Category Archives: History

Another Coming Out Story!

Article, Autobiography, biography, Gay Interest, History, , , , ,

“Life’s not worth a damn till you can shout out – I am what I am!”
Gloria Gaynor – I am What I Am

There is nothing worse than being 9 years-old in the 1960s, knowing that you are different to all the other boys around you, and not knowing how or why, or even having a word to describe it. I was just “Different”!

My father had a word for it though..poofter, though I could never quite work out who or what these poofter people were…perhaps from a country I hadn’t heard of…maybe! In the car one day with dad in the passenger seat, and Uncle Peter…a mate of dads…driving. There was a guy walking along the footpath in a pink shirt. My fathers window was quickly opened, and in unison both father and uncle screamed “POOFTER” out the window. On observing the guy through the back seat window…I could see nothing to help me define that word! However, I have a word to describe my father! It came into my vocabulary shortly after that age. Cunt! As you can already see…this was not a family who would facilitate…or appreciate…my coming out as gay!

Now let me see…what qualities singled me out as “Different”; playing with the girls in the school yard for starters. And unlike the boys, they accepted me into their girls clique with no recrimination or name-calling. I was an excellent skip-roper, and picked up the intricacies of French skipping (done with elastic) very quickly. It could have been my playing with dolls, which my mother actually bought for me…secretly of course! Or my penchant for hiding away in quiet corners and reading books…or my total dislike of sports…my keen eye for fashionable ladies wear…my creative science fiction inspired composition (essay) writing… my artistic streak…my perchant for playing “dress up” in my mothers clothes (which perhaps lead to the evolution of my gutter drag persona…Cleo…in the 1980s)…even my over-active imagination all kept me apart from the other boys I knew. At the beach I was attracted to…and stared at…guys in Speedo swimwear. This was the era of nylon Speedo briefs, and the young men hung very nicely out of them, to say the least. Even the nylon briefs with a “modesty panel” across the front did nothing to hide their manly virtues, as the panels tended to ride up, further emphasising their manliness! And I tore adverts for men’s underwear or photos of lifesavers or any other scantily dressed males out of magazines and newspapers. These adverts, for underwear such as Jockey y-fronts, or Bonds horizontal fly s’port briefs showed no real bulges…but I could imagine them, so to me they were erotic (and now my underwear fetish). I imagined a bulge on the lycra-clad comic strips heroes of the time…The Phantom, Superman, and Batman and Robin.

I also had my first orgasm at 9…and that was something I wasn’t prepared for. I can remember it like it was yesterday. I wasn’t even looking at anything that I fancied…just sitting class, gazing out a window. An erection…which I knew nothing about…just happened. Slightly moving backwards and forwards produced this pleasing sensation…and within seconds I blew. Confusion reigned, as it was such an unexpected occasion. I never mentioned it to anyone, though there was a thorough examination of my cock at bath time to make sure everything was okay. It was! I also started growing pubic hair, which I used to pull out as quickly as it appeared as I was embarrassed by its growth. A discreet viewing of the other boys in the change room revealed no hair on them, so this was obviously a freakish thing happening just to me. My parents weren’t great with the birds and the bees stuff! However, it must have clicked with them that something was going on…perhaps a discolouration in my Jockeys…or the fact that I learnt to masturbate by rolling onto my stomach, and rubbing my cock on the sheet until I came, thus unknowingly creating stiff patches on the sheets…may have been a hint that puberty had started. Nothing like a Christian sex pamphlet discreetly left by the bedside to educate you in the dynamics of sex. I was horrified! No wonder I was confused! Thank heaven for my little stash of adverts!

So I guess I just tucked all my “Different” away. After leaving school, and starting work, I hung out with a large group of people, so I came into contact with other gay guys who were included in our group, and as with many other things in my life, I accepted them on face value. However, they were nearly all in the display areas of Grace Brothers (in Roselands shopping centre), and were very effete…something I couldn’t relate to, so I guess it sort of added to the confusion I was already going through. If gay=effete…then I mustn’t be gay. It seemed logical at the time, especially with no other role models to help guide me through the confusion. So I went through the 70s dating girls, though never making sexual advances to them. It wasn’t even something I considered doing. The girls, in turn, loved going out with me because they felt safe, and knew I wouldn’t go in for the quick grope…and I often helped them buy their clothes. Jo was a girl I used to date who was kind of my “beard” (a term used to describe girls who used to act as girlfriends to stop family from asking difficult questions). She was quite a beautiful girl and I think my old man thought she was a potential marriage mate for me. She did try to seduce me one night, but when I fought off her advances…things must have clicked with her.

The next thing I know, she’s taken me out to Oxford Street in Darlinghurst, pointing out all the gay venues to me and taking me to a gay coffee lounge called “Nana’s” in Bourke St (which became a very popular Vietnamese restaurant in the 80s) where I was introduced to the owner, Nana, and his partner Cupcake.

Author in thev1970s on a solo vacation to Magnetic Island.

Yet there was one occasion when something almost happened. I would have been about 17, and worked for a menswear company at Roselands called E.L. Downes. There was a Clark Rubber store on the lower ground floor, and the manager there, named Barry, who was quite a handsome older man, served me on several occasions. I used to wave as I passed the store, and he used to sit next to me on the bus after work, as we both lived in Kogarah, though on opposite sides of the railway line. As I passed the store one lunchtime, he grabbed me and asked if I would like to go out with him. Without even a blink, I said yes! Told my workmates, and they just encouraged me…and it just didn’t dawn on me that obviously THEY knew I was gay! Talk about naive! Anyway, that weekend I met him at the station…at this time I was living with just my father (my mother left home in 1965), and there was no way I was telling him I was going out with a guy…and we cabbed it into The Cross to this VERY ritzy restaurant called “Mrs Beeton’s Tent”. I’d never been to such a sophisticated…and expensive… place, so was a bit dazzled by it all. Anyway, we got a cab to go home, and he was holding my hand in the back seat. All I could think was…what’s going to happen from here…what am I expected to do! If he asks me home, I’ll go…just to see what happens! The cab got back to Kogarah, and dropped us off at a small park in the main street. He grabbed me by the arm, and started pulling me towards the toilet block, telling me he couldn’t take me home, as he lived with his mother! A toilet block for my first sexual experience with a guy was NOT the romantic experience I was expecting, so broke his grip, said “my father’s expecting me home!” and fled up the street. Missed opportunities! Oh well, such is the life of the shy and naive! Not surprisingly, Barry never spoke to me again, and caught a later bus home from that time on.. When I think about it now, I just shake my head. Considering how outrageous I was to become…I can’t believe my actions that night!

Just after this I started renting with friends in Granville. It was around this time that I started buying bits and pieces of gay porn, and buying “Campaign” newspaper (it became a magazine at a later date). One old closeted gay guy I worked with at Pellegrini & Co knew I was gay, and he evidently wasn’t the only one. My flatmates took me to a party at the home of two gay guys they knew…John & Ray. They had me sussed out in the blink of an eye, but I ignored their innuendo and sly comments and continued to deny it. My flatmates found out by mistake when I went to Campbelltown in the latter half of the 70s to help my step-brothers (he also later turned out to be gay) wife who had had a stroke. I asked my housemates to bring up some clothes for me as I was staying a while, and…much to my horror, and despite a phone plea to ignore the magazines in the drawer (like that was going to happen!)…they unearthed my stash of gay porn mags, and actually kept hush about it until after I came out. In the interim, I had sex with one girl…Veronica…a friend of my female housemate, and who had a young daughter who actually idolised me…just to make sure I wasn’t straight!After having to fantasize about a man to get to orgasm with her, I think the dye was pretty well set…though Barry may have seen Kharma at work, as I shouted her a very expensive meal at the Millionaires Club in Darlinghurst on our first date, and she said no to sex as she wasn’t on the pill…that came after our second date. Yet I still didn’t come out, despite knowing for sure.

Me just before leaving for Melbourne at the Capitan Torres restaurant in Sydney circa 1978

However, circumstances were about to present me with the window of opportunityI needed, and the wherewithal to come crashing out of my closet!

In late 1978 my father committed suicide in bushland near his home in Vincentia, on the NSW south coast.. I am not going to go into details of life with my father, but suffice it to say it was tense. I cried a few crocodile tears, then clicked my heels and rejoiced. My sense of freedom at last was overwhelming! I don’t know what I would have done if this situation hadn’t presented itself. I could never have openly come out to him, as the repercussions could have been dire. As it was, I was moving further and further away…in a relationship sense…from all my family (I am not going into the complexities here, but…oh boy!) so it is possible that to live my own life, and be who I had to be, I would have cut them all off earlier than I did…or maybe Melbourne would have happened anyway, irrespective of anything, and I would just have cut them out of my life. I guess the simple fact was that I was an outcast…the black sheep of my family. One way or another…I really didn’t give a fuck!

In the middle of 1980, the retail company I worked for – Pellegrini & Co Pty Ltd – asked me if I would be interested in going to Melbourne and troubleshooting two stores they had down there. I jumped at the chance. So I flew to Melbourne, set up house in Cumming St, West Brunswick, and started to set in motion the cogs that would change my life, starting a whole new phase that would take me in directions I could never have imagined.

Now, this was no easy matter. Cogs can be complicated mechanisms. The two stores – one in the Myer Centre and one in Hardware Street were in a mess, and by the time Christmas 1980 rolled around, I had not even started having any social life, let alone coming out and banging my way through Melbourne! That was to come! After spending that Christmas and Boxing Day on my own with a bottle of whisky, I decided I needed to do something about it! But what? I went through the classifieds and social group listings in the gay press, mentally started ticking or crossing them out, then going through a process of elimination with the ticked ones, according to where I thought I might or might not fit in. One group seemed to stand out – Acceptance Gay Catholics. I knew not only all the ins and outs of the Catholic Church…but I managed businesses for a Catholic retailer. Seemed like a match made in heaven, so to speak! So I made a phone call, found out whose home the next First Friday Mass was held at, and the next First Friday found me heading out to suburbia to Max’s house for my first gay outing. I told no one I was not yet out, and not being from Melbourne they wouldn’t know if I was or not. Right up to the day I left Melbourne no one I knew was any the wiser.

So the guys all started piling in…and not exactly a pack of spunks, though a couple of lookers amongst them. Turns out the Servite Fathers conducted the masses for them. Not being under the jurisdiction of the local bishop, they were free to do what they liked.

A clone is born…Cumming St West Brunswick 1981.

After the mass there was a meal, then we hit Melbourne for a night out. My first gay club…The University Club in Swanston St. It was gay there every Friday and Saturday night. Started dancing with the guys from the group, and decided to play it safe by dancing with, then going home with, one of the older, plainer guys. At the grand age of 25 I was about to have my first gay sexual experience. It wasn’t the bells, whistles and fireworks I was expecting! In fact…it was a total dud!

Frank, naturally thrilled to bits to have a quite handsome bit of fluff come on to him (actually he made the first move – on the dancefloor! I wasn’t experienced enough to know that if you weren’t really interested, you said a polite “no thanks” and moved onto the next). I didn’t want to seem rude, so said yes when he invited me home, despite fancying a couple of the younger guys more. A steep learning curve here! So, Frank had a car and offered me a night at his place. I can’t remember where he lived now, but it was quite a drive out of the Melbourne CBD. No sooner was I in the car than he had my cock out, and out it remained all the way to his place, despite several near misses due to his…distraction! I often wonder what other drivers thought as Frank’s head disappeared from sight at every red light! Once we got indoors, I decided the ball was in his court and I would leave it up to him to drive proceedings. He assumed I was a young slut and would know how all the mechanisms of gay sex unfolded. Frank was also a bit old and stale, and not the most sexually adventurous person to go home with. From my perspective, I wouldn’t even be leaving the starters blocks with this one. Not an auspicious beginning to my gay sex life, having held myself back for so long. The next morning, it was breakfast, then finding out that I would be getting myself back into the city…on a train. Well, fuck you too, Frank!

At an Acceptance function just prior to returning to Sydney. Fred Diamond (left), Max (Centre) and me.

I started attending not just the First Friday Masses, but Sunday Evening masses as well, held in the Holy Trinity Catholic Church in North Fitzroy, and any of the other Acceptance social occasions that cropped up on the calendar. Thankfully, Frank attended pretty well none of these with any regularity, so it was quite a long time before I ran into him again. In the interim, I found out from Fred – we’ll get to Fred shortly – that he and the other young guys at the University Club that night were quite surprised to see me go home with him. Learn to say no is the first rule of survival on the gay scene!. So over the next few months I met the other members of Acceptance through the masses, or parties in their homes, and get-togethers in a few local eateries, and gay venues such as The Laird Hotel in Collingwood, Smarties Nightclub in North Melbourne, and Pokies, a Sunday night drag venue in St Kilda. My evil plan was working…I was starting to lead a gay life!

In the meantime, I wanted the world to know I was gay. I wrote to my ex-Granville flatmates and ‘fessed up…only to find out that they had known since the night they packed my luggage for Campbelltown. They had met my mother, who I had only just been reunited with prior to coming to Melbourne. On a visit to see her, they notified me by mail, they had accidentally outed me, thinking that I had notified her at the same time as them! They also informed me that she already suspected that I was gay, though she never brought the subject up with me. Years later, back in Sydney, I made no effort to hide my sexuality from her, though on a mother/son lunch in the city one day, she informed me that she blamed herself for it. It became a moot point between us, and she has never really reconciled herself to it. Tough shit! I wasn’t taking a step back for anyone!

After my rather unsettling encounter with Frank, where nothing more exciting than some oral happened, things went from bad to worse. I fell in love with Fred, who edited the Acceptance newsletter, and did a gossip column under the pseudonym of Jodi A Frean. Fred and I had a difficult sex life for the 6 months we were together, and being the innocent I was, I never picked up on the signals about his sexuality. Firstly, he was into light S&M…at least I knew that was, thanks to reading “The Joy Of Gay Sex” before venturing into the Gay void…and secondly…he was a beat quean! He, Danny (who was the second man to fuck me, and went to it like a rabbit on heat) and Jim (who gave me a handjob in the shower, after a swim at a beach house we went to for an overnight stay) were the only three Acceptance members I got off with. Another, Tony, who I should have been more attuned to, as he was more my type, had a crush on me, which I suspected, but unfortunately never followed up on.

At a Mass at my flat in West Brunswich, a very handsome man…Barry (I know…the same names seem to keep cropping up in my life)…caught my eye. He stayed after everyone else left. We chatted, he helped clean up, we drank some more wine, and ended up in the bedroom, where he had the great distinction of being the first man to fuck me. The sheer eroticism and intensity of getting fucked blew my mind! I took to it like a duck to water, and never looked back!

So, that was the start of my sex life. The next thing to do was to expand my horizons. A lot of thought went into it…I wasn’t a risk-taker so the beats held no appeal, no did the shadowy world of the sauna. I had been…unnecessarily… steeling and prodding myself to go to a nightclub in St Kilda called “Mandate”. It was to be another life-changing experience! I was terrified when I ventured there for the first time. It was unlike any nightclub I had been to before in that it didn’t have an entry where you just walked in. The door was closed, so I went and stood on the oppisite side of the street to see what was going on. It didn’t take long for it to dawn on me that, after watching several patrons arrive, that one knocked to gain entry. A security measure, obviously. So, over I go, knock on the door to find that a tiny window in the door opened, and I was being scrutinised by a drag queen. In my clone gear I obviously passed muster, as the door opened, I paid my entry, and up the stairs I went (NOTE: it was a good deal later that I found out that there were also under-stairs activities…though not my scene).

With Glenn W, the Sydney guy, at an Acceptance function. I foolishly allowed him to talk me into returning to Sydney…a mistake for both of us!

Here, I entered a world of men, and music, that set my heart blazing. There was a bar area to the left of the stairs, to the right was a communal area with a barred cruising area surrounding it, and to the rear was a copper dance floor that was to be pretty well my sole obsession over many, nany visits there. I loved Mandate. I loved its masculinity,  its testosterone-charged atmosphere, the pure maleness of it. If I had to imagine Nirvana in these early coming out days, Mandate was it and in the not too-distant future, the Midnight Shift in Sydney when I returned to my roots. I had my first pick-ups there, had my first public blow-job on the edge of the dance floor, met some wonderful men including a man called Brian Pryke who I had the most esoteric sexual experience with (and communicated with for a while after returning to Sin City), and some of my worst sexual experiences including a Dutch pilot who had the most disgusting dose of smegma I have ever encountered, and left me with the gift of anal warts. We live and learn! At Mandate I was introduced to dance floor filling icons such as Lime, Phyllis Nelson, Carol Jiani, 202 Machine, Shirley Lites, Tantra, KC and the Sunshine Band, Patrick Cowley, Sylvester, Divine, Paul Parker, Seventh Avenue, Peter Griffin, Hall & Oates, and many other artists who started my ongoing love for dance music. The wonderful nights I had in Mandate will live in my memory forever.

I continued my work and socialising with Acceptance (including some cross-denominational “spiritual shenanjgans” with a member of Angays (the Anglican version of Acceptance) until I returned to Sydney. They gave me a wonderful set of friends that kept me ocvupied constantly, and a rather frantic social life. I think that what disturbed me the most about being an out gay man in a Catholic social group was the “subtle” stigmatisation that we just seemed to accept. Though the Servite Fathers, who celebrated our home masses, were unequivocal in their support for the gay community, the particularly internalised discrimination and alienation that was integral within the Catholic church itself,  seemed to be tolerated more so than finding ways to support us. I always felt that much of the support came more from obligation than caring and understanding.

And while talking of the Servite Fathers, I must relate a home mass story here. First Friday Masses were shared amongst the various homes of Acceotance members. When I volunteered my flat in West Brunswick for one, I found I faced a dilemma. Confessions before mass were usually held in a private room, and the only one in my flat was the bedroom. The entire back of my bedroom door was covered in pictures of men in various poses and states of undress…mainly naked…and erect! In my wisdom, I decided that this was not an appropriate thing to have on display in a room where gay men were confessing their sins. Rather than remove all the pictures, I decided to tape a large sheet of brown paper over them.  Evidently during one of the confessions, the tape gave way, causing the paper to fall to the floor. Evidently there was a brief pause in the confession as the priest eyed off the door full of naked males, then continued on as if nothing had happened. The exposition was the cause of much hilarity for the rest of the night, with the priest commenting on my “good taste in art” as he departed.

The only other churches that catered to us were St Francis in Lonsdale St, and Holy Trinity Church in North Fitzroy. And even then we could only attend masses at certain times on Sundays. It felt very alienating, and was one of the reasons for me joining the Gay Rights Lobby when I returned to Sydney. For me personally, well….I was an Athiest disguised as a Catholic…just to secure myself a social life, though going through the actions of being a Catholic, and arguing stronly against the banality of much of Catholic belief and doctrine at every opportunity, which caused me no qualms. Only once was I dressed down regarding my staunchly held opinions, and I was stronly supported by the group I was with, as they did not believe in blind faith. There is hope yet in the world.

I went on to become Secretary on the Acceptance committee, and also a member of their social activities sub-committee. But I was about to make a really fucked-up decision that was about to yet again change my life’s direction.

It was at an Acceptance barbecue that I was to meet Glenn W, who was visiting Melbourne, and lived in Waverton in Sydney. It was a period where the Pellegrini head office in Sydney were quietly hassling for my return. Glenn quite swept me off my feet, and after several months of correspondence and with a position as assistant to the General Manager offered to me back in Sydney I rather foolishly decided to return.

So ended my wonderful, unforgettable life in Melbourne. Plans were afoot for a massed goodbye for me at Tullamarine, but to avoid what would have been a very tearful occasion, I quietly flew out the night before.

Glenn W turned out to be a psychopath! Another disastrous love encounter! Would I never learn! But that is a Sydney story! As is the early days of HIV, already being hinted at in the Melbourne gay press. Hard times ahead…and just as I was starting to enjoy the life that “coming out” was presenting to me. The Sydney story was about to begin!

Tim Alderman

(C) 2015

Australian Icons:The Ferocious Australian Drop Bear

Article, General Interest, History, Humour, Travelogue, , , , ,

phascolarctos malum or Thylarctos plummetus, depending on what area they are from.

According to Wikipedia (http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Drop_bear) “A dropbear or drop bear is a fictitious Australian marsupial.[1] Drop bears are commonly said to be unusually large, vicious, carnivorous marsupials related to koalas (although the koala is not a bear) that inhabit treetops and attack their prey by dropping onto their heads from above.[2][3] They are an example of local lore intended to frighten and confuse outsiders and amuse locals, similar to the jackalope, hoop snake, wild haggis or snipe.

Various methods suggested to deter drop bear attacks include placing forks in the hair, having Vegemite or toothpaste spread behind the ears or in the armpits, urinating on oneself, and only speaking English in an Australian accent.”

I have never really looked into the lore behind our local super marsupial…the drop bear. However, this morning – it being Australia Day here – I jokingly made a reference to them in a Facebook post, saying to be careful, as I had seen them heading into the bush with a slab (carton of beer). Then my writer instinct kicked in, and I wondered just how had this mythology around the drop bear started, and just how ingrained into our iconology had it become.

Us Aussies find the whole tourist scare “campaign” about drop bears hilarious. I have a friend – an Australian – who lives in NYC and has a lot of American friends. He gets great delight out of scaring them to death, relating stories about the dangers of drop bears if touristing here, backed up with comments from us over here. I tend to wonder about the gullibility of people.

The wonderful thing about the drop bear myth is how it has come to be backed up with some pretty credible research from believable organisations and publications. It would seem that everyone wants to be in on the joke. This from the Australian Museum:

http://australianmuseum.net.au/Drop-Bear

If ever there was an institution to give legitimacy to a subject, anything with the word “museum” in it would be right up there. Also, some “serious” research work from the “Australian Geographic”:

http://www.australiangeographic.com.au/news/2013/03/drop-bears-target-tourists,-study-says/

The research, done in a NSW drop bear Hot-Spot, has found that talking with an Australian accent helps keep them at bay.

Needless to say, spoof sights for drop bears have cropped up as well, and one has to wonder just how many overseas tourists have clicked on this link and booked a Drop Bear Adventure. Too funny.

http://www.dropbearadventures.com.au/drop-bear/

And this from Buzzfeed:

http://www.buzzfeed.com/cconnelly/10-terrifying-facts-about-the-australian-dropbear-s3x

There are also three apps to play games of Drop Bear.

Drop Bears are a great example not only of the often perverse Australian sense of humour, but is one of our endearing qualities…not taking ourselves too seriously, and liking to laugh at ourselves.

This link has someone even creating a history for them:

https://picsandstuff.wordpress.com/tag/drop-bear/

But perhaps more than anything is the proliferation of photos and graphics that depict drop bears. You can never say Australians don’t have a sense of humour!

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Tim Alderman
(C) 2015

Destroyed (or Almost) Icons: The Sad Life and Demise of a Majestic Cinema.

Article, General Interest, History, , , ,

What a sad story on the life of what was a majestic cinema. The old Mecca cinema in Kogarah, New South Wales, which was affiliated to the Mecca cinema (originally The Savoy) in Hurstville, New South Wales.

I used to go the beautiful Savoy cinema in Hurstville, as I’m sure my cousins Donna and Jeffrey would have done, as they wereliving in Riverwood at the time. My father moved us to Ocean St in Kogarah – the ugly apartment building is still there on the corner – in 1966, and I went to the Mecca there to see movies. In fact, I had a dispute with the ticket-seller on one occasion, after the new decimal currency had been introduced, and some of the coinage…I can’t remember which – had a double value until the coins went out of circulation. As a business they took the coins at the lower value. As a consumer I took them at the higher, and by law they had to take the coins at the higher value. She was trying to tell me I didn’t have enough for the ticket, and I was arguing that my handful of mixed currency was enough -to the cent/penny. I won! Lol

http://pastlivesofthenearfuture.com/2014/09/29/mecca-theatreresidential-kogarah-nsw/
That the two cinemas ended up in the hands of a “cinema Paedophile – follow the links from the first story – is indeed disturbing, though in a way adds to the colourful history of the cinemas.
Originally The Savoy in Hurstville – which became The Mecca – shows the very sad demise of the Grand Dames of Art Deco cinemas as the advent of television put a temporary halt – or rather a slowing – on cinema audiences. This was the Savoy on its opening night in 1937…

http://pastlivesofthenearfuture.com/2014/07/29/opening-night-at-the-hurstville-savoy-1937/
And this, sadly, is what it became…

http://pastlivesofthenearfuture.com/2015/01/22/intencitytarget-hurstville-nsw/
Just as an aside, right next to my home in Samford Rd, Gaythorne, there is a building that used to be a Civic cinema, but which is now a row of nearly all “For Lease” business premises. Another sad loss.

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Tim Alderman (C) 2015

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Daily (Or When The Mood Takes Me) Gripe : Let The Sydney Gay Ghetto Go!

Article, biography, Gay Interest, General Interest, History, Opinion Piece, , , , , ,

Some people just can’t let the past go, or have an inability to see when something has passed it’s use-by date! I have too many friends who keep reiterating that they wish the Sydney gay ghetto was still intact and functioning.

Let’s have a look at the (unspoken) history behind the formation, growth and death of the gay ghetto in Sydney. Historically, Kings Cross and Darlinghurst have always been protective enclaves for the dispossessed, eccentric, minority groups and the unclassifiable citizens of Sydney. Perhaps, initially, because of its foundations in working class and poverty-stricken populations, and later on the underworld, gangsters and prostitution – including transgender – it has always had its roots in notoriety!

In the 70s and early 80s in Sydney, the gay citizens were looking for a space to band together, to avoid the illegalities of being homosexual, and the social stigmatisation that happened at that time as we became more brazen and outspoken about our sexuality. I remember visiting there with a female friend in the 70s – before my own coming out – and the roots of the community were there already with nightclubs and cafes, though homophobic attacks and vitriol were  prevalent as well. It was a wall-less ghetto in the making.

By the time the 80s rolled around, it was firmly established as a gay ghetto, ambling along Oxford St and its immediate environs, from Elizabeth St through to Paddington. The legalising of gay rights in 1982 brought around a boom in the area. The ghetto formed very much as a means for us to squeeze out the undesirables by a sheer force of numbers…and it worked. Any straight troublemaker coming onto our turf would have immediately felt threatened, and though violent attacks did occur, they were rare.

At its height, you could live within the ghetto and never move outside it. We had our nightclubs, pubs, cafes, restaurants, newspapers, magazines, bookstores, supermarkets, small businesses, doctors, dentists, optometrists, saunas, post office, houses, apartment buildings. A night out would involve a meal in a local cafe or restaurant, a visit to your pub of choice – about 9 in its heyday – then off to your nightclub of choice. In the early hours of the morning you could either stagger home via your favourite takeaway, or do a trip to your favourite sauna or backroom without ever being harassed. The ghetto was a security blanket.

During the HIV/AIDS epidemic of the 80s and 90s, it was a true blessing. Once again, you could live as a HIV person within the ghetto and be safe and protected. Within the boundaries of the ghetto were established our hospital and hospice care, our HIV/AIDS specialists and GP practices, our support groups such as ACON (AIDS Council of NSW), BGF (Bobby Goldsmith Foundation), CSN (Community support Network), ANKALI (emotional support), and the Positive Living Centres, as well as our advocacy groups such as PLWHA (People Living With HIV/AIDS), NAPWA (National Association of People with AIDS), our funeral directors, our church. We did our own fund-raising, and we supported each other through our pain and sorrow. Once again, it was a safety zone where the emaciated frames of those luving with AIDS could wonder without fear of derogatory remarks, hatred and harassment. In that zone we mourned, held our wakes, and looked for material and emotional support. Those religious groups such as the Festival of Light, who preached and promoted hatred towards us learnt the hard way about the strength and communication within the ghetto.

Fred Nile’s Cleansing March in the80s was a good example. Thinking his band of supporters would march unchallenged up Oxford St, he and they were in for a rude shock! From early in the morning on the day of the march, protestors, the gay community and its supporters started lining the length of the march. By the time the Rev Fred – with his cross-on-wheels – started marching up there, the footpaths, awnings and buildings along the route were packed to capacity with his detractors! The march, from his prospective, was an overwhelming humiliation, and failure! I remember seeing a car full of Tiwi Islanders who had evidently not been warned about how unpopular their beloved reverend was. They looked terrified for their very lives, overwhelmed as they were by the booing and vitriol of the massed ghettoites. I actually felt sorry for them!

However, in the midst of all this, other changes were taking place that were to instigate the downfall of the gay ghetto. Anti-discrimination laws came into play and all-male/female venues became – temporarily – illegal. Nightclubs like the Midnight Shift had to start letting women in, and once they started bringing their boyfriends and other straight male friends, the ambience of the clubs changed forever! And not in a good way! Many ghettoites who had been in the centre of the HIV/AIDS bonfire scattered to other states or to the far north of NSW. Indeed, by the time highly effective HIV antiretroviral regimes started in 1996, it was very much a decimated community, though the epidemic itself had moved on to the straight community, to drug-users and those that had the double-whammy of HIV and hepatitis. The myth of the “gay plague” was laid to rest for good!

But perhaps the greatest enemies of the ghetto was generational changes, social acceptance, and a movement away from the boundaries of the ghetto, a realisation the we no longer needed the safety and protection of the ghetto to live our lives. We dispersed to Newtown, Enmore, Erskinville, Camperdown, Leichhardt, Annandale, Alexandria, Pyrmont, Zetland, Moore Park, Surry Hills, Redfern and Summer Hill. We transformed areas into “Trendy” and moved away, in our hordes, from Oxford St. Yet, some pieces of our lives remained there – a few pubs and nightclubs, a few medical practices, but all-in-all, we moved on.

Darlinghurst and much of Paddington are now mere shadows of their former selves. A stroll down Oxford St now will reveal dozens of empty businesses, and those that do remain struggle for customers during the day. The nightclubs and pubs are now the enclaves of straight people, and a general feeling of desolation, violence, uncomfortable vibes, and unrest permeates the air. It is now, once again, a place where unsolicited violence can occur irrespective of your sexuality.

So the ghetto has outlived its usefulness, and is, to all intended purposes, dead! I can understand nostalgia, even fleeting yearnings. What I don’t get is an inability to accept the ravages of time, the changing dynamics of an area, the growth and development of populations, indeed diaspora! To those who wear blinkers, want the past to live on, the “good old days” to be a mantra for days gone by, I say…let it go! Enjoy the memories, but don’t wish for them to return. To deny yourself the insights of living in the “now” is to root yourself in a past that can never be repeated. Allow the ghetto to be swallowed by history, to takes its place in our memories as somewhere that we lived and enjoyed IN ITS TIME…and leave it there! Never let your yearning for the past, cause you to overlook the reality of now.

Tim Alderman
(C) 2015

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An Outsiders Overview of the HIV “Industry”

Article, Gay Interest, General Interest, Health Information, History, HIV/AIDS, , ,

This year marks, for me, 33 years of living with HIV/AIDS…though now it is just HIV. I consider it a landmark, as back in 1996 I was admitted to Prince Henry hospital with chronic CMV retinitis, chronic candida, chronic anaemia, wasting syndrome (48 kg and going down), 10 CD 4 cells, and no immune system, and was not supposed to leave…at least not under my own steam. I did, thanks to advances in medications at that time, very aggressive treatment and a lot of will power. I don’t give a fuck how negative many HIV+ guys are about life with HIV. For me, this was the great singular event of my life, a pivotal point that resulted in life-altering decisions, a mental overhaul, and the knowledge that there was a hell of a lot more to life than HIV. It altered the course of my life, and for better or worse I have never looked back.

I was a speaker for the Positive Speakers Bureau for 12 years before realising that when you continually tell a story you start doing it by rote. The time came to opt out before it becomes totally meaningless. I have also written for “Talkabout” magazine (the flag ship publication of Positive Life NSW – formally PLWHA NSW Inc) for 15 years, as a features writer and a columnist. I also spent many years on the Publications Working Group. As a writer I see my role as not only to inform people, but to provoke debate, at times to be opinionated, to raise questions, to address abuses and unfairness and to be, when required, controversial. Unfortunately, my time with “Talkabout” taught me that to get published in a HIV publication you need to walk the safe road. To be controversial is to be tolling your own death knell. Mind you, this censorship has nothing to do with the editors who, in my experience, have been nothing but supportive. Community Health and a certain AIDS council provide funding to the magazine, so to poke your nose into sensitive areas will ensure your censure and non-publication.

As a HIV+ person writing about HIV issues I have always found my hands tied. I have written two extremely controversial articles on HIV Issues over the years. One, on Options Employment Services using HIV clients as a free work force in the guise of “work experience” was so watered down after threats of suing PLWHA, the editor and myself (I truly wish they had) that by the time of publication was a mere shadow of its original fiery tirade…despite the fact that I had evidence of this going on.The manager even took me aside and “suggested” that I quieten down my opinions as they were providing a service to the HIV community. Shortly after, they went broke and disappeared. The second article was amongst the best pieces I have ever written, and covered the controversial area of bug-chasing (HIV- guys who deliberately have unprotected sex with HIV+ guys in the hope of contracting HIV). The magazines working group deemed that by writing about bug-chasing I may have been promoting it amongst a certain sector of the community. Considering that the practice is well documented, is acknowledged and exists I failed to see how being informative about it was in any way promoting it…oh shit! I forgot that community health and certain HIV organisations wanted to keep their heads buried in the sand about the issue…and they held the purse-strings. Censorship is alive and well within the HIV community and always has been. Want to tell the truth about what is going on or want to expose something? Not on their watch!

But despite this I continue to write, though I keep it to the more nondescript these days. I do enjoy being published! Since moving to Brisbane I have been phasing out my writing for “Talkabout” (which after 15 years of being published in pretty well every issue, has gone unacknowledged by the organisation itself, though not by the editors), and have started writing for QPP “Alive”, the magazine of Queensland Positive People. Same story, different place as far as funding goes, I’m afraid. Nothing controversial will be coming out of here either.

33 years ago at the start of the HIV shit fight, people never questioned anything about treatments, definitions, philosophies, or courses-of-action. We were in crisis mode and anything was better than nothing. We let a lot happen that in more sane times, in more accountable times, would never have been allowed to happen. This far down the line it is time to start asking questions, time to demand investigations and redefinition into many aspects of treatment, time to look back at some of the historical record and say “we were wrong”, and set the record straight. I no longer allow my doctor, or the HIV establishment, or the drug companies to dictate my path to health for me. I follow my own path, which is dictated to by knowledge and experience. 11 years ago I made a decision to halve my daily medications, and dose myself once a day only. Considering the negative impacts of huge amounts of HIV medication on the body I decided to take a risk. Well, this far down the line my health has never been better (though diet and exercise also contribute to that), my viral load has remained at undetectable, and not only has my CD4 count remained stable, it has in fact risen considerably. In fact, on my blood tests all other readings – except CD4/CD8 – are within range. Considering the recent emphasis on drug regime “compliance”, and considering my own circumstances, I am forced to ask – controversially, naturally – if the compliance issue is being driven by HIV specialists, or by the drug companies who stand to make a fortune out of HIV drugs. I will leave that question in the air for you to mull over and answer for yourself. This is a personal opinion, and one I am entitled to.

With the release of the brilliant “Dallas Buyers Club” the truth about AZT is finally out there. Pressured by my doctor to go on it in the latter part of the 80s, it is the one decision of my HIV care that I regret. I had read the report from the “Concorde” study in France, I knew it was described as “Human Ratsac”, yet I still finally gave in, and witnessed the immediate decline of my health as it bashed my immune system into submission. Needless to say, the long-term affects are disabling, and were not worth the risk. I still hear those who work in the HIV “Industry” – as indeed it was and still is – banging on about how it kept the wolf from the door – it didn’t! It poisoned and destroyed our immune systems, and left us vulnerable to opportunistic infection! It effectively killed many of us. As a drug to assist with maintaining CD4 counts it was a total and complete failure! And I am not the only one to say so! Ask any one who survived AIDS their opinion on AZT! Minor control of HIV did not start AZT situation. How the FDA in America handled the AZT situation and allowed wed the drug companies to dictate treatment options, block other drugs put out by rival companies, and chose to ignore or acknowledge research from overseas was a disgrace.

Even now in 2014 ignorance lives on. I continually hear, read and see HIV being described as AIDS! It is NOT AIDS – it Is HIV or HIV+! For fuck sake get your facts right! HIV is a viral infection, and AIDS are as the initials infer – Acquired IMMUNE Deficiency Syndrome! They are infections contracted by a breakdown of the immune system! The two do not necessarily go hand in hand, and you can have one without having the other. People undergoing aggressive cancer treatments which knock the immune system around are left vulnerable to the same infections triggered by AIDS in the plague years. Drug addicts also.

There are – and I am not being unkind nor ungrateful – those who have worked in the HIV Industry for too long. They are burnt out, and out of touch. If you only wander in HIV circles, you will only know that singular perspective. These people are indoctrinated, lacking in vision, and single-minded in their approaches to HIV and its management. They are blinkered, and only ever spiel forth statistics and the same information that we have heard for the last 30-odd years. They seem incapable of acknowledging different perspectives, new ideas, or revisiting and re-evaluating the old philosophies and education. Without an insurgence of new blood, HIV is in danger of stagnating and just at a dead end. Their current publicity of “Ending HIV” is a fantasy, and they know it. As long as HIV is in Africa, and in countries like Russia and China where education is almost non-existent or played down, HIV will never end. Empty words to seem to appear to be doing something, is just a waste of money. The HIV Industry seems to be very good at this. Always about 2-years behind actual need – just look at the employment needs of AIDS survivors in 1997/98 – when services were introduced they were way off course. You can only have so many programs that teach you how to write a resume, or attend an employment interview. Every single return-to-work session I went to do talks at had the same people in them. They just moved from one group to another, never putting the teaching into action. Where was the advice for people who wanted to be re-educated, or start a business, or upgrade a hobby,or buy into a franchise? It was non-existent. These people were the ones who fell through the cracks for lack of support and services. This has always been an ongoing problem. Naturally, the lack of funding is always blamed – though enough money to pay huge salaries – when really it is a lack of foresight, and imagination. Of course, everything is now wrapped up under the umbrella of Community Health, so any hope of imaginative thinking is now out the window. Those who hold the purse-strings control everything. It is a sad state of affairs. Groups like “Positive Life” no longer acknowledge their roots, nor do they move in the directions set down by the original founders. They are out of touch with their memberships, are indeed losing them. In the race to save money they are dropping resources that keep everyone active within the group. Even Positive Speakers Bureau inductees are now told what to talk about, and bang on about the same old messages and sprout the same old statistics. The trouble is…no one gets sick any more, so there is nothing to talk about for an hour. Perhaps it has outlived its use.

If one has to be totally frank, service delivery, information and services are no better now than they were 20 years ago! In many cases, they are worse. One friend of mine complains of the lack if easy access to HIV meds, and he has to spend a lot of time travelling to obtain them. He also comments on how he and his partner feel isolated and-reclusive due to no social groups to mingle with, and the constant heed to continually go through your medical record every time you change providers. Pretty sad state of affairs considering he only lives in Canberra.

Being my 33rd anniversary of life with HIV, and with World AIDS Day approaching I have written a personal retrospective of that period hopefully for publication around that time. It is 2,500 words long…not a lot of words for 33 years. If you are interested, follow the link. Not quite as controversial as this!

Getting On With It! A 33-Year Retrospective of Life with HIV/AIDS

For information on the Concorde Trial – http://aidsinfo.nih.gov/news/5/concorde-trial
Tim Alderman
(C) 2014

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Walking In Time

Article, General Interest, History, , ,

Like most people, I take the city I live in for granted. Having always lived in and around Sydney, I don’t really give much thought to what makes it the city it is, what endears me so much to it, what creates this strange love affair with bricks, concrete, glass and steel.

I have always had a pretty good knowledge of the history of Sydney, and have walked much of its historic paths, and many lesser known alleys over the years. I travelled, at least for a while, over the Harbour Bridge on an almost daily basis. I have walked the pathways of the bridge many times, and have traversed it also in trains, and as a vague recollection, in trams. The bridge pylon has long been a favourite haunt as a place to escape the madding crowd – at least on weekdays – and as a place to meditate the beauty of my city, and be constantly in awe of the majesty of its harbour. The recently started climb up the actual span has added another dimension to it again, and a view of the harbour and city that is so beautiful it makes you weep. In my many journeys across it over the years, how often I wondered why I could not climb that arch! That dream is now available to all.

It is only as I have grown older that I have really started to get into the feeling of walking through time as I move about the city. Many others before me have walked streets that I walk, they are named after those who used them as far back as the first settlement. Suburbs are named the same way, as are homes, parks, bays, beaches, hills and mountains. Tongue-twisting Aboriginal names confuse many a tourist, and the buggerisation of their language is evident in many spellings of place names around the city. They have become not just names, but a patchwork of living history. I now go to Balmain knowing that at one time, the whole suburb was sold for five shillings. I know that Millers Point is just not a name, but an activity that occurred there, and that Brickfield Hill is named for the same reason. The Rocks is so because of rocks, Rushcutters Bay because they cut rushes there, Cockle Bay was renowned for its cockles and Double Bay because it is – yes – two bays.

The very trees and gardens in the Eastern suburbs hold history. Rocks bare graffiti from 1788. Archeology is all around, at places such as the dig at Suzannah Place in The Rocks, and more recently at Walsh Bay, and when the Conservatorium of Music was being restored (the old Government House stables). We no longer cringe at the suggestion of being from convict stock. There are many like me, whose families came out as free settlers in the mid-eighteen hundreds, who would beg, borrow or steal to have a convict history. It is only now that books are revealing the true facts of our past, the real people who were on the first fleet, the true conditions they endured to become the first white inhabitants of this land. This is a truth we no longer shrink from, but accept as part of our cultural colour. It is a shame we cannot be as proud of our treatment of indigenous cultures.

Up until I read John Birminghams ‘Leviathan’, I had always thought that John Macarthur died back in England. I had no concept of the hard time he had given his wife, nor that he died being declared insane. I had no knowledge of the back biting and factioning that went on between Governors, settlers and the Rum Corp, nor of the workings of the Unemployed Workers Movement of more recent history. I would not have known that free-settlers built homes in the highest areas of The Rocks, and that those living below them were engulfed by the sewerage running down the hills. Digging trenches around the lower homes did little to alleviate the problem – the sewerage just overflowed the trenches, and proceeded to boil and fester in the heat.
That I would never have been taught any of this at school does not surprise me. Growing up in the fifties and sixties in Sydney was a lot different to growing up here in the nineties and beyond. ‘Going to Town’ is no longer the event it used to be, where parents and children were dressed in their Sunday best, as though making a pilgrimage to the centre of their culture. My parents could not have imagined the squalor of the late nineteenth century, nor the depressions earlier in that time. Their parents lived on the legacy left to them from the depression of the twentieth century, and expected their children to carry the
same values forward. My apologies to them but they are wrong. I will not carry that guilt for them!

I love my city for having survived the warring factions, the depressions, the plagues, the demolitions, and the cultural and architectural history destroyed by a string of uncaring governments. I love her crowded streets, her bastard mix of architecture, and crooked, crazy alleys and lanes. Yes, she has grown as an old whore, but oh, a whore with so much class.

I was unbelievably impressed by the Olympic site at Homebush, and how much it was a measure of how far we have come. We have taken a toxic dumping ground and rejuvenated it into a suburban paradise. Twenty years ago, nobody would have given a damn about the Green and Gold Frog becoming extinct, let alone contemplating creating a space for it to thrive in. We now think about the spaces we are creating. No more just throwing up buildings as though there was no tomorrow – well, perhaps east Circular Quay is an exception to that rule. I see history being restored, and put to modern use. I trust we have got over the facadism of the eighties, and now choose to preserve buildings in their entirety, breathing into them a new life which they richly deserve.

Now when I walk up Palmer Street or Campbell Street in Darlinghurst, or drive down Old South Head ŷRoad, the names invoke a sense of history to me. They are not just boulevards, they are lives that have been lived, and continue to live as long as people care.

Tim Alderman
Copyright ©2014

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The Reverend Alfred Pickles

biography, Family History, General Interest, History, , , ,

The Rev Alfred Pickles
I have been researching my family tree for over 15 years now. In the early days it wasn’t so easy, and I probably had the sum total of about 10 names. The advent of the Internet has changed all that, and I now have four large arch files of information, including one entire file dedicated to one family member – more on him in a later post. I have gone as far back as the late 1500’s in Fylingdales and Robin Hood’s Bay in Yorkshire (the further you go back, the more difficult it gets), and can pretty well trace the family right down the male line to now, with a recent start being made on tracing the maternal lines back from my mother, and my Great Great Great Grandmother. A surprising find, in a site of graveyard inscriptions, were the names of not only my long searched for Great Great Great Grandmother (Clara Pickhills nee Rickinson), but also her husband (Joseph Pickhills), one son (Seth Pickhills) and daughter (Priscilla Pickhills). This was a great find as it connected me further back than my Great Great Grandfather (Rickinson Pickhills) and filled in a few blanks. I had to use a research company to find details, as the trace is difficult if you live in Australia. Clara’s son Seth Pickhills had one son – Alfred – who is important for two reasons (he is my first cousin three times removed). Firstly that he took off down his family line using Pickles instead of Pickhills – and I guess we will never know why. For a while in Rochdale (Lancashire) he lived with his aunt (Priscilla) and she was a Pickhills. Secondly, and the very last thing I would ever have expected to find in my family, after a stint at being a watchmaker he became a Baptist Minister in Rochdale. And here I was thinking that we had always been Catholics! I don’t know when religious affiliations changed, but I suspect it was after the families arrival in Australia, and probably after some Irish heritage had been added by way of the lineages of the Fanning’s and the McConnell’s. With Catholic’s being unable to marry outside the faith, potential spouses of other religions would have had to convert. Thankfully, my family never cared one way or the other, and despite being christened a Congregational, I am now a devout Atheist.

Anyway, this much we do know about Alfred. He was born in the rapidly growing West Riding textile town of Bradford, Yorkshire, in 1843. The son of Seth Pickhills and Jane Bracher, we know little of their actual lives except that they were working class. Seth was a journeyman printer (journeymen, after serving their apprenticeship, were able to move amongst employers), and according to the 1851 census the family were living in Belgrave Place in Bradford, and 8-year-old Alfred was a scholar. Moving on 10 years to the 1861 census, we know that he was 18-years-old, and living with his aunt, Priscilla (Seth’s sister) at 46 Belgrave Place, Bradford, and that he is listed as being a watchmaker. Seth had died in 1859, and it would appear that his sister had taken over the running of the household, though we are unsure of what had happened to Jane. His next mention in the records is in the 1871 census, and both he and Priscilla had moved to 95 Mitchell St in Rochdale, and he was listed as being a Baptist Minister.

We know from his memoir printed in “Memoirs of Ministers and Missionaries who died between 15th January 1917 and 31st October 1919” that he was involved with the Baptist church from a young age, and he became a member of Westgate Church in Rochdale under the pastorate of Henry Dowson, whose teachings had a lifelong influence on him.

On the 19th August, 1864 the following article appeared in the “Bradford Observer” regarding his ordination; “Ordination of a Bradford gentleman at Rochdale – On Tuesday, Mr A. Pickles, son of the late Mr. Seth Pickles, of Belgrave Place, Bradford, was ordained pastor of the Lyceum Baptist Church, Rochdale. A prayer meeting was held in the morning, the ordination followed in the afternoon, when a sermon eas preached. In the evening there was a tea meeting in the Milton Congregational School, presided over by the Rev. A. Pickles. Amongst those who were present at the ceremony were the Rev. E. Parker, Farsley; Rev. J. Smith, Bacup; Rev. H. Dowson, President of the Baptist Theological Institute, Bury; Rev. J. Home, Waterbarn; Rev. L. Nuttal, Ogden; Rev. J. Williams, Oldham; Rev. J. Bloomfield, Bradford; Rev. J. Wilkinson;  Rev. A. Pitt; Rev. A. C. McCoffin; Rev. A. H. Drysdale, and several friends from Bradford. The Rev. A. Pickles was formerly a scholar at the Bradford Grammar School, and afterwards pursued his studies at Bury College under the Rev. H. Dowson.”

In 1874 he married Margaret Elizabeth Shepherd, who was born in Waterbarn, Lancashire in 1844. The couple had two children whilst living in Rochdale – George (1876) and Henry Shepherd (1878). Initially, Alfred’s ministry consisted mainly of cottage and outdoor meetings. He became one of the earliest students of the Baptist Theological Institute, which at the time was newly established at Chamber Hall in Bury, and under the presidency of Henry Dowson. In 1866 the Institute moved from Bury to Manchester and became the Manchester Baptist College, founded on strict Baptist communion lines. The College was to become a founding member of the Theological Faculty of Manchester University. Alfred’s name was the first on the roll of minister’s trained at the college. His pastoral work began in 1870 at the Lyceum in Rochdale, and soon afterwards at the church purchased in Water Street, Rochdale.

Manchester College
This was to become the Water Street Ebenezer Baptist Chapel. During the pastorate of Alfred the congregation grew and prospered. On the evening of February 10, 1878 the Reverend gave a long lecture to his congregation entitled “Turkey, Russia, England and the Jews” which was published in booklet form shortly after. He was also secretary of the local branch of “The Liberation Society”.

The society had been formed by Edward Miall (8 May 1809 – 30 April, 1881) who was a Portsmouth-born journalist, apostle of disestablishment and a Liberal politician. He was also a Congregational minister at Ware, Hertfordshire (1831) and Leicester (1834), and in 1841 founded ”The Nonconformist”, a weekly newspaper in which he advocated the cause of disestablishment.
Miall saw that if the programme of Nonconformity was to be carried through it must have more effective representation in Parliament.
One of the first fruits of his work was the entrance of a John Bright into parliamentary life; and by 1852 forty Dissenters were members of the House of Commons.
This was due largely to the efforts of the British Anti-State-Church Association, which Miall was instrumental in founding in 1844. It was renamed in 1853 as the Society for the Liberation of Religion from State Patronage and Control, known for short as the “Liberation Society”. The Society was never able to secure a parliamentary majority for the disestablishment of the Church of England, but the long fight for the abolition of Compulsory Church Rates was finally successful in 1868. In 1870 Miall was prominent in the discussions aroused by the Education Bill. He was at this time Parliamentary member for Bradford (Yorkshire) from 1860-1874, having previously sat for Rochdale (where Alfred would undoubtedly have encountered him in person) in 1852-1857. In 1874 he retired from public life, and received from his admirers a gift of 10,000 guineas. He died in 1881 at Sevenoaks in Kent.

After ten prosperous years at Water Street Chapel, throat problems forced Alfred to accept a call to Towcester, in Northamptonshire, which was more rural and had a milder climate. He officially became pastor after a three month trial period. However, it would seem that this move to the North End Baptist Chapel was to have its own trials and tribulations. The chapel at Towcester was opened on 3 October, 1853. There appears to be little interaction with other churches in the area, though the Towcester Baptist Church does record that after re-forming in 1871, it received a letter from the North End Chapel to “renew contacts severed with the old church, as the basis for fellowship was now seen to be biblically established”. What was often referred to as “the Baptist Church”, almost as though it were a separate denomination, later came to be known as the South End Church, though there appears to be no desire to unite the two churches on the part of North End. Most of what we know of Alfred’s pastorate is from the Church Book. The Church Book was used to record baptisms, reception of people previously baptized by the laying on of hands, expulsions, and rebukes of a serious nature. Under the previous pastorate of Samuel Cooper Tite, the book had not been filled out prior to the 1880’s, and he had in fact taken the book with him when he left the church. He returned the Church Book to Alfred in 1886, after his return to the Baptist church. There was a fairly small congregation, possibly due to it being a sect of the Baptist church commonly referred to as Johnsonian Baptists. Founded by John Johnson (1706-1791) who was a Baptist Minister of High Calvinist views, he taught that faith was not a duty required of God, but a grace which it is impossible to convert into a duty. Want of faith, therefore, is no sin. He was repudiated by the local association for “bizarre ideas” , as he questioned whether the Incarnation would have been necessary if man had not sinned, he denied the doctrine of the Trinity, and was highly insular and exclusive. Johnsonian’s were not even allowed to associate with other Baptists, which would have explained the division between the two Baptist churches in Towcester. Other Johnsonian churches were founded in Blackburn, Norwich, Chesterfield, Halifax, Bromley, Duncote and Dublin.

In Towcester, for the 64 years leading up to Alfred’s appointment, about 80 people were associated with the church at one time or another. In 1886 there were 37 members, and Alfred baptized 20 in the 6 years since he became pastor. With the return of the Church Book, he started to record church meetings and one or two other “events”. There is a record of a visit from a person from a nearby congregation to communion “at the Lord’s Table October 2nd 1887 Mr Davidson a Member of the Church of Christ at Banbury requested and was allowed to commune. At the request of the Church he also preached in the evening from 1 Cor 15c 1 – 4 vs”. This is obviously an “Event” and reveals the small congregations isolation. The Churches income was about ₤20 per year, which appeared to cover their expenses. A welcome gift mentioned in the Church Book is of an amount of ₤100, which was on its way in five installments from the sale of a church in Comus Street, Liverpool.

In the meantime, Alfred and Margaret had another two children – Thomas Edward (1881) and Ruth (1884). The family first appear in Towcester in the 1881 census, living in High Street. Alfred and Margaret are listed along with George who is 5-years-old; Henry who is three; infant Pickles (Thomas, and just born); a Maude Clegwidden who is 12-years-old and occupation given as nurse maid (at 12?) born in London, Middlesex; and a Margaret Taylor, 68-years-old and a visitor. Alfred appears to have left his position as pastor of North End Chapel in 1891. The church may have been too small to warrant a pastor at that point, as thirteen members passed the following resolution at a Church Meeting towards the end of 1891 “that in harmony with the suggestion of the Trustees, we request Mr Fidler to preside at our Church Meetings and to advise and assist so that the Services at North End & Duncote Chapels may be maintained in as orderly and efficient manner as possible. Signed by Alfred Pickles. Pastor.” William Fidler accepted the invitation. By July 1893 there was obvious concern about the viability of the Church. Many of the church members had been elderly and had died. The Sunday School had just 11 pupils. A church meeting was held with 8 people present which decided to try to carry on for another few months. “There appeared no disposition to unite with the South End Church. Still the prospects of continuing as at present were doubtful. Mr Garlick was specially anxious that they should try to revive the work by prayer and united effort”. Early in 1894, after the services had been held in the vestry for all winter to save money, the church was officially closed on March 25. There were 16 members listed, 4 of which were discovered to have died. The contents were distributed between the Duncote Chapel, and Towcester Baptist. Church (South End Chapel). Obviously they weren’t too proud to take a donation from a church with opposing views to theirs.

In the 1891 census, Alfred and Margaret are listed as living at 19 The Drapery, Northampton. George is now 15 and an apprentice; Henry is 13 and a school boy; Thomas is 10 and a school boy; and Ruth, the new addition since the last census, is 7 and listed as a “school boy”. Margaret Lyack, 66-years-old, is living with them as a boarder living on her own means. 19 The Drapery (a store) is still there, and currently occupied by Oxfam. I think Alfred would like that.

For the following 6 years, after the official closure of North End Chapel, Alfred travelled from Northampton back to Towcester every Sunday in order to break the bread of life for the Towcester Church, this being done for no renumeration.

Another interesting item that came out of the 1891 census is that Alfred’s occupation is listed as a “Hatter & Hosier” at 19 The Drapery, and he is also listed as a Hatter in two directories of Northampton for that period. However, I am led to the thinking that this was the year they moved to London, possibly in the latter half of that year.. A notice appeared in the “Edinburgh Gazette” dated August 4, 1891 whereby in a listing taken from the “London Gazette” he was listed as bankrupt whilst living in Northampton. We know that at the time of the first meeting and first examination regarding his bankruptcy that he was residing at 160 Regents Park Rd, London, though he returned to Northampton for these meetings. He was still at the Regent’s Park Road address in 1893, when the Public Trustee Alfred Lister Blow was acting on his behalf. It is open to suggestion as to why he declared himself bankrupt. One reason may be that he used all his available cash trying to keep the North End Chapel viable. Another reason might be that with the church being so poor, and with him having to resign his position as pastor (and receiving no pension or renumeration) that there was just no money left for him and his family to survive on until he either obtained work, or started his own business. Who knows! I have tried researching the prevalence of bankruptcy in the 19th century with little success. Alfred is the second family member to have declared bankrupcy. He also started work for the Baptist Tract and Book Society, where he worked for some years. still preaching whenever and wherever he was needed. By the time the 1901 census rolled around, he was residing at 10 Oppidans Road in Hampstead. He is listed as a “Tay Dealer” which I can find nothing about, and suspect it is a deciphering error. Margaret is still listed, as are George (now 25, single and a clerk); Henry (now 23, single and a printer); Ruth (now 17, single and a shop assistant); and Thomas (now 20, single and a printer). They still have a boarder, now an Edward Gounersall, a 24-year-old single electrical engineer. By now Alfred’s eyesight was failing, and The Memoir notes that for several years before his death he was quite blind, and bore it with great patience. It would appear that he did continue to work, possibly as a hatter and hosier seller (perhaps Ruth was a shop assistant in his store), as well as continuing an occasional ministry for as long as his failing eyesight allowed.

Margaret died in 1911, and I think this would have devastated him, as he had described her as “a true help in all his labours”. At the time of the 1911 census he is living at 23 Ainger Road, St Pancras in London. He is listed as a Baptist Minister Retired. Thomas Edward is still with him at 30, and it would seem still single and now a Painter Machine Manager. Ruth is also still listed as being with him at 27, and it would seem that she also is still single and now a costumier.

Alfred died in his sleep (according to The Memoir, which can tend to prettify things) on the 20 February 1920, aged 72, at Hendon. He left behind a family who cherished his memory. “He was a man of faith and prayer, and faithful to the principle, even when fidelity meant loss. His one passion was to preach the gospel and he has now gone to hear his Lord’s “well done” and receive the reward of many soul’s for his hire”. It would appear from The Memoir that he was a very committed and devout man.

Although research continues into this side of the family, it would appear that only two of Alfred’s children married. The 1911 census lists at 10 Oppidans Road in Primrose Hill in London a George Pickles. He is now 35, in the Motor Accessory Trade, and head of the household. His wife is Mary Ellen Pickles who is 39, and born in Co Kildare, Ireland (a resident of Clonkeeran). They have been married for 8 years, though no children mentioned. Thomas Edward appears in the 1917 register of marriages for St Savior in Hampstead. He is 35 and marrying a Mary Turner who is 29. There is a listing for Thomas E Pickles Death in 1965 in Greater London, though if this is indeed Thomas Edward is yet to be verified. He was 84 at the time of his death. There is a death registration for Ruth Pickles, aged 81, at Sidcup in Kent. Again, this needs to be verified.

Further to the Water Street Ebenezer Baptist Chapel in Rochdale. The Water Street Chapel was demolished in 1915, and the demolition was witnessed by a parishioner by the name of “Owd Dob “who was inspired to write an account of his personal memories of the chapel in a short treatise entitled “Th’ Owd Chapel”, for private circulation. It is difficult to read as it is written in the Lancashire dialect, though with perseverance an interesting account of the chapel (including a mention of the pastorate of Alfred Pickles at the beginning) unfolds, and includes a picture of the Church, its banner, a sketch of its interior, and photographs of pastors, the choir and the woman’s class – all looking very “Baptist” in their 19th century severity.

This biography has been put together using information gleaned from census records, Alfred’s memorium in The Memoir, and various newspaper reports from the time. Some suppositions have had to be made, and I hope that some of my conjectures at least are correct. It has been an interesting exercise cobbling someones life together from whatever information is still available. At this time I am still waiting to hear from Northamptonshire Archives of any information they may have on file for Alfred. NB: they never got back to me. There is a payment request for searches on their web site, but I am nit willing to pay money to find they either have nothing, or I already have what they hold. A request to know if they have any information on Alfred before I pay has been ignored. This is the first archive in England to be unhelpful with an information request.

I would personally like to thank Emily Burgoyne from Regent’s Park College Library at the University of Oxford for abridging the “Memoirs of Ministers Who Died Between 15th January 1915 and 31st October 1919” and sending it to me (the Memoir itself is the only copy and is in to fragile a state to scan. It was compiled by the Baptist Union after they decided to stop printing the Baptist Union Handbook during the First World War, as paper was scarce, and printing expensive), along with scanning in his lecture “Turkey, Russia, England and the Jews”. It has all been an invaluable aid in helping to trace my long-lost cousin.

Tim Alderman (formerly Robert John Pickhills)

Note: Ebenezer Baptist Chapel, Water Street (pp 139-140)

This church was formed of members formerly in connection with the West-street Church, and met at first for divine worship in Baillie-street, on the 8th of January, 1867; it continued there up to the time of its removal to the chapel in Water-street. The last mentioned place was built in 1834, by the New Connexion Methodists, and was purchased from them by the Baptists, and re-opened for divine service on the 1st of May, 1870. [a little more]