Only Ginger Rogers Escaped The Wrecking Ball.

'It's a vunder (wonder) she never slung you kids out too' was the answer my grandmother always gave when my sister and I demanded that she 'tell us about when we were little'.

This was our favourite question, way ahead of 'Tell us about the olden days nanny', 'Have you got any sweets' and 'Is Grandad dead?'.

This final question wasn't as brutal as it sounds in retrospect. It was asked by we children as a result of his habit of taking long, silent afternoon naps, during which you couldn't tell whether he was breathing or not. And Nanny's concerned response was always the same 'Daddy! Daddy! Stop it! You're scaring the kinder (children)'.

But back to the whole point..........................

My mother, for all her many good points (and there are many), has never been what you'd describe as sentimental. In fact, she's the human equivalent of a wrecking ball slamming into a beautiful, but no longer practical, Victorian building. Unlike me, she doesn't feel the need to hold on to things for the sake of having them, or because they hold fond memories, or even purely because they're pleasing to the eye. She likes the 'working surfaces' of her life to be clear of clutter and ready for action. Unnecessary obstacles only hinder her ability to sweep down like a vast Sioux war party, armed with a duster and can of furniture polish, onto the unsuspecting covered wagons ambling across the prairie, scattering bonnetted women and children in her wake, and emerging with bloodied scalps ready to be cleared out to make 'more space'.

However, we could never work out what she wanted this 'more space' for. As children, the idea of more space meant that it could be filled with precious things, or at least things which were precious to us. But, unfortunately for we treasure-hoarding children, the only thing precious to my mother was empty space. Shelves, stripped naked and polished daily to an almost scientific shine, and cupboards whose emptiness echoed every time they were opened or closed.

Things fell into only one of two categories 'used' and 'not used', usually the latter.

In order to be classified as 'used', it was necessary for something to be touched by a human hand (ideally ours) at least once every week, even more for some things. I'm not sure how she achieved it, but throughout our childhood, my mother used some kind of sophisticated detection system which could tell when a much-loved toy had last been played with, or when that poster of David Essex had last been gazed at. Anything failing 'the test' would be immediately and mercilessly stripped from the wall, or would just simply 'disappear'. So efficient was her system of removal, that it was almost as if they'd been beamed up into space by aliens in front of our eyes. One minute they would be there, and the next.............vanished into thin air. At a rough guess at least half of all sentences uttered during my childhood began with 'Has anyone seen my.............?'

Unless of course, it happened to be an old musical video, or more recently a DVD.

They say that every man (and woman) has their vice, and my mother's one weakness is musicals from the 1920's an 30's. To this day, the only thing guaranteed to make my mother go weak at the knees, apart from sheer exhaustion, is the sight of the perma-tanned Howard Keel, gazing at her longingly from across the span of time. Teary-eyed Anne Margaret, tinkling yet another corny love song about her bloody 'poor broken heart'. And of course, at the head of this grainy black and white army. Ginger fucking Rogers!

Pushing Boundaries

As a 'homosexually-orientated' man, I've never really thought of myself as particularly raunchy or adventurous when it comes to 'bedroom things'. In fact when asked to describe myself in five words, vanilla is usually about the third one on the list, directly below intelligent and infuriating (I can actually talk for 15 minutes without hesitation, deviation or repetition on the origins and interpretations of the missionary position. You probably aren't aware of this, but in 3rd century BC Mesopotamia, in what is now modern-day Iraq.................... well, maybe another time, eh?).

When it came to anything out of the ordinary sex-wise (by gay standards), I always felt very much like one of those rather dull, middle-aged, home-counties, cake-baking, Women's Institute ladies. They spend almost 30 years being gently and predictably penetrated vaginally (apart from one slight slip) once a month by a mild-mannered accountant with haemorrhoids and striped pyjamas. Then suddenly, they find themselves widowed, divorced, or separated at the age of 50, and on a 'foreign' holiday in Turkey for the first time with their friend Margaret, confronted by a 25 year-old Turkish waiter with a rock hard, throbbing, 8 inch boner squashed into his fake 501's. And like the plate of freshly-caught, chargrilled baby squid in its own ink that he's holding out, they have absolutely no idea what to do with either, and just sit there like a 'rabbit in headlights', jaw resting gently on their large, securely-brassiered chest.

But then, before you can say 'Kamal Ataturk', there they are, shrieking up and down the beach at 3 o'clock in the morning on the back of the waiter's scooter! Clad in a bikini top, sarong, and ankle-chain, clutching a glass of Raki & Diet Coke, sucking cock and 'doing anal' as if they were born to it.

We think these lusty Shirley Valentines are the exception, but it seems that we all have boundaries which move quote easily with a some gentle persuasion (and a bit of Aegean spit!).

I realised just how far my own boundaries have shifted quite recently when I read an advertisement on one of those Internet sites that people claim never to use, you know, the ones packed full of sad and lonely losers desperate for sex. The advertisement was written with impeccable grammar by a guy who wanted nothing more than to be kicked in the balls. I read the two sentences through twice just to be doubly sure that he really had said 'I want to be kicked in the balls', and yup, he definitely wanted a ball-kicker.

My first reaction was to tut tut, roll my eyes, say something like 'Shiver me timbers, what a fucking freak', and move on to the next advert.

But I didn't.

Something caught my imagination and made me wonder what it would feel like to intentionally kick someone in the goolies. Would it feel sexual? Or would it just feel odd? And how would it work? Would he just stand there with his legs apart and shout 'Come on you fucker, kick me where it hurts!'. And surely it would hurt, in fact it hurt me just thinking about it. But I did more than think about it, I emailed him back.

I was still thinking 'Shiver me timbers, what a freak' and wondering if I could go through with it several hours later, when Mr 'Kick Me Hard In The Balls' rang my buzzer.

I've discovered that the thing about pushing your boundaries and doing something that you could never imagine doing usually, is that at some point you find you have an alter-ego who is more than happy to do it. It's a bit like being an actor and walking on stage in a play. You stop being yourself and become someone else, which in my case was a ball-kicker. My shy, mild-mannered, cake-baking facade melted away and before I knew it, I'd turned into a kind of sadistic, truncheon-stroking prison-officer and had this complete stranger's nads in a vice-like grip. And the more positively he responded (which he most certainly did), the more comfortable I felt and the more pleasurable it became. He had come fully equipped for his ordeal, and had brought a pair of beautiful, yellow leather boxing gloves, which I needed no encouragement to slip on. After instructing my victim to strip down to his underwear (which rather surreally was a pair of Union Jack boxer-briefs), I gave him what I thought was a pain-inducing tap.

This is the point at which, without exception, every man I have told the story to, has turned rather pale, broken out into a cold sweat, and asked not to be told any more. Consider yourself warned.

My idea of a pain-inducing tap was met with a groan of sexual pleasure (and a serious woody), and so my taps became harder and harder, gradually turning into full-blown punches (complete with an arm-swing and a three-step run-up). This 'ball-beating', which turned out to be extremely enjoyable for both of us, lasted for well over half an hour, and would have left even the Kray Twins feeling pleased with themselves.

My point is not to see how quickly I can bring tears to your eyes or to change the way you look at me forever. It's to demonstrate the ease with which, even someone like me, can take something that we imagine to be beyond our capabilities, and turn it into something which is perfectly acceptable. I found it exciting, but at the same time frightening to think how far I was capable of pushing my boundaries.

How far could you push your boundaries?

(This blog was written from the comfort of my padded cell).

The Lost Tree Trunk

My grandfather was the solid trunk of our family's tree, and the shock of losing him several years ago left us all emotionally stranded, like pollarded sycamore branches, scattered around on the ground, foundationless, and incapable of sustaining ourselves.

You see, he was the one who first sunk roots into the unfamiliar and often unfriendly ground in this country. The one who supplied all our needs, and the one who stood firm and sheltered us when strong winds and tragedy tried to blow us down. He created a tough, loving shell around us all, and tried to protect us from the world. A fortress into which we frequently fled when danger threatened.

When my younger sister was killed by a car at the age of 11, and my mother was left paralysed with grief, it was my grandfather who dragged her back and forced her to carry on. It was my grandfather's constant presence in our lives that prevented my father's worst excesses, and which saved us from financial crisis when he died of cancer, at a relatively young age, leaving my mother with his debts.

Although not always able to change our lives, it was his strength of character and ability to cope with even the worst of situations which taught us to shut out the things we could not deal with or found too distressing.

But without realising it, his fierce desire to protect us and keep us safe also made us weak and incapable of surviving without him. Like a hedgehog, once our protective prickles were gone, we were left vulnerable to attack, and without the means or experience to defend ourselves. Because we were always sure of his guidance or intervention, we never developed the tools to face the difficult side of life or to stand up for ourselves.

My grandfather was a strong, gentle, loving man devoted to his family, and together with my grandmother, created a family environment free from any form of danger. When something or someone threatened us from outside 'the family', rather than confront it, we retreated inside our protective walls. Standing up for ourselves was never something we considered. Instead, we learned to slam the door and wait for our attackers to get bored and leave.

We learned many valuable lessons from my grandfather. The ability to love and accept love, the value of family and friendship, and being able to ignore the difficulties in life and focus on the positive aspects have all been huge advantages. But there is one lesson learned from my grandfather which , in hindsight, has proved disastrous.

Defence is not always the best form of attack.

Writing a blog

I'm just about to start a new blog about things we did as kids. I'm never entirely sure where each one is going, they seem to take on an energy all their own. Sometimes I write what I initially intended to write, and sometimes it goes off in a completely different direction.

The ones about my family and childhood were quite unexpected, but ended up being some of my favourites. I originally began with the intention of simply writing something light-hearted and funny about growing up in Essex. It's seemed an easy subject to take on, because there is no shortage of material. My Essex childhood on the estuary is absolutely jam-packed full of wonderfully horrific characters with big hearts, tatoos, white high heels, and determination of steel.

But the problem with scratching the surface is that you just never know what you're going to find.

Writing about my past just seemed to lead automatically, and also quite naturally, back to my parent's and grandparent's past. Although my mum's over-loving parents seemed to be the more interesting, my father's under-loving, Victorian parents also deserve their own blog at some point.

I didn't realise how much the possibility, or maybe I should say certainty, of losing my grandmother and her link to that area of our past was affecting me. The Long Journey Home probably isn't the best thing I've written, but it was the one which was most difficult to write because I suddenly realised that the loss of my grandmother meant the loss of that whole part of our family history.

Losing things which are impossible to replace is something that only ever seems to become apparent when it's too late. The fact that my grandparents chose not to speak very much about their past was always perfectly normal, and where the rest of my family were genuinely not interested, I didn't ask because I thought they had every right not to talk about it. But I'm suddenly faced with the possibility that it's too late, the horse has bolted, and I wish I had stood up and said 'I want to know, it's important to know'. With my grandparent's passing, that means that two more family histories will have vanished, no more Sztajnbergs (grandad), no more Voightlanders (nanny). What didn't go up in smoke, will just have fizzled out because nobody talked about it.

It's funny how certain things make us realise the importance (or at least relevance) of others.

But I suppose that's what writing a blog is about, the opportunity to write about what is important or relevant to me, without worrying about whether it's of any interest to anybody else.

Assimilation, as easy as falling off a branch!

My Polish-born, Jewish grandparents worked tirelessly when they first arrived, to become what they thought was 'as British as roast beef' (or roost beefs, as my nanny called it). A simple change of name, and Yehuda and Rivka Sztajnberg became Andrew and Elizabeth (Betty) Flowers. My grandfather's brother Moishele, their only relative in Britain, became George Flowers at the same time.

Who knows why they chose those names, the logic of immigrants is unfathomable. George and Elizabeth were the names of the much-loved King and Queen at the time, and Andrew was the name of the patron saint of Scotland, where my grandparents first started their new life. But the important thing was that they were names that they hoped 'British people' could look at without frowning at their foreign-ness and total unpronouncability. Strange combinations of Z's, K's, and I's, and multi-consonant pile-ups were like a public announcement telling people 'We're not from here'. And at that time in Britain, if you weren't 'from here', then you fell into the single other category of 'FOREIGN'. Regardless of whether you were black or white, Christian or Jew, a king or a peasant, when people spoke about you, they would inevitably incorporate one of the following suffixes:

1) He's a very nice man, although he is foreign.

2) You'd never know from looking at them that they were foreign, would you.

3) I expect they do that where they come from.

4) He's not English, but he's still a very nice man.

So, my grandparents set out on their mission. Objective: Total Anglicisation!

Despite living (rather illogically) in a predominantly Jewish area, surrounded by numerous 'landsmen', they worked hard to change languages and master English. My grandfather did quite a good job, but for my grandmother, it wasn't quite as easy. Even after seventy years in Britain, she never did learn the art of 'crisp consonants', and words beginning with the letter 'D' always sounded as if she had lost the end of her tongue.

Although nobody in my family (particularly my grandmother) ever seemed to notice her constant 'linguistic free-styling', her errors were truly epic, especially when it came to colloquial phrases.

Something considered unimportant was 'like water off a pig's back', and things were often 'on the tip of her mouth'. As alike as chalk and cheese translated as 'they're the same as coal and roses', and greedy people were very likely to 'take the eyes from your head' or 'the tongue from a blind man's mouth'. And instead of being given a piece of her mind when we were bad, we were given (rather unpleasantly) a 'piece of her tongue'.

She created memorable, if slightly un-natural pairs, such as nuts & screws, night & dark, and cats & frogs. And almost everything which wasn't supposed to have a definite article seemed to acquire one. We would never think of talking about 'the cancer', and 'the swimming' was something good for the 'peace and mind'.

But somehow, despite my grandparents lifetime of linguistic struggles, to me they never seemed anything other than the most English of English.