The Day We Got Married

After meeting each other over twenty-five years ago, Chris and I tied the knot on 24th July 2021. He’d asked me back in September 2019 when we were in Sitges, near Barcelona. We were there for Charles and Paul’s wedding and we’d rented a beautiful apartment in the centre of town with Kaz, LP, Sarah, and Steve. We were very drunk when he asked, having just got back from the party. He got carried away and asked me there, in front of everyone, instead of the following day over brunch as he’d planned. Obviously I agreed.

Because of the pandemic, we had to cancel our original plans for 2020 and the wedding was nearly two years after the proposal. We married at Manchester Register Office just off Albert Square at one o’clock in the afternoon in a scaled back service with far fewer guests than anticipated.

We're getting there

Chris had arranged for his parents and his auntie and uncle to come to our house that morning so they could leave their car and get a taxi into town together. About an hour before they were due, I said goodbye to Chris, jumped in a cab with our overnight bags and headed for Portland Street. I met Alison and Nicola at their hotel, dumped the bags, checked Nick’s dress for see-through-ability (it was fine), and we set off across town.

They asked me how I felt and whilst there was a slight nervousness, accompanied by a dry mouth, I was in pretty fine fettle. I talked a lot — a habit I have when I get over excited — but so did they, and we chattered away as we made our way to Albert Square.

We’d arranged to meet our small wedding party in a bar beforehand, mostly to make sure everyone arrived on time, so that’s where we went. Our first choice of rendezvous was the Albert Square Chop House, but sadly it had succumbed to the pressures of forced closure in the wake of covid. Instead, we chose The Slug & Lettuce. Having had an unfortunate run in with a real life slug in a piece of lettuce I was eating at their Clerkenwell venue some twenty years earlier, I was cautious. I needn’t have been; it was just a couple of drinks and it was great.

Alan was the first person there, waiting as I walked in with Alison and Nicola. My cousin Sarah soon joined us, then John and Peter, Charles and Paul, Kaz and LP, and eventually Wendy, who had managed to go to the wrong bar — there being more than one Slug & Lettuce in town.

A couple of pints of lager settled what nervousness remained pretty quickly, and I found myself already enjoying being in the company of some of our closest friends. My only remaining concern was that Chris and his folks would be late. I’ve seen what they’re all like (Chris included) and knew that this was not outside the realm of possibility. I needn’t have worried as shortly afterwards they all piled into the pub (through a fire escape door) unusually ahead of schedule.

Masks and metaphors

Ten to one came and we gathered everyone together. A quick walk around the corner and a photograph of the group outside the register office, and we were ready to go. Heron House has a set of rooms called the Pankhurst Suite, which is where marriages take place. There’s a waiting room to the left, the ceremony room to the right and sandwiched between them, a narrow anteroom where the couple enters at one end and exits into the ceremony room at the other. Like a metaphor for closing the door on an old life and entering a new one — only with stackable chairs, a narrow shelf to put your accoutrements on while you checked yourself in a mirror, and ceiling tiles.

We left the gang in the waiting room as Chris and I went through some last points with a member of the team. Resplendent in a black polyester trouser suit and somewhat muffled by her face mask, she ran through a bunch of standard questions such as our parent’s names and our dates of birth, before checking things like who the witnesses to the marriage were going to be and if we were having music. I assumed this was a matter of belts and braces for them, as we’d already submitted the information in an online planner beforehand, so I played along.

It was at this point I seemed to take the lead in the conversation, which is fine but slightly unusual. Chris was quiet and unsure of his words. He was nervous. Chris never gets nervous — I’ve seen him stand on a stage in Heaton Park and introduce pop bands to an audience in the tens of thousands without breaking a sweat. This was significant.

I called Charles in to set up the speaker, as he was in charge of the music, then with everything arranged and agreed, we slipped off to the anteroom, where we met the senior registrar who was to conduct the ceremony. Like a well-greased piece of machinery, the masked assistant moved our guests from the waiting room to the ceremony room. They settled themselves as we shuffled down to the back door of the metaphor room, where we were to enter into our new life.

With everyone seated, the senior registrar motioned to her assistant from the front of the ceremony room. “Ready?” she asked. Chris and I looked at each other and nodded just as the first piece of music started.

In sickness and in health

We walked to the front of the room, through our collection of friends and family, to the opening bars of Love Need and Want You. The music abruptly stopped, halfway through Patti LaBelle’s first line, as we arrived at our chairs for the ceremony and the room fell silent.

These still being the times of covid-19 precautions, the registrar welcomed everybody from behind a perspex screen and asked everybody to take a seat. Naturally, I sat down with everyone else and had to be reminded that this was my bit and I should remain on my feet.

I forget the exact order of ceremony, but the registrar took time to remind everyone of the importance of marriage and talked about its meaning, before asking if anybody knew why we shouldn’t marry. This was Alan’s cue to make sputtering noises and mumbled remarks, which got a laugh from the room and broke the tension.

Kaz was invited to the front to deliver her reading — though notably she wasn’t given space in the covid booth. The registrar kept that for herself. She spoke softly, through nerves I suspect, but Chris and I could hear everything. She read from Louis de Bernières’ Captain Correlli’s Mandolin, a passage beginning Love is a temporary madness, about the longevity and depth of a relationship which was apt given how many years we’ve been together.

We made our vows to each other with one small interruption as Chris’s dad said, in a relatively loud voice, “Can I take my hat off now?” his condition overriding the conventions of quietness at a crucial moment and offering gentle relief from the solemnity.

Finally, we exchanged rings — Paul was our ring bearer — accompanied by the traditional promises to love, honour and… I forget what else.

Chris remained nervous throughout the ceremony, whereas I was having a whale of a time! We signed the register, followed by our witnesses, Alison and Chris’s mum, Maureen, to the sound of Sade singing No Ordinary Love, a song Chris and I remember from our first date back in 1996 and which Alison roundly refers to as sex music.

The registrar and Masky scuttled off to prepare the certificate and accompanying paperwork, so we took the opportunity to have a few photographs. LP was our photographer for the day, a wedding gift from him to us. We didn’t want anything formal, so we have a few shots of the group together and a couple with Chris’s parents. You can tell we’d not planned this as we all either look like a corralled rabble or as if we’re about to face a firing squad against the wall.



Eventually the registrar returned, gave us our wedding certificate, and we all left to the sounds of Natalie Cole singing This Will Be — the uplifting exit music we’d wanted. Charles, still wielding the speaker and therefore the power, followed with a quick blast of I’m Coming Out by Diana Ross as we spilled into the street.

Party time

From Albert Square it was a walk across town to Velvet on Canal Street. I went ahead with Alison and Nicola so we could go to their hotel and collect our bags. Unfortunately, this caused some confusion because we didn’t realise anyone was following us. One of our guests got utterly lost and wandered off towards Piccadilly Station after we’d ducked into the hotel unnoticed. Lucky for him, he didn’t find himself on a train to Hazel Grove, or wandering unwittingly towards Ardwick Green.

I eventually made it to Velvet with Alison and Nicola and the bags which a member of the Velvet team whisked away and stashed in our bedroom. Chris’s auntie was on the phone guiding her husband back from his wanderings and within minutes he arrived, wide eyed and refreshed from a quick detour around town. The group was one again.

We had reserved a long table outside and laid on a few jugs of Pimms as a livener before lunch. It quickly became apparent that we'd miscalculated and this would not be enough for our thirsty gang. Finding myself without a drink at all, I ordered another jug. Maureen then ordered a couple more, and Paul asked for another three. Finally, with enough to go round, the party settled down to lively chatter.

We went into the restaurant just before three o’clock and enjoyed a three course meal. The table was set out beautifully with our little boxes of sweets, chocolates, and party poppers. We’d also given everyone an envelope containing a lottery ticket — Chris won three quid. I suspect that was the biggest haul.

We started with sharing platters of goat cheese and fig crostinis, bread and hummus, olives, tomatoes, cold meats and other goodies, which went down a storm. Next up, the main course, was a choice of chicken and prosciutto, mushroom risotto or steak frites.

We’d asked Charles to make a toast before the pudding came out. He took his place and spoke about us, our relationship, our families and so on before asking everyone to raise a glass. Paul was incredibly generous and arranged a magnum of Veuve Clicquot champagne for the toast which we sipped out of coupes, feeling fancy.

Pudding was lemon tart — by far the runaway favourite — chocolate cheesecake, which I had, or sticky toffee pudding. Finally stuffed and suitably well oiled, we left the restaurant and headed back out to the street, where we spent the rest of the evening.

Small but perfectly formed

Given the ever changing restrictions on gatherings this year, we’d kept everything purposefully low key. Our original plan for sixty or seventy people at a big bash had to change. Our wedding party was small and the last minute invitation to those who live in Manchester to join us after lunch went along the lines of: ‘If you’re in town, and you can make it, come and have a beer with us, think of it as a drop-in centre.’ There are lots of people we would have loved to be there, but we’ll just have to celebrate with them when we see them next.

Bit by bit, friends appeared to celebrate with us and before we knew it, our numbers had more than doubled. There were colleagues of mine, old and new friends, people we’ve got to know over years of dancing and nightclubs, and generally a lovely rabble of folk. One of my abiding memories of the entire day was the warmth of being surrounded by friends.

Sarah had been incredibly generous and booked us into a room at Velvet Hotel. As the whole wedding was in the bar and restaurant below, the manager, Rich, had kindly upgraded us to a balcony room overlooking the street. The room was sumptuous, and the bed had petals scattered in the shape of a heart across it. The bathroom was smart in white marble and the balcony looked straight down onto our group of friends below.

Most people stayed with us well into the evening but eventually we were left with a few hardcore guests and someone suggested we try New York New York for a dance. Kaz, LP, and Sarah went ahead, and we gathered a group of about ten and trekked over. Eventually inside, we stayed for one drink and a quick dance but decided it was too busy and just too NYNY for us that night and most of us left.

We said goodbye to Alison and Nicola, who went back to their hotel, and to Nigel and Rachel, who went home. We left Kaz, LP and Sarah on the dancefloor and packed Liam off to the lesbian bar with a girl who was a friend of Rich’s and who had stayed with us after he and Louis had gone home. I understand there were shenanigans there, but you’ll have to ask me about that when you see me. Better still, ask Liam.

Eventually, on our own, Chris and I went back to Velvet, into the bar and spent an hour dancing before retiring to our bedroom for the night, exhausted and happy. It was a long day that we’ll remember forever.

Marriage

I’d never expected to get married. It wasn’t something we’d ever discussed, but I’m glad we did. The party was ace, and it was a firm reminder of the importance of the people we have around us that make up our lives. I don’t know if I feel any different right now. After all, we’ve been together forever, and that was never going to change. What I will say is that I think it’s an important commitment to make to one another and marriage is certainly more than ‘just a piece of paper.’ It’s a declaration, a stake in the ground. This is ours and it’s important enough to mark it with a ceremony and to make sure other people know about it.

Bitter Orange Tart

Three weeks into the new year and 2021 is already weird. Coronavirus continues its rampage around the world, the UK is in another national lockdown and has essentially closed its borders to the whole of South America, Portugal and South Africa because of new strains of the virus. Not that there are many people flying at the moment anyway. 

At the same time the amazing news is that we are now working with three vaccines in the UK and more than four million people have had their first injection. Vaccination centres are popping up everywhere and at the speedy rate we’re going it looks like everyone will have been inoculated much sooner than predicted. Mid-July keeps being bandied about as a possible date, though there is also talk of people having to be vaccinated again in the autumn. I wonder if it might become an annual thing like the flu vaccine – time will no doubt tell.

Alongside these headlines are those of the number of deaths happening every day which reporters bark at us, albeit with a sympathetic tone, every time the news comes on the television. Something that I’d like to look at though is how many people died of covid rather than with covid. Given that hospitals fill up in the winter anyway, and the headlines every year include stories of bed shortages and the struggling NHS, I wonder why the difference in winter deaths this year compared to previous years isn’t being highlighted. That to me would be a better indication of what Covid is doing. But then the headline: 1,600 people die with a Covid diagnosis in the worst day yet of the pandemic, doesn’t have quite the ring to it as: 300 more people died this year to last.

I’ve been tracking Covid 19 rates in the ten boroughs of Greater Manchester since the beginning of October and this second wave, as it stands, hasn’t reached the levels of November, and what's more, rates are dropping again now. The increase could be attributed to mixing at Christmas, though I think the majority of people followed the guidelines closely, and the downward turn of the graph could be attributed to the national lockdown. It’s difficult to say, especially when you consider that the November restrictions were heralded as a success in Greater Manchester despite the fact that rates were already decreasing when they were imposed. 

What I have noted however is that Greater Manchester rates, whilst following national trends, have been significantly below London rates and also well below England rates. Make of that what you will.

So whilst all this rumbles on, as it has for almost a year now, we look across the pond to the United States where today – 20th January 2021 – Joe Biden will be inaugurated as the 46th President and Donald Trump will leave Washington. This wouldn’t usually be of much concern to me, I’m not especially interested in American politics, but this is going to go down in history as a notable transition of power. Firstly because (of course) Covid 19 is having an impact and the crowds of hundreds of thousands that normally attend the event are being asked to attend virtually instead. Deaths from the virus in the United States have surpassed 400,000 as of today so it’s simply not safe to have people gather in large numbers. A field of flags will represent the people that would usually be there and this will be one of many changes to the ceremony.

In addition to the crowds another notable absentee will be the outgoing President. Trump has said he will not be attending in a snub to Biden and a continuation of his belief that the election was fixed and he should have won. The Vice President, Pence, will be there in his own capacity and not a representative of Trump.

There are concerns over safety in Washington DC today so security has been massively boosted, beyond, it seems, the levels normally seen at an inauguration. This in the most part is a reaction to the events of 6th January when, in scenes you’d expect from a developing democracy, a tyranny or a totalitarian system, the American Capitol building was stormed by protesters. Congress were gathered to confirm the electoral college vote and confirm, once and for all, Biden’s success when, egged on by Trump at a rally, hundreds of people forced their way into the building in an attempt to disrupt the process.

It was truly shocking to see politicians and staff fleeing to escape, and rioters marauding through the building. Tear gas was fired by the police as they tried to regain control and workers barricaded themselves into offices to avoid the protestors. Five people died including one police officer who was hit over the head with a fire extinguisher.

I won’t labour the story as news of it was reported around the globe, however I will say that it revealed the passion, disillusionment and dare I say it, hatred felt by one side of what is essentially a split country.

So back to the UK and Nigella Lawson has chosen today to tweet her recipe for Bitter Orange Tart as recipe of the day. Coincidence? Who knows but if you fancy giving it a go here it is: https://www.nigella.com/recipes/bitter-orange-tart 

Covid comes home to roost - Tier 3 for Manchester, a positive test and a national survey.

Back in August I started writing about the situation surrounding Covid 19 and never finished. I wrote: 

The country has been creaking to life for over a month now but is still far from normal. Here in Manchester we've had new restrictions in place for a couple of weeks meaning two households aren't allowed to come together either at home or in a public building. Some venues are only just opening – theatres for example – but are doing so with all manner of precautions and restrictions in place.

We ate at a restaurant for the first time the week before last – Croma our regular haunt – which was nice but again a weird experience. The staff, many of which we know, were all in masks; we weren't supposed to be with someone who wasn't in our household so we said that our guest was a lodger; and tables had been removed. We'd been to a pub a couple of weeks before that.

And that's where I stopped. Interrupted and never to return. Until today... 

I'd have hoped that by now, in the second half of October, things would have improved but sadly not. We seem to have gone the other way.

A week ago the Government introduced a tier system for areas and regions in the UK whereby restrictions designed to slow the infection rate of the virus would be imposed dependent on its severity in that area. I've never heard the words 'Tier three' so many times before in my life since then.

This is a screenshot of today's (21 Oct) Manchester Evening News website with every mention of Tier three circled. See what I mean?

It's understandable, I suppose, when you appreciate that local representatives in Manchester have been negotiating (or fighting, depending on your viewpoint) with central government for a package to support the people that will be affected by the regulations when they are imposed and we move from our current position in tier two.

The new restrictions will mean that pubs cannot serve people drinks unless they are having a meal, this coupled with the ten o'clock curfew which has been in place across the country for a month (21 Sep), and the table service rules feels like another nail in the coffin for the industry in this area. There will inevitably be a knock on effect beyond the pubs and bars that simply have to close – taxis, cleaners and takeaways spring to mind, not to mention the supply chain. Additionally households are still not allowed to meet indoors and now in some outdoor settings too. Travel restrictions are also in place – though I don't think they are actual bans, more recommendations. 

It's become quite confusing for a lot of people, what they can and cannot do, and I can see how it's affecting people's state of mind too. With a full lockdown then three months of restrictions behind them, and now being told it's about to get worse for the foreseeable future, people are getting lockdown fatigue and stress levels are rising.

The way I see it is that the rise in infections has correlated with the return to the city of students, the opening up of schools, and the inevitable mixing that they have been doing. I understand the evidence of infections happening in pubs to be weak at best. 

I've been in a number of pubs over the last few weeks and in each you're expected to register yourself either with the government tracing app, or write down your information for them to hang on to in case there's an outbreak and they need to contact you. You must wear a mask when you're not sitting down – even to go to the loo. Ordering, on the whole is done via your mobile phone on apps and through websites. There are one way systems where feasible and there's sanitiser and warnings everywhere. 

Each and every place I've been to has been managed well and to the regulations. I struggle to see how closing these places down will make a significant difference to infection rates. If anything, the curfew has been more counterproductive as town and city centres across the nation are suddenly flooded with pissed people just before the clock strikes ten.

The wrangle between Manchester's Mayor, the Town Hall, and the leaders of the ten boroughs, and Central Government has been big news and my position on it has changed a number of times since it began. 

I'm not a fan of Andy Burnham, nor was I in favour of introducing city mayors when that happened a few years ago, that being said I was generally supportive of his response to Government saying that the city needs robust financial support to help the people that will be adversely affected by the new restrictions and who will only be entitled to two thirds of their salary, as opposed to eighty percent under the furlough scheme. I was in agreement more so when he suggested a scheme of protecting the vulnerable and allowing others to carry on in the current manner – something I would like to see across the country.

There have been moments when he's appeared to be showboating, he's also been accused of political grandstanding and using the situation for his own interests. I think his intentions are genuine but I can also see a grain of truth in these suggestions. Regardless, he is being hailed as a hero by many and we are now in a different place.

Yesterday the Government took the decision to end negotiations and impose the Tier three restrictions with a fraction of the financial support Burnham et al had requested. There has been a public backlash against this already and in an city not know for its favourable view of the Conservatives, I suspect this decision will ring in people's ears for a generation, much like decisions made by the Conservative government of the eighties did across the north. But time will tell.

Manchester is not the first area to have these restrictions in place, Liverpool was the first, then Lancashire and it now looks like Sheffield and South Yorkshire are doing the same with West Yorkshire and parts of the North East in line next. New Tier two restrictions have been introduced in London, Birmingham and parts of Essex.

To be clear though, whilst rates of infections have increased, deaths involving covid 19 are nowhere near the levels they were earlier in the year. This is down to a number of things including increased knowledge, improved treatment, more testing, and I dare say, the ages of people that are picking it up is currently lower and younger people are less likely to suffer badly from it.

That brings me onto a more personal note. My dad, who is seventy and currently in hospital, has been diagnosed with Covid 19. 

He fell at home on 5th October and after using his magic necklace to alert the emergency folk was taken to Blackpool Victoria hospital where he stayed till last Thursday. When he fell he fractured the very top of his arm, near his shoulder. The recovery situation is complicated by the fact that he uses a frame and with the fracture he can't grip it properly so can't walk. On Thursday he was moved to a place called The Arc which is a hospital where they work on getting him back to a state where he can leave and live independently. Apparently this could take five or six weeks.

At some point between Victoria and the Arc he's picked up a dose of the coronavirus. Currently he's asymptomatic and we're hopeful he'll stay that way but it's a bit scary. On the other hand, he doesn't seem at all bothered by it. He's being isolated for eight days which, as he's already in a room on his own, isn't much of a difference. He's probably seeing more people there than he did at home. So we'll keep phoning him – after all we're not allowed to visit – and see what happens.

Another new turn of events that's been brought on by the pandemic is Chris's work. He's taken on a temporary job which involves delivering and collecting covid tests and surveying people about their recent activities. It's part of a survey for the Office of National Statistics and whilst it's not the most challenging thing he's ever done it keeps the wolves from the door and him out of mischief for a few months.

So the world as we once knew it is still massively disrupted. I'd go as far to say that it feels more disrupted than during the full lockdown but, that being said, we still have friends, and work, and family and things to keep us entertained till the dust settles and we can all get back to some semblance of normality, which I expect will now be in the spring.

The country opens to the sounds of wailing and gnashing of teeth

    This weekend saw lots of places reopening for the first time after the lockdown. Pubs were, of course, top of the list for many people. 

I'll be honest, I'm really missing a pint of overpriced, cold, fizzy lager, poured by someone with a bad attitude and the social skills of a badger, but that being said, I chose not to venture to the pubs just yet, opting instead to wait and see how it went for others.

I know a few people that did go out on Saturday and it seems, on the whole, to have been a positive experience. My boss went to a place in Chester with some friends and said it was a bit clinical and a strange set up but he's glad he did it. He told me there was a one way system in the pub, which judging by the shops that are open was to be expected, but rather unexpected was the fact there were so very few tables and their nearest one was apparently more than ten metres away. Drinks had to be ordered via an app, then brought to the table by someone wearing a visor. Even going to the loo was monitored by a member of staff with only one person at a time allowed to use them.

Other friends were on Canal Street in central Manchester and reported that it was a nice atmosphere. They sat outside, under parasols, again being served by staff at their tables - staff who were pleased to be back at work no doubt. One even reported the journey home being civilised with people observing social distancing rules, a far cry from the usual last train to Stockport

There have been reports of people flouting the rules and overcrowding streets but people have flouted the rules throughout in one way or another and the papers have got to get their story. Judging by the media it seems the worst area for this was Soho in London but what did anyone expect? It's arguably the busiest night time area in the West End of the biggest city in Europe. Besides, it's not like the people there don't know what's been going on for the last three months - surely it's time to let them choose their own level of risk now the general risk is so low. It seems the venues are mostly doing the right thing, of all the venues in Manchester only two were closed down on Saturday for not adhering to guidelines.

Few and far between were the stories about how great it was to support the hospitality industry as it tried to pull itself back up from on its knees after a crippling three months brought about by a global health crisis.

    After much wailing and gnashing of teeth on social media, the Prime Minister has announced a large funding package for the arts in excess of £1.5 billion. This comes at the end of the week where the Royal Exchange Theatre announced that up to 65% of their roles were to be made redundant, a flurry of images appeared across Facebook of people working in the arts to remind everyone of its importance, and the actor Paul Clayton referred to the PM in an astonishingly shrill tweet as a 'fucksplat'.

I get that the arts in the UK is an almost entirely politically left-wing affair, but the vitriol I've heard from those that work within the industry, directed towards the Government and particularly Mr Johnson of late has been astounding. One might presume from listening to it that he is single handedly responsible for the collapse of the theatres, festivals, live music and the death of all its darlings. I have visions of Ken Loach and Maxine Peake fearing for their very lives as Boris Johnson stalks them down the South Bank of the Thames with a blunderbuss in one hand and a Union flag in the other. 

    Hairdressers, barbers and beauty parlours have also opened their doors again and people are being restored to their pre-lockdown appearances in their droves. The wild man of Borneo look is gradually being replaced with the less unruly, short back and sides; appointments are gleefully being announced as we say goodbye to three inch stripes down the partings of people I always assumed were natural blondes; and we bid adieu to laughter lines, furrowed brows and thin, spiteful lips as the botox & fillers clinics fling open their expressionless doors once more.

    Sadly dentists are not yet fully operational. I called mine this morning to ask about having my temporary crown replaced with the permanent one which they've been holding to ransom since early March, only to be told that they're waiting for PPE, an acronym few people understood in February but that is now part of the lexicon. They can't even give me an idea when they'll be open again so for now the only thing they're doing is pulling folks' teeth out in a dental emergency.

    While all this goes on, or doesn't as the case may be, there's a constant, squawking murmur in the background. As persistent as it is irritating, a whinging chorus of voices claiming to be confused as to what they should do at every turn. Is it two metres or one? Can I go to work or not? The Government should do this, the Secretary should say that. How will I possibly live my life if I'm not instructed precisely how to undertake every single task that involves human interaction or leaving the house?

Swathes of society seem to have relinquished the ability to think for themselves and use common sense. The pedants are out in force - he said, she said, that means, etc - and are desperate to make the most minor things more complicated than we could ever have imagined. Often this is done on behalf of others who they neatly categorised as 'the vulnerable.' Call my a cynic but I suspect they are in fact looking for problems in order to criticise the powers that be. It's really tiresome and my snooze button has been out in force on Facebook again.

The vulnerable people I know haven't once complained that the information is confusing. My housebound dad and Chris's elderly parents have trooped on as usual, taking onboard the precautions they're advised to take and using their nouse to decide when something is right or wrong for them.

    So as the country begins to creak back to life I'm looking forward to going out for a nice meal in a local restaurant some time this week. Croma, our usual pizza place, isn't opening up again for the time being so I think we'll pop down to Saray instead for some Turkish tucker and show our support for the family that own it. Hopefully there'll be a local pub open too, somewhere I can sit in a booth and drink over priced, cold, fizzy lager poured by someone with a bad attitude and the social skills of a badger.

Pride?

The august bank holiday weekend sees Pride hit Manchester as it has done every year (I think) for the last twenty years. I don't always go but this year I am doing and it's already tinged with nostalgia for me.

On Sunday night Paul Cons, nightclub promoter, is hosting Flesh at Fac 251. Flesh was a gay dance night that was held monthly at the Hacienda during the first half of the nineties and it's where Chris and I met for the first time fourteen years ago. I have never seen the likes of flesh anywhere else in the UK and although I only went a handful of times I loved it. It was a heady mix of glamour and hard nosed clubbing; it was dressed up and it was dressed down; it was cool yet it was warm and friendly; I felt that I could wear whatever the hell I wanted to (and I generally did) and feel totally comfortable rubbing shoulders with scally gays, drag queens and straight blokes. Flesh came to an end in 1997 as I remember.

This weekend's venue, as I have mentioned, is Fac 251. This too brings back memories for me as I used to know it as Paradise Factory and I can confidently say that in the mid nineties this was the best nightclub in Manchester. I practically lived there from September 1995 for about two years and it's where I saw Chris for the first time - one week before we actually met down the road at the Hacienda.

So you can understand why I feel somewhat nostalgic and a little bit excited about Sunday night. As for the rest of the Pride weekend - well we shall see.

Throughout the years my opinion of Pride (or Mardi Gras as it was known back in the day in Manchester) has changed. At various times I have been on a parade float, worked behind the bar of one of the bars in the village, actively avoided the entire event and been a willing visitor.

I read this on Twitter today: "@Will_Hoe Re: Pride - don't get me wrong, I'm very proud to be gay. However, my pride doesn't manifest in vodka, cocaine, vanity and random sex. :)"

This got me thinking. A line that I have always used with regard to Pride is that I don't like drinking warm beer, out of a plastic glass, on an overcrowded street. On recent reflection I think that both of us are guilty of missing the point.

Over the years Pride has become less politicised and more obviously a big party and I for one think it is important to bring the political agenda back to the fore.

I have been lucky enough to live in Manchester and London where on the whole being gay is not a problem for most people - in fact in the industries I worked in it was commonplace. Let's not forget though that whilst gay people are mostly accepted in Britain's big cities, gay men and women are still victims of violent crime for no other reason than their sexual orientation.

Then remember those people that may live in smaller towns who still, in this day and age, feel that they must hide who they are for fear of rejection by family, friends, colleagues & community or worse, fear of violence. This still happens to many people in Britain and will continue to do so. I believe that Pride should have many functions and I believe an important one is to encourage acceptance through awareness. This must reach beyond the cities that the Pride events occur in to be really effective and I believe that the media is key to doing this. In raising awareness, as well as helping to make homosexuality acceptable in communities, it can let gay people who don't feel comfortable being open about it know that there is somewhere that they can go to meet other gay people and be themselves without fear of reprisal.

Another, often forgotten issue, which I think is of equal importance and I think Pride should be highlighting, is the struggles of gay men and women in countries where it is still illegal to be gay. Countries where human rights are breached and where a gay person can be sent to prison or even executed because of their sexual orientation.

Pride has a part to play in raising awareness of these struggles as well as lobbying the UK government to put political pressure on such countries as Iran or Cameroon.

There is, of course, an element of this kind of action within the parade but I see it is sorely lacking within the consciousness of many of the people that attend Pride and that is a shame.

Pride can be a drink and drug fuelled shag fest but it can also be a real and strong force for change and for good.

Long live Pride.

The Cool Kids

As I have written previously, pubs have played a pivitol part in my life and just so you know - so have night clubs... To think about it my experiences in nightclubs seems interesting and varied but in reality I just got wrecked and danced strangely whilst wearing a variety of fashion statements.

My first night club at the age of sixteen was Henry Africa's in Oldham. I distinctly remember wearing a shirt, tie and jacket because that was what my dad used to wear when he went to night clubs - in the late sixties... I spent many a pointless night in there drinking blastaways (a pint glass with one bottle of castaway mixed with one bottle of diamond white - I've always been classy.) and pretending not to look at Stan the man (the stripper) and vice versa pretending to be interested in Sexy Sue (the other stripper.) One of my enduring memories of this place was Alison going arse over tit on a wet patch on the dance floor and flashing her undergarments to one and all as she lay there splayed across the middle of the dance floor.

I used to go to a club called Ambition - again in Oldham. This was known as Oldhams best alternative night - it was actually Oldham's only alternative night. The music was quite a range from Metallica, Nirvana and Rage Against The Machine (who I insisted on calling rage against the washing machine much to the chagrin of the alternative fans) to Blur, Adam Ant and Madness. There were lots of people with long hair, lots of people with shaved heads, lots of ripped jeans and a sea of Doc Martins. I fit in there very well...

Bowlers was interesting. A club that opened at eight and closed at two, sold no alcohol and had a massive following right the way across the north west. You were frisked by the doormen - who were terrifying - and the only words you needed to make a new friend for life were "What's your name? Where're you from? What've you had?" Which invariably would be answered with "Alright mate, I'm Gaz from Warrington. I've had a gram and a pill. Safe, I'm going for a dance now." I would leave Bowlers dripping with sweat and once even had an imprint of my tartan trousers on my legs when I undressed later that night.

I remember going to Sankeys Soap in Manchester for the first time - it was very exciting at the time! I didn't know where it was so we jumped in a taxi and had him drop us off. He pulled up outside a closed door at an old warehouse on the wrong side of Great Ancoats street and said here you go. There was a funny little, rough looking pub on the opposite corner which we went into for a pint and about twenty minutes later came out to find a queue outside the little door. We eventually went in through the door to a courtyard and then into the building. The music started incredibly slowly - almost a just a deep drum beat and over the course of about an hour slowly sped up and people started joining the dance floor. A couple of hours later I was dancing to very hard, very loud techno.

One of my favourite clubs was Paradise Factory in Manchester. I went there for the first time on my twentieth birthday and hadn't ever seen seen anything like it. On one night in there I found myself dancing with a roller skating nun called Sister Marta and a giant piece of toast called Mrs Crusty. I nearly got kicked in the face one night by Fernando doing high kicks in his high heeled platforms - Fernando is now April. There was a guy there every week who must have been in his mid sixties. He was called Tony and he always wore a dinner jacket and bow tie and smoked what looked like huge joints firmly jammed into a cigarette holder. I also remember a woman who was a regular who wore a long trench coat and had big eighties hair. Underneath the trench coat she just wore a skimpy bikini and she looked and danced like one of the women from that Robert Palmer video.

On the door was Nicki Pennington who always had a clip board for the guest listers and grilled everyone else about their gay credentials. She would ask if you knew that this was a gay club, then she would ask if you were gay, then she would ask which magazines you read - which you would have to reply Gay Times and Boyz magazine - well you could hardly answer New Scientist and The Times Sunday supplement could you. She would finally ask you what your favourite page of Boyz was and the standard answer had to be - the back page. That's where the naked man picture was. Whilst waiting for this grilling you would be entertained by Lady Lola who would tease people in the queue and give out lolly pops. I believe she went on to be a producer for The Trisha show.

Also amongst my favourites is Space in Ibiza - not so much inside but definitely the outside terrace. There's something spine tingling about dancing, off your tits, in the middle of the day and watching an aeroplane coming screaming over your head as it goes in to land at Evissa airport down the road. You can read the letters on the bottom of the plane and everyone throws their hands in the air as if to touch it as it comes in. It's thrilling.

I met Chris at the Hacienda in Manchester on one of their Flesh nights. I've still got the ticket. It was called Flesh FC and had a football theme. I was dancing up on the stage when I turned around and saw him there. He was the boy I had been dancing with at Paradise Factory the week before but hadn't spoken to. Fate or just the small world of clubbing in Manchester in 1996? That was the first night that I went to Danceteria at Central Park. A dirty, nasty club if ever I've been to one. It started at midnight on Saturday and closed at ten thirty on Sunday night. Oil from the Chorlton Street car park above would seep through the concrete ceiling and stain your clothes as it dripped through to the club. I far preferred The Breakfast Club which ran from three till six after Paradise Factory had closed. No booze, just soft drinks and coffee and after a quick sit down and chat the dancing would begin again. This is where the cool kids went - and I was one of them. What happened?

Samantha from Burnley

When we first moved to Preston we went to Chris's chairman's house for drinks one evening. He lives in a lovely house overlooking Stanley Park in Blackpool. As we were leaving one of his neighbours was shouting coo-ee and doing high kicks in the front garden. Turns out that this bloke was otherwise known as Betty Legs Diamond and was the headline act at Funny Girls in Blackpool. Chris's chairman tried to reciprocate and made a valiant effort to high kick back at him but when you're in your mid sixties and you've had half a bottle of red wine this can appear quite graceless. Betty put me in mind of a transvestite I met two August bank holiday's ago called Samantha from Burnley. Samantha from Burnley was a bus driver during the week and came down to Manchester at weekends to get all trashed up and drink pints of bitter.

I love trannies - not drag queens, just trannies - especially the ones who look like they've just come off the building site and put a frock on for the night. The librarian ones you see standing quietly in the corner on a Wednesday night on canal street talking to the teacher ones - all tweed skirts and cheap pearls. The cocky ones who've gone a shade mad with their human hair wigs and plumped for a shade of maroon that will show off their glittering cleavage enhancer and the married ones who are out for the night with their ever so understanding wives.

I can't imagine wanting to dress up like that - either as a lifestyle thing like a transvestite or as an entertainment thing like a drag queen. I did once wear a skirt on my head though when I was five years old.

Pubs

I have spent many an hour of my life in a pub, a bar or a club. Indeed Buckley and I met in a club - the Hacienda if you will. I would like to write about some of memories of pubs - or more importantly things that happened in pubs. Lets begin at the beginning:

• The Shack in Oldham - I met Alison in The Shack. A pivotal point. A few weeks later I found a hole in the crotch of her tights in front of the fire in The Shack. Elvis ripped up my job application for a job at the Queen Elizabeth Hall close to that same fire.

• Via Fossa in Manchester - I worked at Via Fossa on Canal Street for about a year and a half. I stole tips from drunken drinkers, I got drunk whilst working, a man pretended to be having an epileptic seizure on my first day then laughed at me when I got him a cloth to clear the drool off his chin and I first told Chris that I loved him in Via Fossa.

• The Kings Arms at Grains Bar on the edge of Saddleworth - this was the first pub that I ever worked at. There were frogs in the cellar. I saw the assistant manager - Phillip Schofield - drop a tub of mayonnaise on the floor of the kitchen and then scoop it back into the tub and serve it. I worked with the cousin of Orieta Lorenzini but I can't remember her name...

• 10 Commonhall in Chester - when we moved from London to Chester I didn't have a job. I went for a hair cut at Toni & Guy and asked the hairdresser where the coolest bar was. She told me about Commonhall. I went down there and asked about a job and Michael took me on straight away. I learnt how to mix cocktails and also who to buy drugs from. It all got very messy for a couple of months. I'm still in tough with Michael and his fiance Jo.

• 19-20 in Clerkenwell, London - this was around the corner from work when I was with MTS. I got drunk here so many times - after and during work. I spent a lot of time here with Rosemary and Chris both of which have left us now. This is also where I made friends with Jane.

• City Bar in Chester - Janet and I had our thrones in front of the fish tank. We held the short lived cinema night in the basement here and put on our VERY successful Stick It On nights here. I think we did three of them... Lots of moustaches, some spiders and some terrible music - I really miss City Bar.

• The Friendly Society. Soho London - giant goldfish wall paper in the loos, barbie dolls EVERYWHERE, a cave surrounded by fur and a brilliant DJ on a Tuesday night - she played Michael Jackson for me. One of my favourite bars in London for years.

• Cyberia in Manchester - not there anymore but this was the first bar that I ever had absinthe - with Steve as an accomplice.

• Politic in Chester - private members club with beautiful furniture and the best Old Fashioneds in the world.

• Velvet, Manchester - Velvet is a bit of an old timer in Manchester now. The bar upstairs is relatively new compared to the original downstairs venue. Many many many many evenings eating and drinking with the gays here...

• The Beer Emporium in Oldham - it's been knocked down now but this is the place that I saw graffiti that read - Kurt is dead - never mind

• The Hare & Hounds - I worked here for a about a year. This is where I met Norman. This is also where I discovered a turd in a pint glass on the back the cistern in the gents.

I can't possibly mention all of them as it's getting late. Maybe I'll continue at a later date...

Towns

We're about to move house again. This time from Chapel en le Frith to Preston. In the past eight years we have lived in Sale in south Manchester, Tottenham in north London, Enfield in Middlesex, two different places in Chester, Colchester, Chelmsford and Chapel en le Frith. It's got to the point now where I don't even think about it. We move in three weeks and I've not started packing yet.

I feel like I have learnt about very different things in each place. I learnt about Music in Manchester, art in Chester, politics in London, friends in Derbyshire, careers in Essex and I suspect that Preston will be about family.

Buckley & I don't share the same tastes in many things - and that includes where we live. I could happily settle in London and he loves Derbyshire. I find Derbyshire dull and nosey and he thinks London is dirty, impersonal and cold.

We've not found a happy medium yet so instead we go to work in different directions and do our own thing.

I would like to live by the sea. Fleetwood would be a lovely place to have a weekend flat. I would also love to live in another country for a couple of years - perhaps Spain or Holland - maybe France or New York. It's highly unlikely though.

All the moving around has left us with a scattering of friends across the country and it's very easy to distinguish the ones you care about and the ones that care about you just by who you keep in touch with. Strangely one of my oldest friends lives in Preston and I'm looking forward to getting to know her again.

Despite being used to moving I still find it quite unsettling. Every time you have to start again - finding a job, making friends, making a home and feeling comfortable again. The only constant is Chris. Everything else changes.

Police

Our security guard was assaulted today. Two thieves were in the building and he chased one of them after he walked out with two products under his coat.
When the guard couldn't lock him in the car park he decided to grab him instead and in return received a smack in the face.
The thieves left with nothing.
The police were called at 1.30 and still hadn't arrived at 5 when we left.

The crack house across the road seems to be going strong these days despite the recent raid. The guests of the establishment have recently become more inventive. Instead of pretending to be shopping they now ask for application forms and question if we're recruiting. We also have one delightful woman who sits in a wheel chair and is pushed about by another crackee whilst she tries to swipe the expensive stuff.

I don't think I want to be there any more. You shouldn't be frightened for your safety when you go to work.

The cross eyed and the toothless

The elderly woman sitting across from me on the 371 was drinking vodka from a soda water bottle. I didn't realise it was me she was addressing because her eyes looked in different directions but once she had my attention it was interupted by a boy falling off his seat and on to the floor whilst his toothless mother cackled with glee.
Back on his seat the alcoholic shared sweets amongst the passengers. The mong just grinned at them all.

The Living Dead

The living dead are three individuals comprising an elderly couple and a giant man in a pink, teenage girl's belt.
The living dead ride the number eleven bus.
The living dead smell.

Usually they travel together but last Thursday only the old man boarded the bus. Mouth open, unshaven, slowly sliding towards the front seats. I was initially concerned that he had eaten the other two (I've seen them since though - thank God)

I learned a long time ago to sit towards the rear of the bus on Thursday and Friday morning and now enjoy watching those people that sit at the front when the living dead arrive. It begins with an index finger under the nose then quickly progresses to the turning of the head and within a minute or two you can see a physical repulsion to their foetid reek. Some people actually move seats.

It's a nasty business indeed...