Party Victoria Avenue 1982 (ish)
A Dyke History Trilogy: part two
‘Are you gay?’ Asked the woman with dangly earrings
And chocolate button eyes.
I was about to deny it.
‘Of course she is, or she wouldn’t be here!’
Said the boyish woman.
I’d never seen a woman in Doc Martin’s before.
Her words changed my whole world forever.
Lel Meleyal, Scarborough
The Party: Victoria Avenue, Hull. 1982 (ish).
A Dyke History Trilogy: part one
Party Victoria Avenue. 1982 (ish)
Everyone was singing along to Hi Ho Silver Lining.
The DJ had turned off the music when the chorus came on.
The copper came into the room, tried to make himself heard above the noise.
‘Too loud’ he tried to shout but we sang louder.
Saw a room full of women, knew he was out of his depth.
He scuttled away.
Lel Meleyal, Scarborough
Birthday parties
Leaving Parties
Summer Parties
Christmas parties
Funeral parties
Care home parties
You shouldn’t be crying parties
Because your parent is dying parties
No formal education for a year parties
Give our friends some beer parties
No more because you’re queer parties
Or see your granny shed a tear parties
Because you can’t be here parties
We just don’t fucking care parties
Kerry Mitchell, Brighton
Party
That party where we met for the second time.
You were by the fish tank at Bens.
You wanted me to kiss you… but I did not know that.
We would have had two more whole months together.
Kiss the girl
Su Middleton-Lee
Brighton
Touch typing for activists
*Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the Party*
Dress in your best, Bring a bottle. Bring hummous.
Bring a banner and a guitar. Bring a will of iron and a cheerful determination not to be overcome.
Bring a hardhat and a stabvest, times are hard. Bring a mask.
Bring a drum, spare sticks and gaffer tape for your fingers. Bring your friends. Hug them, for life is short. Cherish them. Bring the number of a pro bono solicitor.
Stand 6 feet apart. You will need more than one signaller and the basses will get out of time with the snares; but persist. Resist. Continue to exist.
Play on, play loud, but refuse to play the game. Remember Greenham. Remember the clause 28 march at Manchester. Remember when we took to the streets to protest and to party. Remember doing the Guardian crossword while blockading the streets?… with jugglers?…on stilts?
Dance- like it was breathing. Sing – like it was loving. Hold on to the Joy of dressing up and getting out there and flinging yourself into sweaty togetherness – friendship, politics, lust and life, beautiful exuberant mad life, all mixed up with a cherry on top.
Try not to be downheartened when onlookers say “They should just get a bloody job” Try not to feel smug that when the world ends in deeply polarised, abject poverty, forest fire, flood and screaming, then they’ll be sorry. Try not to say “I can’t believe Im still protesting this shit at 70”
Try to find a way in which making animations of ballroom dancing sheds and flying cactus can somehow…come to the aid of the Party?
Amazingly few campaigns feature dancing garden buildings.
*Amazingly few discotheques provide jukeboxes*
*The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog*
The quick green protester jumps over the lazy Tory.
And now is the time for all good persons to come to the aid of the Party
Fin McMorran (age 65 and 3 quarters) Eighton Banks, Tyneside
How Julie Andrews might have responded to news of the end of lockdown
Bookshops and tea shops and days out with besties
Hugging with parents and no fear of nasties
Bright days of sunshine with no daily tolls
These are the days I want the most of all
Chip shops and seaside and drives out with no fines
Old country gardens not straddling tier lines
Life’s simple pleasures like they used to be
These are the thoughts that now fill me with glee
When my date comes
When the jab works
When I’m feeling sad.
I simply remember the pre-covid times
And then I don’t feel, so sad.
Lel Meleyal With humble and respectful apologies to Rodgers and Hammerstein.
Covid Come, Covid Go
Covid come and Covid go
Covid deal it’s mighty blow
Covid sleek and Covid slick
Covid slow and Covid quick
Covid n-n-n-nineteen
Covid not quite what it seem
A mild illness, I’m fighting fit
A cold, a flu, I’ll deal with it
But Covid get me in it’s grip
Covid take me on it’s trip
Not the shiny kind I know
Covid never let me go
Covid here, here to stay
Covid take my breath away
All through spring, crippling fatigue
Covid! Covid! I can’t breathe!
Fog descend, fill up my head
Can barely, still, get out of bed
We lie, together, all through summer
Covid, Covid, what a bummer
Friends have had it, Mums have died
I’m thankful that I’m still alive
Still, it beats it’s dreadful drum
Covid – when will you be done?
Earworm driving me insane
Covid not a friendly game
Covid short and Covid long
Release me from this savage song
Covid here, Covid gone
Finally, it’s on the run
December come, Christmas cheer
Covid’s knocked me down all year
Covid comes, Covid goes
Lockdown’s back with painted toes
Never mind, I feel well
At last, I’m free of Covid hell
January, a fresh new start
Happy health lift up my heart
Energy begin to rise
Immunity, for 2 nd Prize!
But wait! I need a Covid test
Stand in line with all the rest
Results back, too much at stake,
Covid! Again! For fuck, fucks’ sake!
Covid cough, Covid fever
Covid I don’t fucking need ya
Covid fever, Covid cough
C’mon Covid, I’ve had enough!
But second time, not as shit
Like a bad flu, I deal with it
Covid come and Covid go
Covid deal it’s mighty blow
Covid gone, Covid been
Worst havoc I’ve ever seen
Covid, this time you’re too slow –
Fuck of Covid. Off you go……
Karen, aged 51, Brighton
Death came to many of us last year
Death comes to many of us
everyday and everywhere
Death is a constant
Death is a must
Once one has gifted life
L Devo Child, (age 50’ish) Bristol
One year, we went to theatre.
Another, a Gin Palace in soho.
This year for our anniversary we put out the bins.
It’s one of the few trips you can still take, since they took away shopping together in Sainsburys.
The bins.
They might not seem like the best allegory for a relationship.
Leftovers.
Unwanted remnants.
Actually, it wasn’t that at all.
The bins contained the reminders and the remains of last night – a leftover crust of Beef Wellington, a wine stained cork (or three), the rind of the lime from the cocktails, an empty envelope from a card expressing affection and dedication, and the crinkly cellophane from the roses.
And crammed at the bottom of the bag –
the receipt.
You don’t need a receipt if don’t plan on giving back what you’d purchased.
If you plan to keep it for ever.
For longer than lockdown.
And as we clasped hands walking back from the bins, the sun caught a glimpse of the diamond on her third finger of her left hand.
Locked down for life.
The best kind of lock down.
Serena Roxy Gilbert (age 43 ) Kent
The Limitations of Zoom
We are not bone. We are not flesh.
We show an unembodied face,
display a dislocated base;
minds tangle as we breach the miles,
the shy rapport of distant smiles,
to guess what more-than words express
across the bridge of consciousness,
and try to read the signs.
Yes I am here, yet I exist
alone within my separate frame:
and you apart in yours.
Can tendrils reach across this space,
transmit the warmth of fond embrace,
the subtle brush of gentle lips,
linguistic play of fingertips
as your hand touches mine?
Based on only what is seen,
can eyes still speak between the screens?
Can we still reach the tender place
that lies beneath the carapace?
How can we connect without
collisions of the tangible,
the sweet kiss of the visceral,
without corpor-reality?
Those who crave the mortal spark,
who hunger for the human balm,
the comfort of the calming arm,
stare out with famished hearts.
How can we replace the grace
that feeds between the lines?
Find ways to share our sympathies
in these unfeeling times?
Georgina Koubel (age 68) Walmer, near Deal
Gay Men Are Dads (Even when covid is around)
12 months since I joined an online network of gay dads.
Adoption, surrogacy, shared care and other.
The driving force behind all of them was a domesticity that society left floating around for so long like the 1950s housewife.
These men exude love, caring, loving smiles, domestic ups and downs, nappy talk, sleepless nights, home schooling, and the tribulations like I have only experienced gaggles of mums doing on the playground.
However these men take nothing for granted in their crusade to be fathers. Mother Nature didn’t select us to be straight, get hitched and reproduce.
Through lock downs and waves of covid shared all their amazing support for each other and all the diverse things they were doing with their babies, toddlers, small people and teenagers.
These men, of a similar age, grew up without the ability to form their relationships into marriage, naturally conceive, access the world without prejudice and couldn’t even adopt.
The options were not there for us. We were without a womb so that was a non self starter. However I can only describe all of these dads exuding as maternal…not paternal qualities.
I chose my label for my relationship with my own son as a maternal father. Saying anything else just isn’t fitting because I wish I could have carried him. So right back at your Mother Nature! …I take back the mother label. The housewife is still very much alive. In me, as a man!
We are well on our way to fulfilling our dreams as men but many with the mother in us all.
Adam Lott 41 from Kent.
Father of three.
Trigger warning: thoughts of suicide/self harm.
As tears fall down her cheeks like hot tar and the pain of her insides turn to knots, she longs to be swallowed up by her mattress, to stop existing. Her body feels heavy, bones made of lead.
“Why won’t it stop?” she asks herself, “I just want it to stop”. She knows how, but last time it didn’t work. Last time she was found, blood soaked, drifting in and out of consciousness. This time it will have to be more definitive. No room for error.
The thoughts consume her as she lays looking at the ceiling. Her tears fill her eyes and she feels like she’s drowning. A weight on her chest, paralysed by the fear of her own thoughts. She thought she was better, she thought this wouldn’t happen again.
Telling mum and dad she’s a lesbian was probably not a great idea whilst stuck in lockdown with them. Nowhere to go, stuck in a cage, a captive audience for the abuse hurled at her from those who once gave her so much love.
It will make her plans even more difficult but fortunately, they’re both still leaving the house for work. Fortunately, she is left alone for a few, miserable hours. A tiny reprieve in this new world. A world of hate, confusion and homophobia. “Not our daughter” they say “how could you do this to us?”.
Complete silence. Alone with her own mind. Something she never thought she would or could appreciate. She absolutely hated being alone and despised her own company. But now in lockdown, it’s different, it is heavenly.
As her thoughts turn ever darker, in desperation she turns to the trusty search engine that knows all. “There has to be something that will really work…”. She picks up her phone and a message pings through. It’s from Her:
“Hey you, just checking in. Hope you’re ok. Miss you. Xx“
Two kisses, she’s never sent two kisses before. She feels her face flush and her cheeks turn from pallid to peach.
Before lockdown they saw each other every day, she made her realise her true self. She rolls her eyes at how much of a cliché she has become, but she likes it. They text back and forth all day, with every message she feels her body lighten and her sadness begins to melt away like the last remnants of snow outside.
That night they fall asleep texting, when she wakes she actually feels rested and her first thought isn’t how badly she longs to stop living, instead she feels a determination to start. She scrolls through the news, the PM finally announces “Lockdown is over and you can go about your lives as normal.”
An unfamiliar feeling rushes over her body. Is this what happiness feels like? She thinks to herself and she excitedly checks her phone, alas her texts have gone unanswered. She can’t still be asleep? What did I say? Was I too honest? Her mind goes into overdrive, maybe she shouldn’t have asked her on a date once lockdown is over, she didn’t realise it would be over so soon. Self doubt and worry creep in like a rolling dark cloud on the horizon. She decides she needs snacks. Distraction is key.
Mum and dad have gone to work, she’s alone. She searches but realises there are no snacks. She hasn’t been out of the house for a few days so forces herself to get dressed for the shop. A shower is pushing it so she scrapes her hair back and throws on some joggers and an oversized jumper. Checking her phone; still nothing.
Searching for her house keys a message finally pings through. Mum: “can you do some laundry today“…she doesn’t reply. Psyching herself up for this trip to the shop is taking all of her energy right now. Deep breath. You can do this. She turns the lock and the door cracks open, the sun makes her squint like a mole emerging through the grass. She nervously opens the door all the way and as her eyes adjust to the light she sees something in front of her.
“Hey you” says the figure “I’ve missed you“.
Natalie Frater, Kent
FebulousFebruary 2026: The Old Photograph 