Christmas At Leo's - Memoirs Of A Houseboy by Gillibran Brown Page A

might have helped me have some kind of frame of reference for my feelings and helped normalise them. It wasn’t and probably still isn’t, certainly not in church schools. Love was promoted as only permissible between a man and a woman. Anything else was a filthy aberration.
    I used to cry myself to sleep night after night wondering why I’d been cursed with the dis-ease of homosexuality. I even wondered if the meningitis had been a divine punishment for me being gay. If so, then God, The Great Creator, is a cruel and contrary bastard. It’s a bit off to create millions of gay, lesbian and transgender folks and then have every twat on the planet persecute them for it, using your name as the justifying factor. In reality, of course, it has nothing to do with God, whoever or whatever God is. The real problem lies with the loveless, judgmental people who hijack the notion of God and use it as an excuse to persecute and control. Yes, yes, I know, I’m lecturing again.
    I spent a fortune on votive candles in the hope God would hear my prayers and turn me straight. The priest must have saved a mint on heating bills after I’d paid a visit, due to the number of candles I lit. It was a horrible, confusing and painful time. No child deserves to go through such torment. I didn’t feel able to talk to my mother or to my lucky ‘normal’ mates. I certainly couldn’t talk to Frank.
    Getting back on track. I was excited about Christmas the year I was fourteen. I’d begged mum to let us spend the holiday at home for a change. I think she said yes because I’d been so ill and she felt guilty in some way. She stood up to Frank when he objected. He wanted to do what we’d done every year since he’d shoved a ring on her finger and spend Christmas at his mother’s house. His whole clan would congregate under her roof for a ‘family’ Christmas. I detested it from the off. It’s a scary thing for a kid who isn’t used to big gatherings to suddenly be plunged into the midst of one.
    Frank’s brother and two sisters had young kids and his mother doted on them. Like Frank, and maybe influenced by him, she didn’t have much time for me at all. She certainly didn’t welcome me as an adoptive grandchild. I was never invited to call her gran or nana. I called her Mrs Morrison.
    With hindsight, I can see why I set so much store about spending Christmas at home that year. I was in emotional turmoil and seeking some kind of safety and comfort by hearkening back to the past. I was hoping Christmas would be like the ones my mother and I had spent together before she married the knob.
    In Frank’s family it was a tradition for the adult men to go to the workingmen’s social club on Christmas Day and have a few lunchtime drinks. The womenfolk stayed at home with the kids and made Christmas dinner. The men then tripped home, ate heartily, drank some more and then slumped in front of the telly while the women cleared up and made a start on preparing Christmas tea. It was a feminist nightmare.
    Come the big day Frank met up with his brother and brother-in-laws as usual for a festive pint. Mum prepared the dinner and set the table and we waited for him to come home from the club, and waited and waited. It went well past club closing time and still no Frank. Mum was getting worried when she got a phone call. It was Frank’s mother. She claimed he’d gotten a bit drunk and ended up going home with his drinking buddies. She tried to make a joke about old habits dying hard. ‘He’s so used to coming here for his Christmas dinner. He’s like a homing pigeon.’
    I didn’t give a shit about Frank not being with us. It was the best possible outcome as far as I was concerned. I was thrilled. It didn’t last.
    ‘Mrs Morrison’ said it was silly for us to be on our own on Christmas Day, so why didn’t we join them as usual. There was plenty to go around. Frank’s sister would come and pick us up.
    Mum knew as well as I did that the whole