Billy Blagg

The Streets Of London

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With my daughter due to get married in October, September seemed to just broil with stuff designed to have me gripping to reality by my fingernails.

On the 22nd was my future Son-in-Law’s stag do; a tour of the City and Central London on foot, visiting pubs on the way, the whole thing conducted by an official London guide.

So it was I found myself outside number 39 Furnival Street in Holborn. Site of a mystery building (Google it). Me? I’m staring at 37 where Gail worked (a job I helped her get) for three years. So desperate to text her and tell her about No: 39. It’s one of those moments when you consider actually typing and sending a message – and yes, I’ve done it – just to maintain your equilibrium. Of all the places in London…

The previous week I’d bought myself a cremation bracelet; a small thing to wear round my wrist that would contain a small amount of Gail’s ashes. This day was the first day I wore it; gaining comfort from having her with me everywhere I went. I know I had it on in Furnival Street but a couple of pubs later – yet completely sober – I found I didn’t have it on. I was beside myself. I’ve never found it and only admit this for the first time as I write this.

I gained solace – and grieving gives you the power to do this – in the knowledge Gail loved London and was somewhere in the City streets. Of course, she may have been picked up by some vagrant and swapped for a cup of coffee, but I prefer my version as I sleep better of a night with it.

36-37 Furnival Street

A Long Short Journey

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September 20th 2018 – In a year of days I won’t forget this is not a day I’ll ever forget. This completely floored me and reading again it floors me still.

I mean I’m not really smart, but I think I’m reasonably intelligent. I can explain the double-slit experiment in Quantum Physics well enough, I can train someone on Windows, string a decent sentence together, but I don’t understand Brexit; but then no-one understands Brexit.

So why in God’s name did I get funeral ashes so wrong? I always thought they were a token; a gesture of the person who had gone. They didn’t give you the actual ashes of the deceased, I’d assumed. I’d often wondered why people got so concerned about where those ashes were to go, I mean it’s just a symbol really, isn’t it?.

Recent events have taught me otherwise of course, but nothing prepared me for today. I bought a frame for one of Gail’s photos then I collected Gail’s ashes from the Funeral Directors. What a life journey that short trip was.

Because, though they are certainly ashes, they aren’t really either. This is Gail. This is the woman who I adored and worshipped since I met her in 1987, a woman I would happily swap places with now. A person who regularly and literally – in the proper sense of the world – took my breath away with her beauty. She’s now in a box. A fucking box. A green box 6″x 8″x 5″. It’s heavier than I’d have thought, but this is her regardless. All that’s left of that woman who could stop a conversation at twenty feet when she entered a room. A box I have my hand on as I write this, so she knows how desperate and fucking desolate I feel.

I have a juxtapose; the picture in one hand of how she was, the only thing left of that beautiful, vibrant woman in my right. Friedrich Nietzsche was wrong: what doesn’t kill you doesn’t make you stronger. It makes you weaker, it eats at you, it destroys your very soul and reduces life to just existing.

I’ve learnt a lot about myself today. I’ve learnt I’ve not got the strength of mind nor body to cope with this living hell.

The Return Of The Mysterious Black Cat

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On 13th September I had to go in for an operation. Keyhole surgery; You don’t need to know what it was but it was related to Gail’s illness as I did it trying to help her out of the bath in her closing months. ‘Nuff said.

I needed someone to keep an eye on me for the weekend so my best mate Paul came and stayed for the weekend. Then this happened.

The Return of the Loony Widowed Facebook Poster

I’ll be honest, this one freaked me out a little.

Best mate Paul is staying and helping look after me for the weekend. I’m in a bit of pain so he went to investigate some caterwauling from upstairs. Strange cat Puffy – see previous post – had somehow gotten into the house (no windows were open so he must have walked in the patio doors right past me) and was confronting Buzz, Gus and Ziggy on my landing. Paul thought Puffy was one of mine, till I explained, intervened and opened the bathroom window so the now friendly intruder could escape.

Two hours later, I was sitting on the settee when I heard a thump from upstairs in the bathroom; the sound of a cat jumping in. “You better not be coming in again, Puffy” I called from where I was sat in my lounge.

My phone, which was sat on the opposite arm of the settee and which I’d not been using, and which I have never talked to in the three years I’ve had it (I don’t even know how to turn voice recognition on), suddenly burst into life – making Paul and I both jump – playing PUFF Daddy’s Sting-sampled ‘I’ll Be Watching You’. Puzzled, I picked up the phone and a window had opened with the lyrics on view “Every day I wake up / I hope I’m dreamin’ / I can’t believe this shit / Can’t believe you ain’t here.”

Explainable in an unlikely way, I know, but we both admitted to getting goosebumps on this one. Another chapter slots into place…

The mysterious Puffy – The cat returned in May the following year before disappearing again.

Back On The Chain Gang

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Someone said this next post was ‘inspirational’. That’s nice but all I can remember is that heavy heart feeling; it seemed as if I was carrying a ton weight round in my chest. One of those times where you think of the place and the whole atmosphere overwhelms you, as if you were back there and it was THEN again. I leave the post as it is but even reading it now is painful.

I could never get insurance for Gail due to her poor health but I wished I’d tried a little harder. I eventually got one of those ‘No questions asked over-50’ things but even so I should have invested more in it. Finance? At a time like this? Yes! This was 10th September and I was back at work. It’s too early. You may not think it is – “Oh it will be good for you to take your mind off things” – but it is. I urge you. Get decent insurance. I know it sounds too unemotional but it’s not. You need a decent payout so you can take a year out without worrying about anything. DO it. Now.

So first proper day of work today. “How’d that go Blagg?” I hear you ask. Well, the network hadn’t been configured properly so I couldn’t train on the Hand Held Terminals and had to do two training sessions theory only. Believe me, this is no way to learn a new system. So I wanted to tell someone, but the someone I usually speak too isn’t here any more. I can’t tell you how weird that felt. I kept looking at my phone and no bastard had rung me ten times. Remember how I used to complain about getting so many calls? To paraphrase Oscar ‘the only thing worse than getting phone calls is NOT getting phone calls’. The place is right next to Brighton Marina though, so it made sense to stay at the nearest hotel. Bad move. This is a Gail hotel. She’d have loved it here. Sparkle, chrome, ambient music. I celebrated my first day back at work by breaking down and howling into a wonderful plate of seafood spaghetti. Tears add some piquancy to a dish I find. Must remember that when the book gets published and John Torode asks me onto Masterchef. ‘Let the fun be Gin’ it says behind me. ‘Do fuck off” I say to my complimentary Tequila Sunrise.

More Musing on Life, Death and Love # 373

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We’re a strange bunch us humans, aren’t we? “That’s too nice to throw away” we say, “I’ll KEEP that”. What we don’t mean is “I’ll put that card / wrapper / heart-shaped crisp / whatever somewhere where I can see it every day”. Instead, It goes in a keepsake box, then in the loft for one of you to dig out every couple of years. “You want this?” you’ll say. “Oh I can’t throw that away, it’s too nice”. It goes back in the loft.

I’ve decided the loft needs clearing. I’ve already found a set of fossilised Yuletide jelly sweets I bought for Gail in Christmas 1987. Pushing away the wish that if I could have fifteen minutes of ’87 back – Please God! – then I could watch Gail eat them, I’ve had to throw them away. Shame: ultimately a loving gift that nobody got pleasure from. Today, wondering what was under THERE, I’ve found an empty Swarovski Bombay Gin bottle and box. I remember buying it for Gail one Christmas, the Gin went quickly .. and the box / bottle? Well, that’s too nice plus it’s got Swarovski crystals on it. You can’t throw that away, you must KEEP it.

Now every fibre of my being is saying I should put this out for the glass collection on Tuesday. After all, it’s not mine and I don’t need it. If I keep it then one day my kids will find it and not even know the story of why it’s in a box in my loft. Why leave it to them? It’s pointless and unfair.

Then I thought of the final irony. If I post this on Facebook, I will get a reminder of this bottle, next year, five years, ten – if I’m still here. In fact, long after I’ve gone this bottle with remain on a server somewhere; a symbol of love between two people. That’s settled it. It’s going out. It IS nice though…. (Note: I still have it but it’s NOT in the loft)

September Blue 3

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The kindness of others really sustains you during the months following. Particularly those who – like at the funeral – were old friends, work colleagues, casual acquaintances you’d meant to see for years but somehow not got around to seeing. The fact they had made an effort to support me and say goodbye to Gail in their own way was and still is, truly overwhelming.

In September 2017, I’d posted a photo from Kos in the Greek Islands where Gail and I were having a wonderful holiday. Underneath the post was a comment from a long-time friend and work colleague Vic and his wife Loretta. By coincidence they were in Kos too and suggested we meet up. This wouldn’t be quite so surprising if it wasn’t for the fact that Gail and I hadn’t seen Vic and Loretta in over 30 years! We’d often talked about meeting, never managed it and, when we eventually did, it turned out to be a couple of thousand miles away from where we both lived. Strange how things pans out.

We’d last met at a company Christmas Party I’d organised in 1987. Gail arrived as my guest for what was to become our first Christmas ‘together’ and the first person she met was Vic and his then girlfriend Loretta who were also breaking the ice. Now it was three decades later and, inevitably, as happens with these things, when we did meet it was like we’d seen each other the previous week. We had a really nice meal and spent several happy hours catching up under a hot Greek sun.

Now, a year later and it was hard to think where we’d been just twelve months earlier. With Facebook posting up its one-year reminders, I relived again the happy day a year earlier and got another message back from Vic. They were returning to Kos again and they wanted me to know they were going to to the same restaurant and bar where we’d been a year earlier to celebrate Gail’s life and raise a glass to her. It was both desperately sad to think of them in that same place where we’d been so happy just twelve short months before, but I was also overwhelmingly grateful that they would do such a thing to remember her.

It was odd to think of our two respective journeys since 1987 and – and this happens a lot when you lose someone – you bemoan the wasted years when you wanted to do things but somehow never got around to it because, as John Lennon had it, ‘life got in the way’.

Gail Kos 2017

September Blue 1

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I’m aware I now have a strange relationship with social media; a medium I initially shunned as ‘me’ and only approached in another guise because I needed to get my football-related media related stuff into the world.

I’ve now found this area has become to me what it has to millions; a way of keeping in touch with people who want to know how you’re doing and what you’re up to. Truth is though I’m aware that this could so easily become one of ‘those’ types of pages. Full of bon-mots about life, death and love and pictures of Gail at Halloween, Bonfire Night etc. and I really don’t want to do that. I will probably just disappear from here for a few months soon, visiting only to read others posts and to keep in touch. N.B. (I soon realised this was a mistake and I needed to keep writing for my own sanity, in fact my page became exactly what I’d railed against in my original post)

In the short term though, this is just to let everybody – and I’ve had another three old friends get in contact just this weekend (and I really thought I’d found everyone) – know I’m OK. I’m eating, sleeping and doing things; I’m just heart-broken, bereft and mentally shattered. Your thoughts, words, condolences and kindness are overwhelming and greatly appreciated though and the fact that people I’ve barely spoken to for years have got in touch with such heartfelt messages is truly inspirational. Even the ‘I don’t know what to say’ message says a lot. Really. The support I’ve had here and via related media has really helped.

Thank you.

Attached – because it amuses me – is a photo taken on an illicit weekend in Bath in March 1994 before we decided to just do the right thing and move in together in June.

This was the start of me posting photos of Gail that no-one had seen before. Telling our story – and it is a helluva story – of how we met, broke up, got together again, lived and loved together and married. I won’t post them all here. Some of the story is quite personal and doesn’t add to the grief aspect at all. But I have to say I got a lot of pleasure and grief respite from posting pictures and hearing people’s interest – and often amazement – at the associated stories.

It became apparent to me that writing and telling our story was my release. It still is nearly a year later.

Gail 1994

The Mysterious Black Cat

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More of those mysterious coincidences that you hang onto. Some people read more into this than I do, I just recount them here because they are an important part of the grief process.

We have four cats; Morris, Buzz, Gus and Ziggy. The first three are pure black cats, the latter a grey British Shorthair. We had one previous cat named simply Puss-Puss who had arrived at our old home in strange circumstances. At the time I was highly allergic to cats and, in fact, Gail had to give away her pets when we moved in together. Something which, incidentally, didn’t seem much to me at the time but which took on greater significance later in our relationship. In fact, giving her beloved cats up to live with me must have been enormously difficult for her and it’s not something I would do now for anyone.

Puss-Puss subsequently bought another cat back to live with us – again odd circumstances, but something to which Gail put more significance on than I did – we became, astonishingly considering my health issues previously, a two-cat family. For when Puss sadly died from old age, a small cats home had sprung up in an attempt to replace him and, by July 2019, we had the aforementioned four cats.

Anyway, with the weather in Britain glorious all summer I had the back patio doors opened when the following occurred.

Beware everyone! I’m about to become one of those social media loonies

When Puss-Puss turned up in what was admittedly very strange circumstances (too long to relate here) in 2000, Gail always insisted he was sent by her Mum who had passed away earlier that year. When Puss-Puss brought Morris back – in more odd circumstances – when we moved to Colchester, Gail insisted it was her Grandfather who had died a few months before. I should add that at this I usually rolled my eyes and went somewhere quiet.

I was sitting downstairs today when Buzz started howling at Morris sitting on the floor in front of me. “What you doing Buzz? It’s only Morris” I said. Then I realised Morris was on an adjacent chair and so was Gus. A quick head count revealed I had four black cats in front of me instead of the requisite three I own.

I’ve fed the stranger, had a far-too-early stiff drink and gone to lie down as I’m starting to feel very odd.

Puffy, as I was to learn later, became a frequent visitor over the coming months.

August 30th 2018

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The Post-THE-Day post. A day I never wanted to have and a day I would gladly not have if I could somehow wipe it. Within that though, I felt strangely elated that everything went so well. Gail would have loved it, I know.

The Ceremony was moving but lovely, I managed the 10 minute Eulogy without breaking down and even managed to get some of the humour that was so important to us into it. The Celebration of Life after was exactly that; every one remembered Gail as she would have wanted and the whole thing was held in a nearby bar / restaurant called Mimosa that was ‘very Gail’ and one she would have approved of.

It’s funny but just a year previously – with no fear that the date was impending but just one of those conversations you have sometimes – Gail said told me that when she went she only wanted me at the funeral and to just have some people back after for some sandwiches. I pointed out that there were people who loved her, who would want to say goodbye and, in any case, I needed someone there. Amusingly, I couldn’t even envisage what she was expecting with the sandwiches at home request. I’m fastidious about mess in the house and, with a latent OCD kicking in after Gail’s passing, I would have spent the whole afternoon hoovering up, walking behind people with a dustpan picking up crumbs.

Within that I was deliriously happy that I’d stumbled onto the idea of Mimosa. If we’d had the big chat closer I’m sure it was somewhere she might have suggested herself. The music she loved turned into a five hour ‘Mix Tape’; the type of thing we used to send each other back in the ’80’s. I even created it on Spotify so anyone can hear it. It was lovely hearing her favourite songs but even better hearing those ‘coded’ ones; the songs we used to speak to one another in when times were different.

Also, far from things being private and intimate, her passing being observed by just me, the whole thing became a worldwide event. With some friends of Gail unable to get to Colchester due to travel issues – Los Angeles, Greece and the Isle of Man just a few of the places where Gail’s friends lived – or ill-health (She had many friends with Lupus unable to make the journey), I’d had the whole thing recorded on Webinar so anyone could log on and see the whole thing. Friends and family were even able to go online for a month after to see the ceremony and I was able to get a downloaded copy to keep.

After the Celebration, I’d been taken to a nearby hotel to see Gail’s family down from the North-East. There were big family issues there – Gail hadn’t spoke to her closest for a few years – but I was glad everyone had been able to come and say goodbye to her. I felt it was important to try and mend the bridge; too late for it to be fully workable but good enough to hold up for anyone who needed to gingerly cross it.

After I left the hotel bar, it was past midnight of the 30th and the worst day of my life was behind me. I decided not to order a cab but walk the distance back to our house, passing a darkened Mimosa on the way. I’d had a drink but not too much – it’ s never a good idea even a year after – but I felt oddly light-headed. The day had gone as well as it could and I just knew implicitly that Gail would have approved. She’d have asked ‘HOW MUCH?’ at what I spent and then laughed as I’m famously frugal, but she’d have appreciated me getting everyone there – even those who couldn’t exactly be there – and I think she’d have appreciated me trying to fix some of the broken relationships.

I’m not proud of too many things I’ve done in my life but I am proud at what I was able to do for my wife on that day.