard boxes which cost nothing at all. Marjory and her mother Mrs Kirkland spent hours enthralling me with painted cartons which became a miniature village of homes for porcelain penguins, all with individual names. These articulate and imaginative kind neighbours gave the most precious gift any lonely child can receive - they gave their time. They chatted, and I had their full attention. That house was full of love. My playmates, children of my own age, were Janet and Carol who lived next door. We were joined by another neighbour, a boy called André. I’m not a practical person, not much good at making things, but was once inspired to create a fascinating toy which intrigued our little gang and gave us hours of pleasure. The creation of Percy the flying puppet was probably an accident. I found a 6-foot garden cane, a piece of string about 10 foot long and a piece of white rag. The rag was bunched up to form the head of a doll with flowing robes. Percy, a sort of ghost, was attached to the end of the string which was fastened to the end of the cane. The result was astounding and exciting. Percy could do all the things Narvel could not do. He could fly through the air and land in inaccessible places no child could possibly reach. Using a dump of old house bricks at the top of our garden, we built a stepped edifice elevating us about four feet for a panoramic view of several different properties. Our linear garden adjoined the end of several other gardens forbidden to us, but not forbidden to Percy! He who could alight upon a foreign lawn and leap high up into a cherry tree in another domain - within seconds. His speed was phenomenal! Percy was peerless and seemed to take on his own personality oblivious of the boy who provided his energy and life. I wanted him to be free. I loved him. And yet he cost nothing. More than anything, that piece of independent rag, at the end of a string reflected a significance of hidden depths for an unwanted little boy in 1948. Narvel Annable Hello Readers, We had a splendid joyful gathering dominated by two festive effervescent leading lights – Fred Bray and Don Hitchcock. As in previous Christmas fuddles, Fred’s Santa act crashed in on us laden with delicious quality gifts and cards too numerous to itemise. His glittering sack contained something for all of us. Fred never fails to impress with his innate kindness and unfailing generosity wearing that famous trademark smile which fills the room with happiness and jollity. Fred is not just Father Christmas; he will always be known as the Father of Belper Friends. It was a special treat to be visited by Don who is also a powerful personality spreading his own sunshine and warmth into the party spirit. All guests including Alan and James made munificent contributions to the feast and camaraderie - so welcome at a troubling time when some of us feel the world is falling apart. As ever, our faithful supporters are with us only in spirit such as the INVISIBLES – who greeted all Belper Friends with love in a beautiful large quality card. My former pupil, Tim Blades, sent his apologies with another nice card. Much gratitude to my husband Terry who provided tasty sandwiches and created the fantastic festive Christmas grotto. Allan Morton’s technical expertise and loyal friendship is credited with broadcasting my work out into the public domain. The photographs were made possible by our official photographer - Iain Greenwood with expert assistance from Fred. To all Bulletin Readers, we wish a Merry Christmas and a Happy 2024. With affection from Terry and Narvel Hello Readers, Sue Miller is the sister of Barry and Derek Goostrey, old school friends of mine from when I attended the William Howitt Secondary Modern School in Heanor - a place I still hold dear in my heart. Recently Sue got in touch to ask if I could identify a boy from an old photograph. Below is her request: Hi, Barry and Derek's sister here. Would you be good enough to look at the attached photo for me please. I'm trying to identify who is in the photograph which would have been taken in the summer of 1959. I am the baby and I'm sure it is Barry in the foreground. Looking behind Barry, I think that is Derek on the right. It is the boy on the left that I need help with and was wondering if he is someone you recognise from Howitt or elsewhere. Thank you in advance for having a look - you're the only person who came to mind who'd have been around at the time.
Regards, Sue Miller It is intriguing to hear from a woman who, in 1959, was the little girl I remember - but hardly knew during my visits to their home at 32 Nelson Street in Heanor. Seeing her photograph of brothers Derek and Barry packed an emotional punch. We three were all born in 1945 within a few days of each other. 1959 was the happiest year of my life – largely due to the friendship of these boys who gave me the will to live after enduring the horrors of Mundy Street Boys School which destroyed my confidence from 1955 to 1958. I can confirm that Barry is on the bottom right with fist supporting his head. Derek - top right is looking towards the boy who we are trying to identify. I’m unable to help Sue. However, I suggested posting the image to Facebook, X and my website in the hope that readers might identify the mystery boy. Sue enthusiastically gave her consent to put this photograph into the public domain. My friend Allan helped enhance the original photograph, and to create a close-up portrait of the unknown boy. Please get in touch should you recognise the boy in the photograph, to help Sue finally identify him after all this years. Narvel Annable. One of my contacts, a lonely repressed man was dreading Christmas. I suggested a solution to his problem.
Zeus is an excellent gay steam bath at 71 Ratcliff Gate in Mansfield NG18 2JB. Google ClubZeus & Spa or ring 01 623 476839 Any business is only as good as the people who make it happen. Steve, David and their team have worked long hard hours improving the sauna in Mansfield beloved by many of us. A talented team of energetic, imaginative and conscientious friendly young men have created a beautiful environment of subtle textures and tones producing a boom in business. The 2023 Christmas Party date is Friday, December 22nd. Open 11am and close at midnight. There'll be games to play, a chance to win free admissions, free drinks and other gifts. Opening hours for Christmas are: Saturday 23rd noon - 10pm Sunday 24th - Closed Monday 25th - Closed Tuesday 26th - Closed Wednesday 27th 11am - 6pm Thursday 28th 11am - 6pm Friday 29th 11am - midnight Saturday 30th Noon - 10pm Sunday 31st Closed Monday 1st Closed MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL MY LOYAL READERS Narvel Annable My aversion to football has deep roots. A macho mentality takes me back to grim days in the 1950s when my father was ashamed and loathed the son who was not a ‘proper son’ because I hated the Beautiful Game and could not defend myself with bare knuckles in the playground. Sound bites spat out in pit talk are forever seared into my psyche - ‘What sort ‘o lad ‘ave we got! Aye [he] can’t kick a ball.’ Outdated values of character building were supposed to turn you into a man. Dad threatened me with National Service which will ‘knock the softness out of you.’ I missed British conscription by months and narrowly escaped Vietnam admitting to being a ‘degenerate’ when located in Detroit in the 1960s. Dad said - ‘Aye’s [he’s] no good at oat. Aye can’t knock back a pint and can’t fancy a lass.’ In 2017, Neil Bleasley, a gay football player wrote Football’s Coming Out. He often heard homophobic abuse. Unlike racism which has been reduced, vile and disgusting sexual homophobic comments are rarely challenged. Neil’s book is realistic, but also optimistic in that slow progress is being made. KICK OUT HOMOPHOBIA was a growing movement supported by some of the country’s biggest football clubs. Football, weaponised against me by others, imprinted a mindset: I am homosexual and hate soccer, therefore, all gay boys will despise the so-called beautiful game. Many decades on, that statement has to be challenged and re-evaluated. After years of activism, I have been astonished meeting LGBTs who actually like football! Since 2006, Terry and I have displayed on our fridge door a post card of seven sexy Ball Bois - gay friendly smiling members of their Nottingham football club: Bois - a similar word to ‘boys’ - is a contraction of boisterous meaning rough, noisy exuberant boys. Many gay men find this an attractive way to present a gay and gay friendly team of players. Their ethos is to provide a welcoming environment for anybody to play at any level without fear of prejudice, abuse or ridicule. In my fearful repressed years at Mundy Street Boys School 1957 in Heanor, I would have considered a homosexual footballer to be an impossibility. It reminds me of the American cliché - Indians for Custer. Six decades on we now have a partnership between the charitable arm of Derby County FC and Derbyshire LGBT+ The original Nottingham Ball Bois FC have changed their name to NOTTINGHAM LIONS FC: Printed in the Derby Telegraph, October 10th, 2017 Fan learnt the hard way that vile chants are wrong I punched the air; cheered loud and long when Jason Holmes a Leicester City football fan was arrested for shouting homophobic abuse at Brighton supporters. This was in August at the King Power Stadium. The CPS authorised a charge of indecent chanting. At Leicester Magistrates court, he pleaded guilty and was fined £300, increased by £30 due the homophobic nature of the offence classed as a hate crime. He was ordered to pay costs of £85. We’ve been here before. On October 9th, 2013, the Derby Telegraph printed my letter ‘We’ve waited too long for this splendid justice’ when brothers Shane and Daniel Davies were fined and banned from football matches for three years for shouting homophobic chants at Brighton fans during a Derby County away game. Following decades of suffering, the LGBT community had waited too long to witness this splendid justice. My letter triggered a scathing response from Colin Clark ‘Letter shows whinger Narvel in his true light,’ followed by a deluge of personal abuse on the Derby Telegraph website. Regarding the writing of letters to challenge gay hate, we should continue to write more of them. I take inspiration from the words of Ed Murrow when he spoke of Churchill - ‘He mobilised the English language and sent it into battle.’ Four years on, I would not expect any reduction of profound vitriolic ignorance from Mr Clark or the bigoted army of anonymous trolls who supported him. However, to his credit; Mr Holmes volunteered to attend an LGBT education session provided by Kick It Out, the campaign against discrimination in football. I call that progress. Narvel Annable Between 1963 and 1976, I returned to the UK each summer for an annual holiday for as many weeks as I could afford. In 1965 I’d been away from my beloved Derbyshire for over 18 months and returned to a quaint world redolent with childhood nostalgia - smells, sounds and sights of scruffy folks crowded into quirky picturesque nooks and crannies such as Ripley Market Place.
It was intriguing to enjoy this thrilling reunion with early boyhood days. After a sterile existence in a well-scrubbed United States, I was fascinated by the friendliness of crooked oddities who constantly addressed each other as ‘duck’ - pronouncing it ‘dook’. The colliery cultural accent is thick and rich. When Ripley folk say 'duck' (which they often say) it sounds like 'dook'. Detroit offered nothing like the variety of odd bods interbred over generations from mining stock. I had arrived in a fairytale world of curiosities resembling toads, goblins and gnomes, more medieval than 20th century clean-cut American youth, more Grimm than US glitz and glamour. Here the crooked coal encrusted indigenousness seemed to be older, uglier and have more character making them all much more interesting. Wandering around Ripley Market pondering these quirky contrasts, I came on one stall which specialised in sweets, chocolates and all manner of confectionary in a cacophony of trivial chatter. ‘Umbug?’ [humbug] said the man behind the counter. ‘Tuppence, duck.’ ‘Arr [our] Fred wants it, you know,’ replied his customer, ‘no teeth, but he can still suck. Thanks, duck. How’s ya mam?’ ‘Bit better today, duck. It’s a fortnight since she took bad. ‘Ooo, duck. An you we no ‘ands! A think you’re a brick, duck.’ This was a magical experience, made all the more magical observing this common place exchange dominated by the one word ‘duck’. The old woman’s nose seemed to meet her chin giving a witch-like appearance. Her cackling inappropriate comments highlighting a serious disability made a contrast to the stallholder (with no hands) whose cushy caring voice seemed to blend with a downy personality. This ductile chap (known only as Duck) made an immediate impression on me. Somehow it made me feel safe and secure. Conceived in this moment was a lifelong friendship with plump, cosy Duck who was always kind and considerate. Duck transported me to the child I once was when I explored the River Gardens in Belper. It was a delight of glades, rock formations, alcoves, islets, avenues and terraces. I enjoyed the contrasts between the open promenade, lovers’ walk, the fish pond, the fountain bordered by special nooks and crannies. Here, the imagination could run riot. There were rocks picturesque and rocks grotesque. In an ecstasy of exploration, hunting out hidden glades with deep spongy moss growing on damp boulders; I imagined stories about ‘little people’ - the fairies. Bright sunlight became dazzling bright green when reflected off the ubiquitous fern. Such unusual illuminations complemented various dank corners and black caves. Little Narvel was told that if he had enough faith, if he tried hard enough, if he believed in the spirits of nature, if he was lucky enough - he might just get a glimpse of elementals in human form. The small boy was very happy. He recalled the warmth of the sun, the cool of the shade, the light and the dark, the scent of wild garlic and the music of birdsong. I never saw fairies, but Duck was real enough and we became lifelong friends. Duck projected warmth, oodles of affection within a halo of safe snug comfort. He was totally free from any pretentiousness and you felt you had known him all your life. Not well educated, in many ways a simple man, but Duck was a good listener. You could confide all your secrets. We were both teenagers but he was old-fashioned, looking and acting much older. He was comfortable talking about his baby arms ending in stumps. He mentioned that he was born with one leg, but walked quite well with a prosthetic limb. Naturally this disability curtailed his social activities. Duck was just one of the several curious characters of Derbyshire - goblins, hags, crones, gnomes, fairies, toads and other oddities. When writing Lost Lad, he and his mother gave permission to appear as characters in the novel and were delighted with the result as it appeared on pages 187 to 190. He was a regular visitor to Blackpool. Blackpool could be garish, cheap, tacky and tatty. This glittering and cheerful resort of the North West held my affection. As a child, various half remembered carers had brought me to sample the thrills and spills of the Pleasure Beach. They walked my little legs along the promenade full of shrieks of joy, jammed with the working-class at play, jammed with amusements, ghost trains, shooting galleries, dancing girls, palmists, vulgar postcards and the salty smell of jellied eels. Duck suggested we meet at the local pictures - the Ripley Hippodrome. Something of a flea pit. Eventually, I was invited back to Meet Mrs Duck at the Duckery around the corner from Ripley Market Place. It was just Duck and Mrs Duck, no Mr Duck. Occasionally, they were visited by a robin which hopped on to the window sill. Duck said - 'Ey oop, Arr [our] Mam, look - it's me dad, it's me dad coom back.' I was encouraged to visit anytime. You just walked in. I saw two large eggs. These eggs with faces were deeply reposing into a cosy sofa and had formed the impression they’d been sitting there forever. Each face wore a smile of welcome. Both fat faces were devoid of a single wrinkle which caused the visitor to wonder about the age of mother. Over the long years of friendship, Duck never changed. He had always looked the same. He was just ... Duck. The 'Mam' egg cocked up her legs which could not quite reach the floor and spoke first. ‘Eee it is nice ta see thee, dook. Are ya all right then, dook?’ The Duck egg appeared to do a quick funny wriggle with dancing shoulders. ‘Shall ya ave a coop a tea, dook? Put kettle on, Arr Mam.’ ‘No, Dook. Ave joost sat down. You put kettle Arr Dook.’ ‘All right, Arr Mam, I'll put kettle on.’ ‘You've made it really nice in here,’ I said. ‘So very cosy and comfortable.’ The Duckery was fixed somewhere inside a time warp, in this case possibly mid 1930's. Cosy and comfortable were apt terms here. Everything was soft and cushy. The conversation in this room was all ductility, well matched to the occupants, mild and downy. It became a favourite place. In this old-fashioned feathery room, I felt cushioned from the hard knocks of life. Nothing nasty or hurtful ever came from Duck, friendly podgy Duck, ever mellow and mellifluous. At worst, on the occasions in which he did criticise, he would begin with his characteristic wiggle, dancing shoulders and the one word - 'Meself'. Regarding the subject of corner shop keeper Annie Oaks and her pricing policy - ‘Meself, a think she's a bit dear. Don't ya think so, Arr Mam.’ ‘She is, Arr Duck! Them eggs were five pence cheaper int' town. She teks advantage. She knows a can't walk far.’ The conversation continued to touch on similar inanities which included the thoughtless Vivienne whose bouncing ball often annoyed 'Arr Mam', a dripping tap which Fred the neighbourly fixer had promised to fix last month and an unpleasant character in a popular 'soap' who was - ‘Nasty! Really nasty. No need ta be like that. It's oopset Arr Dook?’ These trifles amused. Concerns about a person on television who does not exist and an endless stream of minutia had a soporific effect. The Ducks were warm and generous, non-contentious and undemanding. The quaint chatter was balmy and mildly entertaining. I was always happy in The Duckery. Both long dead now, but I still become emotional every time I walk past The Duckery just around the corner near Ripley Market Place. Narvel Annable Jasper was an intriguing character, like others, first met in 1965. He lived in a simple stone cottage in Belper situated up a rough track under a raucous rookery of constantly screaming crows from the crown of tall trees. It was wonderful material for my novels: an ugly hunchback with deep set leering fish-eyes eyes behind a large beak nose. Think of the old hag in Disney’s Snow White - and you have Jasper. In the late 1800s, he was one of the shadowy workers who emptied large buckets of ‘jollop’ into filthy carts during the hours of darkness.
The team leader was known as Smelly Sam who worked with Dirty Don and the night-soil horse - Wiffy Willy. Jasper was an undersized ragamuffin known as the limey-lad. His job was to walk ahead of the cart with a naked flame torch and spread lime over any spillages to get rid o’ stink.’ The invention of Thomas Crapper’s water closet eventually had a bad effect on the night-soil business. As the 20th century dawned, even working people were increasingly unwilling to suffer a trudge up the garden, in the dark, in all weathers, to a stinking privy. The jollop eventually dried and compacted down to a kind of soil – hence the term night-soil. In Derbyshire, night-soil men were known as Honey Dumpers. Conversations with hideous old Jasper was an education! In that same six-month cycling holiday 58 years back, I came across an amusing rotundity called Dolly who first introduced me to Jasper. Dolly enjoyed teaching chickens about queer life and took me on a tour of old lavatories notorious for loose bricks which could be conveniently removed. He told me a horror story about a hideously deformed old man who 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 round vowels through flabby fleshy cheeks. ‘He’s humped and bent, patiently waiting for prey.’ In a colliery town, we turned into an ill-lit alley. Dolly urged me on with promises of pleasure at the entrance of a primordial gentleman's lavatory. He guided me past a 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 amber light available, it could just be seen 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 it 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, there came to the 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 soft, round vowels. ‘Advance! Yield! Offer yourself to this master of the extended orgasm, give yourself - and know true bliss,’ he lisped rather theatrically into the 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. I was not yet accustomed to quick removal of false teeth in connection with casual oral sex. After two years in the USA, I expected sex with boys my own age. Having returned to the Derbyshire coal fields, I conceived 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, this particular bog was not inhabited by a footballer, a miner or even a minor. 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. I wanted a real man, as butch as a brick. Everything about the Belper Crone was womanly. He was an effeminate ugly old queen! It was all too much. The dark, the damp, the sudden horror of being confronted by that grotesque goblin who dwelt within his murky cavern. It caused a sudden panic! I fled that toilet as if the very devil were at my heels. This quick exit alarmed other loiterers who quickly departed. Jasper the one-time limey lad had aged into something like the old hag in Snow White. ‘Mummy dust had made him old. Cackle of crone and scream of fright had greyed his hair.’ Dolly was disappointed and a touch annoyed by my panic stressing that he had warned me about an old crone, humped and bent, patiently waiting for prey – who would receive ecstatic pleasure from a toothless hag. He also reminded me that, some years before in my preteens, I’d been imprinted with orgiastic rapture in the carnal kitchen of Guzzly Granddad in Heanor. Dolly was right! Nevertheless, I argued that Granddad was an old rough butch coal miner, quite different to a repellent monstrosity. As a compromise, I agreed to be chauffeured to that primitive stone cottage under the raucous rookery of screaming crows and apologise to old Jasper. Best thing I did! Dolly and I enjoyed tea and cakes with a friendly and charming oddity being transported back to a quaint quieter Belper which was, even in 1965, long forgotten. I also offered myself to the master of the extended orgasm and experienced - true bliss. In other words, I heard - the click of a crone … Narvel Annable I’m grateful to the Editor of QB Magazine - David Edgley for making our event so very special on Wednesday, November 8th. Generously, he entertained, amused and interested us with a splendid presentation called - A guide to strange places, a tour of places of gay interest in Nottinghamshire We listened and watched with fascination as he led us through the decades of our own familiar history – faces we recognised and venues we have visited bringing back so many emotional memories. As usual, the meeting went well with Terry’s delicious sandwiches, Alan’s help with the drinks and kind contributions from Iain and James – but, the big event was those memories made live by David’s tour de force. The venerable Shirley Macredie died in 2018 but appeared on the big screen in our living room several times. Shirley made enormous contributions to the quality of life for those of us who share same-sex attraction in Nottingham and Worksop. Equally honoured was Ross Smith with photographs of him at La Chic Part Two on Canal Street which he opened as the new manager in 1981. The original La Chic lasted from 1973 to 1977. From the mid-1960s to about 1970, I was taken under the wing of Ted Barlow and David Betts the well-known Barbets. I recall sitting in their open top sports car on a hot August evening in 1966 being driven through Nottingham City Centre past all the main gay pubs. We were raucously festive; shouting yoo-hoo waving like mad at goggle-eyed outdoor drinkers. Sadly (or perhaps not so sad) David Edgley was not there to photograph this outrageous event, but Ross Smith and I discussed my Barbet days at a lavish party at Walton’s Hotel in 2011 to celebrate Ted’s 80th birthday. We joked about the Barbets being a common link and historic gay gossip on the lines of – ‘Oh, haven’t you heard? Narvel is out of favour! Ross Smith is all the rage now!’ Chickenhood has a short shelf life. David Edgley did include photographs of a very important Nottinghamshire Rainbow Heritage event in February 2009. We all assembled on the top floor of Nottingham’s Waterstones when, very kindly, he invited me to speak as the Guest of Honour. Above are three photographs of Narvel from the "View from the Top", a gallery above Waterstones Bookshop, Nottingham from 2009. This was part of Nottinghamshire's Rainbow Heritage's Exhibitions, and photographs provided to the Our Nottinghamshire website (www.ournottinghamshire.org.uk) by David Edgley.
I ended up chatting to a real LGBT celebrity with impressive qualifications. He was the late Tony Fenwick of Schools OUT. Tony had been eloquent and articulate the previous Sunday defending the gay cause on National BBC TV in the Big Question programme. David showed us a photograph of several people trapped in the Waterstone’s lift! It was quite a squeeze but they were eventually rescued. All in all, a memorable evening. Alas, David’s tour through the decades took us to some dark places. There was a grim time when the local papers were full of John and Billy. John Clarkson and his boyfriend Bill were sent to prison after Nottingham police found a Christmas card signed - “To Billy, with all my love, as ever - John”. John was bullied into admitting that he had slept with Billy. Held separately at the police station, each was told that the other one had confessed to an act of gross indecency. In other words, they both gave statements incriminating each other. A trial took place at Nottingham Crown Court, a humiliating trial which involved ushers holding up bed sheets and a clerk pointing out stains to the jury. A jar of Vaseline was passed around. Jurors were told to notice a few pubic hairs. Words like disgust, perverts, slimy, degenerate, vile and abomination - appeared in the Nottingham Evening Post. A profoundly depressing story. David Edgley and I are of a similar age; what is not similar are the periods of our activism in combatting homophobia. In the 1960s, I was living in Detroit keeping my head down in dread of being outed as a homosexual. In contrast, David was openly striving with groups like the Campaign for Homosexual Equality (CHE) laying the foundation for others to build a better future. We saw pictures of his early leaflets which developed into the excellent Queer Bulletin magazine and his outstanding efforts creating Nottinghamshire Rainbow Heritage and launching the Gay Switchboard. It has not always been easy leading and encouraging David’s team. In the face of ignorance and bigotry, there were many setbacks well illustrated and explained in his talk, but David fights on as he has done for 56 years. It took me decades to find the courage to reveal to the world my true self. Lost Lad published in 2003 was my first openly gay novel – effectively outing myself years after David took his first brave step. Since he first published a prominent review of Scruffy Chicken in 2006 in QB, David has never failed to encourage me with strong support. Again, I express my sincere thanks for honouring us with his presence at our home on November 8th. Narvel Annable I’ll always associate Claud Hoadley and his side kick Hilary Raymond Hawley with a dark and fusty public bar at the Friary Hotel, Friar Gate in Derby.
Like other quirky characters in this series, they are based on real people I met in 1965 and appear 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. I was privileged to be a witness to the end of a long era of gay history. Before the end of that decade, dramatic changes would herald the new gay era. 'The scene' would be born. The advent of 'the disco', new openly gay pubs and clubs would appear. But in the face of soft silence, fading grandeur, there was a power structure of sneering disciples housing a temple of theatrical affectation. In the Friary Hotel of 1965, the aforementioned innovations were unthinkable. Soft silence and darkness. The darkness receded as the eyes adjusted to dim lighting revealing a large Georgian emptiness, empty except for a group of shadowy grey gentlemen standing near the bar. Silence receded when I gradually discerned a low murmur of ornate voices in conversation. I approached the gathering, apparently without being noticed, but, every single person noticed the inappropriately dressed teenager. A slightly stocky man wearing an aristocratic sneer on his aquiline profile held the floor. It was a handsome face, yet I was utterly repelled by an artificial slimy drawl in which words were exhaled in a breathy whisper. Hilary Raymond Hawley was HRH to bitchy members of the gay community. He had an encyclopaedic knowledge of royal families, past and present, English and European - all the royal highnesses and all the serene highnesses fascinated him. Hawley seemed to punctuate his narrative with a frequent, forced laugh, a nauseating wheeze which accentuated the aristocratic sneer. All eyes, ever looking for approval, were on the Top Man - Claud Hoadley. First impressions seemed to indicate an older man, a tall man of indeterminate age, wearing a slight smile perhaps not quite as repellent as the sneer of his deputy. 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 - always. To this stern schoolmaster, slouching was a sin. In that room, every person appeared to be affected, standing at attention, in dread of reprimand which might shoot out like a whiplash. ‘Straighten up there boy! How dare you loll in front of me! Such disrespectful drooping is indicative of an indolent and disorderly mind’. An independent observer would have assessed his age at mid-fifties, more than a decade short of his actual mid-sixties. The same observer would have described sharp, handsome, clear-cut features but the more perceptive might notice shrewd, cold, grey eyes and cruel lips. Even in a group of quality suits in poor light, Hoadley's suit was distinguished by its superb cut. 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. Everything about Claud Hoadley was correct and those around him seemed to be anxious to approach the high standards which he had set. Like so many before, I was very impressed and even more impressed when the paragon broke into speech. The conversation had turned to an absentee who had just obtained his Ph.D. ‘I suppose we shall have to call him Dr Fisher now,’ laughed a man with a sickly grin. ‘It's unlikely we need be quite so formal,’ replied Hoadley, nonchalantly, as he carefully removed a tiny speck from his immaculate sleeve. ‘After all, it is a degree in engineering and from a university which can hardly command our full esteem.’ This resulted in an eager row of nodding heads, each wearing a simpering smile, each uttering disparaging, sardonic murmurs. Dr Fisher was an infrequent attender at The Friary and could only be considered an 'associate' member of this elite group. If he had read the classics from Oxford University instead of Sheffield University, the good name of Dr Fisher might have been treated with more respect. Nevertheless, Britain's rapid decline as a major industrial power and the significance of a comment which belittled the practical subject of engineering at a northern university, entirely escaped me in awe of an extraordinary accent. Hawley’s cut-glass diction had been impressive, but Hoadley’s orgy of enunciation and lavish articulation – hit my Derbyshire ear like a thunderbolt. Two words in particular were drawn out with striking embellishment: 'after' became very southern, sounding like arrrrfter and 'command' was elongated to commarrrrnd. Mr Hoadley was now in full flow, denouncing The Beatles who had just been awarded the MBE. ‘It was an honour we should all aspire to. But what can we expect from a Labour Prime Minister? Outrageous! Utterly, utterly outrageous. That Canadian Member of Parliament ... what was his name?" ‘Hector Dupuis,’ said Hilary Raymond Hawley helpfully. ‘Oh yes. That man is quite right. They are vulgar nincompoops. Mr Dupuis has been cheapened, a gentleman of his position!’ He spat out the next sentence with gathering fury. ‘That poor gentleman has been debased down to the level of common, caterwauling, working-class ruffians. I applaud his action. I would certainly have returned my insignia of the Order back to the Palace.’ All heads nodded with approval. I listened to this polemic with mixed feelings. On the one hand, I resented the attack on popular music but, could not help being impressed by the majesty of the open 'u' which, in Hoadley's Royal diction, had been opened out to breaking point. I’d been forced to improve my speech to make it intelligible to the Americans. I was now sounding the 'h', but my Derbyshire 'utterly' would have sounded like 'ooterly'. Hoadley's utterly mesmerised his audience, it was stretched out to sound like 'atterly'. My 'ruffian' would have been 'rooffian'. Other members of that ever-nodding group tended to sound more affected in their own speech within the hearing of Claud Hoadley. At long last, the lofty shrewd eyes came to rest upon the scruffy youth who stood outside the group. In a sharp sarcastic tone, clearly cool and censorial, the pedant spoke - ‘I see we appear to have acquired a young person. May we know the name of this ... new acquisition?’ I gave my name and mumbled something about living in the US and being on holiday currently staying with a relative in Horsley Woodhouse. Having carefully and slowly pronouncing both H's in Horsley Woodhouse - so carefully and so slowly - it sounded like a foreign place in my own ears. The gathering noted with smug satisfaction that I was not accustomed to enunciate the name of my family village in that posh manner. They knew, only too well, that the rough lad before them was much more accustomed to saying 'Ossly Wuddus'. I winced under the slimy sneer of Hilary Raymond Hawley, who emitted one of his numerous breathy 'ha ha ha ha's'. With acute discomfort, a macabre grin gradually broke out on one of the nodding heads. It was like a deaths head! Ghastly skin seemed to be stretched tight across the facial bones. The skull was leering at me. Observing my discomfort, another man led me to the end of the bar and bought me a drink. ‘Better this way, he whispered. ‘It's seen as bad form to have a private conversation when Hoadley has the floor. Anyway, I'm getting bored with his tirades against the new progressive Canon at Derby Cathedral.’ ‘They go to church?’ ‘My dear boy! You have so much to learn - they practically own Derby Cathedral! I kid you not. Smells and bells; they invented it. I'm surprised the whole congregation don't rise when Hoadley and Hawley make the grand entrance.’ I was informed that each Sunday was much the same. The great and good of Derby sit near the front, always in the same order. First Miss Bulstrode, the headmistress of the prestigious Derby High School for Girls. She chats with Hoadley in Latin and Greek. Then we have Hawley, who sits next to the tweedy Miss Penelope DeHaviland, the editor of Derbyshire Life and Countryside Magazine. They exchange bits of gossip about the Lord High Sheriff and the Lord Lieutenant. Last, but not least, is the bolt-upright form of Hoadley himself, keeping trunk and legs at a precise 90 degrees. I glanced over to the fawning group with disdain. Claud Hoadley was fulminating against The Sound of Music, condemning it as ‘Yet another exa-rrr-mple of American trash polluting British Cinema-rrr-s'. Having enjoyed that excellent film, I knew this diatribe said more about the bigotry of Claud Hoadley than it said about The Sound of Music. 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 and Hawley, 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. Fifty-eight years on, 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 the mid-20th century British class structure. Narvel Annable In Scruffy Chicken, Nobby first appears on page 195 in Chapter 31 – A Dancing Gnome. He is an odd little man skipping about entertaining a small audience. Perhaps a touch larger than a dwarf, not quite so shrivelled as a very old man, but certainly a small old man of uncertain age. Nobby had a nice, simple face, reflecting a kindly nature which made him popular with children, popular with almost everybody. There was a suggestion of the supernatural about this character under his funny little beaten-up cap, clad and shod in medieval attire. There was something timeless, something one hundred percent Derbyshire about this strange little chap who belonged in the dales, in the woods, on the moors, alongside the canals, the rivers and would not be out of place in deep ravines or in the entrance of a cave.
People were absorbed by the strange spectacle of a funny little jig, performed by this funny little man. They were mesmerised by his hops, spins and whirls. It was magical in its effect and was entirely wholesome, in contrast to the spiteful prancing and capering of Mr Toad, who, in his well-known, evil 'dance of delight', rejoiced in the misfortune of his enemies. Nobby's dance was free from anything like the effeminate pirouette of the outrageous Simon Tonks. It had none of the gestures I had observed in a sickening, affected minuet performed by the snooty Derby clique of elite homosexuals. Nobby was nice. When his movement stopped, delighted folk applauded and threw coins into the vagrant's ancient battered cap as he bowed, thanked, quipped and laughed. ‘That man has never done a day's work in his life! He's nothing better than a sewer rat,’ snarled Mr Toad. People in the gay community were well aware that the indigent Nobby the Gnome woke up each morning in a different public lavatory, looked to the hole and simply waited for his early morning delivery of fresh semen. Like other characters in my novels, Nobby was based on a real man I met in 1965. He was not always itinerant and homeless - but could be devious and deceitful. He never revealed his true age estimated as about mid 70s at the time of his death. It turned out he was close to 90! Years of outdoor living in the wilds of Derbyshire had weathered a leathery countenance. Howling winds and sun had burned his facial features defying all attempts to uncover the year of his birth. Cycling around in the summer of 1965, I came across him sitting in the gardens of Nottingham Castle. On that occasion, I had a heart-to-heart conversation which revealed some of his interesting past life. Nobby was in pensive mood on the slopes of that one-time medieval fortress when, in a pleasant moment of serendipity, I recognised him. For a while we sat in contemplative silence surveying the southerly panorama of a mid-20th century city which had changed little in the previous 50 years. It was a comforting view for a homesick teenager previously isolated in Detroit. It was so English, so nostalgic. To the west, lay The Park. In the early 19th century, it was a real park now a forest of Victorian roofs and smoking chimneys falling away in serried ranks, nicely decorated by the occasional mature tree. To the south, there was a distant vista of the meandering River Trent which encircled the poorer rows of roofs in The Meadows. This picture, soothing and calming, was enriched by grime and grit. Beyond, moving east, there was evidence of commerce, industry and pollution. A distant train whistled. It painfully puffed and clanked slowly over the Nottingham Canal, under Abbey Bridge and, eventually, out of sight and out of hearing. Nobby and I watched ragamuffins having a great time chasing each other around the flower beds. Their yells and squeals were entertaining, a welcome part of the scene and adding to the total picture. My quirky friend and I stared out across the plain seeing into infinity. I seemed to be seeing it all in shades of black and white and wondered why? Then it came to me. I’d seen all this before watching Saturday Night and Sunday Morning. Set in Nottingham, it portrayed the working-class heterosexual ‘kitchen sink’ existence of boozing, brawling and bedding so graphically evoked by Alan Sillitoe. All this existed dangerously close for those of same sex attraction. Perilously, they tried to make contact with their own kind struggling to snatch their own special pleasures in the big City of Nottingham. There were numerous undocumented casualties. And nobody knew this better than Nobby the Gnome who had the scars to prove it. Was he thinking of these perils now? In an attempt to read the old man’s thoughts, I studied his profile. Nobby had a nice if rather gnarled face. A once cute turned-up nose, sweet as a button, was now turned down and slightly bent to one side. A fact cruelly observed by an irritated high and mighty Hoadley after the lowly creature had dared to address him outside Derby Cathedral. True, the ancient gnome was misshapen. He was worn by years of lavatory living and long exposure in the howling wilderness of North Derbyshire. But Nobby was not so old or as hideous as the Belper Goblin. Nobby had nothing of the leering, fish eyes of that crooked old crone, or any of the knobbly carbuncles which disfigured the countenance of the weather-beaten Toby Jug. And Nobby was totally innocent of the lust infested, fat, stubbled, slobbering face of Guzzly Granddad. Moreover, he certainly had no trace of that twisted look inflicted on the repulsive face of Becksitch Betty by a life time of sustained, spiteful thoughts. ‘A penny for your thoughts,’ I said to Nobby. ‘I’m thinking about my friend Ron. It’s his birthday,’ replied the gnome, still sadly staring out over the wide Vale of Trent. I probed gently treading carefully, mindful of deep waters. ‘Was Ron a very special friend?’ ‘He would have been 72 today,’ replied Nobby in a voice which was steady – but only just. ‘Would you like to talk about it?’ ‘Not really.’ You can find out more about this fairytale character in Secret Summer. Chapter 30 is entitled - Nobby: True Tales of a Naughty Gnome. To me he seemed a natural work of art, to have morphed out of the very elements of Derbyshire. Long after he was gone, his face could still be seen in the gnarled, knotted, writhing and twisting trunks of ancient trees depicted with more skill and imagination than any human artist could achieve. At any moment, his head might poke out of a hollow old oak, a suitable home for such a character. He could be seen sitting in the coils of choking ivy, or in the rotting recesses of an ash tree recovering from a long hard winter. The imagined representation of that old gnome was as invisible as the hidden gay underworld in the Peak District itself. Throughout most of the 20th century, the illusive sprite had always been there one minute, and gone the next. Now he has gone forever. He has reunited with other bizarre elements of Derbyshire homosexual history. They have all passed away, gone to that Great Cottage in the Sky. We will never see their like again. Narvel Annable Copies of Secret Summer are available directly from me at £4 inclusive of P&P. Send a cheque to 44 Dovedale Cr, Belper DE56 1HJ. TRIBUTE TO TOAD 1930 - 2006 If Mr Toad had been alive to celebrate his birthday on April 29th 2023 - he would be 93 years old. The notorious Mr Toad is the star of SCRUFFY CHICKEN. For the three years of writing that novel, in declining health, he continued to insist he would never survive to collect his complimentary copy. Accordingly, in the summer of 2005, I sent him the following letter, consistent with the ongoing fretful narrative of our stormy relationship. Dear Mr Toad, As you are determined to die before my autobiographical novel is published, I send you the following extract in which I express my affection for you. Yes - AFFECTION! In spite of the bumpy ride along the rough road of our 41 years of fractious friendship. He died on January 1st 2006. This was the day upon which the novel, he never read, was published. I found my funny friend to be, quintessentially, the very essence of old-fashioned Englishness. Toad was as salty and as vulgar as a seaside postcard. The best times in my life would not be in the company of intolerant chickens. No. The best times would be spent with my dear old friend Mr Toad, being tossed and blown about on the North Sea on board the Bridlington Belle. Toad was quaint. Toad was funny. Toad was a bundle of fun. Toad was a barrel of laughs. He represented an amusing character in caricature - perhaps one of the last of the type. These precious hilarious moments were the beginning of a lifelong friendship, nay, a love affair; a love affair which would last for the whole of the remaining 20th century and into part of the 21st century. Toad had known and loved Bridlington since childhood. In 1965 (the year we met) we ran along the stone pier to where the Bridlington Belle was about to depart on one of its regular coastal tours around the chalk cliffs of Flamborough Head. Like two eager boys we pushed and shoved our way to the front for the best view, standing on the tip of the bow. A man with an accordion appeared on the deck and played popular pre-war seaside songs. A few fat common women - raucous ladies with fat sunburned legs - performed a jolly knees-up, encouraged by squeals of merriment accompanied by screaming seagulls swooping from a blinding blue sky. On the voyage, I fell into a happy reverie leaning over the prow, watching it crash, splash and cut through the sparkling blue of the cold North Sea. At my side stood dear Toad, silent, also enjoying a rare moment of pure happiness with his new friend who actually liked him, genuinely liked him for what he was - warts and all. And there were plenty of warts. Toad was not blessed with good looks – hence his nickname The first sight of him was a never-to-be-forgotten experience. Yes, certainly a toad. His pupils had christened him well. He looked like a toad. His exuberant bulging eyes, full of ardour, were set wide over a tight mouth which seemed more like a long crack. ‘Crack in a pie’ was a regular comment from his enemies. Look at the front cover of Scruffy Chicken. The boy with bicycle entering a tangle of rock and impenetrable woodland undergrowth is me exploring deepest darkest Derbyshire: Look carefully at the moss-covered crag on the left above my head and you’ll gradually decern the semblance of a toad. The toad is confronting his adversary - a tangle of tree roots grasping a rocky outcrop which suggests an ugly old witch such as the hideous Belper Crone or Becksitch Betty.
Toad inspired something of the revulsion felt at the nearness of a reptile. Like Kenneth Graham's Mr Toad, he was comical, eager, impatient and entirely puffed up with his own importance. Catching sight of a teenage chicken, the little creature ran, actually ran up forcing me to retreat several steps. Mr Toad was a boaster. He rejoiced in regaling his friends with juicy and detailed accounts of his successful sexual adventures. The pompous little creature often pressed invitations on young men to spend the weekend at his Nottingham bungalow. These visits were always focused on flesh as he feasted his eyes on, and lusted after well-formed protruding bottoms. The salivating reptile was solicitous wishing his guest an ingratiating and gesticulating good night. ‘Should you require an aspirin – or anything else in the night; don’t hesitate to ask. My bedroom is just a step away.’ Thus spoke the crafty little Toad with raised arms and fingers waggling with anticipatory excitement. Toad haunted certain well known public toilets in the Nottingham / Derby area. At the slightest encouragement, without ceremony or speech, his grasping hand reached out to fondle balls and cock at full mast. Such lewd interludes often took place after dark in the secret nooks and crannies of a cottage. Vaseline, at the ready, was quickly applied by Toad’s naughty finger to an eager orifice. This notorious music master was now in his element. This was his speciality. Toad of the Toilets - with his legendary large manhood was a well-practiced bummer, and he loved an audience. ‘I’m good at it’ - was a frequent brag. Many gay men are repelled by signs of effeminacy, but Toad choreographed his copulation to the needs of any eager panting pansy who would respond well to abusive dirty talk. ‘Sit on it ya slut!’ At the Derby Turkish Baths during the 1960s, many of us witnessed the willing being lowered on top of the toadal tool enjoying ecstatic thrusting up and down – up and down. This erotic impalement inflicted waves of exquisite pleasure on the recipient sometimes causing squeals of rapture. The ride of a lifetime always concluded in mutual climax ejaculating an amazing fountain of spunk shooting high splattering the entranced audience. A rude abuser, his glistening phallus still proudly pumped up on full display, complemented a facial expression of pure triumph. Toad gloated and gloried in his performance. On the gay scene he was detested by many, adored by a few and loved by one. That was me. Underneath all the abuse heaped on this odd little man was a heart of gold. He was at his best when needed as a friend. In 1995, a breakdown forced me out of teaching. A shadow of my former self, Toad came to the rescue. For recuperation, he treated me to several holidays at various seaside resorts where we had been very happy together. He was capable of great generosity and kindness. He was the perfect medicine in entertaining me with his impressions of the quirky characters we both knew. I laughed until I cried. He encouraged and launched my writing career insisting that he be the star of a queer world – queerest of them all. After reading him extracts from Scruffy Chicken, I feared he’d be offended. ‘Not at all!’ he said. ‘You write well and you’ve told the truth. As Oscar Wilde said – “The last thing a person wants the hear is the truth.” ‘It’s how you see me. I’m in a book! You’ve immortalised me.’ It is now many years since the publication of Scruffy Chicken and the death of Mr Toad. I think of him every day. I miss him dreadfully. Narvel Annable Recent posts have shown the serious, sad and occasional tragic side of gay life. In an effort to inform my readers, I try to paint an accurate picture of LGBT+ reality based on real people - the quirky characters who inhabit my novels. This was best described on the back page of Scruffy Chicken - Meander with Narvel around the leafy lanes of Derbyshire and discover a secret subterranean fairytale world which could have been penned by Grimm. Meet his 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. They are all inspired by real people, all warped by the vicious homophobic cruelty and bigotry of 1965. The homosexual community has always been richly endowed by amusing and entertaining queens such as Simon Tonks. My first impression was that of a child's face - a simple face, almost a cartoon which could have been drawn by a child; three buttons, two for eyes and one for a nose. As my focus improved, the child became a boy and the boy, with a cartoon head cocked on one side, became a man. Nobody knew the age of Simon Tonks. He was one of the mysterious freaks of the Derbyshire gay underworld. Bitchy queens in their forties had cottaged with him. They swore blind that Simon Tonks must be at least 45. As the years rolled by, he hunted for men with a new generation of teenage chickens, who assumed that he was one of their number - just another chicken, just another common slut ever searching for that next cock. Within living memory, the old Belper crone Jasper Wormall had always looked old, bent and hideous. In contrast, Simon Tonks, within living memory, had always looked young and pretty. Entering into conversation, Simon said, ‘Allo!’ in a camp falsetto voice. ‘Av bin on me 'olidays.’ ‘Oh.’ ‘Yes, Blackpool.’ ‘Nice. Did you do anything interesting?’ ‘I went to see Gypsy Petulengo on North Pier. It were fascinating in er tent - but got nasty when I came out.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Well - it’s like this. I saw this lovely rough bloke sitting on a bench. Dead butch, something like a navvy with legs spragged an showing a nice piece o’ meat. Ooo it were tempting! ‘A sat next to im an said – Allo! looking, between is sexy legs. E give me a filthy look! So, a said, I’ve been to see Gypsy Petulengo. She’s told me fortune. She’s told me wot’s going to happen to me.
‘E got violent! E threatened me! E shoved his fist up to me face and said – “Did she tell you you’ll get this down ya fuckin throat if ya don’t fuck off!!” But Simon enjoyed and boasted of many successes which attracted criticism of his promiscuous life style. Labelled a ‘loose bitch’ by a self-righteous pomposity became yet another funny story to make his friends laugh. Dirty talk was a ‘turn on’ for many in these lecherous circles. Another respected observer warned me – ‘Beware! You are judged by the company you keep. Turning to Simon, he lashed out - ‘You’re nothing more than a common cow!’ He failed to realise his remark was subsumed into Simon’s comic stand-up repertoire to be recycled in pubs and clubs. The foundation of these frequent self-slandering comments in the gay community lies in the ubiquitous debauched life style of many gay men. My novels reveal the 1957 horrors of Mundy Street Boys School in Heanor, where I suffered excruciating humiliations. Traumas are burnt into my psyche. Cruelty has a cost. I’m still haunted and repress agonising memories of childhood torture followed by decades of anonymity. However, in this secret life, I found comfort in the company of people like Simon Tonks and his hilarious licentious chatter. Narvel Annable Another success with our Belper Friends. To the soothing sound of heavy rain crashing on our window, we benefited from an honest exchange of confidential issues, medical matters, NHS strikes, delays and other topical subjects together with a few funny stories.
On that same theme of current anxieties, our loyal INVISIBLES sent a kind message of helpful support and gratitude - Hi Narvel and Terry, Thank you for your recent fascinating Bulletin and all the news of Belper Friends. I can assure you; we read each and every one of your Bulletins and thoroughly enjoy them. Pass on our thanks to Allan Morton for all the assistance he gives you in bringing these emails to us. Your Bulletin certainly resonates with us. Virtually everything you mention we have experienced ourselves. And because of that - we are becoming increasingly concerned over the rhetoric of our current Home Secretary and the Conservative Government. There is definitely a schism developing in the government regarding our rights. They are being used as a political battering ram by Suella Braverman to gain advantage in the upcoming conservative party leadership election - post general election. Her recent speech blatantly stigmatised LGBT folk in her attempt to gain political advantage amongst the right wing of her party. LGBT people fleeing persecution in their own countries represent less than 2% of those seeking political asylum in the UK. If we were living in Nigeria or Chechnya, we would have an excellent reason to claim asylum here. Braverman is a political opportunist and should be removed at the earliest convenience. Regarding your recent post – OLD AND GAY - it's very true that many closeted gay men are terrified and in denial about being gay. Many men seeking liaisons don't want to kiss - as though that makes them non-gay - even though they are having gay sex! Many men don't want to give you their name - even their first name. They don’t want to acknowledge you in public for fear of their opposite sex partner saying 'Who's that?’ In short, there's a sizable chunk of gay men living terrified lives! Why should that be in 2023? When we first met, a song called Like Sister and Brother was very popular. It fitted our relationship to a tee. Just change the words to boy and brother. Click on the link below - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ns8EQb8PRVE All the best to you all, THE INVISIBLES I’m grateful to the Editor of QB Magazine - David Edgley. He has generously offered to visit Belper Friends with his projector and entertain us at our next meeting on Wednesday, November 8th. You’ll all be invited into our cosy and comfortable living room which already has a pull-down screen originally installed for a TV projector. David’s presentation sounds most interesting - A guide to strange places, a tour of places of gay interest in Nottinghamshire. Warm wishes, Narvel |