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 Hello Readers,
Narvel's Information Sheet 181 is now available to read online via the link below: http://tiny.cc/InfoSheet181 Old and Gay
On the last afternoon at William Howitt Secondary Modern School in July 1960, lasses and lads were gathered in the canteen. It had been cleared to form a dance hall echoing to sweet sounds from the old school gramophone. The sadness of those last hours is best summed up by Valerie Billet – ‘We were going different ways, leaving behind friends we had worked and played with. Leaving people we’d got to know, people we cared about. Our lives were changing. We were moving on.’ Howitt had been a culture of kindness and I dreaded moving on to an unknown future. In my book Heanor Schooldays, on page 188 are printed the words of From Now Until Forever - a 1958 hit record sung by the stunningly attractive Adam Faith. Click on the following link to hear this on YouTube: https://youtu.be/lzxEzQdpxhg? His words give a simple message of love, hope, companionship and the passing of a lifetime. Notwithstanding, this is a portentous song of separation foreshadowing many paths into the unknown. A beautiful song of sensuous melancholia delivered with pizzicato strings plucking at our hearts. It was a favourite played many times on that last afternoon. A silver sound for a blue mood. There was good reason for this gloom. My friendship with some Howitt boys was far from platonic. In 1959 and 1960, we were 14 and 15-year-old testosterone charged randy youths desperate for erotic relief. Occasionally, I would find myself alone with a boy willing to engage in mutual masturbation. Trust was an important factor here. Silent sensuous secret fondling flourished in the certain knowledge that each incident would never be revealed to others. See further details in Sea Change https://linktr.ee/narvelannable Before publication of Heanor Schooldays, in 1998, I paid for permission to print the lyrics of From Now Until Forever by Max Nesbitt, Harry Nesbitt and Geoffrey Venis located at Carlin Music Corporation in London. Accordingly, I feel entitled to quote a few significant lines. Valerie referenced pupils going different ways. Sixty-three years on, I’ve certainly travelled through life in a very different way from most of my other friends. On September 3rd, my husband Terry and I celebrated our 47 years together. ‘As the years go rolling by, I’ll turn to you and sigh – We’ve had a good life hand in hand, and shown the world our love can stand.’ At 78 and 84, we still stand when many of our contemporaries have passed on. However, having endured the trials and tribulations of cruel homophobia, it has not always been a ‘good life’. Sadly, one of the most common links between LGBTs in 2023 is the persistence of anonymity. Some gays prefer to use first names only. They might reveal email addresses, but reluctant to give a postal address or family information. I’ve come to accept this reality of those who share same sex attraction. I’m haunted by certain conversations remembered from way back when I was a promiscuous teenager in the 1960s. Numerous anonymous encounters ran their course in sexual silence - concluding with a speedy separation in dread of yobbish violence – or police entrapment. Occasionally, my unknown partner exchanged a few words with me before we parted and he dissolved into the general populace. I was particularly disturbed by conversations along the lines of – ‘You’ll have to get married you know.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Well! Who’s going to look after you in old age? You’ll need children - and grandchildren to care for you.’ ‘What are you on about? I can’t bear a woman to touch me!’ ‘Don’t be daft! You’ll have to bear it. Anyway, you’ll be lonely and folks will talk. They’ll call you a queer.’ In 1960, gay marriage and the possibility of children was unheard of. I still come across gay men who will say – ‘Please don’t be offended if I see you on the street and ignore you.’ This uncomfortable subject was discussed at length in our September Belper Friends meeting. Tragically, we all knew lots of men who still live a double life. I’ve often wondered about my Howitt mates who shared salacious intimate moments with me 63 years back. Some will be dead. Perhaps some have adapted to a double life and perhaps some, like Terry and myself, have come to terms with their same-sex attraction. Narvel Annable Below is a collage of 1960s Adam Faith posters: GHOSTS I’ve always been intrigued by ghost stories. Of late, my reading and viewing has been dominated by haunting and magical books, some aimed at children giving a child’s point of view. I’ve just read Tom’s Midnight Garden by Philippa Pearce. It’s a charming tale of a 1958 schoolboy who, by some enchanted means, time-slips into a late Victorian country house garden and conceives a fondness for a girl called Hatty. Only she is able to see and hear Tom. He considers her to be a ghost. Hatty, indignant, insists that Tom is the ghost! Only animals and children can see a ghost. This was best illustrated when the ghost of Patrick Swayze pushed his face up to a cat in the 1990 film Ghost. Terrified, poor pussy viciously clawed the cheek of a villain played by Rick Aviles. Most fascinating of all ghosts are spooks who don’t know they are actually dead! In the 1999 film Sixth Sense, child psychologist Bruce Willis tries to counsel a reclusive isolated boy played by Haley Joel Osment. He is tormented by seeing dead people who need help. Actually, the child psychologist is himself in need of help – because he is dead - but doesn’t know it. Sixth Sense inspired my novel Double Life – A Ghost Story. See BOOKS on my website – https://narvel-annable.weebly.com/books.html The whole book is a conversation between me and a boy who was disruptive and difficult in my class. I taught as I was taught in the 1950s - too strict and too formal. In two decades, only once did I achieve a breakthrough and enjoy a friendly, meaningful relationship with a pupil. Ronnie was part of a boisterous bunch of ruffians with an appalling reputation throughout the school. On one occasion, after an onerous hour, I dismissed the class but detained him to suffer a reprimand. In writing Double Life, I tried to recall and reconstruct this extraordinary conference, the most memorable moment in my entire teaching career and locate the exact point when everything changed between the teacher and his charge. The sea change happened when Ronnie asserted an effective heartfelt defence. Despite limited articulation, he managed to paint a picture of all the stresses and chaotic adolescent miseries which could have been a 14-year-old Narvel. Effectively, the atmosphere of this detention, this coerced punishment suddenly transformed into a voluntary and valuable meeting between two equals. It was a magical moment, a sudden switch from monochrome into glorious Technicolor where this boy wanted to stay and further explain his life to an adult who was now more counsellor than schoolmaster. Soon after this episode, I suffered a mental breakdown which kept me away from the Worksop Valley Comprehensive School for many months. I was offered and accepted a course of counselling sessions, but the solution was plain and simple - early retirement restored me to full health in one year. So much for reality. The fiction detailed in Double Life is a return to work after a period of recuperation and counselling. In a halfway house between several months of lesson preparations and actual teaching, I am installed in a small classroom where daily life of a busy school can be observed. This is the vehicle for a novel which explores all the above issues. Mr Annable reflects on his years at this school. His story, in part a ghost story, is told in flashbacks as he tries to make sense of a repressed and difficult career. During those lesson preparations, I receive a big surprise. Pondering over untidy notes spread out on a table before me, suddenly, there is Ronnie! Ronnie, large as life, mischievously grinning through the glass door. Immediately, I sum up the situation. He had been ejected from his classroom. He is bored, wandering around the block heading for even more self-inflicted aggravation. ‘Get in here, Ronnie!’ I bark. ‘Kicked out of class again?’ ‘Well … not really, sir …’ ventures the boy eternally in denial attempting to justify his conduct. Recalling good relations and the need to build on past success, I smile and put the lad at ease. ‘Never mind. I’ll take responsibility if questions are asked. Sit yourself down. I could use a bit of company. Nobody seems to notice me these days. How are you?’ ‘Not too bad, sir,’ beams Ronnie, settling into his chair, clearly delighted to be back with his former teacher. ‘Not teaching this period, sir?’ ‘I’ve been poorly, Ronnie. Took bad, as we say in Derbyshire. Not physically, it’s ... well ... a mental breakdown. You’ve finally driven me crackers! Seriously, I’ve been in this room for months scribbling away at this stuff. The idea is to get me back into the classroom eventually, get me better - something like that.’ ‘I’m sorry ...’ said Ronnie, concerned, sincere, inadequately trying to express himself. Writing stories?’ asked the visitor after noticing an untidy spread of papers. ‘Supposed to be lesson plans, but I’m thinking it’s all a waste of time. Perhaps I should be writing my life story.’ ‘That would be interesting! When you come back you could read it to us. We’d enjoy that, sir.’ I smiled a sad smile. ‘I don’t think I’ll be back here teaching you, Ronnie.’ Briefly, in simple terms, I explain my breakdown and problems of memory. ‘But enough about me. Tell me your news.’ ‘Got meself stabbed, sir!’ ‘Stabbed! You mean …’ At this, the victim jumps to his feet, lowered his trousers and jerked up his shirt proudly revealing his milky midriff and several inches of ugly scar just above an adolescent waist. This is serious violence, and recent violence at that. ‘My God! Cover yourself, lad, quickly. Anybody walking by will wonder what’s going on in here. How did that happen? ‘Knife fight.’ ‘Oh Ronnie! Will you ever learn? It must have been a hospital job.’ Recalling the brutal reality of this boy’s chaotic life, I’m alarmed. Ronnie is discomforted and slumps back down in his seat. ‘I can’t remember.’ ‘You can’t remember! But you must remember!’ ‘I was in hospital a long time.’ Now it’s my turn to be discomforted. My mind turns to recurring anxiety. Had I locked the door when I left my house this morning? Why was I plagued with visions of piles of unopened letters and a neglected overgrown garden? SPOILER ALERT As the book continues, Narvel and Ronnie have daily conversations about the joys and sorrows of their lives. I admit my homosexuality. Ronnie is OK with my queerness and grateful for a sympathetic attitude to his troubled dysfunctional family history. The meetings are constructive and mutually beneficial. However, both become fearful of an unexplained ‘elephant in the room’. They become aware of an enduring continued memory loss both existing in a maze of unexplained confusion – but dare not ask any obvious questions. At the end of each visitation, Ronnie leaves the classroom with his cheerful cheerio but has no recollection of where he in going – until he turns up the next day. The same with his teacher. They only exist during the daily chat. They see each other, but nobody can see them. As this bizarre situation continues over the following months, gradually, they begin to believe the unbelievable. Narvel and Ronnie are dead. Read the full story in Double Life. Narvel Annable Searching for a suitable musical accompaniment for this piece, Allan found an old Kate Bush song called Watching You Without Me. This poignant song about ghosts grapples with themes of loss and communication. The singer does not realise her ghostly status, as she tries ineffectually to communicate with the loved one she left behind. She is on the wrong side of existence and cannot communicate with anyone. The lyric, “Don’t ignore, don’t ignore me” resonates deeply with the listener, as this could easily apply to the trials and tribulations of relationships with less ghostly people... You can here the song on YouTube here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KVecjIBwR4Q An extract from Double Life Detroit Riots From 1963 to 1976, I lived in Detroit visiting the UK annually for as many weeks as funds would stretch. I had several jobs but was most content as a messenger at Detroit Bank located downtown. The pay was poor but duties undemanding and totally stress free. Each morning at 8.30, I stood on the sidewalk in front of the impressive Palladian frontage of the bank with its Greek columns and capitals asserting the confidence of American capitalism. It was my daily duty to meet the President of Detroit Bank. As the massive Lincoln Continental gracefully glided to a halt before the mighty edifice of finance, a regular exchange was like a mantra - ‘Good morning. Mr de Hammarskjold.’ ‘Morning,’ came a grunt from the great man. It sounded more like a reprimand than a greeting. ‘Tell ‘em to wash it.’ It was the same every day. The six-foot-plus President eased himself out of the driving seat set for a tall man, quickly replaced by a humble five-foot-nine messenger who would not dare to adjust the power seating position. With difficulty, I drove the stately beast. It was dangerous being deeply reclined with a restricted view together with inadequate control of the large vehicle. In these precarious circumstances, the Lincoln slowly moved around several corners into a narrow street dwarfed by two skyscrapers. A little way down was the entrance to an expensive downtown multi-storey park used by executives. A young black guy was waiting to take the car to its usual reserved location. ‘Mr de Hammarskjold would like his car washed,’ said the driver. ‘Yes,’ hissed the scowling youth somewhat aggressively. This ungracious response to a polite request irked me. The unwarranted attitude had been endured for several days when I finally decided to challenge the attendant. His rudeness was no mystery. An overnight sleep stealing low of unbearable humidity had not dipped under 70 degrees. Worse was to follow! Another miserable scorcher in the 90s was fast approaching this hazy polluted oven of concrete and cement. Even worst still, the atmosphere was thick with ethnic hatred. These were the 1960s when Detroit was gripped by racial turmoil eventually leading to an explosion of burning riots which left city blocks gutted resembling a war zone. Regardless, this humble messenger attempted a remonstration with the African American along the lines of their shared lowly circumstances. ‘Look!’ I implored, ‘I’m no different to you! I’m not pretending that I’m better than you. We’re about the same age and are probably paid the same. When I ask you to wash this car, I’m just following orders. There is no need to be so nasty to me!’ The black boy seemed to be startled by this outburst when the drama was interrupted by an older black man. ‘Hey! Hold on there! What’s this all about?’ The man turned out to be the boy’s boss. I reiterated my main points and tried to explain that I was not prejudiced against the attendant. In so doing, the two Americans were suddenly transfixed by an unfamiliar foreign accent known in England as broad Derbyshire. ‘Where on God’s earth is you from?’ asked the boss man. I launched into another spiel describing a background and family of mine workers emerging from the bowels of the earth with faces encrusted with coal dust - so deeply ingrained - no amount of soap and scrubbing could ever remove the blackening which marked the lowly status of a common collier. I added my belief that at £8 per week, existing in a primitive terrace cottage, there was precious little difference between a coalminer and a cotton-picking slave. For good measure, I threw in the fact that while Detroit Negroes drove around in huge beautiful automobiles, my kin folk got around on pushbikes. This tetchy polemic was cut short by the boss striding forward with an air of menace. He was a big man, albeit with a benign expression signalling good humour, indulging a child throwing a tantrum. ‘Well, Englishman, I guess that’s better out than in,’ he said, now in full smile. The smile faded addressing his subordinate, ‘Laurent! It’s your job to be nice to our customers. We don’t sneer at them, we help them. You can start by explaining the pre-sets.’ The boss was referring to the complication of power seat controls. In past days he had noticed me struggling to drive the Lincoln. Sullenly, with a touch of shame, Laurent slipped into the passenger seat and asked his customer to get back into the car. I was invited to push a button marked ‘medium’ which immediately raised and moved the driving seat forward to suit a man of average size. Both boys beamed at this sudden demonstration of electronic wizardry and made eye contact in that intimate space. For two youths looking at each other, the moment lasted longer than it should have done. Hostilities had magically evaporated and I was now free to savour perfect proportions of quintessential African features. I scanned tempting thick lips, a wide nose and big, beautiful, wondrous round eyes. In return, the black boy was able to examine a Caucasian countenance so very enticingly close. ‘Yeah! I guess we done some good here,’ came a commanding deep voice from the big black boss’s face which had abruptly jutted into the car. It shattered the tender moment of incipient mutual affection. ‘You got time for a coffee?’ I declined. I’d already exceeded the time quota for parking the President’s car. ‘Lunch?’ Yes, I could return during lunch hour. I shook hands with the boss (firm grip) and then accepted Laurent’s gentler warm hand. Further embarrassing seconds passed before, reluctantly, it was relinquished; another exciting moment of extended duration. Boss Man was the Boss, entrusted with daily management, hiring and firing. Consequently, staff were recruited from a social circle of young men who shared my secret sexual inclinations. If not an educated man, he was intelligent and could articulate his thoughts and effectively communicate his extensive knowledge of a life blighted by institutional racism. In the weeks which followed, I was invited to several social gatherings in which this dominant personality steered animated discussions around a labyrinth of what he termed ‘double jeopardy’ - the perils of being both black and queer. He encouraged thoughtful and tolerant debate - reminding his boys that I was a guest, effectively a stranger in the US, and should always be treated with polite respect. On one occasion, this ‘tutor group’ was taken to see the 1958 musical South Pacific. Viewing was preceded by a short lecture on one important and controversial song – You’ve got to be Carefully Taught - click on the link to hear this on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vo0kVvdo_C4 ‘The lyrics say that racism is not born in you, it has to be taught,’ explained Boss. ‘This movie was badmouthed by Southern politicians. One redneck Georgian lawmaker said the song was inspired by Moscow!’ ‘How so?’ asked Laurent. ‘It justified interracial marriage. The bigots saw the lyrics as a threat to the American way of life.’ The big man’s philosophy was revealed in question-and-answer sessions. ‘Have you noticed that we always have sex standing up? Why is that?’ ‘Don’t know,’ said one boy. ‘I guess straight folks do it in bed.’ ‘Yes - but they don’t face the dangers we do. Have you seen wild animals or dogs woofing down food? We do sex like that. Cops might come and lock us up, or hoods might put in the boot. We got to be quick, that’s why I’m so good,’ he smiled. ‘Get ya jollies off before something bad happens.’ He justified group sex on the grounds that it was ‘more fun’ and in some ways safer than private activity. ‘Let’s face it; most stuff we do is done with strangers. You just don’t know what kooks you’re playing with. If everybody can see everybody else, you can jump in and help if somebody squeals or something don’t look right.’ During these weeks of Boss gatherings, Laurent continued to look longingly at his new white friend and was ever at his side. But it never seemed to get better than that. In whispers, several times, I asked if we could meet up away from the group in private. Each answer was much the same. ‘It’s like ... we stick together,’ said Laurent. ‘Boss keeps us on a short leash. We all do it together. Keep it simple. Boss calls it “schoolboy sex.” We all get sucked together, cum together and learn together. Boss don’t go for secret romance.’ On the other hand, regarding the racial angle, deep down, we knew that colour was an insurmountable obstacle to any realistic hope of a relationship. With that threatening cloud hanging over us, there was an ineffable sadness in the loving looks often exchanged. It was fantasy, all too soon violated by the feared explosion of city violence. The long hot smouldering month of July 1967 burst into flames on Monday 24th. Like thousands of white workers from segregated suburbs carefully cleansed of Negroes, I did not dare make the daily 20-mile commute from home to downtown Detroit. Since 1964, dozens of major American cities had already suffered riots and looting. After several city blocks had been gutted, beyond the control of regular riot police, Federal Paratroopers were sent in to restore order. A few nervous employees of the Detroit Bank started to trickle back on the following Monday and I steeled myself for a return to work on the Tuesday. My fragile link with Boss’s black harem was entirely dependent on my daily duty to park the Presidential Limousine. From that morning routine, all invitations to other venues followed. I was never given a phone number or an address; indeed, I was warned against attempting any such contact. I would turn up each morning and receive instructions from the Big Man. On this first day after a week of racial turmoil, Boss and Laurent welcomed me with a heartfelt hug of affectionate relief and praise for doing ‘the right thing’. ‘Shit baby!’ said Laurent, ‘The Black Panthers had road blocks stopping and checking out everybody.’ ‘What then?’ I asked. ‘Not much. No problem if you’re black. They’d just let you go on your way.’ ‘What if you’re white?’ I pressed. A few tense moments passed before Laurent, with sad eyes, sad voice and slow shaking head, responded. ‘You in bad shape, baby.’ Those few grim words seemed to sum up my precarious position within the circles in which I moved. Boss Man was also thoughtful, sad and serious. He was fully aware that this new revolutionary, far left, Black Nationalist organization had no reputation for being gay friendly. Few gay African Americans were brave enough to admit their sexuality to armed citizens’ patrols who were giving out free breakfasts to poor children and other good works. Above: Created AI image depicting a scene from the 1967 Detroit Riots.
Somehow, unbeknownst to me, the riot and its aftermath had a catastrophic effect on Boss, his bodyguards and his harem - they disappeared! One morning in early August, I arrived at the park to be received by an indifferent stranger, who shrugged at the question - ‘What happened to Laurent?’ Boss turned out to be a different boss with a personality so weak and grey he was almost invisible. Nobody was about to give a nosey white kid any information which was none of his business anyway. The shrug summed it up. I was frozen out of any exchange with the black race. No small talk. After handing over the car, I walked back to the bank. I was in love with Laurent, and Boss, for all his dominance; he was the centre of my sole social network - not to mention intellectual stimulation. That man was an education. He understood the reality of my world. You live in a heterosexual network where heterosexual friends get introduced to other heterosexual friends, heterosexual relatives and heterosexual colleagues. When something bad happens, people swap news, close ranks, offer help, support, advice, condolences - you get the lot. My family threw me to the wolves. I was on my own. In 1960s Detroit we were the despised minority in hiding. We were known as fags, queers or degenerates. The race issue simply complicated an already difficult situation. Had the parking people been all white, I was still isolated from relatives and others who, in their view, knew there was something seriously wrong with me. Not a word was ever spoken, but the tension and shame were always hanging in the air. There’s an expression, the elephant in the room. I was that invisible elephant, an embarrassment never to be acknowledged. Narvel Annable Hello Readers, A warm sunny day put nine of us in comfortable shade at the top of our Belper Friends garden. We have two members called James. There is Iain Greenwood and James plus a James I’ll refer to as Nottingham James. He gave us an interesting account of the recent Silver Pride party at the West Bridgford home of Roger Hollier which I gather was a jolly barbecue in his garden. In these summer months, Belper Friends can boast a hearty picnic including Terry’s delicious sandwiches, followed by Chris Buck’s homemade cake and Iain Greenwood’s fruit cake. Chris gave us an update on his letter writing campaign against homophobia, and Tim Blades spoke about an important drumming event on August 5th. Father of Belper Friends, the ebullient Police Officer Fred Bray talked us through the successful Pride in Belper event which was featured in the August 8th edition of the Derby Telegraph. In spite of the rain, Chris, Iain, Narvel and Terry were glowing with big smiles. They bubbled with fun sporting the Belper Friends Banner. It was an excellent photograph composed by Fred who always creates a good time party spirit. That same spirit has been captured by our official photographer Iain. See the separate Pride in Belper post with many photographs on my website. Narvel Annable Few characters in my novels are totally fictitious. Most are composites of people I’ve known in the 1960s when I was an active scruffy chicken. An author has to be careful about real people who inhabit published books. This piece, about the son of a dustman, has been a challenge. Names and places need to be changed in a cast of characters, some of whom, might be still alive. If you’ve read Scruffy Chicken, you’ll recognise Claud Hoadley the celebrated snob who had been running the Derby gay scene since the late 1940's. His ‘number two’, Eric, took me to a posh hotel in Derby called The Friary. It had a comfortable bar, finished in dark leather and dark panelling hosting a meeting known as Friday Night at the Friary. A loyal claque of obedient nodding heads were ‘received’ by the venerable figure of Mr Hoadley who dominated the scene with his powerful personality. I was allowed into his august presence only to discover that Eric was later reprimanded for – ‘Permitting a rough common boy, dressed like that, to enter a high-class hotel! An embarrassment to the management as well as ourselves.’ Hoadley would not brook any disloyalty or any disobedience; however, as a tempting teenager, I was invited to adorn one of his house parties which is where our drama begins. A pompous effeminate man called Clarence was mooning around a desirable masculine man called Damien – butch as a brick. Unlike the other guests, he was roughly spoken with a deep sincere unaffected pleasant voice. Sensing a kindred spirit, he shook off the odious Clarence and gravitated in my direction where we exchanged a few friendly words sharing our Derbyshire born / Derbyshire bred working class credentials. I was enthralled! He was bored with the la-di-da genteel gathering of smart suits and suggested we leave the party. A few years older than myself, Damien took charge of the social niceties. He thanked Mr Hoadley and whisked us out of that select gathering into a wintery night where a light snow was falling. He had a car! In the 1960s, car ownership was rare and freedom from waiting in chilly bus stops - pure luxury. Cosy and comfortable, we headed north into the Peak District and booked into a hotel at Monsal Head. The snow was already several inches deep – and getting deeper. In contrast to Youth Hostels, I was impressed with the hotel’s sumptuous affluence, but my recollection suggests a musty, quaint reception area of slow decay. Notwithstanding, it was relaxing and warm and we were hungry. Dinner was delicious and delightful followed by a short walk to the famous edge of magnificent views down Monsal Dale. In snow and darkness, all was invisible until our romantic after-breakfast walk in the sparkling sunshine of morning. I was in love. The sexual memory of the bedroom scene is now obscured by the starry-eyed fairy tale element of this idyllic adventure. Cinderella-like, the whole thing dissolved and disappeared the next day after Damien deposited me on Aunty Joyce’s doorstep in Horsley Woodhouse. I gave him my address; he did not give me his. I expected to hear from him. Instead, at the Derby Turkish Bath, information from the gay grapevine came fast, furious and fearsome. Damien was not his real name! His real name was Albert Birkin – the son of a dustman. The word ‘dustman’ horrified the snobbish elite in Hoadley circles. It was not a problem for me, but I resented the deception. It was explained that Damien was able to disappear! He could dissolve into the heterosexual majority in an instant because of his masculine, roughly spoken – butch as a brick – persona. Nobody knew where he lived. Nobody knew where he worked. He was a mystery man who made occasional appearances in gay venues. Further information came from a gloating, sardonic Eric – ‘We were all very envious of your ELOPEMENT from Hoadley’s party! He is furious with you. I’ve been instructed to summon you to his august presence to suffer a severe castigation.’ Hoadley was unhappy with our departure – ‘Bad form! Consistent with conduct typical of the lower orders.’ In addition, he received an angry abusive telephone call from a ranting Clarence the next day. Hoadley was accused of being complicit with the abduction of Damien – the affair of Clarence. ‘Affair’ was a term describing an established loving relationship. In due course, I visited Mr Hoadley, endured my punishment and tried to explain my side of the story. This has been a tale of jealousy, envy, gloating and opportunism. Fast forward several decades and see a rare appearance of me in a gay pub. I was chatting up a handsome young man and offered to buy him a drink. He excepted and named his drink. The bartender produced my orange juice and the other drink. The price was shocking! Seeing my dismay, the bartender said – ‘You’ll have to get yourself a cheaper chicken, Narvel.’ ‘How do you know my name?’ He smiled. I studied is face. He was older, but it came back. I was looking at Damien aka Albert Birkin. Although a distant memory, I prefer to remember the subject of this brief encounter - as Damien. I’ll always associate him with Lonnie Donegan's My Old Man's a Dustman which reached number one in the Hit Parade in 1960. Click on the link below to hear the track: https://youtu.be/Y7GeZ3YmONw Narvel Annable This snowy photograph was taken from Monsal Head, near to the hotel where Narvel and Damien got a room for the night. This magnificent view of the Monsal Viaduct (now a walking and cycling trail) set within the Monsal Dale, is very likely to be the view the two young men would have encountered on their romantic, after-breakfast walk the following morning.
In 1968, my friend Gary Mc Cormack [1947-1992] urged a few of us to journey from Detroit to New York to see a –
‘Fabulous new rock musical about a bunch of hippies who are dragging Jurassic morons out of their closets. It’s fantastic! We MUST see this pro-gay mind-blowing show. Everybody is raving about it.’ Tab Hunter lookalike Gary didn’t actually say, but I knew one of the ‘Jurassic morons’ was a reference to me! Like me, he was isolated and estranged from his homophobic family of ignorant boorish brothers compounded by a beer and hamburger baseball-mad father. Gary despised the hated Detroit suburbs and took every opportunity to escape, cadging lifts in my new convertible Chevrolet Camaro. The only way for Gary to travel (free of charge) the 700 miles from Michigan to the Broadway Theatre - was to persuade Narvel he was missing the 1960s sexual revolution currently exploding in New York City Centre. Gary knew that, being young [23] hot and horny, I was unable to resist a few days of wild sex in the notorious gay bath houses of The Big Apple – where he proposed we would stay – and play. I accepted, and agreed that the Camaro back seat should accommodate our close friends - Brian, Clifford and John who made it clear they were too poor to contribute to the cost of gas – but they would buy my theatre ticket. As I recall, admission was expensive. Gary agreed to drive all the way right into the middle of Manhattan Island where he was familiar with a safe free car park in an Italian neighbourhood. Gary was streetwise in all senses of that word. He knew his way around the homosexual underworld as well as possessing a fearless ability to bravely navigate the deep canyons of the world’s busiest frenetic city. I’d be terrified! I couldn’t contemplate such a horrific situation - let alone hours and hours of driving 1400 high speed freeway miles. As a chauffeur, Gary was indispensable. HAIR - the Tribal Love Rock Musical - lived up to the hype. It was awe-inspiring! Unforgettable! It explored themes of the long-haired hippie sexual revolution and caused controversy. I recall a strong conservative backlash to their counterculture, such as car stickers saying – ‘If you don’t like the police, call a hippy instead.’ I’ve always steered clear of drugs, smoking and alcohol, but (especially in 1968) was deeply impressed with HAIR’s strong message – IT IS OK TO BE GAY! We had excellent seats near the front. I could hardly believe a scene where a group of butch guys held up a poster of Mick Jagger. One of them said – ‘I’d really like to have sex with this stud!’ Another one said – ‘Yeah! Get a load o’ that ass. Oh boy!’ One shocking song included – ‘Sodomy, masturbation, fellatio, pederasty – why are these words so nasty?’ In another outrageous scene, the whole cast appeared naked. In the grand finale, actors invite the audience to come up and dance with them on the stage. People tumbled out in the street, intoxicated with excitement, leaping and frolicking down Broadway. There are many songs in HAIR - too difficult to pick out one to give true flavour to this splendid uplifting musical. Accordingly, I offer the official trailer of the 1979 film HAIR which includes samples of several popular numbers: https://youtu.be/VN5zup3b7fw The stage production of HAIR was memorable. Also memorable was a tragic incident in the middle of the night at the gay baths. This single upsetting experience was probably the seed of my gay activism which developed in the late 1990s. Sleeping rooms were available to groups of friends. Gary, Brian, Clifford, John and I were fast asleep in the small hours. The distressing sound of sobbing eventually woke me out of my deep slumber. It sounded like John was seized by some sort of sudden grief - an appalling mess of conflicting emotions – it was all too much. Brian, Gary and Clifford were trying to comfort and console, but tears flooded back with redoubled force. John gave way to a seizure of heavy sobs which shook a nerve-racked body at the very edge of despair. Feeling totally inadequate, unable to make any useful contribution to the brave counselling of my other friends, I pretended to be asleep. Eventually, the sobs subsided leaving John in a bleak state of emptiness, deep gloom and melancholy. In this sad condition it was difficult for anybody to make any meaningful progress in the middle of this long, dark, sleepless night. For this miserable young homosexual in the homophobic world of 1968, it was hard to analyse his predicament. He was isolated from any professional help. At one point I caught a few words uttered by this poor boy - ‘A normal boy would have found a nice girl by now … approved by mom and dad and straight buddies … smiles, nodding heads …’ This dreadful scene took place 55 years ago. Looking back, I know exactly what John was trying to say. If his so called ‘normal’ relationship ran into any difficulties, friendly advice would be offered by family, friends and colleagues. The world at large would bless and encourage the union of John and his girlfriend in the form of weddings, family morals, numerous films and the general media ever pushing and promoting heterosexual values. Like millions of other gay boys, he felt the suffocating weight of heterosexual reproach and rejection. To compound problems, he was inarticulate. He was too callow and too young to mount an effective challenge to all the perverted brainwashing of his previous 23 years. John was suffering a breakdown, probably triggered by a glimpse of what life could be like as dramatized in HAIR. Gary died in 1992. Over the decades, I’ve lost contact with Brian, Clifford and John – but I fight on with continued campaigning for gay rights such as recalling the events set out above. Narvel Annable Pictured below is the original 1968 poster for the HAIR, the musical: Hello Readers, We were pleasantly surprised with an unusually high turn out on July 12th. The recent heat wave mixed with an occasional sudden deluge has made it difficult to decide on arranging seating in our living room - or garden. Partly sunny skies and merciful moderate temperatures placed us comfortably in the conservatory. As always, I reminded the group that we have a faithful following of friends who never attend - or rarely attend in person - such as Peter from Chesterfield. He celebrated his 90th birthday on July 5th by sending us a letter which I read out. He spoke of early days on the steam railway beginning as a Fireman at age 15 in 1949 shovelling coal to feed the boiler. At 18 he became a Driver. Eventually steam gave way to Diesel engines and Peter finally retired in 1993. He's been a reliable supporter of my activism from first reading Lost Lad in 2003 and is now an avid follower of Belper Friends. The monthly heartfelt words of encouragement from our splendid INVISIBLES are greatly appreciated and read out to an interested audience who are often sparked into animated discussion. Never seen, perhaps. But these loyal lads always conclude with enthusiastic appreciation for all we do for elderly gay men in Derbyshire and Nottinghamshire. ‘You are WONDERFUL!’ My former pupil Tim Blades is a poet but also signs himself a drummer. He turned up to give us an interesting address which covered his recent adventures and explained the drumming connection. Like Tim - Alan, Chris and James are also members of our brother Nottingham group – Silver Pride meeting on the first Friday of each month. They told us about David Edgley’s entertaining presentation on July 7th which included a film featuring Pride in Belper. David Edgley is the Editor of Queer Bulletin. The afore mentioned James is not to be confused with our regular James - partner to Iain Greenwood our official photographer and fruitcake provider. Chris Buck updated us on his commendable letter writing campaigning – not to mention bringing us his delicious homemade special birthday cake. Chris also enhanced the Belper Friends garden with generous gifts of three beautiful Buddleia plants. Thank you, Chris. Fred Bray – Father of Belper Friends - sent us his apologies together with a big bright birthday card sporting a photograph of my younger self some 58 years ago! He certainly knows how to thrill. Thank you, Fred. I have mixed feelings about turning 78 but thank all who kindly sent cards through the post together with various electronic greetings. Special thanks must go to my faithful friend and fellow writer of many years – Allan Morton. Steadfastly, he makes these bulletins possible. Allan proofs, edits, crops the photographs and posts the finished product to Facebook, Twitter and on to my website for posterity. Belper Friends meet on the second Wednesday of each month at 1pm in our home in Belper. https://linktr.ee/narvelannable [email protected] Narvel Examining the rough rides of a troubled love life, I described Ahmed and Narvel sailing into the sunset on an ocean liner blissfully happy. At that moment, we were full of hope, confident that our romance would succeed.
This time, we both knew our love was for real. It would conquer all obstacles. After first meeting in January 1966, the relationship, ‘off and on’ was stormy in the extreme. We were desperately trying to make it work, but continually failing. Abruptly, I fled from the USA, back to the UK in April. Safely in Derbyshire, I sent Ahmed a love letter (first of many) pleading for understanding and forgiveness. I explained being at the end of my tether – couldn’t cope with a painful and intolerable situation. Ahmed responded in usual bombastic style to his ‘Booby’ - his pet name for me. As always, skilled grooming was a mixture of irresistible menace and magic - ‘I never give up. My Booby is coming back - if I have to carry you back to the United States. Am a comin ta get ya. You belong to me - period.’ I’m reminded of a few lines in Secret Summer - Defeated by some need, some primitive urge. Gripped hard in the arms of that horny stud. I was forced up to the lips of my assailant. I was not a rag doll! I objected to be treated as such. Resenting the insulting language, indignant at such unreasonable bullying, I resisted this coerced kiss and began to struggle. But - perhaps … I did not struggle too hard. After a sweet and tender embrace, this special moment is remembered all my life. So – Ahmed arrived in the UK, claimed his Booby, and took him back to the USA. No need to be carried. I walked on to that ocean liner – walked willingly. Back in Detroit, I opened my eyes ... and promptly closed them. It was the late summer sunshine which spot-lit my face, blinding me. It poured into that large plush bedroom, tastefully finished in conservative dark browns, old golds and any number of similar autumnal tints. The night before I considered it all rather drab, but, now, adjusting to the brilliant illumination after many hours of deep dark sleep; even I had to admire the quality of lavish drapes and swags. Extravagant festoons framed large windows. Booby lay very still in his half of that massive bed, the Imperial sized bed of Ahmed the lover, Ahmed the sleeper. Ahmed was very proud of his bed. Ten hours before, on entry into this expensive riot of Gothic fantasy - "What ya think, Booby? Hey, bet ya never seen such elegance - huh?" "Well ... it ... it looks good … pricey. It's interesting." "Interesting! Is that all you can say? Interesting! A $1000 bed, best bed in Detroit, the acme of culture and all you say is - interesting!" I had never seen such an ugly bed. The ornate headboard, footboard and four corner posts, all dark brown, evoked a mediaeval monstrosity of pointed arches, rib vaulting and flying buttresses which made Ahmed's bed hideous in the extreme. Assorted carved gargoyles gave it an essence of evil, more suited for Dracula. Indeed, at the inception of this whirlwind reconciliation, the bed was an ill omen. It was deeply significant. In many ways it represented a profound gulf between the two lovers. We both knew it, but, did not dare to speak of it. To give voice to such a thought would make it real, would make it dangerous. Having found each other, being so excited by each other, besotted by each other; at this early stage of reunion, we were both determined to make the relationship work. There was no independent observer to assess the situation, no impartial counsellor to advise these young men. They were alone. They were blundering through a minefield of inexperience and ignorance with scant support from the social skills of diplomacy - usually acquired by older people. Half a century on, the older Ahmed and the older Narvel could have counselled their younger selves if, indeed, such counsel would be heeded. My taste was still rooted in the modern, 'contemporary' era of 1959. What could be more modern than 1959!? Its simplicity of design, clean straight lines and bold bright colours. In Narvel’s dream home, his bed would have been designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. It would look like something in a space ship, a vision of the future. At a deeper level, I was very English. Having just stepped of the boat, I felt the full impact of a terrible mistake. Pining for my homeland, for the Derbyshire Dales, for quaint little villages, for my Ordnance Survey map, my bicycle and rucksack. In stark contrast, Ahmed was the quintessential loud, brash American of popular imagination. He rejoiced in a United States which had a 'Manifest Destiny' to rule the world. He considered the world should be grateful to be so ruled. Ahmed was confident and bombastic. His natural element was the bustling American city with its endless 24-hour energy of neon lights, gay bars, gay clubs and the usual homosexual hunting grounds of parks and baths. He would never be happy sitting in an Ye Olde Worlde English tea shop, chatting to nice old ladies, admiring a distant 'green and pleasant' vista. Oddly enough, that Gothic bed became the symbol of these irreconcilable positions. And, in that giant bed, listening to the regular breathing of my lover, I was now awake and concerned. I was wondering how a boy, [yes, in many ways Ahmed was a boy, just as immature as me] how a boy could afford to live in such a luxurious city centre apartment? The night before, Ahmed had proudly displayed his personal wealth, his gleaming symbol of power and prosperity. It was the dream of American youth. He owned a Ford Thunderbird. He commanded a noble beast, an elegant thoroughbred as fine as a steel blade leaving the English boy open-mouthed in awe - a sight which greatly pleased the boastful African American. "Yeah! Get a load o' that! Booby's gonna look sooo good in Ahmed's T-Bird. Get in." I took some comfort from that bustling American city with its energy of neon lights and gay clubs. The discotheque had just made its entry on to the scene. I loved the Motown music! I loved dancing with the man of my dreams, desiring his erotic movement, bayonetted by his jiggling sexy bum – leering, wanting, lusting in a miasma of lechery. In 1989, I heard a scintillating disco song by Donna Summer which thrilled me back to that sexy scene whirling, leaping and pirouetting around my beloved boyfriend. The title – This Time I Know It’s For Real neatly summed up the intense hope for success, fuelling this frantic frolic, energising our dance of joy. You can see the video here on YouTube: https://youtu.be/Em-cib_UgE8youtu.be/Em-cib_UgE8 The video shows quick tantalising flashes of a gorgeous young black man in the background capering and skipping around the set – driving me mad! On first viewing, that hunk of perfect bodily proportions - gyrating with magic movement - became my former lover – Ahmed. But you can’t live your life on a dance floor. In the autumn of 1966, we finally threw in the towel. Thoroughly demoralised and exhausted by a hopeless cause, we buried our futile love and went separate ways. His to stay in Detroit, mine back to Derbyshire. Narvel Annable I enjoy indulging in nostalgia. In an attempt to make sense of my life, I look back over the decades to the adventures and characters of my youth – the toads, gnomes, crones, goblins – the high and the haughty – the old and the ugly.
And then there were the chickens - beautiful boys. But there was only one Ahmed who appeared in Secret Summer, the novel which witnessed the love of my life. He was my one great love – the gorgeous American of African extraction. Friends were disappointed to hear that this powerful attraction did not end well. ‘But your romance must have a happy ending. Everybody wants a happy ending!’ Shelagh Delaney was criticised for the ‘unsatisfactory’ ending of A Taste of Honey. It was seen to be both sad and, somehow, incomplete. She argued that it simply reflected real life which does not always turn out as we would wish. In composing a novel about my momentous love, I was faced with the same problem – if they want a happy ending, where should it end? Along the continuum of life, there are days when we are happy and days when we are not. Real life is like that. And behind the mask of fiction, I always wrote about real life and real people. Ideally, Ahmed and I should have been strangers in paradise - lovers who meet in a lovely garden, under the whispering leaves of a mulberry tree, as did the Caliph and his true love in Kismet. The hard fact of meeting in a gay bathhouse in January 1966, did not make our great love any the less great or less fulfilling. In 1976, I met Terry Durand. We are still together after 47 years. We watched Johnny Mathis singing Stranger in Paradise on German TV. This very footage from 1976 is available to watch on YouTube: https://youtu.be/kOqA-4tyYm4youtu.be/kOqA-4tyYm4 Rewind 57 years to 1966 and see Ahmed and Narvel ecstatically happy on an ocean liner. Accordingly, I decided that Secret Summer would end on that day of blissful reconciliation and delightful reunion. I could truthfully describe us smiling, blithesome, in good spirits sailing west into a magnificent sunset of brilliant red, purple and gold. It was cold on deck, but we cuddled together to keep warm. It made an all-important physical connection which continued to weave its magical spell – continued to keep us together – for a time. I might have been be tempted to reach for the traditional ending to a fairytale love story, such as the old cliché – And they lived happily ever after But those words would have to be implied rather than spoken, if the author was to be completely honest. Notwithstanding, in 1966, Ahmed and Narvel did sail into the sunset and they were blissfully happy. Narvel Annable Frankie Avalon was a gorgeous clean cut all American teen idol with a beautiful singing voice. His big hit reminiscing The Summer of ‘61 is a joyful dual celebration of a special year for Frankie and myself.
My latest book about 1961 was conceived when certain themes and feelings about my 16th birthday coalesced into an emotional exploration of my adolescent memories. A sad aspect of these recollections is the secrecy and anonymity which still blights so many gay lives - even in 2023. I was an emotionally damaged poorly educated, credulous, naïve teenager living a pit village near Ilkeston in Derbyshire called Stanley Common. The year was dominated by an amusing rotundity, known as Dolly who guided me through the trials and tribulations of first love. He showed me a bleak future - ‘Teenage homosexuals are exactly like you – horribly frustrated, deeply repressed leading a double life. Eventually you’ll become entangled with a rough wench and be trapped inside an unhappy marriage. I’ve seen it all before. You must disappear from your home. It’s the only way. We queers are born criminals in a hostile world. We are constantly stressed hiding our true selves.’ During that magical year, I met all strands of gay society - the low and the high rubbing shoulders with powerful cliques affecting highly polished vowels and even stumbled into the ‘real thing’ - aristocratic circles of spies and yes, even royalty. I was one of untold numbers of queer boys who, out of desperation, escape queer hating parents. Like many callow teens, I didn’t know what to say. In contrast, the Narvel of 2023 had a lot to say about the joys and sorrows of those teenage years. To date, my life, 1945 to 2023 has been a long and often troubled existence. Blending fact and fiction with gay history, this is a story set in the harshness of a homophobic colliery landscape from which eventually I escaped to find a better, happier life 62 years later. Frankie Avalon will sing you his song complete with a backing of sweet-sounding angels. Lush lyrics tell the same tender heartwarming story of a momentous year as affecting as my own story. Listen to Frankie Avalon's The Summer of '61 here: https://youtu.be/jJ1HxbU0Gf4 Narvel Annable Narvel's 16 in 61 is available to purchase either directly from himself or through Amazon. Click on the book cover below: Hello Readers,
Narvel's Information Sheet No.180 is now available to read online: tinyurl.com/InfoSheet180 Hello Readers,
We feared this meeting would never happen. Both Terry and I have been recovering from a nasty virus. The last time I was as ill as this is when I was struggling with my teaching job in the late 80s and early 90s. Attacked by virus after virus and had to deal with it living alone in Clowne. The big surprise is how Terry (who has never seen me so poorly) has swung into action. He has done everything for me. Nothing too much trouble. Even night visits to check that I’m still breathing. As the days passed our positions reversed. In the days up to June 12th – I’ve been nursing Terry who, sadly, contracted the same virus. He rallied on the day before our meeting and prepared his usual delicious sandwiches. These were followed by Chris Buck’s homemade delicious cake which, in turn, was followed by Iain Greenwood’s delicious fruit cake. We were all well fed, somewhat concentrated together under the cool breezy deep shade of mature trees at the top of our garden. Thus, we nicely escaped the extreme midday heat of a very hot day. Alan Sharratt gave us more useful information about our brother Nottingham group – Silver Pride which meets on the first Friday of each month. Fred Bray and Tim Blades sent their apologies. I announced the dates of local prides – Worksop on Saturday, July 8th Nottingham on Saturday, July 29th Belper on Saturday August 5th My actor, director producer friend Bill Smith is not a regular attender, but always sends interesting, topical information – Hi Narvel, Human remains found in the locality of Thieves Wood, nr. Mansfield - have now been identified of those belonging to a Pinxton man who was murdered back in 1967. He went missing under mysterious circumstances. This local coal miner visited the pub lavatory – and has never been seen since! Human remains found in Sutton-in-Ashfield field belong to dad-of-six missing for 56 years. From the Early '80's, word got around the 'gay community'. Normanshills Wood became a more frequented cruising area. In the '90's, it became notorious after a couple of police raids, which gained headlines in the Mansfield CHAD. Instead of acting as a deterrent and a warning to men who sought sex with men, it alerted more men to the fact that this was a frequented cruising site. Men could have sex with men, becoming so popular one could pick up and cruise 24 hours per day, in the same way as Hampstead Health. Jack Straw's Castle was also notorious for gay cruising. On a more positive note, our loyal INVISIBLES updated us on Peter Tatchell’s successful campaign - Hi Narvel, Greetings to all Belper Friends. Sir Marc Rowley - Head of the Metropolitan Police is the first to issue an apology to all LGBTs for the way his force has mistreated them in the past. This is a historic moment for us - because it means no longer can the police target and mistreat us and get away with it. If you look back through our contributions to Belper Friends, you will see that we have quoted example after example of the targeted homophobia of Notts Police. Even as recently as 2016 they were threatening to write to home addresses 'outing' registered keepers of vehicles parked in the No Man's Hill car park. Even though they knew this was unlawful. I would say the Chief Constable of Notts Police certainly has some apologising to do. Keep up your good work, INVISIBLES As before, I’ll leave the last word to Chris Buck who continues to bravely battle against homophobia. Here is an edited version of his interesting talk. Idea to Petition Chas3 – King Charles III I was impressed with Tom Daley's BBC documentary ILLEGAL TO BE ME. He visited Commonwealth member countries interviewing athletes from the LGBT+ community in the build up to the 2022 Commonwealth Games. These countries have draconian anti LGBT laws. They had to keep their true selves secret in order to avoid penalties like whipping, imprisonment and stoning to death. There is also the threat of vigilante groups taking matters into their own hands abusing, beating and even murdering LGBT people. Tom managed to achieve something to bring the issue to the fore - he entered the Games Arena in the opening ceremony carrying the late Queen's message baton surrounded by Pride Flags! In February of this year Pope Francis went on a Peace Mission to Sudan accompanied by the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Moderator of the Church of Scotland. The Pope said that these draconian laws made many people criminals. In his eyes this was sinful and an injustice. The other two senior clergy from Britain agreed. At his coronation in May, King Charles pledged himself to serve ALL communities. We already knew he wanted to make "reparations" for mistakes made in the name of the British Empire. These bad laws date back to colonial times. Also, there is meant to be a desire to modernise the British Monarchy. Could the time be right for him to speak out for the LGBT+ community? The King of Norway has! For centuries it's been an established way to approach the King or Queen by petitioning people who have the monarch's ear. So top of my list, Justin Welby and Dr Iain Greenshields; I ruled out Pope Francis as a kind of sovereign in his own right. So far nothing heard from Lambeth Palace, but I do know, from the PA of the Moderator, that Dr Greenshields and the new incumbent have received my email. Previously, I thought Tom Daley OBE might get somewhere, pick up where he left off. Buckingham Palace staff reject any correspondence they see as political and many letters do not reach the monarch. I put in some research into Baroness Scotland and the Commonwealth of Nations. The Baroness actually set the promotion of LGBT+ rights as a priority for her first 2 year's tenure as Secretary General of the Commonwealth! She concluded that there needed to be a 'dialogue' to show the economic benefits of having a happy workforce. Who better to start this 'dialogue' than the King himself aided by her good offices. I have suggested this partnership to the Baroness. The Commonwealth of Nations has a Charter! There are many parts to it, all meant to be dear to all member countries! Including among many more - Democracy, Human Rights, Tolerance, Respect and Understanding, Freedom of Expression, to name only 4 sections. Who knew?! In 2016 the population of The Commonwealth of Nations was estimated to be around 2.4 billion. Conservatively, 1 in 20 people can be said to be LGBT+, that's 120 million in our community. Of the 56 member territories 35 have draconian laws against us. So, easily 70 million people living in abject misery! If all those people were being oppressed in one place there would be an outcry in the Free World. But they are spread over 35 different places. Countries cannot be forced to change their laws however dire their affects. Vigilante groups need to be educated out of their lack of humanity for their neighbours within their own countries. Baroness Scotland proposed economic carrots rather than trade sanctions but overall, there's a need to change hearts and minds to bring change about. Who better to start this than the actual head of all the Commonwealth, King Charles himself? Maybe, with a new head, it's time to refresh that Charter too? Chris Buck Below are a couple of photographs taken at the Belper Friends meeting. Thank you to Allan Morton for editing these and for posting this bulletin online. An extract from Scruffy Chicken
Soldier's Shoulder In the November of 1963, I found myself riding on a Greyhound Bus from New York to Detroit. Everything was strange and new. But, inside, I was the same – gay and deeply frustrated. The soldier was silent. I looked down at his leg. Nice leg. A few passengers nearby had switched on their overhead seat lights which lifted the general darkness into a half gloom. I snatched a few crafty looks at my butch neighbour. He was a desirable, clean-shaven, handsome, All-American boy with a square jaw. I was 18; he might have been about 20. The smart uniform perfectly fitted the sensuous contours of a hard, fit body. The pleasing and tempting profile at my side caused me to be very careful in stealing further stealthy glances. Bitter experience had taught me to be quick. The occasional shufti had to be pre-planned. In the fearful event of eye contact, with a flash movement, I could appear to be innocent. I could appear to be observing something of interest on the other side of the bus. These subtle skills had been long practised and honed at a level which could almost be described as subconscious and automatic. Some passengers were sleeping. I looked at that sexy shoulder and conceived a plan. Gradually, eyes closed and my head, very very gently, lolled over - eventually making contact with the soldier’s shoulder. HARD KNOCK! I affected groggy confusion and looked a question at the military man’s inexplicable assault. ‘You fell asleep on me!’ he drawled. ‘Oh … err … sorry.’ Apology grudgingly accepted via a grunt - but no further words were exchanged. I sensed not receiving the benefit of the doubt. It was a chance in a million – but failed. Perhaps the inspiration of hope came from a favourite 1959 record heard many times from the Heanor Milk Bar juke box. Gorgeous clean cut Paul Anka invited his girlfriend to Put Your Head on My Shoulders. Listen to this song on YouTube below: https://youtu.be/kvazBqAlx58 A beautiful song with a twangy resonant guitar together with topical angelic female backing. I could not yet bring myself to admit that I desired this young man on the bus, whose body I touched, ever so briefly. A few weeks before at the Eastwood fair, my mouth went completely dry after being suddenly threatened by an aggressive rough youth brandishing his fist in my face. He wanted to know - "Wot ya lookin' at me fa? Ya want trouble, do ya? Aye! An trouble ya'll fookin' get! Nar fook off!" In the hard, macho, homophobic world of Eastwood, Heanor and Stanley Common; boys like me quickly learned to avert their gaze from the fascination of a comely working-class face connected to a strapping body, round protruding bottom and interesting bulges packed inside sexy tight jeans. Deep down, I knew why I’d been looking at that particular youth. After that appalling trauma witnessed by a group of pals, I was not prepared to be honest with myself. I was not prepared to face the clear and self-evident implications of that embarrassing and wounding experience. It was just too awful. I wasn’t queer! Queers were dirty old men who haunted public lavatories. I wasn’t like that. Narvel Annable It happened in January 1966 when I was 20. The place was a dimly lit steam-room in a homosexual bath house, just over the Detroit River. Visibility was restricted by a weak amber glow struggling to penetrate the pea soup of that hot cavern. When my eyes adjusted, I was able to navigate and placed myself in a promising position, next to a black figure of African ancestry. He was naked. We were all naked. He was one of many in that titillating Turkish Bath where the anonymous gathered in the hope of meeting up with kindred spirits, hiding in a homophobic landscape.
A slight turn to the right revealed the profile of a boy who, after a few seconds, turned a beautiful full face. It was an appraisal, a close-up to confirm his selection for the evening. Here was an example of stunning good looks fixing me with his considerable power. Here was a chicken-hawk who was accustomed to hunting the chickens of Detroit City - a youth who was accustomed to getting exactly what he wanted - and he wanted Narvel. In those few magical moments, Derbyshire eyes scrutinised Detroit eyes. Both pairs were full of wonder, full of desire. Under pressure of enchantment, each countenance melted, slightly, very slightly into a half smile. I was drawn into an alluring face. This strapping lad with an Adonis body was about my own age. It was a face of softened African features: not a wide nose: lips not thick, yet temptingly full: coal-black hair, not exactly frizzy, yet, with short tight curls suggesting his ancestry. And big round eyes, yes, beautiful brown eyes, firm of purpose, holding, bayoneting their prey. To the end of the decade, we became lovers. In Secret Summer, I called him Ahmed. The same sexy hunk became Gene in 16 in 61 – Adventures of a Gay Teenager in 1961. The chosen record first released in 1963 happens to be sung by another gorgeous Gene – Gene Pitney 1940-2006. Click the link to hear it: https://youtu.be/n_IXw1UOQJ8 The opening instrumental of MECCA is a strident, thrilling Indian Fakir’s flute. Like a snake it slivers and twists around the melody. It mesmerises and enchants the lover calling to his beau situated in a forbidden heterosexual enclave beyond his reach. Mecca is a sacred city threatening death for those of same sex attraction. In this way, our love was doomed from conception. Narvel Annable Marvin Gaye 1939 – 1984 Shot to death by his father in 1984 What’s Going On – anti-war, socially conscious protest music: https://youtu.be/H-kA3UtBj4M Mercy Mercy Me (The Ecology): https://youtu.be/efiDnHS3fzk I will introduce these first selections by referring to my appalling experience with American draft papers. January 8th 1966 Like most 20-year-olds, with a sinking heart, I had received my draft papers. Like most boys of my age, I was likely to be sent to Vietnam. On this very day of January 8th, 8,000 US troops attacked a Viet Cong stronghold near Saigon in the biggest American offensive of that dreadful war. That same Saturday, the 'Iron Triangle' was pounded by B-52 heavy bombers and artillery. I was horrified. Why should I, an Englishman, chronically homesick for the green hills and dales of my native Derbyshire, risk life and limb for the Americans? Why should I be transported to the other side of the globe to harm people who had never harmed me? This is the same Narvel Annable who would not, could not, defend himself against the merciless cruelty of Mundy Street Boys School just ten years before. The day before, Friday, January 7th, I had obeyed a command to attend the army medical. It was awful! It was a de-humanising routine in which groups of naked boys were barked at, ordered from station to station to be tested, touched, poked and prodded to assess their fitness to serve Uncle Sam. I filled in a form of many questions including one which asked - 'Do you have any homosexual tendencies?' At that time, the United States Army had decided that if anyone answered 'yes' to that question, it did not want that person, even if he had made an untrue statement. The attitude was - 'If, to avoid military service, a man is prepared to make such a statement about himself, to falsely claim that he is a moral 'degenerate': we do not want that man. He is unfit to serve his country.' I answered the question about my sexuality, honestly. Accordingly, my initial classification was downgraded from A1 to 1Y. I was overjoyed. Maybe Tomorrow by Billy Fury
An extract from Heanor Schooldays After four horrific years at Mundy Street Boys School in Heanor, attending William Howitt Secondary Modern School down the road in September 1958 - was a life changing experience. Each lunch hour, I walked up the hill to the café on Heanor Market Place and chose from various items on the menu. 'Something and chips' cost two bob, add three pennies for a cup of tea. The cafe had two halves. To the right of the central corridor was the snack bar and to the left a quieter dining room for meals. Above the clatter of pots, cutlery, comings and goings and the continuous hum of conversation, I could hear and enjoy pop music which travelled across the two rooms. The music came from something new and different: a space aged, push buttoned chrome and gaudily illuminated cabinet called a 'jukebox'. It needed to be fed - a threepenny bit for one play, a silver sixpence for two plays, or five plays for a silver shilling. Not many of those went in. Fascinated eyes watched a mechanical arm lift when a record had been selected. A popular seven-inch record would be located and then placed precisely on an automatic deck. As the needle fell into the lead groove, an anticipatory delicious electronic 'thud' would precede the ecstatic sounds to follow. The previous July, I became a teenager. Munching through my beans on toast (or whatever) each day at that café; I experienced the birth of, for me, real music. The charts of 1959 and 1960 were the very epicentre of my musical experience. I’d spend the rest of my life worshipping at that shrine of talented excellence. Forever more, I’d listen with nostalgic reverence to the lush orchestrations and sexy boyish voices which sang out through that small window of creativity. Marty Wilde, Bobby Vee and Adam Faith crystallised and defined fresh green hopes, inspired my dreams and fuelled my fantasies. One day was very special. I was entranced by what seemed like a sweet-sounding choir of heavenly angels ascending and descending the scale, complemented by a resonant twangy bass guitar. Into this euphonious mix came, exactly at the right time, a deep masculine voice with just a hint of the sexy adolescent croak so typical of this new young genre. He could easily have been mistaken for Elvis but, these dulcet tones were a touch lighter and, for my taste, with great respect to the King – better. This sensuous singer had composed both the music and lyrics for this beautiful work which lasted barely more than a precious two minutes. After such an orgasmic audible experience, in complete contrast to the hateful pious dirges of Mundy Street Boys School just a stone's throw away; this new music now became an important part of my new life at William Howitt Secondary Modern School – a culture of kindness. During the following weeks, the same record was played several times every day. I struggled to hang on to those illusive, hypnotic notes, above the ambient din of the busy Market Cafe. A few occasional words were discerned - " ... and in the evening, by the moonlight ... " I knew not the name of the singer nor the song title to be able to ask for it in a record shop. A pointless exercise not possessing a record player, let alone the expensive seven shillings needed to purchase. Eventually, the time came when, nervously, this scruffy youth entered a shop and held the precious vinyl disc, with its grooved integral encoded magical music, bearing the legend - Maybe Tomorrow. Later, in that same store, examining the sleeve of a prized long-playing record - I stood very still and looked. I peered long and hard into the stunningly handsome features of my teenage idol - Billy Fury: a typical image of the popular culture of 1959. Fast forward to May 2023 when Terry and I were watching Mike Read and Noel Cronin on TPTV’s Footage Detectives. They were discussing Billy Fury and his backing voices heard in Maybe Tomorrow! Suddenly, after 64 years, I was able to identify that sweet-sounding choir of heavenly angels ascending and descending the scale. They were the Vernons Girls - three session singers led by Maureen Kennedy on many hit singles in that period. Maybe Tomorrow was their debut as an angelic backing group. Narvel Annable The original version of Maybe Tomorrow can be heard on YouTube via the following link: https://youtu.be/2Dvb_PI7dJY Narvel also chose Maybe Tomorrow as his final record on the Desert Island Discs piece we recorded in May 2020 during the first national covid-19 lockdown. You can hear him talking about this from 1:20:50 onwards via the link below. This is followed by his 1998 Radio Derby interview with John Holmes where he also discusses the song: https://www.mixcloud.com/narvelontheradio/narvel-annable-desert-island-discs-lock-down-special-may-2020/ Hello Readers, A film called The Leather Boys has been strongly recommended. Allan Morton assists all my publications in numerous ways. He said - ‘The Leather Boys is a great film. Many scenes from it were used in a Smiths music video called Girlfriend in a Coma. It can be seen via the link below: https://youtu.be/3GhoWZ5qTwI Thank you, Allan. I’ve always liked the Smiths. Morrissey has a beautiful voice as well as being a sexy hunk. The INVISIBLES - who make regular contributions to the Belper Friends monthly bulletin - also urged me to see an old film on TPTV called The Leather Boys. It is rarely screened on TV now - so it was a joy to catch it again. I can still remember the thrill when first watched in 1964. At last! There was a lad who felt like me! I was not on my own. I was 18 and very confused about my same-sex attraction. That film summed up things and still evokes feelings in me today. It’ll always be with me. I felt like the Dudley Sutton character because of being friendly with a boy in school. I loved him, but he had no idea. After leaving school, I was lost and bereft. That spirit of repressed sexuality is something we gay men all go through because the odds are so stacked against us. Girls attracted to us become real bitches when they can’t have what they want. As they say, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ THE INVISIBLES Terry and I were glued to The Leather Boys. We found it profoundly empathetic recalling so may parallels with our own lives. We lusted over Colin Campbell’s sexy bum seen in so many shots and felt for Dudley Sutton’s painful frustration. We agonised with dishy Dudley in his irritation of silly common teenage giggly girls against the backdrop of an unforgiving heterosexual landscape. After delighting us in A Taste of Honey 1961 playing a sympathetic Jo; Rita Tushingham demonstrated superb acting ability in transforming herself into a hateful homophobic slut. A great film. Narvel Above: Poster for the 1964 film, The Leather Boys
Hello Readers,
The May 10th Belper Friends meeting was another success. At 1pm, they all seemed to arrive together. Some on foot, and some in cars which were examined with interest. The talk became technical. Sparking on three cylinders always signalled to me you were not doing well. Apparently, according to Fred, I’m way behind the times – ‘Three-cylinder engines, easy access and bright colours are now all in vogue.’ After cars, came a detailed discussion of Callum Roome’s LGBT+ Care Documentary to be filmed this month. Several Belper Friends who were not present were sent questions. I’ll forward to Callum any feedback which might come to me. In all cases, they have contact details for a direct response. Callum’s documentary is about the challenges elderly gay people face when accessing care in the UK. If you’d like to be involved, contact him via his email [email protected] Phone 0790529763 He was interested to receive the group’s response to questions involving the issues which cause some people to go back into the closet. In reading out Callum’s approach to the group, I invited comment and questions. There was an opening statement, questions and his closing statement. I took the precaution of asking Chris Buck for special assistance. In all meetings he takes notes which are a valuable help in composing the monthly bulletin. Chris Buck’s efforts are printed below. His notes reflect an accurate representation of comments from the group. Our deliberations touched on - care homes being equipped to care - and the quality of induction training for new staff. What about staff from less enlightened countries? In a care setting, could this be a problem? We considered our main concerns as gay men. Will there be any talent? Eye Candy! From a personal point of view, Chris pointed out that he would be going from being alone to where there's many folk. What about being comfortably out? It was suggested that it depends on the individual’s confidence before entering care. This might be harder to achieve with some fellow residents than with trained staff. What should we look out for? There should be a written policy at the establishment. Are staff aware of such a document? There should be a gay or gay friendly member of staff, as a sympathetic point of contact. Somebody mentioned a gay 'champion' able to be trusted. Friends from the LGBT+ community should be able to visit us in a care home and be themselves. It was thought that only totally LGBT+ establishments are really possible in places like London and Brighton. Tonic Housing was mentioned. Elsewhere in the country, it's hoped there would be growing acceptance over time to allow greater happiness for LGBTs in integrated homes. Edited notes taken by Chris Buck Our group became quite animated in praising the care home of Richard McCance who is held in great affection by Belper Friends. Alan Sharratt, a regular at Nottingham’s Silver Pride meetings, gave us helpful information about comments and discussion which took place on May 5th. They received an interesting presentation from Caroline Barry who is writing a book about the History of Gay Nottingham. From my website you’ll see that Caroline has interviewed me several times. Https://linktr.ee/narvelannable Back to Belper Friends, I mentioned the recent loss of Ted Barlow [92] whose upcoming funeral will take place at Gedling Crematorium Nottingham on May 24th at 4pm. Another friend, first met in 1965 is Eric Wrightam. Tragically he chose to disappear in 2017. He died in an unenlightened and possibly homophobic care home in 2018 at age 90. It is not necessary to be physically present at Belper Friends to make a contribution to our monthly conference. The INVISIBLES always have something valuable to say - Hello Narvel, So sorry to hear about the passing of Ted Barlow. Please pass on our commiserations and support to David Betts. We INVISIBLES have been together over 50 years. A month after meeting, I said to him 'only death will part us' because I just KNEW that he was for me. Still together, I’m so lucky and do appreciate it. But of course, ONE of us does have to go first. Human remains have been found at the back of No Man's Hill Woods. I’ve walked down that path many a time. Also, a 78-year-old man living in sheltered accommodation in Nottingham was found dead up at Clumber Park, late at night. It was an unprovoked homophobic attack by three men who 'Kicked his head in'. It's simply not safe for gay men of any age to go cruising in darkness at these remote spots. Inherent police homophobia still exists in Notts Police culture overriding everything. I could give numerous examples of incidents that have occurred. Nothing has changed. Anyway, I hope you and Terry are well. We’ll be in touch again. INVISIBLES As with last time, it was great to be honoured with a visit from the Father of Belper the Friends - PC Fred Bray described as a bubbling effervescent powerful presence. He did his stuff, doling out advice and comfort but, sadly, had to leave early leaving no trace of that big smile on Iain’s photographs. Faithful Iain and James turned up with their own brand of bubble and delicious fruit cake. Chris’s cake was heavenly and his help with hot drinks invaluable. I must mention faithful husband, Terry, who always delivers excellent sandwiches consumed with great pleasure. Also, my gratitude to Allan Morton who takes time and trouble proofing and posting this bulletin into the public domain. The last word must go to our resident activist Chris Buck. He has energetically defended gay rights referencing the Coronation by communicating with no lesser person than - Justin Welby, Archbishop of Canterbury. The recent Coronation of Charles and Camilla does not sit well with me at all. Camilla Shand, way back, had been deemed unsuitable by the Palace. She married Parker-Bowles and Diana went like a lamb to the slaughter into her doomed marriage with Charles. Fast forward to 2005 - Charles and Camilla married in a civil ceremony at Windsor Guild Hall. The Late Queen did not attend. At the time we were told Camilla would be styled 'Princess Consort" when Charles became king. On 3rd May, I joined a discussion called "Are you happy with Queen Camilla?" on Jeremy Vine Extra, hosted by Storm. I argued that the situation was unprecedented and that Camilla was not qualified to take part in a double coronation with Charles. After all, if they couldn't marry as a divorced couple in any church, how could they take part in an ancient, sacred ritual in Westminster Abbey - presided over by the Archbishop of Canterbury? After this my dander was up! Earlier this year, the Church of England General Synod had voted to allow Services of Blessing for same-sex couples who had had a civil ceremony of either a partnership or marriage. However, Justin Welby, Archbishop of Canterbury, said that he would take no part in such services himself. I wrote to Justin Welby to ask why he felt able to conduct the double coronation of Charles and Camilla but felt that he could not bless same- sex couples with an equal civil marriage to the Royal Couple. Of course the Archbishop didn't reply himself, but I received a reply the very next day from an 'Executive Correspondence Officer' at Lambeth Palace. The Officer said that in the C of E "Holy Matrimony is between one man and one woman", it's interesting that the words "for life" follow. The Officer went on to say that Welby welcomed the Synod change but had said that taking part in same-sex blessings would "compromise" his "pastoral responsibility for the global Anglican Communion". In other words, the homophobes in his church wouldn't like it! In the part of the Coronation Service where Camilla was the centre of attention a Coronation Ring was placed on one of her fingers which is meant to effectively 'marry' Camilla to the Monarchy. To me this was an attempt at legitimisation after all that has happened. It seems that if you are heterosexual and royal you can do whatever you want, write your own rules. If Charles 3rd has forced through this double coronation by his Royal Will and the styling of Camilla as 'Queen' pure and simple, then he is no better than Henry 8th! As regards my disappointment with the Coronation, despite the history, pomp and splendour, the beautiful music and words, for me it lacked integrity. One last thought, if Charles should die before Camilla, will she be styled 'Queen Mother'? We know Charles doesn't like technicalities and it would expunge the memory of Diana further still. Chris Buck I met Eric Wrightam at the Derby Turkish baths in 1965. I was 19. He was 38. Eric’s life was overshadowed by two devastating homophobic attacks in his younger days. The experience left him a profoundly frightened man who kept himself very much to himself. Richard, his close friend in the 1960s, made a striking comment – ‘A face which has seldom smiled.’ Eric never revealed his LGBT status to anybody outside his small circle of gay friends. I lost contact with him just before the Christmas of 2017. I heard nothing until a solicitor’s letter informed me that Eric died in a nursing home, March 10th 2018 at age 90. Eric lived his whole life terrified of being discovered a homosexual. Because of this, he never informed me of an address change. He feared communication from Narvel Annable - gay author - out and proud activist, would challenge his heterosexual status in that care home. Eric appears in Scruffy Chicken as the Consultant Surgeon – David Bond. In real life, he was an architect. Photographs of Eric are rare. The one above is from the 1960s.
Hello Readers, David Betts phoned me with the sad news that his husband, Ted Barlow, passed away a few days before his 92nd birthday on April 28th. Unfortunately, he never saw the spring themed birthday card signed by Terry and I which featured a Jenny Wren. The above photograph of Ted and David was taken in their back garden in 1966. From left to right –
Ted Barlow age 35, Narvel Annable, aged 20, David Betts age 32. I have my hands on one of their friends whose name, after 57 years, escapes recall. On receipt of this eulogy, David Edgley has used some content in an item about Ted Barlow which has appeared in the May 2023 edition of Queer Bulletin. David Betts will be somewhat uplifted by this prompt tribute to his late husband. I send him sincere condolences. Over the last 47 years of our relationship, Terry and I have enjoyed many pleasant visits to the beautiful Barbet home and garden. Delicious meals were savoured, accompanied by Ted’s unique brand of entertainment consisting of hilarious anecdotes and vignettes taken from over 66 years of Barbet society. They first met in 1957. Until recently, they have gladdened our hearts bouncing off each other with their sparkling personalities. My memories of that warm and friendly team go back to the mid-1960s, visiting the impressive home of Bob and Brian Burgess in The Park. Against a Victorian background of ballroom and tower, Ted and David entertained us with drag shows and amusing impressions at the expense of affected and artificial social climbing snobs who inhabited the Nottingham gay scene. In Scruffy Chicken, Ted and David, with permission, appeared as Tommy and Martin. My 2006 novel was dedicated to – Ted Barlow and David Betts Living Legends of the Nottingham Scene With gratitude for friendship and kindness over the last forty years Back in April 25th 2011, Walton’s Hotel was the luxurious setting enjoyed by dozens of Barbet friends for Ted’s 80th birthday party. A wonderful experience thoroughly enjoyed by all and filmed by Terry. I recall one significant comment - “What a lovely atmosphere! As soon as you walked through that venerable old door you felt completely relaxed.” That celebratory delicious luncheon was all so perfect - and didn’t it go well! The clever and entertaining speech from Guest of Honour, Ross Smith, seamlessly followed by Ted’s inclusive, sensitive and thoughtful response, was well received by an enthusiastic audience. We all had a mention – so very kind. Memories were made that day and we will certainly treasure our memory of that happy gathering of good people who came together to honour a man held in great affection. La Chic on Canal Street – 1973 to 1977 was the precursor to La Chic Part Two opened by its manager Ross Smith in 1981. From the mid-1960s to about 1970, I was taken under the wing of Ted and David. 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. I met Ross for the first time at this lavish 2011 Walton’s Hotel party. We joked about Ted 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.’ In his speech, Ross quite rightly pointed out; hardly anyone mentions Ted without David. It’s always been ‘Ted and David’ - sometimes ‘David and Ted’. My legendary world of old hags, toads, goblins, gnomes and affected snooty snobs referred to T&D as ‘an item’ long before that term came into general use. Throughout life we seldom suffer such a loss as the loss Ted Barlow. I will miss him dreadfully. Good night, Ted. Dear friend, sleep well. Your excellent example of a lifetime’s warm-hearted sincerity characterises so much of what is needed to leave the world a better place. Narvel Annable Terry Durand The Funeral of Ted Barlow will take place at Gedling Crematorium Nottingham on May 24th at 4pm. It was still too cold to assemble in the conservatory or in the Belper Friends garden, but the warmth of our living room provided an excellent venue for the exchange of useful and informative discussion – some of it quite lively. With regard to the Coronation of King Charles III, Chris Buck articulated a valid point which received our approval - ‘In April 2005 Charles married Camilla at the Guildhall, Windsor in a civil ceremony. The couple then went directly to the Royal Chapel of Windsor Castle for a service of blessing. ‘In a recent debate, the Church of England, were discussing the possibility of allowing same sex marriage. They decided that a civil marriage is not equal to a church marriage "in the sight of God". ‘The church decided to allow blessings of same sex partnerships, but the Archbishop of Canterbury, Justin Welby, said that he would not perform them himself, probably to placate homophobic church members in Africa. ‘On Coronation Day in Westminster Abbey, Justin Welby can bring himself to crown and anoint Charles and Camilla when he can't even bless same sex couples, that have also had a civil ceremony joining them in marriage in exactly the same way. The Coronation is a sacred ritual dating back a thousand years or more. The oil for the anointings has been blessed in the Holy Land. This lavish process for a couple married "in the eyes of the State" reveals a huge double standard in my view. I have always loved History. As a child, I heard stories about the Late Queen's coronation, and I've always looked forward to seeing one. However, for the double standard given above (and several other reasons) I feel that the upcoming Coronation is a sham. Chris Buck We also discussed an item on my website called Back to the Closet about a forthcoming documentary dealing with the challenges and experiences elderly LGBTs face when accessing care in the UK. A 34 second video discussing these problems is on this link - https://youtu.be/UyJ2m4RD0XY Elderly gay people hide their sexuality in fear of losing access to adequate care and suffering possible harassment or ill-treatment from residents and care staff. Belper Friends revere an old friend and lifelong campaigner - Richard McCance. Due to advanced years, he is now very happy in an enlightened residential home and able to be his true self. Sadly, I know of another good friend who was overshadowed by two devastating homophobic attacks in his younger days. The experience left him a profoundly frightened man who kept himself very much to himself. Eric never revealed his LGBT status to anybody outside his small circle of gay friends. I lost contact with him just before the Christmas of 2017. I heard nothing until a solicitor’s letter informed me that Eric died in a nursing home, March 10th 2018. Eric lived his whole life terrified of being discovered a homosexual. Because of this, he never informed me of an address change. He feared communication from Narvel Annable - gay author - out and proud activist, would challenge his heterosexual status in that care home. Callum Roome is working on a short documentary about the challenges elderly people face when accessing care in the UK. If you’d like to be involved, contact Callum via his email [email protected] We received a gracious apology from Tim Blades – Dear Narvel, Hoping all is well for you. I've enjoyed the recent reading material. Apologies for absence at tomorrow’s April meeting. Anyhow, all my love to everyone. Hugs and best wishes, Tim As usual, I read out the monthly email from the Invisibles - Thank you, Narvel, for that very touching tribute and memory of Brian Clifton. We've lived under the shadow of homophobia for all our lives. Our stories and families have reacted in the same way. I well remember my own mother telling me I would end up with my 'head in a gas oven' and that my father would 'never accept it' However - things DID get better - albeit very slowly. I see the Casey Report has been published and stated unequivocally that the UK police is institutionally homophobic - something we have all known for years. People like ourselves have been victims of that institution. Hope all is well with Belper Friends, Narvel. Thanks for keeping in touch. Regards, INVISIBLES We were blessed with the powerful presence of bubbling effervescent PC Fred Bray, suitably attired in bright red. It is no exaggeration to describe Fred as the Father of Belper Friends. Since 2017, he has been doling out good advice and comfort in equal measure. On April 12th several personal issues were discussed, investigated and largely solved. Thank you, Fred – come back soon. As usual, Chris Buck was very helpful in speeding up the delivery of hot drinks and food beautifully presented and prepared by Terry. Others present were Alan Sharratt, James and our photographer Iain Greenwood. The technical magic of Allan Morton makes it all appear on Facebook, Twitter and on my website. Narvel Annable |