Valley of the Trolley Dollies

The honeymoon, for those of you who’ve been asking, is due to take place next year.

But we will be heading away in July for a few days to one of our favourite cities.

Can you guess where it is?

And Lo, it came to pass that the angel of the Lord didst appear to me in the seventh month of the year. Broad shoulders, covered in a soft white down, a high pompadour of dark curls, a long white robe, partially covered in translucent mother-of-pearl sequins, and a nine foot long cape of white ermine.

Actually, scratch that; it might have been Shirley Bassey. Now I come to think of it, the angel of the Lord refused to utter a single word until twenty thousand quid in cash and a case of Krug had passed hands.

Then, having downed a full bottle of the K, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand (smearing a very expensive Chanel Strumpet Scarlet Lippie), Shirley Bassey, reeking of heavenly glory, and exuding the paradaisacal scent of Giorgio Beverly Hills,  didst spake unto me, saying…

‘Why now?’

‘Why what now?’

‘Well, you’ve been together for sixteen years.’

‘Sixteen blissful, joyously happy years.’

‘Except for that time you tried to run him over.’

‘Total accident: I’d never driven a tractor before.’

‘You were in Ikea’s carpark.’

‘Well he shouldn’t have said that there was more wood in a Terri Hatcher performance than there was in the dining table we’d just bought. That’s all I’m saying about the matter.’

‘He dissed the Hatch? Bitch, I’d have levelled him with a Massey Ferguson too. Still, apart from the tractor incident, you’ve spent sixteen years together.’

‘Sixteen romantic and faithful years. D’you realise, I’ve never even looked at another man in all those years.’

‘Well, there was that time with the woodwind section of the Bratislava Philharmonia…’

‘My foot slipped; I was trying to pick up a fifty pence piece I’d dropped; I was just looking to see if they had any paper in that cubicle.’

‘Well, that’s what you told the police. Did they believe you?

‘What d’you think?’

‘So what did you get?’

‘A blow job, a black eye and crabs.’

‘From the law?’

‘From the bassoonist and the principal clarinettist. The law just gave me a caution. Though I thought I was getting the glad eye from the desk sergeant.’

‘Nice?’

‘Ninety, if he was a day. Turned out he just had a funny eye. Bad wig too. But huge shoes. Like clowns, they were.’

‘So, why?’

‘’Cos he had big feet, I suppose.’

‘No. Why get married now?’

‘Firstly, it’s not a marriage; it’s a civil partnership. What?’

‘I’ve seen the two of you trying to get the order of service written up; the word civil is a bit of a misnomer, isn’t it, darling?’

‘Yeah, well, it’s not a marriage, because legally it’s not a marriage.’

‘Yes, well, legal schmegal, as I said to my account the other day. I mean, legally, OJ Simpon’s an innocent victim of circumstance. So, if it’s not a legal wedding, what is it?’

‘It’s our day. It’s the best we have. It’s more than we ever dreamed we could get.’

‘Yes, but if all you wanted was a day out, you could have done it in one of those happenings they used to organise at Pride.’

‘But they didn’t mean anything. We were already married – we have been for as long as I can remember.’

‘This is true; only an old married couple can bicker as well as you two. So if you’re married already, why this? Why now?’

‘For the same reason that people climb Everest; live in glass cubes suspended at the side of the Thames; walk from Pole to Pole.’

‘Oh, I see: You’ve pre-sold the movie rights.’

‘No.’

‘The OK deal?’

‘Please.’

‘Sorry. Hello? People? The Economist?’

‘Because, up to now, the best we could do was have a ceremony. Say a few words in front of some people. We didn’t need that. We didn’t want something that society or the law or the people in the care home we’ll end up in, could ignore. This gives us more rights, more protections, than we’ve ever had before. Is it perfect? No. But is that a reason for turning our backs on it? No. We said we wouldn’t do it until it meant something. And we were brought up to believe in the rule of law, the value of something that has value in the larger context.’

‘Here, take this.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s an anti-pomposity pill. You’re getting a little heavy. ’specially ‘round the hips.’

‘Sorry. (gulp). You can talk, love.’

‘I am an Icon. Icons are allowed to be a little meaty. Legends can’t be. That’s ‘cos normally, they died skinny. Lucky bitches. At least I’m not a suburban homo. So, anyway, if it’s the law, they could change it back again. Cancel the rights and protections.’

‘And don’t I know that. Anything could happen tomorrow. So we take today. And we keep a watchful eye out for anyone trying to take it away.’

‘Here. Have one of the yellow ones.’

‘What’s that for?’

‘It’s an anti-paranoia pill.’

‘It’s not paranoia. We’re out in the streets dancing this weekend. Marching and singing and carousing. Because we’ve earned it. Every kid who went through school and didn’t end up dead from the heart out. Every man or woman who is no longer willing to sit on a bus or in a bar and hear hateful language and not do anything about it because ‘they’ might get you. Everyone who’s no longer afraid to bring their boyfriend to the office Christmas party, no longer willing to believe the lie that it’ll kill their career. We’ve come a long way, and we deserve to celebrate it. But there’s so much that can go wrong.’

‘Disastrously wrong?’

‘Maybe.’

‘As disastrous as that shirt?’

‘I’m ignoring you now.’

‘So what do you do?’

‘You take this. You make the most of it. You make sure that you keep informed, keep aware. You don’t spend every minute of every day waiting for the sky to fall; but you keep your wits about you.’

‘So, you’re marrying him as a political statement. Very 70’s. Very European.’

‘You’re not getting this, are you?’

‘Why, then?’

‘I’m marrying him because I love him. Simple as that. I sat one evening a couple of years ago, on the deck of a cruise ship, looking out at the sun setting on the Caribbean sea, and I thought: I want this forever.’

‘They throw you overboard if you can’t pay the bill.’

‘Not the cruise. Not even the Caribbean. But the sunsets, with him. Quiet. Peaceful. I want that forever, and I want it official.’

‘Quiet and peaceful. So, no more tractors and classical orchestras?’

‘No more heavy machinery. And from here on in, nothing larger than a string quartet.’

‘Sweet. So, this copper with the big feet. What nick was it.’

‘Bow Street.’

‘Goodbye daaaaaahlin See ya.’ (Strolls of, humming a medley consisting of ‘A policeman’s life is not a happy one’ ‘Hey Big Spender’ and ‘Smack my Bitch Up’.)

Nineteen Days To Go…

Twenty Years.

Two Decades.

Over half my life.

I moved to London twenty years ago this week. I’d been before, on summer holidays. And I knew I wanted to live here. It was a big city. It was exciting. It was filled with people who didn’t know me. It was a clean slate.

It was where Wham! Decided to call it a day, and I came because my cousins had bought me tickets to celebrate my 18^th birthday.

And I never went home again, although in many ways, I carry my home in my heart: My parents, my brother, my past still live in Dublin, and even now, twenty years later, I’ll still catch myself referring to it as ‘home’. If it’s true that ‘You can never go home again,’ it may also be true that you can never truly leave it.

So, this post is dedicated, with thanks and love, to Kaz Liz and Mary, who got up at 3 in the morning to get the first train to Wembley; who survived the entire day on nothing stronger than 2 litre bottles of diet Coke (when, backstage, everyone was on coke of a different type); whose makeup and hair, so meticulously applied, were splattered by the sweat the sun and the hosepipes turned on the crowd long before they even opened the gates; who screeched along with every one of us every time a helicopter flew over (it was the 80’s. Helicopters then were to celebrities what stints in Rehab are to celebs nowadays: You were nobody if you didn’t have one); who craned knecks to check out if that really was Michael Jackson or George Michael or Cyndi Lauper queuing up with the rest of us, before deciding that, no, it was probably just some sad lookalike; who screamed almost (but not quite) as loudly as me when the entirely white stage set was lit with yellow lights and the boys strolled nonchalantly on to the opening drum loop of ‘Everything She Wants’; who bopped, sang and lived the day beside me; and who walked what seemed like ten thousand miles (in Jelly shoes, Kaz) to try to find a train station to get us home.

My home is Dublin; my home is in the Valley of the Trolley Dolllies; my home is where my heart is. So this week, as always, I guess a part of my home is with you three. Bring your dancing shoes on the 15^th; no jellies, Kaz!