Hater to mate, hater back to mate

A guy from the estate I grew up in began life with me as a foe, then we faught, then we were mates, then he disappeared.

I grew up on the border of the West Midlands and South Staffordshire in the village of Sedgley. It bored me to tears. It's a community of retired book bashers with nice gardens.

It used to piss my dad off a treat, when neighbours used to ask him to do them favours for very little in return. He used to state they are "very selfish" men. This made me giggle. I couldn't think for a minute someone as polite and unassuming as Roger could be considered a very selfish man.

Friend to foe, to friend, to foe, to friend in the symbol of a handshake between mates

I used to be fascinated with how they lived their lives, regularly watching them out of the window. Idle things like getting into a car or seeing what food they bought from the weekly shop became an event of great interest.

When they used to invite me round, I turned into a little investigator. Sitting there in the chair that was offered, eyes scouring the room, looking at the pictures, what sort of books they were into, the trinkets, all the while building a visual picture of the folks next door.

One thing I found fascinating about Maureen was the drink she took. She told me how fed up she was of tea and coffee and so opted for something that was received with giggles. She was drinking the ginger and lemongrass cordial. I could not believe my ears. I snickered, hard. I tried to hide my giggles, but it was obvious. She looked over and clearly saw me laughing, which made me laugh even more. She never reacted and just let me laugh.

A boy and a girl on a beach as the swash expands and contracts

There were all these bookworms and poached fish eating, summer dress wearing, lemon cordial drinkers on the estate and then there was my brother. Folks say he was a jealous bastard. I’m not too sure. He was a decent guy. I was a decent guy. I don’t get this whole jealousy business.

We met at a house party and I liked him. He was cool. He was real. We used to banter. The house parties we used to have at this house were decent. There was a hot-tub and a bar at the back of the garden in a little house. The first time I heard Queen, ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ was on approach to this bathhouse. I recall about four fatties, flailing like seals amongst the bubbles, both in the flutes and surrounding the rolls on the hips.

We used to scrap at school. He was a drummer and I saw him once with these drumsticks. I was keys and vocal. He liked me and used to scrap for the bants. I used to respond, but I was too studious to engage any further than an altercation in the corridor.

Pride, lions bringing it in close in an intimate and comforting moment on the savannah

He used to be heavily into performing. He used to dance, bad. There would be an endless supply of street dancing and singing. I never knew someone with such a rottweiler exterior could have such an interest in 1940’s female vocalist. I think he was secretly gay. Rumour had it that he was at the very least bisexual and liked mixed race men. There were various pictures. I was left, intrigued. How could a guy who freestyled and scrapped, displaying such constant aggression, behind closed doors be into Annette Henshaw and Edith Piaf. When I discovered this, I had stars in my eyes. It was beyond extraordinary.

Then we never saw each other again. I went off into DJing, jocking on mid-morning across the locals and the like and I had not a clue what he got up to.

I bumped into him again during third year of journalism school at the university in Staffordshire. I was conducting business. He was conducting business and I gave him an indirect bollocking. He went for a swing, but his mates were suitably impressed so held him back, like a lead being pulled backwards. I still liked him, so it was cool, and bizarrely, I respected the fact he went for a swing. I must have been a real psycho to have spoke to a group of heavies, solo with no backup or ammo. It was in defence of a party who informed me they had been offended by comments made. It was an attention seeking other half who would cause so much trouble it was unreal. Wherever we went I used to have to politically defend him, he was so different. Best thing we did was separate company, then the comments stopped. They followed him around, not me.

Pageant Performers on New Capitol Day, 1940

I never saw my swinging Henshaw then for the next five years. I didn’t give it another thought. We saw each other twice in 2021. I like seeing him. He’s got confidence. He’s got chat and can actually talk to me at length. I don’t know how it came to be, but on one of the occasions we hugged. It was blessed.

It was in the early part of this year (2024), we saw each other on the dancefloor. It was the coolest thing. The people on the floor parted and surrounded us as we both danced in front of each other. It was like a freestyle, synchronised dance and those around watched. It was revealing, it was meaningful, and it was the sweetest thing. I sometimes look back at this from the perspective of a third party, seeing what it was like seeing my brother and I dance in front of each other with a crowd around us watching, my retrospective eyes buried in the sea of faces in the circle, surrounding.

President Truman with performers at the gala, National Guard Armory, Washington D.C

I haven’t seen him since, but I think about him a lot. The next time we see each other, there is always a next time with us, it will be the most fascinating conversation. My eye contact is going to be of massive fascination, I just know it. I don’t know where, I don’t know when. It would be horrifically cliched to finish this with the line, but I know we’ll meet again some sunny day. Shit, I just did.