On the Loss of Childhood Heroes

‘It’s a human need to be told stories.’
Alan Rickman

There are some weeks that we wish we could erase from our collective consciousness. Press delete. Return to sender, unopened and unread.

This has been one of those weeks.

This week we lost two towering ambassadors of the arts, two beacons of British culture: David Bowie and Alan Rickman. Both men were 69 and both were killed by that omnipresent grim reaper, cancer.

A tidal wave of grief flooded the internet. It was immediately clear that their deaths were felt keenly around the world, but nowhere more so than in Britain. To us, it felt deeply personal.

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Where have my balls gone?

An Average Day

The other night I had dinner with an old friend. The kind of friend who not only remembers that time you discovered hair dye for the first time and had a barnet the colour of an Aperol Spritz, but has had the photographic evidence pinned to her wall in a photo collage for the last ten years. The kind of friend who is incredibly relaxing to be around, because conversation is stripped of the need for context and is instead reduced to a chorus of “Remember when…?”’s and frequently punctuated with cackles of laughter.

 

As always, our chat took a turn for the nostalgic. I’ve known this particular friend since we were 5 years old and she holds a very special place in my heart – and not just because of the many, many birthday parties attended, family crises handled and pre-pubescent fashion decisions (mutually) supported. This friend is particularly important. You see, she was the other member of my band.

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