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Drew Payne

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  1. Drew Payne
    This is a gay comedy of manners and that can be a genre.
    It is the early 1990s and Lenny, in his early twenties, is trying to find his way through gay London. He lives in a gay house share; he works as waiter at a restaurant and dreams of finding a boyfriend and a better job. He has run away to London from his suburban Evangelical Christian home; unfortunately, he might not be in Kansas anymore but London is certainly not the Emerald City.
    Lenny, the narrator here, is a likable and engaging character, quickly winning the reader over onto his side, making us root for his success. The humour ranges from broad to the very poignant, in some places lingering long in the memory. But the most memorable parts of this novel are when it turns dark and inward looking. Unfortunately, Robert Farrar does not make the most of these dark moments, exploring Lenny’s inner life when they happen.
    This novel did ask a question about sexual fluidity long before we were even discussing it.
    With this novel, Robert Farrar showed he was an emerging talent, certainly a writer to watch out for. Unfortunately, he only wrote one other novel and that is impossible to find. I don’t know why he stopped writing, but we lost so many writers like him when we lost all our small and medium-range publishers. At least we have this novel, but what would Robert Farrar have gone on to write?
    Find it here on Amazon:
     
     

  2. Drew Payne

    Why Shoot the Doctors?

    By Drew Payne,


    blog post
    On Friday 8th August, a gunman opened fire on the offices of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) in Atlanta, but it barely seemed to make a ripple in the news. The British media seemed to ignore it. Why disregard this horrendous attack?
    Bullets hit the buildings and shattered windows, causing CDC employees to hide for their safety as over 500 rounds were fired at their workplace. In this hail of gunfire only one person died, that is still one person too many. David Rose, 33, was a police officer, who graduated from the police academy in March, later died in hospital from his wounds.
    All so unsurprisingly, this was the work of a lone gunman. He was Patrick Joseph White, 30, who had tried to get into the CDC’s headquarters but was turned away. He then went to the building across the road, from where he opened fire on the CDC Headquarters. He was found dead there.
    This sorry story is all too sad but all too familiar from America, the lone gunman, with some sort of grudge, takes his guns and decides to seek “revenge” on an organisation, his ex-employer or even just complete strangers. But why did this man choose the CDC?
    The CDC is America’s national public health organisation. They monitor infectious diseases in the country, especially new and emerging ones, track outbreaks of infectious diseases, including managing vaccination programs. They are not a secretive or shadow agency, they are a public health organization, who are very open about what they do. The question is still, why attack them?
    The shooter believed he had been harmed by the Covid vaccination, causing him to be depressed and suicidal, none of which are recognised side effects. There have been so many conspiracy theories about the Covid vaccination flying around the internet and social media, many of them are so outlandish as to be almost laughable. But was this shooting just a logical progression of these conspiracy theories? Previously, the FBI warned that prominent conspiracy theories, including the right-wing QAnon hoaxes, are fuelling domestic extremists to carry out acts of terror (18). Is this the first anti-vax conspiracy to fuel an act of terror?
    Robert Kennedy Jr, American Secretary of Health, said he was "deeply saddened" by the attack. "We know how shaken our public health colleagues feel today. No-one should face violence while working to protect the health of others," he said. But is he innocent of all blame? He has been fanning the fires of anti-vax conspiracy theories for years.
    He has previously said vaccinations cause autism, which is just untrue. The World Health Organisation (WHO) has examined extensive research and studies, over many years, and found no link between the MMR vaccination and autism.
    Kennedy has also cast baseless doubts on the effectiveness of vaccinations, especially the Covid vaccinations, and misrepresented their side effects. He has been accused of spreading misinformation about vaccines.
    He has been a long-time denier of vaccinations’ effectiveness. Over twenty years ago, he jumped onto the conspiracy theory about thimerosal in vaccines. Thiomersal is an organomercurial derivative of ethylmercury, meaning it is a substance made from another substance that is a mercury salt. But saying it is dangerous because its a derivative from a mercury salt is like saying table salt is dangerous because it’s a sodium salt. Plus, all the “evidence” used to claim thimerosal was “dangerous” was obtained from studies into mercury poisoning in food. But Kennedy doesn’t seem to let facts get in his way when he jumps onto another anti-vax conspiracy.
    Kennedy is now in charge of America’s health policies.
    At the beginning of August, Kennedy’s health department halted $500m in mRNA vaccine research, ending 22 federal contracts. Most vaccines contain a weakened or dead bacteria or virus but mRNA vaccines contain small pieces of mRNA, usually a small piece of a protein found on the virus’s outer surface, this triggers the body’s normal immune response, which recognises that the protein is foreign and produces antibodies against it. mRNA vaccines are generally safer because they use the body’s immune system to fight pathogens, the mRNA Covid vaccines were very effective (between 94% and 95% effective), though no safety concerns were identified from them, and researchers believe this technology will have many further uses and benefits.
    Peter Hotez, a pediatrician who directs the Center for Vaccine Development at Texas Children’s Hospital, said about mRNA vaccines, “for a pandemic situation with a new and previously unknown pathogen, or for cancer vaccines and immunotherapeutic it [mRNA technology] has distinct advantages.” Dr Jerome Adams, who served as the US surgeon general during Donald Trump’s first presidency, said the mRNA vaccines technology helped end the Covid-19 pandemic and saved more than 2 million lives “by the most conservative estimates”. But Kennedy said, while justifying his ending of mRNA research funding, “(They) fail to protect effectively against upper respiratory infections like COVID and flu”. This is untrue because there is no evidence to back this claim.
    Kennedy’s vaccine denial is now manifesting in government policy, cutting funding for mRNA research because it “fails”. This sends out a wider message to other vaccine deniers that they are right too. It can also empower people like the CDC shooter, reinforcing their extreme views. Nothing happens in a vacuum, in any society.
    The American Federation of Government Employees, the CDC workers’ union, said the violent shooting didn’t happen in a vacuum but “compounds months of mistreatment, neglect, and vilification that CDC staff have endured”. They said vaccine misinformation had put scientists at risk.
    But why did the British media ignore this shooting?
    Many British right wing newspapers and media outlets have supported anti-vaccine conspiracy theories, reporting them as almost facts and drawing links that aren’t supported by the evidence. They gleefully jumped onto Andrew Wakefield’s discredited and fraudulent study that tried to discredit the MMR vaccine, but were slow to report on the deception behind it when it was exposed. Even the BBC, supposedly the last bastion of “balanced” reporting, still refers to vaccinations as “jabs”, a derogative term first used by the anti-vaccination movement. Is it any wonder they ignored this shooting?
    And what did Donal Trump do in response to this shooting?
    He has sent the National Guard into Washington DC to “police” it’s streets because he claims there’s a crime wave sweeping the city, even though data from the police department showed that homicides dropped by 32% between 2023 and 2024, reaching their lowest level since 2019. It shows where his priorities are, and they aren’t with stopping dangerous conspiracy theories.
    Drew
  3. Drew Payne
    It was a terrifying television film but I couldn’t stop watching. A bomb had exploded followed by a mushroom cloud rising above the city. That was shocking but the aftermath was terrifying, how quickly everything disintegrated and fell apart, and how no one came to rescue the survivors, they were just left alone in this burned world. I watched it all on my own.
    It was Sunday evening, 23rd September 1984, and I was eighteen. I was sat watching my portable television in my bedroom. It was my most beloved possession because I could watch whatever television programs I wanted to without my father’s criticism or censorship. That evening neither of my parents would have wanted to watch or approve of the television film on BBC 2. But I wanted to watch it. I enjoyed the television films and plays on BBC 2, they were different and interesting, on subjects I knew so little about, but they were also such good television dramas.
    I’d heard about Threads, it had been on the cover of that week’s Radio Times, it was about a nuclear attack on Britain. This was the height of the Cold War, many people were talking about nuclear war, and right-wing politicians were speaking loudly about a “survivable nuclear exchange.”
    Threads scared me that night, it exposed the lie of the survivable nuclear war, in such a terrifying way, and it left lasting images in my memory. Images that I would draw upon whenever someone else would talk about a survivable nuclear war, that great lie. I was afraid of nuclear weapons before watching Threads, how could one weapon kill so many people, but after watching it, I was terrified of them.
    But that was forty years ago and I was a very impressionable eighteen-year-old. Had Threads been so bad? Was it so terrifying? Did it still stand up now?
    To mark the fortieth anniversary of its original broadcast, the BBC repeated it on 9th October 2024, on BBC Four and can still be viewed on BBC iPlayer.
    I watched it again, the following Tuesday morning, via BBC iPlayer, as I did our weekly ironing. I’m forty years older now and not easily shocked. As a former healthcare professional, I know what radiation can do to the human body. This is a forty-year-old film, made on a shoestring budget (£400,000 at the time (2)), so how scary could the special effects be?
    Forty years later, Threads shocked and then terrified me, all over again, but also for different reasons.
    Threads starts out as a kitchen-sink drama, it was written by Barry Hines. It follows a young Sheffield couple, Jimmy and Ruth, as they prepare for their wedding, she’s pregnant, and his working class family will meet her middle class one. Ruth has morning sickness, Jimmy argues with his workmates, and they go to the pub together in the evening. In the background, there are heightened international tensions between the West and Russia which are reaching boiling point, but this is only shown as newspaper and television headlines, hardly effecting the main characters.
    Suddenly, the British government declares a national emergency, closing motorways, emptying hospitals and placing the army out on the streets. Then, mid-morning, a nuclear bomb hits Sheffield. An EMP pulse disables all electronics, including cars, a shockwave destroys buildings in a wide radius, which is followed by a firestorm which sets almost everything on fire. This kills thousands of people in Sheffield, killing most of the film’s characters. The only one left alive is a pregnant Ruth, who wonders, shell-shocked, through the ruins of the city. But no one comes to her rescue. The hospitals are overrun and falling to pieces, leaving Ruth to eventually give birth, alone in a barn, to a baby daughter, Jane.
    A year later and the world is living under a Nuclear Winter, which has blocked out the sunlight, killing any attempt to plant crops and causing freezing temperatures all year round. This causes millions more people to die and the only currency now is food. If survivors can’t work, mostly tending to the land, then they starve. Britain is under harsh military rule, looters and other transgressors are shot on sight. In this world, Ruth and her baby daughter struggle to survive.
    Ten years later, the Nuclear Winter has lifted but Britain is now a feudal society, with a population of four million, the same as during the medieval period. Ruth looks like an elderly woman, her hair white and her body broken by fatigue, not like a woman in her mid-thirties. She and Jane work on a farm, growing crops by hand. But Ruth dies in her sleep, leaving Jane alone. Jane scavenges and loots to stay alive but becomes pregnant when a boy, who acted as her friend, rapes her. Eventually, in a makeshift hospital with an elderly nurse, Jane gives birth but her baby is grossly deformed because of the radiation.
    The film ends with Jane’s horrified expression, seeing her baby for the first time.
    Threads strength is its storytelling, it takes known facts and presents them through the lives of its characters and what happens to them. It also takes its time to tell its story, at the beginning. The nuclear bomb doesn’t hit Sheffield until a quarter of the way into the film. This gives us the chance to become involved in the lives of Ruth and Jimmy, and their respective families. We know and care about these people. But this film isn’t about a plucky group of survivors.
    The nuclear bomb and its aftermath kills nearly all of the characters, leaving only Ruth alive and its through her eyes that we are shown most of the effects of the war.
    This film is about how quickly a nuclear war doesn’t just destroy buildings and kills millions of people, but it destroys our very society, leaving behind a world that is nearly impossible to live in. Here, the nuclear bomb sweeps away all of the city’s infrastructure. There are no fire engines left to fight the fires, no relief workers to come and help the survivors, food and medical supplies run out and survivors have to cope on their own with their injuries and the radiation sickness.
    Marshall law is soon imposed and never lifted. Here there is no fight for freedom, only a fight for survival. But this film, unlike other apocalyptic films, doesn’t end a week or so after the disaster, as the survivors start to rebuild their world. This film looks at the future that a nuclear war would give us. The nuclear winter that kills nearly as many as the war. But most shocking was its depiction of how our society would never recover from the war, devolving into a near feudal state. The most shocking part is its portrait of the first generation after the bomb, without a society to support and develop them, their speech has devolved to monosyllabic words. They don’t speak in sentences; they just shout their needs using one or two words.
    Tonally, Threads adopts a very documentary approach, muted colours, a narrator informs the viewers of different events unfolding, only adding to its authenticity. The narration is voiced by Paul Vaughan, who narrated many documentaries at the time, and the newsreaders are played by Lesley Judd and Colin Ward-Lewis, already known as television presenters and announcers. This also adds to the authenticity.
    What can Threads offer an audience now?
    The special effects here are not up to modern standards but they used sparingly and Threads small budget made for much more imaginative direction. A lot of shots are close on the actors, showing the emotional effect of the drama. Threads strength is its emotional drama, showing the toll this war takes on the people here. It provides some horrifying images, that stick in the mind long after watching it. The woman wetting herself at the sight of the mushroom cloud. The burnt bodies in the rubble of the city. The food store being guarded by men in uniform, as starving survivors are held behind an iron fence. One of these guards is dressed in a traffic warden’s uniform, the most benign of jobs, his face covered and carrying a machine gun (the extra playing that part was a traffic warden in real life). The most shocking images came from the section ten years after the war, the images of a society almost completely destroyed.
    Threads is still a disturbing film, but what its most disturbing is not its portrayal of the physical damage a nuclear war would cause, but how a nuclear war will destroy our society and we may never recover from it.
    Watch Threads here on BBC iPlayer.
     
    Drew
  4. Drew Payne

    These Three Films

    By Drew Payne,


    Esaay
    Three films that helped shape my queer identity, but not at the same time or even in the same way.
     
    Films and books have always been important to me, and growing up they provided me with so much information and many times shaped how I thought and saw myself. I grew up in the 1970s and 1980s and there was so little information or help about being gay, that I could find, so I turned to novels and films for my help and education.
    So many times, films have given me an insight into how others see and view a subject. Also, films are immediate, I can watch them in ninety or a hundred minutes (occasionally longer). It takes me so much longer to read a book. I can lose myself, in a good film, for an hour or so, before returning to the world around me.
    Growing up, three films marked important moments in my own queer life. They reflected how my life seemed at the time of viewing, or how I wanted my life to be. These are the three films.
    [Spoiler alert, I discuss the plots of the three different films]
     
    Victim (1961)
    Barrett, a handsome young man, is on the run. He has stolen a large sum from his employer to pay off a blackmailer and to protect the man he loves, barrister Farr. But Farr is the first man to reject his plea for help, so do all the other men he turns to for help. Barrett ends up hanging himself in a police cell. Only after his death does Farr realise the young man was trying to protect him and reluctantly agrees to help catch the blackmailers.
    Though it was produced as an argument for the legalisation of homosexuality, this film paints a grey portrait of gay life as lonely, bleak and loveless, and open to be the victims of heartless blackmailers.
    It was 1982 and I was sixteen. My greatest possession was my tiny, black and white, portable television. I still lived with my parents, but that television meant I could watch it in my bedroom, away from my father’s control of the television’s remote control and my mother’s disapproval. That little television meant I could watch what I wanted, and I did.
    That Friday night, BBC 2 broadcast the 1960’s film Victim, starring Dirk Bogarde. It started late at night, and I watched it in fascinated horror. Suddenly I was watching gay life being portrayed on the television screen. Then there was so little portrayal of queer life on television and what there was always portrayed gay in such a negative light. But I watched that film, intensely, following every scene of it. Was this the life I had to look forward to?
    At sixteen, I could barely acknowledge to myself I was gay, I had told no one what I feared I was, and certainly not had my first boyfriend, that was still years away. But this film did nothing to change that. Victim was unrelentingly bleak. A young gay man, at the beginning, was in deep trouble and no one, none of the other gay men he approached, offered him any help, they all left him alone and ultimately killing himself in desperation. Was this the life I had to look forward to? Or was it the life of the film’s hero, married to a woman to pass as straight, but in the end losing it all when he’s exposed as gay.
    I didn’t like what I saw but I feared that would be the life that lay ahead of me. I didn’t know any other way to be gay because that was the only life I was told there was. Why couldn’t I just be normal?
    I found sleep difficult that night. I couldn’t shake the nightmare life of what that film told me would be mine.
    The next day, sat on the backseat of my father’s car with my parents sat in the front, my mother asked me, “Did you watch that film, last night, with Dirk Bogarde?”
    “No,” I hurriedly replied. How could I admit to watching a film like that to my parents? To do so was only one step away from admitting I was gay, and I couldn’t face doing that then.
    My parents carried on discussing the film, in pitying tones, as I tried to sink down within myself, on the car’s backseat, and our pet dog slept away next to me.
    [Dirk Bogarde, the star of this film, with his matinee idol good looks, was also a deeply closeted gay man, who never came out in his lifetime]
     
    Parting Glances (1986)
    Robert and Michael are a gay couple, living in 1980s New York. Robert is about to go and work in Africa, leaving Michael behind to wait for him. Set over Robert’s last 24 hours in New York, it follows the couple as they prepare for Robert’s departure, attend a farewell party and as Michael cares for his ex-boyfriend, Nick, who is living with AIDS.
    ABC Piccadilly Circus was a subterranean cinema, just off Piccadilly Circus. I bought my ticket at the street level entrance, and then walked down two flights of stairs to reach the cinema’s single screen. This always felt so luxurious and different, actually walking downstairs to see a film, especially for a matinee showing.
    It was 1988 and I was twenty-two years old. I had moved to London the year before, to live on my own and come out as gay. I’d had my first boyfriend, though it didn’t last long, and finally come out to my parents. I now worked in social care and was enjoying having days off during the week. It didn’t matter that I worked the weekend, I was so terminally single.
    London offered me so much cultural life and I was eating it up as fast as I could. I saw plays, visited art galleries, heard authors read from their work, and saw a lot of films. Also this was the first wave of queer cinema and there were so many small and middle budget queer films for me to enjoy.
    I’d read a couple of reviews of Parting Glances and it sounded interesting. So that midweek afternoon I went to see it, playing at this quirky cinema, off Piccadilly Circus.
    I settled down in the rather tatty old cinema seat, as the lights dimmed, I started to watch Parting Glances, and it swept me along with its quirky and left-of-centre story and characters.
    Here I was presented with a happy and handsome gay couple, but who faced a challenge, being apart for two years. Could I handle that? If I had a boyfriend then I wouldn’t want to give him up, I’d be broken if he left me for two years to work abroad. I was wrapped up in the story of this couple, struggling in the face of being parted for so long. This wasn’t a scenario I’d seen before. I’d already seen enough films, well several of them, were the gay couple were having problems and would eventually split-up, especially when one partner was being unfaithful. But here was a couple who loved each other but were facing a situational problem, a problem I’d seen straight couples facing in films and drama before. This film presented a different and refreshing portrait of a gay couple.
    Around them were a collection of different characters, including a gay man married to a woman, and she knew he was gay, and a man living with AIDS. He was living with AIDS, facing the problems of his diagnosis, but not dying from it. There were no scenes of him lying in a hospital bed, looking like a living corpse.
    The characters in this film were quirky and fun, and felt real. Real people with real problems.
    But it was the ending that left the deepest impression on me. There was no gay tragedy. The gay couple didn’t split up and the man with AIDS didn’t die. The couple stayed together, the man with AIDS was alive as the film ended. This was the opposite of so many queer dramas I’d seen, up to that point.
    At twenty-two, I still harboured that internalised homophobia that somehow my gay sexuality wasn’t as good as if I was straight. I expected my relationships to fail and AIDS was that danger lurking around the corner for me. But here I was being presented by the opposite. Here was a gay couple who stayed together and a man with AIDS who was living with it, not dying from it.
    I left the cinema and returned to the bright spring afternoon. Could I make a film for myself were I managed to stay together with a boyfriend? I walked to the underground station. I wanted a relationship, I didn’t want to be single, but so many gay men I’d met, in London, were single too. Could I make a relationship work, if I could find someone?
    That was my struggle, I wanted a relationship, but everything I’d experienced, growing up, told me being gay was wrong and gay relationships didn’t last. But I had just watched the portrayal of a gay relationship that did work and looked like it would last. I couldn’t shift the thought from my mind.
    Parting Glances has become one of those films I return to, over and over again, and still enjoy. I have a tired, old video copy of it that I still watch, every year or so, and I still enjoy it and the gay couple still remain together at the end.
     
    The Adventures of Priscilla Queen of the Desert (1994)
    Three drag queens, two gay men and a trans woman, take a road trip to Alice Springs, in the heart of Australia, to take up a booking to perform as the cabaret at a resort there, managed by one of the gay men’s estranged lesbian wife. Like all great road movies, it’s the adventures they have and the friendships they make along their journey that makes this movie, plus the great one-liners.
    It was 1994 and I was twenty-eight. I was in a room full of other gay men, on the last day of my holiday, we were watching a showing of The Adventures of Priscilla Queen of the Desert and we were laughing. But we were all laughing and at every joke. There wasn’t my odd laughter at the very gay jokes, suddenly outing myself in a cinema audience as one of the few, or only one, who understood those jokes. Here I didn’t have to worry, everyone else got those jokes too.
    For the last week I had been on my first gay holiday, but it wasn’t a typical gay holiday, whatever that is. This was run by The Edward Carpenter Community and was dedicated to community-building, creativity, personal growth, friendship and fun for gay men. It might sound very lofty ideals but in reality it was a very relaxing holiday for me. Myself and about forty other gay men had spent the week in a holiday center, in the Scottish countryside. There were workshops, fun events, sports, a dress-up dinner, evening entertainment, a cabaret night and even drag volleyball. It was the opposite environment to the London gay bars and night clubs I’d been frequenting in my endless and depressingly negative search for a boyfriend. Suddenly I was holidaying in a very relaxed environment, were my sexuality wasn’t an issue and neither was my appearance, I didn’t have to comply with the latest ideals of fashion, which I rarely did.
    I didn’t have to work at being liked, people there just liked me, and there was no pressure to couple-up and pair off, if I went to bed on my own then that wasn’t a failure. Suddenly being gay wasn’t the main thing about me, I could relax back into the other facets of my personality. I could explore my creativity without any embarrassment, without someone questioning who did I think I was doing that.
    I even had a holiday romance with a Scottish man called Bill. A man I would not have normally met. But I also knew it was only for a handful of days, a holiday romance, and I wasn’t chasing after the impossible.
    I’d had a relaxing week’s holiday, away from the stress and unnatural sites of my job, and for the first time in my life, being gay wasn’t an issue, wasn’t something I had to tell people, wasn’t the defining thing about me.
    Now, on our last night, we were watching The Adventures of Priscilla Queen of the Desert together. We were watching it as one audience, all laughing at the same jokes, all enjoying the musical moments, all moving along with the story. Watching this film captured the feeling of community I had been enjoying all week, and Bill and I were curled together watching it. It also helped that this film was a joyous celebration of being queer and different, but it wasn’t angst laden, no one was sad-to-be-gay, no one died at the end, though the jokes were very gay and rude.
    The next day, we would all leave and return to our ordinary lives, but that evening we were joined together in the enjoyment of this very gay film. I was enjoying myself.
    [Unfortunately, some elements of this film haven’t aged as well as others. None of the three leads had any previous experience of performing drag, a trans woman character is played by a cis gendered man and this character is dead-named for a crude joke.]
     
    Now.
    Victim is deeply homophobic and negative, and deeply uncomfortable to watch. It was considered forward-thinking, in the early sixties, but it scared me, in the early eighties. I didn’t want to live that life. But it also reflected my own homophobia then, I wasn’t ready for a positive ending.
    Parting Glances was a breath of fresh air, focusing on the characters’ stories and giving me a refreshing portrait of a gay couple and a man living with AIDS. I only saw it six years after seeing Victim, but my life and queer identity were already changing and growing, and Parting Glances inspired me to want more.
    The Adventures of Priscilla Queen of the Desert is a glorious celebration of being queer and different. It caught that moment in my life where I was finally enjoying being gay and moving forward with my life.
    I now live with my husband in East London. But a good film is more than just a film; it can mark an important point in my life, and it has done so many times.
     
    Drew
     
    The picture illustrating this blog is Red Velvet Cinema Seats in Row by Moinul Hassn, find more of their pictures here
  5. Drew Payne
    I first came across Wicked when I read the novel, in the early 2000s. I enjoyed the book’s story and themes, questioning whether are people born evil, made evil or just painted as evil. Isn’t it so easy just to have a villain? We saw the original London West End production of the musical, back in 2006. And last month we saw the first film, in the two film version of it. I enjoyed the film as much as the book and musical, though they are all different, and found myself swept along with the story, but I wasn’t the only one.
    During a press junket with Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande, journalist Tracy E Gilchrist asked this question:
    “I’ve seen this week people are taking the lyrics of ‘Defying Gravity’ and really holding space with that and feeling power in that”.
    This produced a very emotional response in Erivo and Grande. “That’s really powerful,” said Cynthia Erivo, who played the lead role, Elphaba, in the film. “That’s what I wanted.” Ariana Grande gripped her co-star’s hand as she spoke.
    Gilchrist later said, for her, “holding space” was “being physically, emotionally and mentally present with someone or something.” (2) This has all gone onto to be a meme on social media.
    Defying Gravity is a very powerful song. It’s sung by Elphaba, the Green Witch of the West, at the end of act one of the musical, and the end of the film, Wicked Part One. Elphaba is fighting back against ignorance and intolerance. She literally flies above it all. It says, no matter how much you try to push me down, I’ll raise above it. It is a great end of act one/part one song and Cynthia Erivo performs it perfectly.
    But for me, my “holding space” moment happened earlier in the film, when Elphaba sang “I’m Not That Girl,” performed heartbreakingly well by Cynthia Erivo.
    This song comes after the handsome but rather shallow Prince Fiyero (Played with wonderful style by Jonathan Bailey) aids Elphaba in an act of rebellion. As they part ways, Elphaba realises she’s in love with Fiyero, but he loves Glinda (the perfectly blonde Ariana Grande). “I’m Not That Girl” is a painful song of unrequited love, Elphaba knows she isn’t the “girl” for Fiyero, and never will be, but she still loves him.
    Sitting in the cinema, hearing Cynthia Erivo singing that song, and I was swept back to being sixteen again. I was hopelessly, secretly and stupidly in love with a straight man who couldn’t see what was happening. To him, I was just a friend. I would never be his “girl” and I left with emotions I had no experience how to cope with. Back then I saw no way out of it.
    It’s over forty years ago that I was sixteen, I’ve been with my husband for twenty-six years, yet that song drew me right back to that horrible and painful time of my life. That is the power of a well written song, capturing a specific emotion.
    As I sat there, in the cinema, watching Cynthia Erivo’s singing of “I’m Not That Girl,” I was taken right back to being sixteen, to those hopeless emotions. It caught me off guard, I hadn’t expected those emotions and for a moment I remembered that pain.
    It was a surprise to have my “holding space” moment, watching Wicked. I’d seen the stage musical, in which I saw “I’m Not That Girl” performed by Idina Menzel. But in the cinema, with the framing and close-ups of Cynthia Erivo’s singing, it heightened the emotions. It certainly dragged up those memories for me.
    But that is the power of great songs, to draw us into the emotions and story of a song. Don’t we all have one song or another that is special for us, a song that will take us back to a certain time, a song that can remind us of something good or bad that happened to us, a song that always reminds us of a certain person. This is the power of combining the right music and lyrics, to invoke emotions and/or memories in others. It’s a skill I don’t have.
    I wish I could write songs, and I have tried in the past, but they were really awful. So instead I’ll carry on writing fiction about screwed-up people and writing essays from my life. If I can create a “holding space” for someone with my writing, that would be worth it all.
     
    Drew


  6. Drew Payne
    In October, the British government announced plans to help people with mental health problems to get back into work.
    This would see “employment advisers” visiting people in hospital, who have been admitted with mental health problems, and giving them CV and interview advice. It was piloted at hospitals in Leicester and at the Maudsley Hospital in Camberwell, London, with “dramatic results”, though the results haven’t been published yet.
    This isn’t a hundred percent altruistic, it is also an attempt to reduce the disability benefits bill, which is projected to increase by a third in the next four to five years, according to the Institute for Fiscal Studies. A jump to £63bn by 2028-29, from £48bn for 2023-24.
    "There is clear evidence we are really struggling with health problems," said Work and Pensions Secretary Liz Kendall. She wants employers to “think different” about employees with mental health problems, offering flexibility to support and retain people.
    Now this scheme is not perfect. Why are they only offering this advice and support to people in hospital, why not to people in the community? Why aren’t they working with employers to offer people, with long term mental health problems, work experience to gain skills that make them attractive to employers? And there are so many other things too. But this is a start at supporting people and is better than nothing, which is what the previous government offered, they just wanted people to repeatedly prove how ill they were.
     
    Then, the other week, one of my relatives posted a link to this story, on Facebook, with the caption: “What absolute numpty thought this through? They get a job coach visit, why don’t they just say “get over it” because that always works doesn’t it?”
    Underneath people had added to the following comments:
    “I actually cringed watching this report.”
    “Who would employ someone who could be ill numerous days a month? How can a business run if you don't know how many staff are going to be there?”
    An ‘Oh how stupid’ emoji.
    “This is what you get when you vote Labour in.” To which my relative replied, “Luckily, I didn’t.”
     
    I wanted to scream at the post, “How can you say that? How can you be so prejudiced?”
    But employment is so important to how we identify ourselves, to our self-worth. How often do we get asked “And what do you do?” How much of our identity is made up from our job/profession? Mark Tausig argued that work is the central activity whereby most adults define their identity. I retired recently and I find it is strange to no longer belong to a profession, which had been so important in my life. Robert Drake and Michael Wallach argue that unemployment worsens mental health, while employment can improve it. They said that being employed gives us self-reliance, we are valued by others, we gain the respect of others, we have an income and employment helps us to gain community integration. We can see this in our own lives.
    But in the UK only 15% of people with serious mental health problems are employed. That is an extremely large number of people who haven’t got the security and value of having a job. Why aren’t we concerned about this?
    The evidence shows the benefit of employment. Hoare & Machin, in their study, found that participants who found employment, had greater social contact, more structured time and therefore saw significant improvements in their mental health. Another study found that the work environment improved people’s mental health. That those with mental health problems saw an improvement in their symptoms, plus improvements in their leisure and finances from being employed. And another study found that if people with mental health problems are able to find work, then it reduces the burden on society as a whole. Those people being able to support themselves, partially or fully.
    Saying all this, we can’t just give someone with mental health problems a job, then expect them to get on with it and their health get better. People will need support. Secker & Membrey identify that specific adjustments maybe required, such as flexible working hours, flexible work schedules and job tasks, especially in relation to the medication a person is taking, allowing the person to regain their stamina and confidence. Modini & Joyce (6) found that the literature, on mental health in the workplace, focused on the negative impacts of work on mental health. But they also found that the evidence is that work can help improve a person’s mental health. Evans & Repper argue, and rightly, that mental health services and staff should also be involved in supporting people back into work, it should be a vital role because of the benefits work brings to people and communities. Drake & Wallach (2) make the same argument, that part of treatment should emphasise the importance of work and support people into employment.
    But supporting people will bare positive fruits. Castle, Crosse, and Harvey conducted a study were they provided only 20 hours of support to people in gaining employment, but their study found that 21% of those people found jobs and 43% went onto volunteering or studying. How much more could be achieved if those people had an employment coach, even for one day a week?
    My own experience bears this out, too. In my early twenties, in the late 1980s and early 1990s, I suffered from severe depression. It was so bad that I was hospitalised with it, twice, and I spent a long time taking medication for it. This was a very difficult time for me. I couldn’t tell many people I was ill, the stigma of mental illness was very high, and one of the few people I trusted to tell didn’t “believe” I was ill. I was also studying for my nursing qualification at the same time. This actually helped my mental health. I had the structure of my work placements, having to be there at a certain time. Also my studies gave me structure too, having to be at lectures at certain times, having to work on assignments with specific deadlines. My mental health was poor but that structure kept me together and kept me functioning. The only person I told at college was my personal tutor, because I was afraid if others knew I would be kicked off my course, and she supported me and kept quiet about my illness.
    When I qualified, I found it difficult to find my first job. As soon as prospective employers found out I had depression, they withdrew their job offers. The Occupational Health Department of the hospital I trained at told me that if they had known I had depression they would have had my training stopped. They said I was “unfit” to work as a nurse. I am so glad my personal tutor protected me from this. But all this rejection took a toll on me, my mental health deteriorated.  I was being denied employment through no fault of my own. I had already proved I could safely work while having depression. It was so hopeless. I eventually found a job but I had to lie on my application. I didn’t tick the section that asked if I’d ever had any mental illness.
    During this awful time, I would have loved to have access to an employment adviser who could have helped me through this. Instead I navigated it all on my own.
    So why are we only just now looking at supporting people back into work, and in such a limited way? Since 2010, we have had the Equality Act, which makes it unlawful to discriminate against people with protected characteristics, including disability, and that includes mental health problems. But laws don’t change attitudes, not straight away. Frijters, Johnston & Shields found that having a mental health problem reduces your chance of getting employment by 30%.
    I had hoped that attitudes to mental illness had changed since I had depression. It seems now that ever z list celebrity is having their “struggles” with mental health problems. But my relative’s post on Facebook has made me question this. Do people still believe that mental illness is just someone faking it, using it as a way to avoid working? That a mental health problem automatically makes you unemployable?
    In 2011, David Cameron’s government coined the political slogan, “strivers v shirkers”. This labelled people in work as “strivers” and those receiving benefits as “shirkers”. This simplistic ignorance appalled me back then, but have we come no further? Now I doubt we have.
    Drew
  7. Drew Payne

    Another Man Called Drew

    By Drew Payne,


    Esaay
    He was the first Englishman I met who was also called Drew. I had met several men called Drew when I visited America, but he was the first other English Drew I met.
    Growing up, I hated my first name, and the very common abbreviation of it, which people frequently called me by. I felt trapped by my first name and dreamed of when I could be old enough to change it, though I had no idea what to, my choice of name would change almost month from month. Then, in my middle teens, I read an American novel where one of the characters was called Drew. At the end of the novel I found out that Drew was a different abbreviation of my own first name. Drew was different, unusual and I really liked the sound of it. I wanted to be a Drew.
    When I came out and later moved to London, I decided to change my name to Drew. I was entering a new life, a life were I would finally live as my real self, so I needed a name that was my name, a name I liked and was comfortable with, a name that suited me. Drew was that name. In Britain, Drew is a rare name, I’d not met anyone else with that name, it made me different and more memorable. Drew would help me be different and to embrace my difference.
    I’d been known by my new name for eight years when I met another Drew, during that time I’d not met any other British men with the same name as me, so meeting Drew was a surprise and a delight, finally someone else shared my name.
    We weren’t close, I didn’t know him well. He was a friend-of-a-friend. He was a friend of my friend Tim and Tim introduced us one Sunday night. I often went with Tim for a drink, at the South London gay pub The Two Brewers, and Drew was part of Tim’s circle of friends. He just seemed to appear one Sunday evening. He was tall, thin framed, with short, neat dark hair and an equally short, neat moustache. His plain featured face always seemed to wear a serious expression, his lips held together in neither a smile or a frown, and his dark eyes seemed to watch everything before him. But when he smiled, which wasn’t often but worth it for those moments he did, his whole face lit up with that smile. He was the tall, quiet man who stood at the edge of the group.
    I liked him but I wasn’t attracted to him, but if I had been I would have kept my feelings quiet because Tim was very attracted to him. I could see that in the way Tim behaved towards him, how Tim showered him with happy attention, but Drew didn’t return Tim’s feelings. He wasn’t nasty or standoffish with Tim, as I had seen happen before, he was friendly and warm towards Tim, but he just didn’t return Tim’s affection. I’d seen this happen before, Tim always seemed to fall for men who weren’t interested in him, and it was all so sad. Tim was a good friend and I hated seeing him chasing after affection that was never returned. Tim deserved a boyfriend of his own.
    Then one Sunday evening, Drew wasn’t at The Two Brewers pub, but he hadn’t been there other Sundays because of his work, the way I missed some Sundays because of my work. The following Thursday I met Tim and he looked terrible. I asked him what was wrong. Three days before he’d spent half a day in a police station, making a police statement. I was shocked and asked what about. He said Drew had been murdered and he had been the last person to see him alive.
    That weekend, London’s two gay weekly newspapers contained stories of Drew’s death, calling him Andrew Collier. Over the following weeks, the mainstream newspapers also reported Drew’s murder because it was the fourth one by the serial killer Colin Ireland. Ireland’s three previous murders, all of gay men, had been unconnected by the police, so he killed Drew to make the police take notice of him. He wasn’t caught until he’d killed for a fifth time. Drew’s murder was caught up in all the press coverage of Ireland’s killings, Drew himself being left behind.
    Drew’s murder shocked me, so sudden and so cruel, but the aftermath of it shocked me more. Tim was so hurt and brought low by it. I watched his grief and it was so unpleasant to see. Tim didn’t wear his heart-on-his-sleeve, no public displays of high emotions from him, but I saw how much it affected him and it was hard to watch.
    Up to then I had read a lot of detective fiction and fancied I wanted to write detective stories. But the plots I created saw murder as little more than a puzzle, the character’s murder having little to no emotional effect on the other characters, no one really mourning or shocked with grief. Drew’s murder showed me how messy and horrible murder is, how it effects and hurts the innocent and, in Drew’s murder, the guilty showed so little remorse. Tim showed me how a murder disrupts and hurts the lives around it. I felt guilty and shamed for wanting to create silly puzzles from something so painful and disruptive. I abandoned that stupid idea.
    I didn’t go to Drew’s funeral, it seemed prurient and voyeuristic to do so, I hardly knew him, he was a friend of a friend. I don’t know if Tim went, I don’t know if he was even told when and where it was, I didn’t ask him, I didn’t know how to. Back then, I didn’t know what to do about Tim’s grief, I just didn’t have the skills.
    I lost touch with Tim twenty years ago, when I moved from South to West London. It was only a short move in distance but was such a big change in my life, and Tim was lost in that change. A stupid loss.
    Drew was murdered in 1993, he was 33, six years older than me. His death left such a deep effect on me, such a pointless and horrible death. He was a gentle man, a warden in a sheltered accommodation scheme, he had a cat, he was tall and dark haired, he had a smile that lit up his whole face, which he used sparingly. In the years since his death the person he was has been forgotten. Now, if he is remembered, it is as passing reference in a true crime podcast or TV series, that dwells on the gruesome nature of his death, but makes no reference to his life. It is so unfair.
    Drew
  8. Drew Payne
    "Everyone's happy, everyone's just joyous to be here," Pumper, club member of Sapphic Riders, at this year’s London Pride March.
    The sun was bright and hot, the crash barriers were all in place and the pavements were filled with spectators, as the 2024 London Pride march slowly but brightly moved through the capital. Yet, at the beginning of the march, was a small but noisy group of bigots trying to shout down the parade.
    Eight Christian protesters, stood at the beginning of this year’s London Pride march, surrounded by several police officers in a fenced-off section next to the parade route, shouting abuse at the marchers. Their banners’ proclaimed: “Men with men working that which is unseemly and receiving in themselves that recompense of their error which was meet” and “be not proud for the lord hath spoke… a man’s pride shall bring him low” (??). As, a man in the group, using a loudspeaker, shouted at the people in the parade. Their presence wasn’t warmly received. Marchers, as they passed the bigots, they flipped their middle fingers at the group and drowned them out with chants.
    Why where those people there? What did they think they’d achieve? Did they really expect marchers to turn away from their “wicked ways” and join them in their protest? If they wanted people to hear their “message” and become Christians, why where they being so offensive and rude? Shouting homophobia at a Pride march is no way to persuade people to join your religion, so why do they do it?
    Every year, the London Pride march has a group of bigots, standing somewhere along the route, shouting abuse at the people marching by. At last year’s march, Pride 2023, the cast of Heartstopper, from their float, flipped the middle finger and shouted back to anti-LGBTQ+ religious protesters, to the delight of other marchers. But why do these Christian homophobes do it? What do they think the result will be? All they do is make marchers angry and hurl abuse back at them. But is that the point?
    When I was an Evangelical Christian, way back in my teenage years, Christian leaders and ministers repeatedly told me the world hated me just for being a Christian. It was such a bunker mentality; we were “hated” because we were right. The more we were “hated”, therefore the more we were right. It ignored the fact that maybe people hated us because we had deliberately upset them. I was repeatedly told the story of the early Christians being thrown to the lions in the ancient Roman Colosseum, for the “entertainment” of the Emperor. The story was, those early Christians had such strong faiths that they were changing the Roman world, and the Emperor and the pagans were afraid of them, that’s why they were being thrown to the lions. There was no mention that they were easy socio/economic scapegoats and even easier victims. But this victim narrative was very strong, if non-Christians dislike you and are angry at what you say then you are a strong Christian. I knew Christians, back then, who would say deliberately offensive and upsetting things to prove how strong their faith was.
    This seems to be the mentality behind these Christians, screaming their homophobia to Pride marchers, showing “the world” how strong their Christian faith is, how they are not afraid of the lions heathens Pride marchers. It certainly doesn’t seem to be any attempt to convert any of the marchers. Their hate-filled shouting and truly obscure and nonsensical banners don’t present them as an attractive or even welcoming religion. Their behaviour is 100% off-putting.
    Those homophobic protesters are the pimple on the bum of London Pride, the annoying little voices trying to ruin a wonderful day. But there were only eight of them, compared to the approximately 1.5 million people who attended this year’s London Pride and the 32,000 who took part in the march, so why worry about them? Because their homophobia is still tolerated, even allowed in public, and homophobia doesn’t end with just shouted words and poorly worded banners. During this year’s Pride month, we saw numerous acts of homophobia. Pride flags, painted on the pavement in Forest Gate, East London, were vandalised and completely painted over with red paint. A banner advertising Pride in Luton was ripped down and destroyed three times (7). Homophobic and Transphobic violence stands at a five year high. I am not saying those eight people were responsible for all these acts of homophobia, but their words certainly encourage them, whether those people will admit it or not. Such loud and public displays of homophobia will only encourage others who want to act upon it.
    Why do we allow this public display of hate at every London Pride march? We wouldn’t tolerate bigots shouting racist abuse at Notting Hill Carnival. We certainly don’t tolerate antisemitism. Police previously removed far-right protestors from challenging a march against antisemitism. The police have dispersal powers were they can remove people causing an offence or nuisance from a certain area, for up to 48 hours. They were very quick to use these powers on antimonarchist protestors at the King’s coronation, and they were only holding up placards saying “Not My King”. If I stood outside the Evangelical Christian Spring Harvest festival, with a megaphone, shouting at people about their homophobia, I am sure I would be quickly removed by the police.
    Why do we still tolerate bigots shouting homophobia at London Pride marchers? Why do we still give Evangelical Christians an easy pass on their homophobia?
    Drew.
  9. Drew Payne
    Winter 1985
    So much of my life, until then, had revolved around Evangelical Christianity and suddenly it was all gone, leaving an empty void of time and friendships. All of my social life had gone, over ninety percent of the people who called me friend had disowned me, I was on my own and I was nineteen years old. What was I to do?
    I wasn’t thrown out of that church’s congregation, no one spoke the words and told me to leave, but they expressly made it clear I wasn’t welcome because I was homosexual. I had been outed to the church’s youth fellowship. They reacted by first trying to cast daemons out of me, one Sunday night, before disowning me. Suddenly, all the people who had called me their friend, turned their backs on me and would have nothing to do with me. It was terrifying. Being subjected to an exorcism, just because I was gay, by people who had said they cared about me, left me feeling confused and betrayed. I had turned to these people for help, I was so confused and afraid of my sexuality, and they had reacted as if I was possessed by the Devil himself. The disowning by the majority of my friends hurt the most. They rejected me solely because I’m gay.
    I was hit over the head by their message, I wasn’t welcome in that church anymore. Reluctantly I left. Reluctantly because I had believed that being a member of that church was the right thing for me, where God wanted me to be, and leaving that church meant I had got that all wrong. But for my own health and sanity, I had to leave.
    The people of that church had told me that Evangelical Christians, like them, were the only people who would care for me and accept me. Non-Christians, they said, would just use me and then cast me aside. I believed them because I had thought they were my friends and that they cared for me. I was wrong.
    To my surprise, and then relief, I found people who weren’t Evangelical Christians not only welcomed me but also accepted me. Though it took so much strength to push myself forward to find a new life. Having all of my old life taken away from me was so hard and very isolating. Suddenly my whole social life and most of my circle of friends were gone, I had to start to rebuild all that and all over again. I was also so depressed by what had happened to me, had it all been my fault, why had I been so harshly rejected? I was beginning to accept my sexuality, finally admitting I couldn’t force it away, and then I was severely rejected for doing so. That took so much out of me.
    But I didn’t know how to rebuild my life again. I was only nineteen and no one gave me a guide book how to do so, there was no internet then. I found my first entry into a new life in a newsagent, near to Liverpool’s Anglican Cathedral. On the top shelf, above the rows of magazines and newspapers, were the usual collection of porn magazines, and at the end of them were two gay lifestyle magazines, Gay Times and Gay Life. It was the 1980s and any gay lifestyle magazines were considered “adult reading”. Nervously I bought both those magazines, as I paid for them, the man behind the counter told me that Gay Life was a good read. He was right.
    Gay Life was a Manchester based magazine but it also contained listings and details of Liverpool’s small gay scene, where I lived. In its Community Listings section there was a listing for the LGCM (Lesbian and Gay Christian Movement) Liverpool group. Nervously I contacted its convenor, Billy, and started to attend their meetings. I was still a Christian and this seemed the logical place to finally start coming out. I had tried the Evangelical Christian approach, the ex-gay gospel and to deny a large part of who I was, and that had failed completely. Maybe it was time to try and accept my sexuality? Did I have any other alternative?
    The guys at the LGCM group were warm and welcoming, not a single “predatory homosexual”, as per the Evangelical Christian stereotype I had been previously been repeatedly told. These were men who befriended me, without trying to force their opinions and beliefs onto me. There was no condition to their friendship. It was a wonderful breath of fresh air.
    I also started to attend a writers’ workshop in Liverpool, The Old Swan Writers. I wanted to be a writer, therefore I needed to get serious about being one, but I knew so little about it. The other writers there taught me so much, showed me were my writing worked and were it didn’t. It was through them that I learnt how and where to submit my writing, and I had my first pieces of writing published while I was a member there. I was also the youngest member by a long stretch. The other were middle-aged or older, but none of them seemed to have any problems with me or my writing, which was beginning to explore gay themes.
    Next I started to attend Liverpool’s gay youth group, on the recommendation of one of the members of the LGCM group. At this group I met Tommy & Ashley, a pair of bright and lively friends, who quickly took me under their wing. They took me out clubbing in the few gay clubs there were in Liverpool. They introduced me to gay club life, taking away the mystery and apprehension too. And they were friends so there was no pressure, and that was what I needed then. The chance, every week or so, to dance and enjoy myself without any pressure.
    Lastly, I joined the Merseyside AIDS Support Group (MASG). This was 1985/86 and the AIDS panic was running high. Daily I saw the prejudice, ignorance and sheer homophobia around AIDS and it sickened me. This was my way of trying to fight that, so I joined MASG’s training course for their helpline. That training taught me so much, not just about HIV and AIDS, but it helped me look at myself. I also met some amazing people through it. Two nurses, a teacher, a HIV worker, gay men and women, a bisexual man, and straights. Different people but for all of them, being gay wasn’t a problem. I also met a man who I quietly looked up to, John Sam Jones. He’d been an Anglican minister, lived and worked in San Francisco, and was now back in Liverpool, working in HIV prevention. All through this he’d remained a Christian, and that was something I was trying to do but finding it such an uphill struggle.
    I make this narrative sound so easy, I took step one, which led to step two and then steps three and four. But it wasn’t that easy. I was silently carrying the baggage from the True Freedom Trust (TFT) and that Evangelical church. Most of the LGBT people I met in Liverpool, especially those I met through the LGCM group, knew of TFT and despised them. Rightly, they saw TFT as a dangerous and deeply homophobic organisation that only harmed LGBT people. Wrongly, I thought they would be angry at me too, for being involved with them. So I kept silent about that part of my past. I wish I hadn’t because I now know those people won’t have rejected me, they would have supported me. But the experience of being rejected by that Evangelical church was still sharp in my memory and I didn’t want to risk it happening again.
    I also found making friends difficult and scary. The people at that Evangelical church had told me that they were my friends, better friends than any non-Christians would be, and yet they so quickly withdrew their friendship when they found out I was gay. Would that happen again? Again and again I met people, after leaving that church, who openly accepted me, but that fear wouldn’t go away. It nagged away at the back of my mind. During this time in Liverpool, I never had a boyfriend, I never even tried to find one, I stayed single and celibate. This wasn’t out of any religious belief but it was out of fear. Fear that I couldn’t get close to anyone, fear that my parents would find out I’m gay, I was living with them at the time and I didn’t know if I could hide a relationship from them, and resting at the back of my mind, was the fear that those Evangelical Christians were right and I would go to hell for being gay. It was completely irrational but I couldn’t shake it.
    I had the realisation, slow at first but soon gathering speed, that the people at that Evangelical church had been lying to me. At first I noticed small lies but as time passed, I noticed bigger and nastier lies. The people at that Evangelical church told me I would never find “truer” friends than them, but those people rapidly withdrew their friendships when they found out I was gay. Their friendships were ultimately so shallow. Outside of that church, I found real friendships, people who didn’t reject me just because of my sexuality.
    Being a member of MASG, I learnt so much that also opened my eyes. AIDS wasn’t the “judgement of God”, as I’d been repeatedly told at that Evangelical church. The evidence didn’t support all the homophobic lies I’d been told about it. It wasn’t caught via casual physical contact, though people at that Evangelical church had behaved as if it was, even though no one with AIDS had dared to cross its doorstep.
    Then I met Nicholas & Robin, again. Nicholas had been the organist at that Evangelical church, until it was discovered Robin was his partner. Nicholas & Robin were rapidly and coldly thrown out of the church. I’d watched what had happened silently from the side-lines, terrified that that would be my fate. I was told Nicholas was not a Christian, he was only a member of the church for its social life, so it was right to throw him out of there, for being gay, because he wasn’t really a Christian. Then I met Nicholas & Robin, again. They were both Christians and very involved with a different church. I had been lied to, and to justify a very homophobic act. It left a very sour taste in my mouth.
    That Evangelical church had told me that the “homosexual lifestyle” was a lonely, cold and sterile life, and I’d only find true friendships and happiness as an Evangelical Christian. But as one, my life was cold, empty and lonely. I was so unhappy, having to hide my sexuality and struggle silently trying to accept it. Only leaving that Evangelical church, saw me start to turn my life around, trying to turn away from a cold and empty existence.
    My story doesn’t have a Hollywood ending, I didn’t walk away from that Evangelical church and straight into a much better life. It was a struggle and hard work to rebuild my life, especially as I was still haunted by what that Evangelical church said and did to me, causing me to be far from open with other people. I also had to come to terms with all the lies that that church told me, and how I foolishly believed them. It was a hard struggle, finding a new and honest life outside that church, but I am so glad I did. The alternative would have been unliveable.
    Drew
     
    Postscript: I have used the names these groups used back then in 1985/6. Groups called themselves “gay”, rather than Lesbian & Gay or LGBTQ+.
    In 1995, Merseyside AIDS Support Group (MASG) and Mersey Body Positive (MBP) merged to form Sahir House
    In 2017, LGCM changed its name to One Body One Faith, with a change in its focus.
  10. Drew Payne

    The Tactics of Voting

    By Drew Payne,


    blog post
    On social media, I have made no secret of the fact that I dislike this Conservation government, they are the worst government in my memory, and I lived through Margaret Thatcher. I want a change, I want a Labour government, and I am not alone in this. The polls show that Labour is well ahead of the Tories and are on track to be elected as our next government. But can we be sure of this?
    We elect our governments under the First Past The Post system and this does not mean that a political party’s seats in parliament reflects the national share of votes it received. At the last election, in 2019, the Conservatives won 43.6% of the national vote but won 52.6% of the seats in Parliament. And there also the large amount of “safe seats” in this country. Nearly 14 million voters live in constituencies that have not changed party hands since the Second World War. Even if the Conservatives lose this election, they will still be the official opposition and still hold a lot of power. Do they deserve to be the official opposition, were they can squabble and try and push their agenda on the government, through official questions in parliament and the large number of parliamentary committees they will have seats on, and these committees wield so much power?
    This Conservative government have wasted their power and harmed the country, in the last fourteen years they have been in government. At best, they have been mediocre, but for the majority of their time in office, whichever prime minister was in charge, they have failed. Their policies have wrecked the country.
    Austerity. This was a policy to “pay for” the bailout of the banks following the 2008 credit crunch, caused by the banks’ investment arms. In reality, it made the poorest people in our country pay for it. It saw benefit caps, including the two-child benefit limit and the bedroom tax, stripping money off the most vulnerable in our society. It also caused a slowing in life expectancy improvement, an extra 57,550 people in England died in the five years from 2010.
    Under funding of councils. This is a direct result of the austerity policies because it saw a cut in councils’ funding. Local authority “spending power”, the amount of money councils has to spend from government grants, council tax and business rates – fell by 17.5% between 2009/10 and 2019/20, before partially recovering. However, in 2021/22 it was still 10.2% below 2009/10 levels. Earlier this year council leaders called on the government for an extra £750m funding just to help them provide their basic services. Councils provide adult and child social care, public health, sexual health services, registration of births, deaths and marriages, ceremonies and citizenship, environmental services, housing, especially housing homeless families, libraries and archives, and parking. So many vital services.
    Rise in Food Bank usage. Between 2010 and 2021 we have seen an over 4,000% rise in the number of food parcels distributed, being 2.5 million food parcels given out in 2021. This is nothing to be proud of. This is a sign of the rise in poverty.
    Cost of living crisis. This has only thrown more people into poverty. 600,000 more people, half of them children, are living in absolute poverty. This is the joint highest increase in 40 years. 7.2 million (11% of the population) now live in food insecurity. Yet the government has done nothing to ease this, they just seem to stand by and shout about the inflation rates, ignoring the fact that prices are not coming down.
    State of the NHS, which is now on its knees. Many people have said that the NHS is in the worst state it has ever been, but there is a lot of evidence to back this up. The NHS needs £4 billion of additional funding in 2024–25 just to provide its current services. It’s waiting list stands at 7.5 million procedures, affecting about 6.3 million different patients in England. In February 2020 there were already 4.47 million cases on a waiting list for consultant-led care. This disgustingly large number of people stuck on NHS waiting lists is not due to the Covid lockdown alone. There is also the NHS’s chronic shortage of staff, which this government has done nothing to address. 8.4%, or 121,000 of full-time equivalent NHS roles are vacant, and yet we haven’t seen any attempt by this government to fill these roles. To add to this, 10.7% (154,000) of staff left their NHS role in the year ending September 2023. Is this government just letting the NHS die on its feet?
    PPE Scandal. This government has thrown away billions of pounds on PPE (Personal protective equipment). During the pandemic, 75% of the £12 billion spent on PPE, in the first year of lockdown, was spent on PPE that’s price was over-inflated or was substandard. But £4 billion was spent on PPE that was so substandard that it was unusable and had to be destroyed. The government has not made any attempts to claw back this money, especially the £4 billion that was so substandard that it didn’t meet requirements. But the scandal doesn’t end there. In June this year, £1.4bn worth of PPE was destroyed without any explanation. But this PPE was of a high standard from a reputable manufacturer. All in all, this waste of money is breath-taking.
    RAAC concrete scandal affecting public buildings. A lot of buildings, including many public buildings, were built with RAAC concrete in the 1980s because it was cheap. But it only had a life expectancy of 30 years. Problems were noticed in 2018 when ceilings in schools started collapsing. Now, a large number of public buildings, including schools and hospitals, are effected by crumbing and potentially dangerous RAAC concrete. Yet this government has done nothing about it, they don’t even seem to be treating it as an emergency.
    Liz Truss’s Prime Ministership. She was our shortest serving Prime Minister, lasting only 45 days in office, yet during that time she managed to wipe £19 billion off our economy. She achieved this by proposing an unfunded budget that would have given millions to the richest people in our country. A crazy policy that was discredited decades ago.
    Rise in taxes. Taxes, under this government, are the highest they have been since 1948. Yet our public services are chronically underfunded.
    Failure to grow the economy. In 2023, our economy grew by 0.1% overall, though in the second half of 2023, the economy shrank by 0.3%. But in 2023 the US economy grew by 3.3% and even the French economy grew by 0.8%.
    The Failure of Brexit. This has totally failed. Not even the most optimistic Google search can find real benefits of it. Yet this government through the country into it based only on fantastical beliefs and a very questionable referendum, which was fought on many lies.
    This government has failed to such a breath-taking high degree and damaged and destroyed so many people’s lives, lives they promised to protect as our government, that they do not deserve to even serve as the official opposition. They deserved to be reduced to a fringe party, to be ignored as they squabble on the side-lines. And we can do this.
    Tactical Voting could be the way to achieve this. Instead of voting for the candidate of the party you follow/agree with, but to vote for the candidate of the centrist/left-wing party are most likely to beat the Conservative candidate. In reality it is voting for the Labour or Libdem candidate, which ever one stands the best chance of winning that seat. But how do you find out how to use your vote tactically?
    Stop The Tories is a website coordinating this. You enter your post code and if your MP is Conservative, it will recommend the candidate to vote for to most likely unseat that MP or to vote for to make sure the Conservatives do not win your seat. Stop The Tories are coordinating for people who want to tactically vote, it is the best tactical voting website, they are doing far more than just saying, “Don’t vote Tory”, and they are not misleading voters, like some websites that claim to be for tactical voting. From everything I have read and heard, Stop The Tories are one of the best tactical voting sites. It is the only one I will use.
    Tactical voting isn’t new. After the last General Election, in 2019, a YouGov poll found that 32% of voters (nearly a third) had tactically voted. If nearly a third of voters did it then, why not more this year? It is a way to send a very firm message to the Conservative Party. Many famous Conservative MPs could lose their seats at this election. Jeremy Hunt, Grant Shapps, Penny Mordaunt, Johnny Mercer, Iain Duncan Smith and Jacob Rees-Mogg are all at risk of losing their seats, with their majorities within the reach of Labour or the Libdems. But, with tactical voting, Suella Braverman, Liz Truss and Rishi Sunak could also lose their seats. Wouldn’t that be something to see, on election night, the current Conservative leader, the most disastrous Prime Minister we’ve ever had and an MP who fancies herself as the next Conservative leader, all losing their seats?
    But the main reason to tactically vote is to ensure the Conservatives, not just lose power, but are so beaten that they cannot form the official opposition, and are locked out of power. Do they deserve anything less with the way they have treated the country?
    There has been calls against tactical voting, saying it’s pointless and doesn’t lead to change and that it shouldn’t be allowed. But tactical voting is coordinating voting, in this case against the Conservative Party, who have failed in government. The Conservative Party have used underhand and dishonest tactics during election campaigns. In the 2019 election campaign, during a leaders’ debate, the Conservative Party rebranded their twitter account as "factcheckUK", pretending to be a fact-checking account and of sending out misleading anti-Labour tweets. A Conservative politician called the outcry against this as “nonsense”. In this election campaign, the Conservatives pulled the same stunt during the leaders’ debate, changing their twitter account to “Tax Check UK”. How can they be trusted?
    We are well overdue electoral reform, but the Conservative Party has stood in the way of this. Stop The Tories state that one of their aims in getting the Conservative Party voted into third place is so that they cannot block any long overdue electoral reforms. Tactical voting could achieve this, why aren’t we working hard for that?
    Drew
  11. Drew Payne

    Genuine Proof of Person

    By Drew Payne,


    blog post
    My government doesn’t trust me at my word.
    Before 2023, all I had to do to vote was take my polling card to the polling station, have one of the election officials check my name off against their list of registered voters and then I would vote. Now I have to show photo ID to vote, but not any photo ID, only one of the nineteen legally approved photo IDs. Why the change in the law? There’s been no voter fraud scandal.
    There has been no large-scale electoral fraud in Britain, and since 2019 eleven people have received convictions for it and four people have received police cautions. This is hardly an epidemic of it, 11 convictions out of 46,000,000 voters in the UK. But since 2019, 18 members of parliament have been suspended from parliament for offences that include: misusing campaign funds, harassment, comparing Covid vaccinations to the holocaust, antisemitism, domestic violence, sexual offenses, sexual assault and a rape arrest. All of these are serious offences. In the same time period, an additional 10 MPs resigned before they could be suspended. This is 28 MPs breaking the rules, out of 650 MPs, since 2019, a little under three times the number of people convicted of electoral fraud. Also, since 2rd June, Robert Largan, the Conservative candidate for High Peak in Derbyshire, has been under investigation by the police for election fraud. So why do we need to show ID when we vote? On the evidence, we need to tighten up regulations on MPs’ behavior.
    There have already been some high profile cases of people being turned away from polling stations for not having the required ID. Boris Johnson was turned away, in May, when he tried to vote in the local elections because he didn’t have the required photo ID. This was Boris Johnson and the chance that it was a publicity stunt is high, he hasn’t featured in newspaper headlines for quite some time, and he returned with the required ID. Adam Diver, a former British soldier, was turned away from his polling station when he tried to use his military ID to vote, a government issued ID. This is because the government has set a very narrow, and very bias, list of approved photo ID, we can only use one of nineteen different forms of ID.
    This list of approved voter ID is neither fair or equal.
    Of the 19 forms of ID 10 are available to adults, 8 forms are available to the over 65s only, and only one form of ID is specific to young people, but the breakdown of these approved IDs is even more worrying. Of 10 forms of ID available without age restrictions, not all of them are available to everyone. Of them:
    1 is a Ministry of Defense Form (but not military ID),
    1 is the Blue Badge disabled parking permit,
    1 is an immigration document,
    1 is the EU citizen’s ID,
    1 is available to Scottish citizens only,
    1 is available to Welsh citizens only.
    This leaves only four forms of approved ID available to general voters, one form of approved ID is specific to young people, while 8 different approved IDs are only available to the over 65s. This law was passed by the Conservative Party and is obviously bias towards the age group who traditionally vote for them, the elderly. This is gerrymandering of the worst sort, rigging election regulations against your political opponents.
    This isn’t only my opinion. Jacob Rees-Mogg, a minister in Boris Johnson’s government and the one responsible for rallying MPs to vote for this law, said, "Parties that try and gerrymander end up finding that their clever scheme comes back to bite them, as dare I say we found by insisting on voter ID for elections.”  He actually admitted that this law was intended to disenfranchise the voters who didn’t vote for the Conservatives. This is unacceptable, a law that is intended to discriminate against a section of our society. Our government should be governing for all of the country, not just the section of the country who they think will vote for them.
    This law first impacted the May 2023 local elections. A report from then found that 14,000 people were turned away from polling stations because they didn’t have the right ID, about 0.25% of total voters. The report also found 4% of people who did not vote said it was because of not having the required voter ID. But it also found that the number of people turned away from polling stations for not having the right photo ID was probably much higher because almost 40% of polling stations used “greeters”, who told voters what ID was needed before they entered the polling station. That 14,000 was only the number turned away inside the polling station, if they didn’t enter there, because they didn’t have the right ID, then they weren’t counted as being turned away. In reality, it was probably a much larger number of people who didn’t vote because of the need for voter ID. A poll earlier this year found that 14% of voters were still unaware of the need for voter ID.
    But there are big holes in this voter ID requirement. You don’t need any photo ID to use postal voting. All you need is your address, your National Insurance number and the date of the election you want to cast your postal vote in. You don’t need to provide any photo ID, let alone one off a small, approved list. You can also apply for an official voter photo ID, to be used just to cast your vote, called a ‘Voter Authority Certificate’. To obtain one of these you’ll need a recent, digital photo of yourself, your National Insurance number and your address, nothing more, certainly not photo ID. This gives the lie to the claim that voter ID is to stop voter fraud. Here are two ways to vote where you don’t need any one of the 19 required photo IDs. But this law was never about voter fraud, it was about gerrymandering, about reducing the ability to vote for people who won’t vote for the Conservative Party.
    We are well overdue voter reform in this country. When the new government comes into office, they need to repeal this dishonest law, The Elections Act 2022.
    Drew.


  12. Drew Payne

    My Vote Doesn’t Count

    By Drew Payne,


    blog post
    In this coming General Election, there is no point in me casting my vote because it will not change anything. I don’t mean that all politicians are the same, and all those simplistic arguments against voting. I mean that because I live in a safe Labour constituency, it doesn’t matter which party I vote for, my constituency will return a Labour MP (Member of Parliament).
    In the 2019 election, my local MP kept her seat with a 32,000 majority. She received 70.1% of the constituency votes. The next candidate only got 16.3% of the vote. It doesn’t matter who I vote for, my local constituency will always return a Labour MP.
    A “safe” constituency is where an MP/political party are guaranteed to be re-elected at whatever election, even if the old MP is retiring (such as is happening in my local constituency) the same political party is guaranteed to hold the seat. And this has been going on for decades. 192 parliamentary seats haven’t changed hands since 1945 or earlier (30% of MPs), while 65 seats haven’t changed hands since 1918 or earlier (10% of MPs). This means that nearly 14 million voters are living in constituencies that have not changed parties since the Second World War, and nearly 5 million voters haven’t seen their constituency change parties since the end of the First World War. How is this fair?
    This has happened because we have the First Past The Post electoral system. Each voter gets one vote with which they elect their local MP. The candidate that gets the most votes, even if it is only by one vote, wins the seat. The voter only votes for their local MP, they don’t vote for the party they want to govern. In reality, most voters vote for the party they want to govern, but their votes don’t go towards that party because their vote is only for the local MP. Because of the nature of First Past The Post, the number of MPs elected to parliament does not reflect the percentage of the national votes their party received.
    The 2019 election:
    the Conservatives won 43.6% of the national vote but won 52.6% of the seats in Parliament,
    Labour won 32.1% of the national vote, 12.5% less than the Conservatives, but they won 31.1% of the seats in Parliament, 21.5% less than the Conservatives,
    the Libdems won 11.5% of the national vote but won only 1.7% of the seats in Parliament,
    the Greens won 2.7% of the national vote but won only 0.2% of the seats in Parliament,
    and The Brexit Party won 2% of the national vote but won 0% of the seats in Parliament.
    How is any of this fair?
    First Past The Post doesn’t mean that the candidate who won the majority of the votes wins the seat. The more candidates standing in a constituency means that the winning candidate doesn’t have to win the majority of votes, just more than the candidate who came second. In the 2015 general election, Claire Hanna won the seat of South Belfast with just 24.5% of the total votes – the lowest winning proportion in UK history. In the 2019 Election, Michelle Gildernew won the Fermanagh & South Tyrone seat by only 57 votes, out of a constituency of 72,848, a 0.07% majority. Again, how is many of this fair?
    How can we say we have elected our government when the electoral system often, effectively, does not allow our vote to count?
    Having so many safe seats also makes our politicians, in these seats, lazy, they don’t have to work to get re-elected. In the last two General Elections, my local MP barely telephoned in her campaign. She scarcely appeared in our constituency, only taking part in a few high profile hustings. She certainly didn’t do much door-to-door campaigning. The only door-to-door campaigning we received were election leaflets pushed through our front door. We didn’t even see many local activists. Why should they bother? She was guaranteed to be re-elected. And in-between elections, she has been a rare presence in our constituency, but again why does she need to bother? There’s no question she won’t be re-elected, or that the Labour candidate won’t be. This only makes for poor political representation for local communities, when they live in a safe seat, no matter which political party. When I lived in West London, in a marginal constituency, my MP actively campaigned during elections and she was seen very visibly in the local area between elections. She had to work to ensure she was re-elected.
    Britain is the only country in Europe still using First Past The Post. 40 out of the 43 other European countries use some form of proportional representation to elect their governments (8). Why are we still clinging onto First Past The Post?
    Proportional Representation or Single Transferable Vote systems will help remove safe seats and make our votes count more, it will also make politicians have to work for our votes. They would not be able to rely on being an MP in a safe seat. It would also mean that our government will better reflect the votes cast for them nationally. No longer will a political party win 43.6% of the national vote but win 52.6% of the parliamentary seats. It would also mean that there would be a higher chance of a hung parliament, were no one party has an overall majority of seats and could not form a government on their own. But this would mean that political parties would have to form coalitions and political packs, they would have to work closer with other parties, they would have to work harder. It would mean that small, fringe parties would also get parliamentary seats, though only a small number. If we’d had some form of proportional representation at the 2019 election, then The Brexit Party could have won 2% of the parliamentary seats and The Greens could have won 2.7% of MPs. This would still force all our political parties to work at their politics and work more closely together. With a coalition government, would we have had the chaos of this government, were we’ve had three different Prime Ministers in one parliament, and only one of them being elected by the British people?
    Some form of Proportional Representation is the only way forward for our electoral system, otherwise millions of people will carry on seeing their votes just not count, the make-up of our parliament will not reflect the national votes cast and far too many MPs will see their re-elections green-light, without them needing to work for it.
    Of course, all that said, I have no say on the make-up of the upper chamber of our government, the House of Lords. All their members have been appointed by different governments, and appointed for life. How is this fair?
    This country is well overdue electoral and parliamentary reform, but when will it happen?
    Drew
  13. Drew Payne
    December 1984
    Dusk had come early that afternoon and by the time of the church’s Evensong Service, all that could be seen outside the windows was black night. The church’s windows only reflected darkness, not even vague shapes or movement within it. In the time before the service began, I sat in my pew and stared at those dark night windows.
    It was called The Youth Service. Once a month, the church’s Young People’s Fellowship was allowed to take part in the Evensong Service, though not the church’s big Sunday morning Eucharist Service. We, the young people, were allowed to lead the service’s music, even choose some of it, read the lessons and lead the prayers, even perform a short dramatic sketch, but we weren’t allowed to choose the service’s theme and we were certainly not allowed to preach the sermon. At twenty, I was still classed as a “youth” at church and was a member of the Young People’s Fellowship. I was sitting in the pew, waiting for that month’s Youth Service to begin. Two of us were going to perform a short sketch about where the kingdom of God actually was. Back then, my writing was very Christian and focused much more on Christianity’s message than any attempt to create realistic characters and situations and then to explore themes through them.
    The high point of the Evensong Service was the sermon; the whole liturgy of the service seemed to lead up to it. That Sunday, the church’s curate was preaching. He was a middle-aged family man who took a very literal view of the Bible and that Sunday he had chosen a very topical subject for his sermon. The previous week, James Anderton, the chief constable of Manchester police, the neighbouring city, had said that people with HIV/AIDS were "swirling in a human cesspit of their own making" (1). The curate chose this as his sermon topic that evening.
    In the sermon James Anderton was called a prophet of God and the curate applauded him for what he said. He said Anderton was standing up for the truth and that AIDS was God’s punishment for homosexuals. He told the congregation that homosexuals were a sin and now God was enacting his judgement on them. He said that people chose to be homosexual and therefore chose to turn away from God and they deserved AIDS.
    I sat in my pew, wishing I was a million miles away from there. His words felt as if they were a direct attack on me. He was telling me that I wasn’t wanted there and that I was going straight to hell just for being who I was. It was as if his anger and hatred was directed straight at me. I was being told I wasn’t welcome there even when I was still deeply in the closet. No one there knew I was gay, not even the curate the night he preached that sermon. I barely knew it, I had certainly not acted on my sexuality, I had not kissed another man, not even held another man’s hand back then.
    James Anderton was a divisive figure, even in 1986. Before his bigoted statements on people with HIV/AIDS, he had been called “God’s Copper” (2), and it was deserved. In 1987, he called for homosexuality to be criminalised again. He said, “The law of the land allows consenting adult homosexuals to engage in sexual practises which I think should be criminal offences. Sodomy between males is an abhorrent offence, condemned by the word of God, and ought to be against the criminal law.” (3) He also encouraged his police officers to patrol the Canal Street area of Manchester, the heart of the city’s gay village even then, to stalk its dark alleys and arrest any men caught in the merest clinch (4). There were also allegations that Manchester police used a colour-coding system to identify anyone homosexual in their files (5).
    Anderton wasn’t just homophobic, he also had far right-wing views that he happily allowed to influence his role as chief constable. He openly stated the elected Labour politicians, who were running Manchester’s council, were part of a left-wing conspiracy to destroy British democracy (6). In late 1977, Anderton secretly met with a National Front leader to ensure that the far-right group could hold marches in Manchester without the risk of counter protests, when other cities had banned marches by the National Front. He allowed the marches to happen as long as their routes were kept secret beforehand (7). In 1987, he called for the corporal punishment for criminals until they begged for mercy (8) and he also called for the castration of rapists (9).
    Anderton saw himself as having “a direct line to God” (10) and therefore being a prophet of God (11). He claimed that God was calling him to speak out on moral issues, therefore implying that his views could not be questioned because they came directly from God. (I have met this attitude many times in my life and always found it extremely worrying and even dangerous because it always seems to be used to justify extremist views.)
    Anderton’s statements and behaviour didn’t go unchallenged. After his bigoted comments about people with HIV/AIDS and his claim to be God’s prophet, in January 1987 Manchester Council called for his resignation (5). The council leader wrote to then Home Secretary Douglas Hurd, calling for Anderton’s behaviour and his handling of Manchester’s police force to be formally investigated and him to be reprimanded (12). Other chief constables said Anderton was “bringing ridicule” onto the police service (12). Anderton ignored the call for his resignation, which is not surprising, but recently it has emerged that he was being protected by Margaret Thatcher’s government and Thatcher herself (12). In response to calls to restrain Anderton’s public announcements, her private secretary wrote to Douglas Hurd stating, "The Prime Minister has commented that it would be outrageous if the Chief Constable [Anderton] were required to seek clearance for all his public speaking engagements." (12) Thatcher also stopped any enquiry into Anderton’s behaviour, saying he shouldn’t be stopped from speaking publicly at non-policing events (13). She protected him.
    In December 1986, I didn’t know of most of this, but I had heard Anderton making his statement on people with HIV/AIDS. His words were incredibly harsh and lacking in any compassion or concern; he actually seemed happy in his condemnation. How could he be speaking God’s will when there was no compassion to his words? Even though it was only 1986, I had taken a lot of time to read and learn about AIDS, though on my own and in secret, and nowhere could I see the facts of AIDS reflected in Anderton’s words.
    Sitting in that church pew, I felt so beaten down and depressed. This was what the curate felt about me and now he was condemning me to hell, even though he didn’t know it was me he was specifically condemning. I had joined that church as a safe place, a place where I could be myself, a place where I was known as myself, not solely as my parents’ child, a place where I was wanted and could belong. I had been wrong. This wasn’t a safe place; this was a dangerous place of condemnation and hatred. I wasn’t wanted there. I felt sick and afraid. I didn’t know what to do.
    It was a relief when the sermon was over, the end of the service rapidly approaching, but I couldn’t unhear those words. James Anderton, with all his hatred and bigotry, had been identified as prophet of God, the curate publicly stating that all his words were the truth. The words of that sermon told me so much—I wasn’t welcome there and neither was I safe, but where else could I go?
    After the service I made some quick excuses and left the church early, I couldn’t risk hearing people say how much they agreed with that sermon. I had to leave that building and hurry out into the dark December night. But hurrying home still didn’t nullify that sermon, didn’t silence its words in my mind.
    When I reached home, I found my father in a very chatty mood. My mother was out visiting a friend that evening and he wanted someone to talk to, but I just wanted to be silent. He started asking me how the service had been but got quickly tired with my monosyllabic and vague answers. I claimed I wasn’t feeling well and retreated to the solitude and safety of my bedroom. How could I tell my father what had happened? I could barely admit it to myself and to tell him would have involved, in some way, telling him I was gay, and back then that was an impossible task.
    Even as I heard that sermon, I knew its words were untrue, but the prejudice and hatred behind it was all too real. My greatest regret from that evening was that I didn’t just stand up and walk out of the church as soon as I realised what that sermon was about, silently announcing my opposition to all of its hatred rather than condoning it with my silent presence. But that was far too big of a thing to ask of myself back then, too much to force on my very closeted self. But hindsight is still a wonderful thing…
    (The photograph illustrating this essay is not a picture of the church where this took place)
    Drew
     
    Find the next story in this series here

  14. Drew Payne
    This was the second collection of short stories published posthumously after PD James’s death. Not known for her short story, this collection gives a very different view of James’s writing. She’s known for her very well written novels, where the handsome and cultured Commander Dalgliesh steps in and meticulously takes apart a vicious crime. Instead, these stories present murder where the guilty aren’t punished, and some are even rewarded.
    In several of these short stories the central character is the murderer, men plotting their revenge. The other stories are told from the point-of-view of an innocent caught up in a murder. The Girl Who Loved Graveyards is the stand out story of this collection. It begins with an almost modern fairy tale feel and ends with a nasty shock. The weakest story is by far Mr. Millcroft’s Birthday. It felt like James was trying for a lighter, more satirical tone, unfortunately she missed her mark. James excelled with a dark tone in her writing, where she leans into this with these stories then the story is far better for it.
    These stories rely on nostalgia, most of them are set long before they were written, and they benefit from it. This is not the nostalgia of cosy crime, instead she uses her setting to aid her stories. These are stories where people can be easily isolated, where the police are far away, where forensics are not there to save the day. Instead, these are stories full of dark human behaviour. But these stories also pack a punch with a twist in the tale, an unforeseen ending.
    These stories are very different to James’s Dalgliesh novels, and show she had a talent for dark, gothic stories. Maybe she might have had an alternative career writing novels in this style, or maybe she just enjoyed writing the occasional dark, gothic short story. This is still a fascinating and dark collection of short stories, showing why James was such an accomplished writer, which I finished reading all too quickly.
    Find it here on Amazon
  15. Drew Payne

    To Be a Friend

    By Drew Payne,


    My Story
    Summer 1985
    “I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” Lynne said and wrapped her arms around me in a hug.
    We were sat together in my parents’ kitchen, while my parents were in the living room, watching television.
    Lynne and I were members of the Young People’s Fellowship (YPF), which was the young people’s group at our Evangelical Anglian church. We were also friends. I really admired her singing voice, which was one of those voice’s that could claim the attention of a whole room with its purity and clarity. She admired my writing, which was strange and humbling. She was one of the handful of people then who encouraged me to write, which was so eye-opening to me.
    Lynne was and is beautiful but her beauty is more than skin deep and stays in the memory long after meeting her. She radiates a confident sexuality which is so attractive to others, and yet she is so oblivious to it herself. In the YPF, there were so many young men who were attracted to her, some even claimed to be in love with her, and yet Lynne barely saw this. I, though, was fascinated. These young men projected so much onto her, one even claiming that God had sent her to be his wife, but none of them seemed interested in Lynne as a person, none of them looked further than Lynne’s attractiveness. To me, she was a wonderful friend with an amazing intellect and a warm personality.
    That summer Lynne was eighteen, preparing to go to university that autumn, I was nineteen and struggling to deal with my sexuality, and failing, believing that the only choice I had was celibacy because I was an Evangelical Christian. I had also started my first job and had fallen into a hopeless, unrequited and very secret love for a male colleague.
    I can’t remember why she called on me but that’s the least important part of the evening. For some reason Lynne asked to see one of the poems I’d written, one about loneliness. So I showed it to her, in the notepad I used to write my poems in. My poems were very teenage poems. They were high on emotional content and low on style and format. I simply copied the styles of poets I liked, not understanding the form or style and struggling with rhyming couplets. My poems were much more of a way to explore and vent my emotional life, to try and make sense of my emotions and the things I was living through.
    Lynne read that poem, nodding to herself, and, to my horror, turned over the page and started reading the next poem. After she finished that one, she read the next and the next one. She must have read a dozen of those poems. To my horror, she read poems were I expressed my struggles with my sexuality and my unrequited love (crush?), poems that talked about my love for him. I didn’t use the gender neutral “you” because I never intended anyone to read them. But Lynne was reading them (!!). I couldn’t just snatch the note pad out of her hand, so I just sat there and watched her read them. Though the expression that graced her face wasn’t disgust, it was realisation.
    After she’d finished reading, she put the notepad down on the kitchen table, said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” and gave me a big hug. Then we talked.
    I tried to explain to her my therapy that it was the “act” of homosexuality, not the desire, that was the sin, and if I could remain “pure” then God would be “happy” with me. I was still in the thrall of the True Freedom Trust. I must have sounded crazy but Lynne didn’t act negatively, but she did ask me an important question. She asked me what I really wanted. Quietly I answered, I wanted a boyfriend. I didn’t know what form that relationship could take, especially with my believes then, but I wanted a relationship, someone to love. She was the first person I admitted to that I wanted to love someone, to love another man, and she didn’t condemn me for it, she simply accepted it.
    Her acceptance meant so much to me and was so eye opening. There were people who didn’t hate and condemn me just for being gay, and maybe wanting to love another man wasn’t so wrong. Her acceptance wasn’t a light bulb moment, I didn’t suddenly realise it was okay to be gay, but it stayed in the back of my mind, it held out the hope that I could be accepted.
    All these years later, I am still in contact with Lynne, though we live at almost opposite ends of the country. She is one of the few people I remained in contact from that time. So many people, back then, who called me their friend, quickly dropped me when they found out that I’m gay, not Lynne. Many, many years later, Lynne sang at my wedding. She sang a marvellous version of O Tell Me the Truth About Love by WH Auden. Her beautiful and clear voice filled the registry office, being the perfect ending to our marriage ceremony. She was one of the four people I dedicated my first book to, she was one of the people who encouragement kept me writing.
    There are some people, through their simple acts of kindness and love, that leave a deep impact upon our lives, Lynne was one of those people for me.
    Drew
     
    Postscript: In the previous essays in this series I’ve used pseudonyms for the people mentioned. This essay is different because I’ve used Lynne’s real name, with her permission. I want this essay to stand as a tribute to this wonderful person.
     
    Find the next story in this series here
  16. Drew Payne

    When Denial Was My Only Option

    By Drew Payne,


    My Story
    (This is part of a continuing series about how I tried to come out as gay in an Evangelical Christian environment. If you haven’t read my other essays in this series, please find them here, they will put this essay into context)
     
    Spring 1985
    “I don’t believe you’re homosexual,” he said. “I believe you’re bisexual, mostly heterosexual, and this is a phase you are going through.”
    I just nodded my agreement, what else could I do?
    We were sat together in the tiny study of his house. He was the curate of the church I attended, in suburban Liverpool. It was an extremely Evangelical church, everything was right or wrong, no grey areas, from a very simplistic reading of the bible, but it was also the place I was desperately trying to belong to. I wanted to be accepted by this congregation, these people, because I believed they were my only chance at finding friendship. But there was a secret stain on my soul, I am gay, and back then Evangelical Christians saw it as a sin so bad it was only punishable by hell (I know many still believe that).
    I was eighteen then and so deeply closeted. I had locked that closet door and wasn’t letting in a spark of light. No one could know I was gay, if they did I could risk losing all of my friends, and I was lonely enough. The thought of being friendless was terrifying. But my secret was eating away inside of me. There was the fear of being found out but there was also the isolation. There was no one I could talk to and be my real self with, I had to constantly monitor what I said, again and again I had to pretend to be straight, again and again I had to hide so much of myself.
    I longed to be open with someone about my sexuality. (Deep down I longed for a boyfriend but that was too much to express. But I still believed that if I had gay sex, it would be a sin that would condemn me to hell forever). I was so deeply depressed, but back then I didn’t even recognise that, I found it was just my normal, melancholic personality.
    Several months before that day I hit a watershed moment. I saw an advert for an organisation called the True Freedom Trust (TFT), in the back of my Christian youth magazine, they claimed to have an alternative to the “homosexual lifestyle” through Christianity. I had been seeing its founder, HM, since then for counselling. He said his belief was just being gay wasn’t a sin but any kind of gay sex was, the only “acceptable” lifestyle was that of celibacy. I jumped at that, when I first heard it, it was my fire escape from hell (Though as time passed, it proved nothing of the sort).
    HM said that I needed to confide in someone, at my church, about my sexuality. He suggested my church’s curate. I was unsure but was convinced by HM. HM said he had met the curate and he was the right man to support me. I wasn’t sure but HM said this was the right thing to do.
    The curate was a middle-aged man who had trained for the Anglican ministry after a life of low paid jobs and then a long time in adult education. He had deeply Evangelical beliefs, which he would talk about at any opportunity, especially his views on sex, which were just as Evangelical. He talked about masculine Christianity and for Christian leaders to be strong and real men.
    I screwed up what little courage I had, this would only be the second person I told about my sexuality, and asked the curate if I could see him. There was something I needed to talk to him about.
    On a weekday afternoon, I visited him, at his home, sat in his tiny study with him, and I told him I thought I was gay. I actually said I thought I was homosexual and that I’d been having homosexual feelings. That was when he told me he believed I wasn’t, that I was just a confused heterosexual.
    I was stunned, this wasn’t the reaction I had been expecting, or even fearing, and I had no answer for him but to agree with him. How could I have argued? What could I have said? I didn’t have the strength, back then, to tell him that I don’t have a heterosexual bone in my body, which is what I would do now. I just agreed with him, because that was what I was sure he wanted me to say, and in that I wasn’t wrong.
    Then he told me he’d had of vision of me, a vision given to him by God. He saw me dressed in a suit and tie, not wearing my glasses, with my hair short, neat and tidy, taking a girl out on a date to the cinema. If I followed this vision then I would truly find happiness and be the man God wanted me to be, he said.
    I felt a terrible kick of fear. How could this be a vision from God, it was so wrong. Without my glasses I am very short-sighted, which makes most activities difficult, at best. My hair is thick and curly and in any style that is short, it rebels against it, sticking out at odd angles, it is never neat when short. I hate wearing a suit and tie, even then I did. Suit jackets show off my round shoulders, I’m never comfortable with a tie pushed up to my neck, and shirts never stay tucked into my trousers. My mother always complained about how badly suits hung off me, but I am just genetically unsuited to them. But taking a girl on a date, that was the most confusing part of his vision. Was he telling me to stay and follow the TFT’s ex-gay counselling? I was begging God, each night, to turn me straight, but that prayer went unanswered, every time. Did the curate’s vision mean I was failing? His words felt like a command, telling me the way I should be living, but a goal I was falling so far short of.
    I didn’t argue with the curate, I didn’t tell him what he said was certainly a lie, when he called me heterosexual, but I couldn’t. I had such a negative view of myself, I hated so much of myself, that denying myself and agreeing with him was all I could think of to do.
    As I left his study, and his home, I again agreed with him, he said I wasn’t gay, only a confused heterosexual. He was so wrong.
    I felt so betrayed, after seeing him. I had gone to him for help and support but he’d denied me that by denying what I said to him. How could he have turned it into such a lie, something that was so untrue? (Now, with the benefit of hindsight, I realise that man was deeply homophobic. It was his homophobia that drove him to deny my sexuality and to come up with that ridiculous vision of me. But I didn’t know that, back then)
    After that afternoon, the curate behaved as if I had never told him I was gay, he just ignored it as if I had never said a word to him. He carried on talking to me about me finding a girlfriend and his preaching, at church, got increasingly homophobic. I got the message though, he didn’t want to hear any more about me being gay.
    The impression was made, did anyone at church want to know I’m gay? No they didn’t. I had to stay firmly closeted because being gay was something to be ashamed of. Not what I needed to hear at that moment.
     
    Drew
     
    Find the next story in this series here
  17. Drew Payne
    It’s 1970s North London. Middle class and conservative accountant Edward is married to Helen, but he is also having an affair with Binny. But single mother Binny is tired of being the other woman and wants a social life with Edward, a part of one anyway, more than just occasional meals in restaurants were Edward is sure no one will recognise him. To this end Binny wants to host a dinner party for Edward and his friends George and Muriel Simpson. The two couples duly sit down for their dinner party, at Binny’s home, though she managed to arrange for the children to be elsewhere that night, but Edward has to leave by ten-thirty, so his wife doesn’t suspect. But Binny’s friend Alma gate crashes the party, because she’s having man trouble. Then four people barrage into the house, three young men with guns and a young woman with a pram.
    This isn’t a thriller but instead its Bainbridge’s dark take upon middle-class married life and adultery. In her world adultery isn’t unfaithful and disguising, it is sordid, complicated and very messy. This book is populated with unhappy people living dull and damp lives. No one here is happy, even the criminals holding these people hostages are sad and rather useless. No one here is near living a fulfilled life.
    Bainbridge captures so well the dull grey life of North London in the 1970s, with Binny’s house more than a little neglected. She also captures these people’s dull and rather sad lives. Being held hostage isn’t exciting or dangerous for these people, it just makes their lives more complicated.
    Bainbridge is at her best here with her understanding of these people. They are not heroes or anti-heroes; they are people who lives are passing them by. Even when their lives are in danger, it is their unfulfilled existences that come to the front. When one of the women is raped, by one of their captures, she doesn’t feel violated or victimised, she just feels it’s her bad luck.
    The ending of this novel is sudden and strange but it also feels strangely right.
    This is a fine example of Bainbridge’s dark but accurate view of life, and an antidote to the Saccharin sweet view of the seventies, we all too often get now. Life wasn’t always better in flares.
    Find it here on Amazon
  18. Drew Payne

    No Daemons on My Back

    By Drew Payne,


    My Story
    Spring 1986
     
    The carpet was patterned, a swirling blue-and-purple paisley pattern of looped tear-drop shapes curled around each other, and I stared down intensely at it. I thought if I focused on it then I could ignore what was happening around me, but that didn’t work. It was impossible to block it all out.
    I could feel the weight of all their hands pressing down on me, the weight of them on my head, the back of my neck and my shoulders. Those hands made me hold my head forwards, to stare down at the carpet under my feet, but that was also expected of me, to keep my head bowed.
    In a loud voice, Richard called out to God to cast the daemons out of me, the daemons of homosexuality, and therefore I would be healed, and be made normal, and be made straight.
    It was a Sunday evening and the Young People’s Fellowship had met inside my local Anglican church, shortly after the Evening Song service. It was run by two married couples, the clean-cut Richard and Elizabeth, and their growing number of children, and the round and comical Iain and Sadie, who always had the latest electronic gadget.
    The format each week would be a discussion on one topic or another, all of them relating to being a Christian. But there wasn’t that much discussion, often we would be told what we needed to believe by the group’s leaders. It was an Evangelical Anglican church so, no matter your questions or worries, someone would always have the right answer for you; someone would tell you what you had to do. That Sunday night I was suddenly the centre of attention, a place I didn’t like being in.
    I had told a few people there, a few people I thought I could trust, that I was struggling with my sexuality. I knew I was gay, but I didn’t want to be. I had grown up in that environment and knew how homophobic it was. I had breathed in that homophobia deep inside of me and I had believed its lies were true. My sexuality would only lead me to damnation, or so I believed back then. I believed it so much that I had secretly gone to an organisation called the True Freedom Trust, who told me, through prayer and therapy and God’s power, that I would turn straight (now it would be called conversion therapy). I believed what they said, I’d begged God each night to turn me straight and nothing had happened.
    This secret had all been too much for me to bear; I had to tell someone else, I had to find support. But I didn’t choose well. Those people I told went on to tell other people and suddenly the whole of the Young People’s Fellowship knew.
    That Sunday evening, they decided to cure me by exorcising the daemons from me, the daemons they said were causing me to be gay.
    The exorcism seemed to take forever. One person after another prayed out loud over me and I just stared down at the carpet under my feet. I tried to block it all out. I tried to concentrate on something else, anything else, but again and again that sense of betrayal washed over me. This was how these people saw me, as evil, as corrupt, as possessed by the devil, or by one of his daemons, all because I was gay, and not very gay at that.
    I was still a very naïve virgin then. I had not even kissed another man, not held another man’s hand. I had certainly never had sex with anyone. I’d had a few secret, painful and unrequited crushes on other men, but they had been my deep and shameful secret, I had told no one about them.
    I had turned to these people for help and this was the way they were treating me. They, the Young People’s Fellowship members, said we were all like family, and this was fostered by the group’s leaders. So many times, so many people had talked of us being like a family and how we could always rely upon one another. We were Christians; we could trust one another, we only wanted the best for one another. But when I needed them the most they turned around and tried to cast daemons out of me. I had wanted them, no, I had needed them to tell me that I was alright, that I was still wanted by them, that it didn’t make any difference, that I could still be one of them even if I was gay. Instead they turned around and said I was evil, possessed by daemons, and in need of exorcism.
    The betrayal was so great that it physically hurt.
    When they removed their hands from me, I knew it was all over, that I could finally pull back to the fringes of the group and hide myself away. Except I couldn’t.
    People kept coming up to me and telling me that I was “cured” now. People told me they knew why I was gay (so many different theories) and they knew how I could be “healed”. Elizabeth told me that God had told her I needed to keep going back to the True Freedom Trust because that would be the only way I was to be “healed”. I just nodded my head in agreement with her. I didn’t tell her that I was a total failure at turning straight; that the harder I begged God to turn me straight it only seemed to make my gay feeling feel stronger and more real. I knew she didn’t want to hear that.
    I left the Young People’s Fellowship meeting as soon as it ended. I didn’t stay for the coffee and chat; I couldn’t look anyone in the face. I felt so wretched inside. It was easy to slip away unnoticed.
    It was a cold and dark winter night outside, but that suited my mood, I deserved the cold and dark.
    When I reached home, I found that my mother was out, visiting a friend, and my father had been watching television. He was bubbling over with excitement about some program he had been watching. He chatted on about it, his words washing over me, but also not requiring me to speak. I didn’t have to tell him what had happened, nor was I able to. I’d been told, so often, that it was my parents’ fault that I was gay, and stupidly I had believed that lie.
    As I sat there, my father’s words filling the room, I knew I couldn’t go back to the Young People’s Fellowship; it wasn’t a safe place for me anymore. But they had said they were like my family and that church should be my whole life. Without them I didn’t know what I could do.
    I knew I couldn’t go back there, self-protection had finally kicked in, but I didn’t know where I was to go next or even what I should do. But I had to do something, I just didn’t know what.
    Drew
     
    Find the next story in this series here

  19. Drew Payne
    A small time Dublin thief (we’re never told his name) suddenly finds himself out of his depth. Used to stealing cash and jewels, which he can easily fence and sell on, he now finds that the paintings he stole, from a country house, are a Rembrandt, a Gainborough and two Guardis. How does he sell them, for a good profit, without alerting the police? And the police are becoming more and more interested in him because his alcoholic mother has been loose-lipped around her new friend.
    This story was originally included in Toibin’s collection Mothers and Sons. In June, 2006, Picador published it as part of their Picador Shots, pocket-sized books containing one story.
    The premise of this story is interesting, a criminal falls into a personal existential angst because he has stolen paintings he can’t easily sell, and is facing trusting people he doesn’t know. Unfortunately, the excursion of this story just fades away. Toibin spends a lot of time on the thief’s past. At first this is interesting, but when so much space is given over to it, it means we get so little on thief’s present day life. Why is his falling apart? We have little discussion of that, so little time is given to thief’s current relationship with his mother and we’re not even told thief’s wife’s name.
    What is most disappointing, is the ending. This story doesn’t end as much as it just fades out with an unexpected event, running opposite to the story’s narrative. It felt as Toibin hit his word limit and had to hastily bring this story to an end. The ending was so disappointing that it left a sour taste in my mouth.
    I wanted to like this story but was disappointed by its poor ending and the way Toibin did not explore his interesting premise. Maybe other stories in Mothers and Sons are better, but I hope this one wasn’t the best.
    Find it here on Amazon
  20. Drew Payne
    Winter 1984
    It was a cold and grey winter’s day. The grey sky seemed to hang heavy over everything, stripping away what little colour was left in that winter landscape. I had travelled across Merseyside, on my own, that morning to make this appointment. I’d needed to change trains in the centre of Liverpool, changing from one metro train onto another one in one of the few underground stations in the city. That second train took me under the River Mersey and out into the suburban area of the Wirral. Once I had arrived at the station, I left the train and waited outside.
    I’d been nervous throughout that journey. I had arranged this appointment, I couldn’t not keep it, not to turn up was not acceptable, but I was so nervous about keeping it. Now, waiting out on the pavement, my nerves had ramped up to another level. Was this going to help me? And what if I was attracted to him? How could I manage that?
    I was eighteen and that summer I had left college but without the qualifications for my then planned career (which, with hindsight, I wouldn’t have been happy in). I was unemployed with so much time on my hands (it was the 1980s and with the high unemployment rates in Liverpool I didn’t stand much of a chance of finding a job). I was facing up to so many different things about myself but facing that slow realisation on my own. I’d learnt that people didn’t want to hear my problems, the ones I wasn’t too ashamed to share.
    I had seen the advert, months ago, tucked away in the back of a Christian youth magazine in which all the articles were written by adults. I had kept that magazine, securely hidden amongst a pile of other old magazines. The text of that advert was simple:
    “HOMOSEXUALITY. There is a positive alternative to the homosexual lifestyle through Christ.”
    The wording leapt out at me, there was a Christian answer to my problem, to the thing I would never dare to ask anyone about. Since puberty, I’d had the growing realisation that I was homosexual (back then I couldn’t bring myself to say I was gay, that was going too far). I was in so much denial about my sexuality and at every chance I tried to push it down and deny that it was even there, it was all so tiring.
    Since an early teenager I had been a member of an Evangelical Christian church, our local Anglican church. I worked so hard at being a good Christian, and good Christians were certainly not homosexual, or so I believed. I knew being homosexual meant I was condemned to hell, it was there at church, that belief, that certainty, and I had breathed it into my very soul and believed it all. I was a virgin then, I hadn’t even kissed another boy, I had certainly not held another boy’s hand, but I knew that just my desire to do so condemned me to hell. I wanted saving from that, I couldn’t just be sent to hell for something I had no control over, could I?
    Then I saw that advert, from an organisation called True Freedom Trust (TFT), who called themselves a “Teaching/Counselling Ministry” and gave a post office box address in The Wirral, not far from where I lived.
    It had taken me weeks, and screwing up all the courage I had, to write to TFT, sending them a stamped-and-addressed envelope. When it returned, I read the handful of leaflets it contained cover to cover and all over again before carefully hiding them away, I didn’t want my mother finding them. They came with a letter offering me the chance to meet someone from TFT for counselling.
    Again it took me weeks to screw-up my courage, but eventually I wrote back to them and asked to meet for counselling. That was how I ended up standing there on the pavement, outside that Wirral train station, waiting. I was waiting for HM, from TFT. I was meeting him for counselling.
    A car pulled up at the curbside there, it was HM. He was a thin, middle-aged man with a five-o’clock shadow so thick on his chin that he looked like he already needed to shave. But the thing that struck me so hard about him was how careworn and miserable he was, no joy came from him. Even when he shook my hand, he seemed so unhappy, the handshake so slight and quick. I had feared that I could be attracted to him, but his joyless personality was so unattractive.
    We drove to the TFT’s office, housed in a local Anglican church. There HM told me the TFT theology. They did not believe that being homosexual, on its own, was a sin, but any sexual expression of it was. The sin was in the act. All I had to do to avoid hell was to remain celibate, never have sex with another man. Hearing this was such a relief, this was my fire escape out of hell and I could so easily do it. I was young, a virgin, and had never had a relationship, would I ever miss something I’d never had?
    I was so grateful to HM; I was saved from hell and it came at a low price.
    We then talked about the leaflets HM had sent me. Three of them were testimonies, short biographies, from men who had “turned away” from the homosexual lifestyle and become heterosexual, all three men finished their stories by saying they were getting married to a woman. When I mentioned these, HM’s face lit up and we talked about them. He saw me as perfect candidate for this change; I was young, innocent and had never wanted to be homosexual. I listened to what he said and drank it all in. The fire escape could lead to paradise, or so it seemed.
    I left the TFT’s office believing everything I had been told. It was such a physical relief; I wasn’t going to hell, I just had to follow a few rules and I could change and be free. I had been so terrified of my sexuality, seeing it as something I had no power over but which was destroying me from within. Now there was a way of escaping that damnation.
    At first it was all so easy, I’d not had a relationship so being celibate did not seem a great sacrifice, especially as it would save my soul. I was still deeply closeted but I was living in an environment that was not safe to come out into. The Evangelical church I was a member of was homophobic; that homophobia was covert rather than overt, but I could still read it plainly.
    I saw HM on a sort of regular basis. At first, we met in the TFT office and we would talk about TFT theology; in reality, I would say something and he would tell me what I needed to do. Like so much of Evangelical Christianity, he always had an answer for me; he always knew what I had to do. It was never him asking me questions and helping me to find out what I wanted to do, he just told me what I had to do.
    Then HM offered me “healing of the memories” as a way to “heal” me and turn me heterosexual. I readily agreed. I was now desperate for “change” and “healing” in my life. I still hated my sexuality; I still wanted it out of my life, so this offer seemed like another fire escape, a way out of my own personal hell.
    “Healing of the memories” consisted of me lying on a sofa and HM, after he’d prayed over me for God to open my mind and my memories, would sit at the head of sofa, on a wooden chair, and “guide” me through reliving painful/traumatic memories. The first memory he had me relive was my birth. I lay back on the sofa, HM prayed over me for God to open up my memories, I closed my eyes and nothing came into my mind. I remembered nothing about my birth and I panicked. I wasn’t being faithful to God, there was something wrong with me, God wasn’t opening up my memories, I had angered God, and HM would be upset and angry at me. So my wonderful imagination kicked in and I made up a narrative of my own birth there and then.
    I imagined that I was a forceps delivery and that I didn’t want to be born, I didn’t want to pulled out of the warm and safe place I had been living in; I was scared and afraid of this bright and cold world I was being pulled into. All very dramatic and all very indicative of my mental health back then. (Years later, I would find out that I was a caesarean birth. What I said back then was just fiction, no miracle of me suddenly finding a lost memory)
    I met HM regularly for “Healing of the memories”, about once a month, for the next six months. Always he would have me “relive” a memory where my father had let me down or my mother had taken control of something, telling me what I had to do. Always HM told me that this would “repair” my relationship with my parents and “heal” me. (With the benefit of time and hindsight, I am now deeply suspicious of HM’s motives with which memories he guided me to relive. Always they would be ones where my father let me down, where my father was weak, and where my mother was taking control and telling me what to do, my mother being dominant. There is an old and discredited theory called Learned Behaviour. It states that a man is gay because his father is weak and/or absent and his mother is strong and dominant [Back in 1984, Learned Behaviour just plainly ignored lesbians, bisexual people and trans people, but it is a very pathetic and untrue theory.] I am now almost certain HM was pushing me towards that theory. The irony is that I had two very strong-willed and dominant parents, neither one was weak)
    At the time, I didn’t have any of this insight and HM’s “counselling” only reinforced to me that my parents were to “blame” for my sexuality, to blame for the misery I was living in. It drove a wedge between me and my parents, damaging an already difficult relationship. Now I am ashamed of the way I behaved towards them, but back then I was deeply closeted and being told to blame my parents for it, and I did so because I knew nothing else.
    But none of this “counselling” was working. There was no change in my sexuality, if anything it was becoming more dominant in my mind. I would see handsome men everywhere and be attracted to them. I had started having crushes on some men I knew. This all left me feeling deeply ashamed and guilty. Wasn’t my sexuality supposed to be changing? Wasn’t I supposed to be leaving behind the temptation of my homosexuality? But I wasn’t. I would lie awake at night and beg God to turn me straight, but there was no change. What was I doing wrong? Why wasn’t God listening to me? Was I to be condemned to this cold and lonely living for the rest of my life? Why had God stopped loving me? Or had God never loved me in the first place?
    I now know I was suffering from depression, but at the time it seemed that I was living in my own personal hell. That fire escape had not worked, but I was still struggling to walk up it, it was the only option I thought I had and it was destroying me.
    My mother sent me to my GP because of the insomnia and extremely low energy levels I had. My GP said I was depressed, something I couldn’t/wouldn’t hear. Bible-believing Christians didn’t get depressed because that was against God’s will, or so I believed. He prescribed me tranquillisers. I only took them because my mother expected me to.
    One morning, I woke up and got dressed and then sat down on the edge of my bed. I was alone in the house, both my parents were at work, and suddenly it was all too much for me. I took my morning tranquilliser and then I took another one. Coldly, I carried on taking them; I would overdose on them and finally stop all this pain. My rather tight gag-reflex stepped in, though, and I choked on the third pill. It caught in my throat and I coughed and coughed and then retched and then I spat the pill back up again. I wept because I had been so stupid and weak, or so I felt.
    I had been feeling suicidal for months before that but it had never gone beyond just thoughts. Each time I would dwell on the idea of suicide, the idea of ending all of this pain and misery, and then another thought would jump into my mind. If I killed myself that was a sin and I’d go straight to hell for it, and I was terrified of hell. That fear kept the act of suicide to a mere thought and desire, and not too well of a constructed plan, but that morning I acted on that desire. It terrified me what I could actually do, how much I could physically harm myself, and I told no one. They would think I was crazy, I was mad, I was worse, and how could they understand? They would say it was because I was homosexual. I certainly couldn’t tell HM, he talked so much about change and leaving the “homosexual lifestyle”. But I was also finding it harder and harder to hide my symptoms of depression. Being celibate was such a lonely existence. I was keeping everyone at arm’s length because I feared that intimacy would lead to sin, and I feared they would find out the truth, but I hated being so lonely too.
    I saw HM for a little over eighteen months, but it was during the last six months that everything seemed to spiral out of control. Firstly, the organist of my church was expelled for being gay. It was discovered that his close friend was actually his male lover and they were told not to attend our church anymore. When this happened, I told HM about it, I was so shocked and afraid. These people, the people who called themselves my “Christian family”, had Nicholas and his partner thrown out of our church without an apparent second thought. HM told me that Nicholas wasn’t a Christian, he was just someone who enjoyed the social life of being a member of a church, he liked the friends he made at church, so it was an act of Christian discipline to expel him and therefore it was right. (A couple of years later, I learnt that this simply wasn’t true, HM hadn’t been honest with me)
    Next the curate, at my church, preached a sermon supporting James Anderton’s homophobia and told me that anyone who was homosexual was condemned to hell for their “choice” to be homosexual. He made no distinction between the orientation and sexual activity, he condemned it all. I didn’t tell HM about this because I felt so betrayed; here was a minister of the church I attended, a man I looked up to, condemning me from the pulpit, and he didn’t even known it was me he was condemning.
    Then I was outed at church and quickly after that I had daemons cast out of me, for being gay, at the church’s youth fellowship. The betrayal of those actions cut deep within me. It didn’t stop there though. So many people in the youth fellowship told me they knew why I was gay; they all seemed to have a theory about my sexuality. I was told I was gay because I had a strong-willed mother, because I had a strong-willed father, because I was “confused” about my masculinity, because I was a woman “trapped” in a man’s body, because I was possessed by daemons, because the devil was sitting on my shoulder and whispering “lies” in my ear saying that I was gay, because I hadn’t met the “right” woman … and so many more theories, and none of them based on anything I had said. None of them reflected any element of me, but all of them showed how little those people knew me.
    At first all these different theories were almost comical, but soon they started to hurt. No one was offering me acceptance, instead I was seen as a “problem” that needed solving. But quickly people began to pull away from me, drop me and end our friendships because they knew I was gay. Almost overnight, it felt like I lost almost all my friends and was pushed to the very fringes of church life. That hurt so deeply. Now I was physically lonely as well as emotionally lonely.
    I turned to the only person I thought would help me. I went to see HM and told him about everything that was happening to me—the daemons being cast out of me, the list of theories as to why I was gay, and about losing almost all my friends. I expected HM to support me, to offer help and advice about what I should do next, to show he cared. I was wrong.
    HM started by saying that homosexuality can be caused by demonic possession. He then went on to tell me there was a lot of “truth” in all those theories people had about why I was gay. As I listened to him, it was as if scales fell away from my eyes and I saw HM for what he was. He wasn’t there to support me; he was justifying my church’s homophobia. He was doing that for the wider Evangelical Church too. He wasn’t there to challenge the Church’s homophobia; he was there to support the status quo by presenting the “acceptable” face of homosexuality to the Evangelical Church. He was a sad, sexless, gay man who was punishing himself with celibacy as the price to be allowed within the Evangelical Church, but never to be allowed to be a full member. He was so pathetic, it was horrible and repulsive to realise. And I had followed him.
    I made positive noises and said positive things in reply to what he said, but I didn’t believe a word of it. I just wanted to get out of that office as quickly as I could.
    I never went back to HM and TFT after that day; I knew they didn’t care about me. They cared about being the “acceptable” homosexuals for the Evangelical Church and they wanted to force me into that mould. They hadn’t cared about helping and supporting me, and I had desperately needed that.
    I wish I could say the hurt and damage stopped the day I walked away from them, but it didn’t because so often the damage doesn’t stop when the abuse does.
    POSTSCRIPT: At present, the British government has a proposal to ban conversion therapy, though there is still no date for when the bill will come before parliament. There are two exceptions in the proposal. It will not cover anyone over eighteen who consents to have conversion therapy and will not cover gender identify, so trans people at any age can be subjected to it. If this bill had been law in 1984 it wouldn’t have protected me because I was eighteen when I first went to TFT, and I went to them; therefore, I consented to it.
    Drew
     
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  21. Drew Payne

    My Naivety Betrayed Me

    By Drew Payne,


    My Story
    It was spring 1996 and I was on my break at work. The staff room was an old storeroom at the far end of the ward. A collection of old chairs had been arranged in a haphazard circle around an equally old coffee table. It wasn’t highly decorated, or even been decorated in years, and was barely comfortable, but it was a staff room actually located on the ward. Back then that felt like such a luxury.
    I was on my own there, so often I had to take my breaks alone so we could maintain enough nurses on the ward, but it had become routine for me. I was having a drink and catching up with reading that week’s copy of the Nursing Standard magazine. I was reading an article about sexual relationships between nurses and patients. Not something I had or would ever experience first-hand, but I knew of a few ex-colleagues who had had relationships with ex-patients and that always made me uncomfortable.
    In a text box, in the article, was a list of activities that could be classed as sexual molestation, if performed without consent. As I read down the list, I had a cold and horrible realization; I had been the victim of this, I had been sexually molested. Before then, I told myself that being sexually molested involved some kind of actual sexual activity, someone forcing you into a sexual act. This list contained activities such as fondling, kissing and groping of the genitals. Nowhere did it say that it had to be a full-blown sexual act. For too long, I had told myself that what happened to me hadn’t been any kind of sexual abuse, it was just one of those things that had happened.
    It was ten years before, the Summer of 1985; I was aged nineteen and I had gone to a Christian Arts Festival, a Christian version of a very down-market Glastonbury Festival. I had gone there with a group of young people, my age, from the church I was a member of. Unfortunately, the group didn’t run very coherently. Everyone agreed that we should all do the festival together but no one could decide what we should go to see and do together. There were already “discussions” over what events and artists we should see, and no one was interested in the theatre tents. But I was. I was just discovering theatre and the power of it, the joy of writing scripts. I wanted to see everything the two theatre tents there had to offer. By early on the first afternoon, I had given everyone the slip and gone off to see the plays and talks and to attend the workshops that I wanted to see on my own. I threw myself into a long weekend of plays and talks; most of them I saw on my own but that didn’t matter, I was used to being on my own. (Looking back on those plays and talks now, I find many of them naïve and simplistic, not many of them stand out for their attempt to discuss their subjects with any depth.)
    There was one play performed there that year called Skin Deep and I was determined to see it on my own.  It billed itself as a look at twentieth century sexuality but its synopsis told me it was a look at being gay and Christian. I was so deeply in the closet then that I could not dare tell anyone else that I was going to see that play because the admission would have opened me up to far too many questions, so I imagined. So I went on my own.
    Looking back on it Skip Deep was very simplistic and a bit homophobic. It was about three young friends, a closeted gay man, his female friend and his male friend. The gay man comes out to his female friend and confesses he’s in love with his male friend. The rest of the play was the gay man agonising about being in love with his straight best friend, with different and stylised sections looking at attitudes to sexuality. The play ended with the gay man confessing his love to his male friend, only for the male friend to beat him up for doing so. The gay man then took an overdose and died. After his death, his female friend started a relationship with his male friend.
    Now I would have been repulsed by the play’s simplistic and rather homophobic plot. Back then I was swept away by seeing my own sexuality, and my fears about it, portrayed on stage. The gay character had killed himself, at the end, and I feared that that would be my fate too. I had been involved with the True Freedom Trust for over a year then and was trying to live by their philosophy, but it was a cold, hard and difficult life. I was also struggling to live up to their philosophy because the church I was attending then, back in Liverpool, offered me no place where I could safely come out to anyone. Now I was watching on stage my greatest fear, that being gay was a lonely and cold life and could cause my death.
    At the end of the play there was announcement that if anyone was affected by the play then the counselling tent was available. I went straight there. Of course it had affected me.
    In the tent I was introduced to a counsellor, a man, MC, who was “experienced” in what I needed to talk about. He soon told me that he too worked for True Freedom Trust but was based in the south of England. I told him about how I was feeling after watching the play and how disturbed and afraid I was that I would turn into the central character.
    MC responded by giving me a hug (now I would find that very questionable, but back then I was too naïve to question it). I was so desperate for the affection that I gave myself over to that hug. But MC didn’t stop there. He kissed me on top of my head and on my forehead. He caressed me and even rubbed his own erection, through his trousers, against my leg. I was too naïve to stop him, to even understand what he was doing, I didn’t even know this was sexual. But it all left me feeling so confused. I was supposed to be turning heterosexual, turning away from being homosexual, and yet I was getting very sexually aroused from MC’s actions. Why was this?
    MC encouraged me to keep going to see HM, at the Wirral offices of the True Freedom Trust, and of course I agreed with him. Then I didn’t feel able to question him, I didn’t know what else I could do.
    I left that counselling tent feeling very confused. My body had responded so sexually to MC’s fondling, such a strong and uncontrollable response. Why had that happened? Why wasn’t I changing? It all fed into my feelings of being a failure, that God had abandoned me, that God had actually turned his back on me, and I didn’t know why. Guilt quickly followed on from that confusion, I had done something wrong, somehow I had caused this situation and it was my fault for physically responding to it.
    I told no one about what had happened to me, I pushed that memory as far down as I could. Again, I felt it was my fault that it had happened, that I had placed myself willingly into the situation where I could be used. Then, that spring day in 1996, I was confronted by what had happened to me and it was sexual abuse, I had been molested, a publication that I deeply respected told me so. It hit me in the face. But I had to go back to work moments later, again there wasn’t the chance to talk about how I felt, even if I had been ready for it, but it played on my mind. A realisation that would not go away.
    It would take me longer to realise and accept that it wasn’t my fault. I had been a vulnerable teenager and MC took advantage of that; he should never have even hugged me.
    Now, looking back on what happened to me, and not attempting to justify MC’s actions, his behaviour was a deep indictment of how impossible it was to live up to the requirements of the True Freedom Trust. MC was a deeply frustrated man and the only way he could find any release for it was to grope men who came to him for counselling. This is completely unacceptable behaviour. As a nurse, I have looked after people who have been deeply upset. I have held their hands, placed my hand on their forearm or shoulder, but never anything more. To use someone who comes to you for help in the way MC used me is never acceptable.
    The True Freedom Trust’s teaching, that the only acceptable life for a gay man is that of cold celibacy, is wrong and dangerous. It condemns people to a cold and loveless life and to sexual frustrations that can cause people to act out in dangerous and even abusive ways. It took me so long to realise that.
    I don’t know what happened to MC. Years after my encounter with him, I was one of three men who exposed his actions in a television documentary, and this resulted in him being kicked out of the True Freedom Trust, but after that I do not know anything else of him. I hope he found freedom and stopped molesting other men under the guise of counselling them.
    Drew
     
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  22. Drew Payne

    A Moment after Church

    By Drew Payne,


    My Story
    Autumn 1985 
    At nineteen, my main mission in life was to “fit in” with the world around me. If I kept my head down and didn’t draw attention to myself then people would not guess my secret and not hate me for it, as I feared. It was a simple but very flawed plan, though at the time it was all I could see to do.
    At that time, most of my world revolved around being a member of my church and being a good Christian because that was what was expected of me with my membership there. It was an Evangelical Anglican church, and being Evangelical they preached that the church had to be all of your life, and I happily agreed with that because I so wanted to fit in somewhere. Up until then I had been an outsider in my life; I didn’t like the things other kids were passionate about, I didn’t follow all the different trends that consumed the other kids around me, I was plainly unpopular, but fitting in was the most important thing where I grew up and I failed at it. Church gave me the chance of a place where I could belong, of a place where I could be wanted, and I grabbed at it with both hands.
    At nineteen, church offered me a full social life and happily I jumped into it, I was wanted. There was the church service on a Sunday morning and the Young People’s Fellowship on a Sunday evening, plus the Bible study group, prayer meetings, worship practice, drama group rehearsals, and other meetings all throughout the week, but the most important of all was the Sunday morning Communion (Eucharist) Service, and everyone was expected to attend that.
    After this service the congregation would always move into the church hall to have a cup of tea and split off into our different cliques. This social element seemed almost as important as the service itself, or at least we had the chance to discuss the service and then discuss other people’s lives and actions. I so enjoyed this part of the morning, I belonged somewhere and there were people I could talk with. It was an extra forty-five minutes to an hour before I had to return home. The clique I belonged to was the Young People’s Fellowship, the church’s spiritual youth group. For me it was a safe clique to hide away in. We all sat together in church, went to the same church activities together, and when the Young People’s Fellowship met, we’d all agree on the same things, the things we were told we needed to believe and agree on.
    That Sunday morning, the church service had been noticeably different. Our regular organist, Nicholas, wasn’t there. Instead, an elderly man, with a bald and domed head, had slowly and awkwardly played the church’s organ, all the hymns at the same painfully slow pace. Now, after the service, it was all anyone could talk about. Where was Nicholas and how terrible the hymns were, some people were even calling the organ playing a disgrace, talking about how we hadn’t fully worshipped God’s glory. Suddenly I felt like an outsider again; I didn’t know what was happening, no one had thought to include me, again I had to find out for myself. I did what I had always learnt to do, I stayed quiet and listened to the conversations around me. If I listened carefully I would always learn something.
    Each Sunday morning, during the Communion Service, Nicholas had sat at the church’s organ, playing the hymns with gusto and energy, while his friend, Robin, sat in the pew next to him. Those two men had fascinated me. Nicholas was ten or more years older than Robin and yet they were still friends, almost constant companions at church. People from different ages didn’t mix at church, it was very much divided along age lines. People from the Young People’s Fellowship didn’t mix with the members of the Mothers Union, who didn’t mix with Full Gospel Businessmen’s Luncheon group; everyone was in awe of the church’s council members, and we all looked up to the clergy. But here were Nicholas and Robin, open with their friendship. Nicholas had always been conservatively dressed at church, he wore neat and dark suits, his grey hair cut into a short and neat style. Robin was far more stylish, obviously aware of his clothes and appearance. His hair was always neatly styled, brushed in a careful way and always parted at the side. He wore a suit too, but his suits were always sharply coloured, rich browns, bright blues and greens, neat charcoal, they were always worn over a matching waistcoat and a coordinated tie tied in a large and prominent knot under his collar. He wore several rings on his fingers back when men didn’t wear rings, even married men didn’t wear a wedding ring. The most prominent one was a gold signet ring he wore on the little finger of his left hand and he would absentmindedly turn it around on his finger when he seemed preoccupied.
    I was fascinated by these two men, but my fascination was always from afar. I would watch them from my pew in church. I could never speak to them because they were in such a different social circle to me. If I had spoken to them, what would I have said to them? I could never have asked them that question that nagged away at the back of my mind, were they like me? But how could I ask it when I could not even ask it of myself? I wasn’t like that, it was just a mistake, just a phase my life was stuck in, something I could deny and push down as far as I could.
    The Young People’s Fellowship was run by two married couples, the clean-cut Richard and Elizabeth, and their growing number of children, and the round and comical Iain and Sadie, who always had the latest electronic gadget.
    That morning, Iain almost bounded up to our group as we stood together in the church hall, exclaiming, “Have you lot heard? Nicholas the organist has had to leave the church because he went and married his husband!”
    “What?” Elizabeth replied.
    “Robin, that friend of his, was his homosexual lover and they went through a mock marriage,” Iain gleefully added.
    “That’s disgusting!” Elizabeth said, her whole face twisting up with distaste.
    Suddenly the whole group was alive with the subject, talking hurriedly and excitedly about it; this was true gossip that everyone could condemn and they were all condemning it. Homosexuality was disgusting, immoral, a perversion, sin made flesh. No Christian could be a homosexual, they said and they were certain that God condemned it, simply look at AIDS and all the other failings they attributed to being homosexual. And they knew they were right because they were certain they were. Elizabeth and Richard were strong in their condemnation, certain they were right in the way they were always certain their beliefs were always right.
    I withdrew to the edge of the group, my hands pushed into the pockets of my duffle coat, and just listened to the words bouncing around me. I knew I failed so often as a Christian, I could not live up to the high moral standards required of me. I struggled to believe all the things required of me because of the inner doubts that plagued my mind, telling me I wasn’t good enough and that I failed at every attempt. The biggest doubt that rang in my mind was that I was already going to hell just for being who I was. I am gay, but at nineteen I couldn’t begin to admit it to myself, it was my dark secret that I dreaded anyone else finding out. The only expression of my sexuality I dared to make were quick and very furtive glances at handsome men when I though no one else was watching me. In the next moment I would be flooded with guilt. I was disgusting and going straight to hell, the guilt told me.
    Hearing what those around me were saying, the force of their condemnation of Nicholas and Robin, again I knew I was right to be afraid.
    These people around me, they were the people who called me their friend, who told me they were my Christian family, and they were now pouring out the most terrible prejudice and hatred towards homosexuals. Would they turn that onto me if they knew the truth? I couldn’t take the risk so I pulled myself further within myself. Friendships were a risk; I couldn’t let people into my life, but how could I avoid hell? I was lost.
    That moment was chilling, I saw all my friends and my faith in a new light, this church wasn’t the safe place I’d always hoped it would be. But in the next breath, I wanted these people to like me and I wanted to be part of this group. If they found out I was gay would they treat me the same way? Would they pour out their prejudice on me and force me to leave this church? I couldn’t take that risk. I had to increase my efforts; I had to ensure I fitted in, even though I couldn’t take the biggest step, I couldn’t change my stripes.
    Eighteen months later, I was outed at church and they did behave exactly as they had done towards Nicholas and Robin. I was left with no choice but to leave. I should have known it would happen, I had watched it play out with their treatment of Nicholas and Robin, but hindsight is a wonderful thing.
     
    (All the names here have been changed. I am no longer in contact with anyone mentioned here so I do not know what their beliefs and views are now. People do change)
    (The photograph illustrating this essay is not a picture of the church where this took place)
     
    Drew
     
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  23. Drew Payne
    At the time it was called “The Trial of the Century,” though many people have forgotten it now, and others question that title.  There have been higher-profile trials since then, but Simpson’s trial did deliver shocks and forced questions about the American justice system.

    On 12 June 1994, Nicole Brown Simpson, Simpson’s ex-wife, and her friend, Ron Goldman, were brutally stabbed to death on the doorstep of her home. A mountain of evidence pointed to Simpson as their killer but, over a year later, he was found not guilty of their murders. How did this happen?
    Jeffrey Toobin is a writer and former lawyer, and at the time, wrote frequently about the Simpson trial. His book chronicles the events from Nicole Brown Simpson and Ron Goldman’s tragic murders through to Simpson being found guilty for them, at his second trial.
    Toobin has a very critical view of what happened, and he is very analytical. He provides the backgrounds to all the main players in this story, using this to outline that person’s personality and several of their flaws. Toobin’s critical view isn’t biased, he sees faults and failings in both Simpson’s prosecution and defence lawyers. The majority of this book is taken up with Simpson’s murder trial, it was over a year long. Toobin analyses the defence and prosecution strategies, finding both lacking, and the judges behaviour. He also looks at the witnesses and the ups and downs of the trial. All through this, he doesn’t hide away from the mountain of evidence that showed Simpson’s guilt.
    Toobin doesn’t write about the trial in isolation, he also writes about the wider environment in Los Angles, at the time, and what was happening within the jury.
    When Simpson’s not guilty verdict is reached, in the criminal trial, there is no surprise. Toobin has laid out the evidence of how this occurred. But Toobin does not stop there. He also covers Simpson’s second trial, the civil trial were he was sued for wrongful death by Nicole Brown Simpson’s and Ron Goldman’s families, and how he lost that trial.
    This is a fascinating and insightful read. Toobin has researched his subject, in great depth, but he has also analysed that research and is critical of his findings. All this gives the reader so much understanding of what was happening and why it happened. There is no shock, when the reader reaches the verdict in Simpson’s criminal trial, because Toobin has laid out what was happening and why it was happening.
    Simpson’s trial might not have been “The Trial of the Century,” but the fallout from it was shocking. This book doesn’t just explain how that happened but why it did. It is also written in an easy, readable style. It is well worth the time it takes to read.
    Find it here on Amazon
  24. Drew Payne
    It is 1930s Berlin and “Christopher Isherwood” is enjoying the notorious nightlife and culture of the city. Isherwood is an upper-class Englishman, surviving by teaching English to different citizens of the city, as he explores a life very different to his previous one, that opens him up to a diverse cast of characters.
    This book has become a modern classic, the basis of the musical and film Cabaret, but don’t expect a novelization of Cabaret here. The musical was inspired by this novel but the two are very different. This book is written in the form of a collection of novellas and diary entries. Unfortunately, this style does not help this book. Several of the novellas overlap in the time they cover. The Sally Bowls novella covers a long time period, causing Bowls to appear as a minor character in other novellas, which can make the reading confusing, you don’t know when a particular story is set.
    Worse than its haphazard structure, is the feeling of dishonesty to this book. It was published in 1939, with all the social prejudices of the time. The narrator is called “Christopher Isherwood” which gives this book an air of honesty, that these events happened and Isherwood has only simply fictionalised them. “Christopher Isherwood” is such an edited character, he’s portrayed as so sexless, but the truth of the man bleeds through in places. At one-point Sally Bowls is being romanced by an American businessman who buys her and the narrator expensive presents, without explanation, though the subtext is that the narrator is also sexually involved with the American businessman. Later the narrator lodges with a working-class Berlin family, though it is never mentioned about his desire to be closer to the family’s bisexual son Otto. Later still the narrator is pursued by a rich Jewish man, with almost constant invitations to spend weekends at his lodge, though the sexual nature of their relationship is never mentioned. But, in one section, the narrator spends a holiday as the houseguest of a gay couple, though it is a very negative and stereotyped portrayal.
    The most disappointing element of this book is its politics. A Jewish young woman is characterised as shallow, only interested in clothes. But the worst is how this book largely ignores the rise of the Nazis. It is set between 1929 and 1932, when the Nazis were rising to power, but they only appear in the last quarter of the book. There is such a varied cast of characters and it would have been fascinating to have their reactions to the rise of the Nazis. But this is such a wasted opportunity.
    Even with the constraints and prejudices of 1939, this book could have been so much more honest, even for a work of fiction. Isherwood was there and experienced Berlin life but he diluted it here. This book has been given the reputation as the great novel of pre-war Berlin life, unfortunately it just isn’t.
     
    Find it here on Amazon
  25. Drew Payne

    I Forgot My Mother’s Birthday

    By Drew Payne,


    Esaay
    Last month I forgot my mother’s birthday. I was writing on my computer, glanced down at the bottom right corner of the screen, and saw the date. It was my mother’s birthday, or it would have been.
    My mother died twenty-three years ago.
    At first, after her death, I used the date of her birthday as a time to remember her. Using the date of her death for this was too much, too morbid and too negative. Her birthday was in January, in the cold winter after Christmas, and was always celebrated quietly. When she was alive, I would arrange to post a card and present to her, in time for it. After her death, I would take time, on what would have been her birthday, to remember something about her. I would remember some story or anecdote about her, good or bad. It was my way of remembering her, of keeping her memory alive.
    My mother had been ill for a long time with cancer and I had told myself I was prepared, I knew what was happening. Shortly after her diagnosis, she’d had surgery and radiotherapy for it. I wasn’t able to see her, at that time, and didn’t physically see her until two months afterwards. When I did visit my parents I was shocked at how tired and worn she looked. She was sat in the house’s conservatory, reading a magazine, when I arrived, and she looked so old and frail, sitting there in that armchair. Everyone had told me how well she had done since her surgery, how well she had recovered and how she had returned to health, but looking at her, that day, I knew she was ill, I could see it. I kept quiet though, everyone, including her, were being so positive, and how could I rob them of that? I kept it to myself, but I knew my mother was dying.
    She declined slowly over the following six years, her health failing her, as my father failed to cope looking after her. I lived two hundred and fifty miles away from them, and I was the only healthcare professional in my family, so my role fell to providing advice at the end of the telephone. I told myself to prepare, to be ready for when she would die. To prepare myself for my family’s reactions, to be the strong one because I had seen this coming.
    She died in a hospice, were she was comfortable and well cared for. I had seen her two days before and said goodbye to her, it was clear then to everyone she was dying. I received a call, from my brother, that Tuesday morning, that she had died. She had died in one of the few moments when no one was sitting next to her bed, in a quiet moment when she was left alone. I was prepared for this news, I wasn’t shocked, I was expecting this. I called my partner and told him.
    The next day, I was due in work and I was prepared. I had accepted the fact my mother was dying, her death was just the final part of that. So I went into work. I spent the first hour or so of my shift just wandering around the ward, but I wasn’t connected to why I was there. Mid-morning, I went into the ward’s office, where my manager was. She looked up at me and in surprise asked me what was wrong.
    “My mother died yesterday,” I replied.
    “What the hell are you doing here?” she said.
    "I don't know," I said and burst into tears.
    She sent me home, telling me not to come back to work until after the funeral. She was right.
    Grief is a strange and messy thing. I thought I was prepared for it but I wasn’t, how could I be because I didn’t know where it would take me. I didn’t cry at her funeral, sat there in the front pew next to my partner, but I did cry when I was set off by stupid, little things. The sight of her favourite flowers in a shop, the memory of her suddenly leaping into my mind, the sound of a piece of music that she had loved. The strange, physical things that made me remember her.
    I had thought I was prepared because intellectually I knew the course of grief, I had studied it, I knew the theory and evidence behind the stages of grieving. But I didn’t know them emotionally, I hadn’t lived them.
    Losing a parent is never easy, I found it especially hard because I was only in my early-thirties. I was at the age when people were beginning to expect their parents to retire as they entered “old age”. But my parents were in their early forties when I was born. When I entered my thirties, my parents were entering the end of their lives. I felt cut off from my peers, they couldn’t relate to what was happening to me, their parents were alive and well, were I was living through this too soon in my life. Fortunately, my partner knew exactly what I was facing, he’d lost his mother when he was sixteen. He knew about feeling too young for what was happening.
    But as time passed, that grief faded, as all emotions do. Marking what would have been her birthday became less and less urgent, and at some point I forgot to do it.
    I can’t remember when I did last mark my mother’s birthday, I stopped doing it so long ago, but I didn’t forget my mother. She had been such a large and dominating part of my life for so long. She had shown me and taught me so many different things, most of which she never meant to. She had been a woman of very strong opinions, opinions that were not to be questioned, and faced with this I had learnt how to argue. My mother, unwittingly, had taught me to argue, because if I wanted to do what I wanted, as a child and adolescent, then I had to win my arguments. The first time I won an argument against her I was fourteen, and it was a glorious moment. I had learnt how to use logic to defeat a steadfast opinion. It is a skill I have used many, many times since.
    Watching my mother, as a child, learning why she held her opinions, showed me how to watch and understand other people, a skill I am so grateful to have because it aids me so much as a writer.
    So many things still remind me of her, and I have a partner who I can share these with, even if it’s just a short memory, and he does the same about his mother. We keep those women alive in our memories.
    That day, as I looked at the date on my computer’s screen, it occurred to me that if she was still alive, it would have been so easy to buy her a birthday present. I could have gone onto Amazon, found the gift I wanted, bought it, and had them gift wrap it and deliver it straight to her. So much more easy. But my mother died before e-commerce became such an easy part of our lives. So much has changed in our world in the relatively short time since her death, would she even recognise our world? Would she even like our world?
    When I realised what the date was, I texted my partner and told him.
    He replied, “Blimey, how old would she have been?”
    “94,” I texted back.
     
    Drew
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