Sex Education

To LGBT or Not To LGBT?- That is The Question

Sex Education


Sex education in schools has always been a topic of fuelled conversation among parents, and opinionated public house frequenters. I found myself within earshot of one such discussion as the question of whether to introduce ‘non-heterosexual’ education to the syllabus should be agreed upon. As half a dozen people voiced their objections I found myself squirming, and biting my tongue for fear of being run out of town with a pitchfork pointing at my posterior.  So, in this space, I would like to share my perfectly valid opinion, and I believe it is a very good one, but I am afraid of real life humans.


Children spend a significant number of waking hours in school, it is, therefore, a pretty massive contributor to the education of ‘all things’. Personal and social development is largely influenced by peers and those people in charge of the code of conduct. I can’t help but ask myself, of all those parents who object to the teaching of any matters of Personal, Social and Health Education (PHSE), how many of them take the responsibility on themselves? I was raised (quite poorly) by social worker parents; Sunday lunch was the time for questions and answers of all things sex related. Other children may not have had that privileged start in life, and if we want to avoid the second coming of the trauma of Carrie, kids do need mentors whether you like it or not.


The fear? That lessons will take the form of a scene from the Meaning of Life, teacher and wife ‘at it’ in front of the whole class. I know my school days are far behind me but I’m pretty sure that kind of demonstration would be frowned upon even in the 21st Century. Or are you scared your children will be encouraged to have a physical relationship at a young age, because all that talk about orgasms and hormone surges will send them running to the back of the bike sheds? In reality, children of a certain age find ‘all that stuff’ pretty disgusting, because they don’t want to think their parents ever ‘did it’. And, this is not the education we are talking about. We are talking about teaching young people about loving, caring, healthy relationships with people it is legally allowed to have those relationships with.


The first step towards an all inclusive curriculum is to get more people writing about the variety of relationships people have with each other (my next move). Under no circumstances should there be any divide between heterosexual and non-heterosexual education. Education should be all encompassing. Let’s talk about humans and human love. We don’t need a breakdown of gender identification, that instantly makes things ‘different’. If sadly, parents object to the  ‘normalisation’ of non- traditional stereotypes, they also need educating.


We need diagrams, images, and a long pointy stick. Images of people from all walks of life, demonstrating warm loving interactions. We need to talk about that love between ‘people’, all people. How some of them can make babies the conventional way, and how some have to find alternative ways to complete their loving families. Children start their lives with more compassion, tolerance, and love than most adults will ever have. It is up to us as a society to nurture those personality traits. Rome wasn’t built in a day, but with any luck we will rid ourselves of the racists and bigots, to be fair they will all die out eventually, let the new kids on the block come fighting up the rear and show them how it’s really done. What is normal anyway?

Lisa Ives for Pf Magazine

TV & Film

Goodbye Friends ~ Million Dollar Listing: New York


As a nation, we’re no strangers to binge-watching telly shows. You know, sat there until 2 in the morning on a school night, cramming your senses with the latest must-see tv, so when Joan from accounts asks you if you have seen the latest season of ‘Rich Hamsters of L.A’ and you say..’no’, she doesn’t look at you as if you have just farted on her weight watchers chicken wrap.

So, prepare to have your eyes dehydrated, your mind boggled, and your waistline expanded. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you;

Million Dollar Listing: New York

Two and a half, larger than life American people who are realtors – estate agents to you and me – bitch, backstab and fight their way to the top of the New-York-property-so-expensive-it-will-make-you-angry tree.

It has all the classic reality TV ingredients. We have an abundance of talking heads, subtitles for people who don’t understand American, and beautifully edited/orchestrated ‘real’ conversations. It’s so stunningly put together, you will laugh your nipples off.

It also has touching moments of their real lives to prove they’re not actors. Swoon as one of them shuts down Times Square to propose to his girlfriend. Gasp as one of them asks his best friend to be an egg donor for the child he and his husband so desperately want, and cry as one of them breaks down under the pressure and turns to his life coach for guidance.

You don’t even need an attention span, or a brain at all, as at the beginning of every episode you get a complete recap in under 30 seconds. Those with an attention span of a Rivita slice can now rejoice.

Set against the stunning backdrop of New York City, our brokers negotiate astronomical deals and represent some of the most onerous characters to ever breathe air. Some of them are so hateful and wedged up their own posteriors that they demand that you swear at your television and scare your dog in the process.

So, who are your new friends? Well, let me tell you.

Ryan Serhant

An American poster boy. Blonde, cocky and with teeth whiter than dandruff. This guy is the best of the best, and he ain’t coy in telling you this, again, and again and again. This chap has as much charm as a Tory backbencher and even less likability. But this is panto in the purest form, and we all like a bastard.

Fredrick Eklund

This strapping Swede is all show. He’s loud, opinionated, over-confident and beyond annoying. This man is very much Marmite, there is no middle ground. He’s a condescending, arrogant, selfish twit and then some. He’s also more camp than a night out in Soho.

Luis Ortiz

This pint-sized Puerto Rican is an all- grinning, effervescent bundle of positivity and he will make you want to vom. He’s very much playing catch up with the other two as he handles what you might consider the lower end of the market (10 million townhouse anyone?). His slicked back hair is almost as smooth as his lines, but he remains distant with the ladies and comes across as someone rooted somewhere between straight and gay. This is fine, as the man is about as appealing as a cheese toasty washed down with sick.

So, these are our champions of big, brash American real estate nonsense. You will love them, you will hate them, and you will thank me for it.

You’re welcome.

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee *


*Watch the show and this becomes painfully apparent. I mean, painfully.

Jason Moody for Pf Magazine


Comedy Monologues

The Monologues of Clementine Close~Verity



Here, take a look at these handcuffs, I’ve just bought them from that military shop up Camden way. They’re stronger than the ones I’ve been using; reinforced steel. The others were starting to bend slightly from where Anton had tried to pull the chain out of the wall.

I did tell him that there was no point trying to break-free, see that wall back in the house is made from Iranian Concrete, I researched it specially, it’s the strongest in the world; quartz infused it is.

I’ve got to be honest, he hasn’t taken to being cooped up indoors, which has really surprised me, cus I thought he’d enjoy being out of the public gaze for a bit. Kicked up a right fuss he has.

Course, I hadn’t intended to gag him, well it’s a bit unpleasant, isn’t it? But he was screaming like a banshee, so I had no choice really; granted the basement has no windows but you can never be too careful.

Leaving him to go off to work is always a bit of wrench. He pleads, in his own unique muffled fashion and I like to think it’s because he doesn’t really want me to go, which is nice. But as I told him, ‘needs must, cus the bills won’t pay themselves, will they?’

Besides, I know they’d only try and contact me from the office if I didn’t turn up and I can’t really take the chance of drawing attention to myself. They’re keeping their eyes on all of us see, since he disappeared I mean.

It’s all been a tad traumatic cus we were all interviewed, but thankfully they didn’t seem too interested in me.

In his more sedate moments I like to remove the gag, it gives us a chance to have a proper chat, although to be fair, it’s me that does most of the talking.

He has tried to get me to untie him as well, but as I tried to explain, it’s not that I’m not trusting, in fact, I’d say that’s one of my failings, it’s just I’m not sure I’m ready to give him that freedom just yet – there’s things that need seeing to first.

I wouldn’t dream of leaving him hungry though, so I did him a lovely Lasagne before I left for work today, put it on the tray next to the bed with the pot of Jelly and the bottled water.

I felt a bit guilty about the plastic spoon cus it’s not the easiest of utensils to crack through my cheesy topping and I’ve become extremely conscious of my plastic use, since that program on the TV, but I was a bit concerned he might hurt himself with a metal one.

It must be nigh on five years I’ve been working for the TV station now. Straight out of university it was. I know working on reception isn’t what I’d hoped for, especially as I got a first in media studies and really wanted to be involved in production, but it’s a foot in the door as they say.

Anton was particularly friendly from the off. One of the girls who works on reception with me, Jane, said she thought he had his eye on me right from the start.

Oh, I know the tabloids will have you believe that he’s one for the ladies, but there was definitely a spark between us, holding my gaze just that little bit longer when I handed over his lanyard, that sort of thing.

He once told me that I had eyes like Sophia Loren and that my smile brightened up his day and he never said that to Jane.

Occasionally, as part of my job, I get asked to ferry the stars over to the studio. There’s a company car parked out back and Jane and I take it in turns.

I used to love those intimate moments Anton and I had. Do you know, it got to the point where he started calling me by my name, even asking for me in particular. He used to tell me about his posh dinners out with people from the show. I loved hearing all about it. He even started divulging more intimate stuff about his family and said what a god-send I was when the press dug out those shots of his wife and her new lover, naked and tied to a combine harvester by a disgruntled farmer who found them frolicking amongst his sweetcorn. We’d become really close.

When he broke down in tears and asked me to pull over in that layby on the country road to that shindig he was going to, I could tell how distraught he was. He cried into my hair. He was beside himself with grief and it took me an age to calm him down by rubbing his temples and massaging his neck. I’d been on a course whilst I was at Uni and I think I’d got the knack because he seemed to relax his body into mine and I could hear his breathing settle.

I wasn’t sure what to do when he put his hand on my knee cus at first, I didn’t know if it had just flopped there in his relaxed state, but then when he began to run his fingers along my thigh, hiking up my skirt I started to feel all unnecessary.

This was Anton Delaney, Day-time TV Anton Delaney. The same Anton Delaney that had interviewed Barack Obama by satellite and had his back waxed with one of the Hairy Bikers on live TV.   

I tried to stop him subtly at first, laugh it off if you know what I mean, but he was resolute, aggressive even as I tried to push him off and ask him to stop. He seemed determined he was going to add me to his list of misdemeanours and I could do little to stop him.

It all happened so quickly, so quickly in fact, that I lost my scrunchy, then he thanked me for being so understanding.

He asked for Jane to ferry him about after that.

I probably wouldn’t have had a chance to speak to him again properly if it hadn’t been for that spike strip I bought online. It punctured the tyres on his Merc really efficiently as he drove out on the same road where he’d…

I knew he was driving himself out that way because Jane came down with that weird food poisoning. Everyone thought I had it too cus I took the same day off.

It wasn’t so easy to get the chloroform. Nor was it easy to sneak in the back of his car whilst he got out to check what had happened, but I managed. He struggled a bit at first but the ethyl-alcohol worked much quicker than I’d imagined.

Getting him into the boot of my Mondeo, wasn’t without some difficulty but I popped him in a shopping trolley when I got to mum and dad’s old cottage, which made the short journey to the basement fairly straight-forward.

His room was all prepared, with his favourite magazines and the original handcuffs with the reinforced chain. I’d even put a tv in there so he could watch the ‘stand-in’ they used on his show, although to be fair, the reception wasn’t up to much.

Three days, Dan Sergeant has been presenting Anton’s show now. He’s fit in a treat. Course Anton didn’t seem too happy when I told him, but you have to have a thick skin in this game.

Talking of thick skin, I think he’ll appreciate these new handcuffs cus they’re a bit smoother on the wrist. They’ve got like a padded weave on the inner side, for comfort. I’ve got him a new memory-foam pillow as well cus he says the other one is giving him neck-ache. I don’t know how much use he’ll get out of it mind. What’s more, I can’t imagine what he’ll think when he sees this new chainsaw. It says here, it will cut through branches up to an inch in girth. It wasn’t the most expensive but I’m on a bit of a budget. Still, it should be more than ample to saw through what I’ve got in mind.   

Jules Garvey Welch for Pf Magazine


Online Dating

If Google Translate Took Over Your Online Profile – Dating Over The Age Of 50



I am writing this for a friend; Any Resemblance to Actual Persons, Living or Dead, is Purely Coincidental

A friend of mine who has recently found herself single after 15 years of marriage is ready to take the next step

For the sake of argument let’s call heranything other than her real name, Liz. Liz is 51 and filled with a truckload of insecurity; this is what her profile would look like if she was brave enough to be honest. After all, they all find out in the end.



I am a recently separated 51-year-old mum of 6, almost grown up, children. Yes, I know, I clearly started young; if you really want to know I’ll be a bloody grandma next month.

Physical Characteristics

I have bloodshot green eyes, wiry bleached blonde hair, a saggy tummy and boobs down to my knees, I did a lot of breastfeeding. I’m 5ft 8 inches tall but shrinking a bit now, mainly due to curvature of the spine that in the wrong clothes makes me look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. My wiry hair is starting to come out in handfuls due to my underactive thyroid, but if I do a Trumpian comb-over you’d hardly notice.

Greatest Achievements

Getting through the day without having a number 1 or number 2 accident. This is due to my irritable bowel, and inability to sneeze without letting out a little wee as no-one actually explained what pelvic floor exercises really are. Lying on the floor and raising my legs didn’t cut the mustard. I do have tablets to hold off on the number 2’s but I don’t always remember to take them. I would consider remembering to take my tablets quite an achievement as well, the memory is going a little, I know, too young!

Biggest Fears

See Above


Since my separation, after the initial shock and clothes shredding spree, I have learned to live my life alone. I threw all the razors in the bin, I am a liberated European woman with more hair under my arms and legs than anywhere else on my body. And I mean anywhere. I enjoy going to bed early and not having to put up with my beer-bellied, unshaven, whisky breathed hubby pawing me. I’m peri-menopausal so not really interested in a physical relationship right now. Not to mention the enormous amount of effort it takes to clench my buttocks (just in case) and fake an orgasm; my COPD can be exacerbated by that kind of fast breathing. I have two different types of inhaler for that, but it’s just not worth the risk, you know.

Career and Financial Solvency

Thanks to my ‘children’ not being ‘children’ I’m not entitled to any maintenance. My lovely little job I did for pin money has now become my main source of income. I am really poor so DSS need not apply.

Looking For?

I’m looking for a man between 35 and 45 with a busy career that keeps him away from home for long periods of time. Tall, dark and handsome, big heart and even bigger wallet. Someone I can flirt with over the phone and on messenger but not have to see too often, The odd meal out, but home to our own abodes. Generous to a fault. Someone who wants to make sure I live comfortably but wants nothing in return.

Whoever said that 50 is the new 40 was having a laugh

Any Takers?


Lisa Ives for Pfmagazine


Comedy Monologues Uncategorized

The Monologues Of Clementine Close ~ Geraldine


My name’s Geraldine Dingle, I like dancing and I once nearly choked on a whelk during ‘Bingo’ at the working men’s club in town.


I say nearly choked, I would have if the bass player from the ‘Harry Dingle Experience’, hadn’t leapt over the tables and chairs in his two-tone suit to prize it out with a plastic spoon. It was quite a spectacle, like something off the telly.


Course he was fifteen years my senior but that didn’t stop him in his pursuit of the younger woman.


My mother was all for it. She said, ‘You want a man with a hobby Geraldine and Harry’s got a proper job in the day – welding down at the canal-yard. You’ll find his dalliance with music will keep him out of your hair so he’s perfect for you. And besides, you owe him something. He did save your life.’

At first, I couldn’t see past the bulbous nose and acne scars, but after a while I found myself slowly warming to him. Him being one of them ‘Mod’ types. Plus, he had a Vespa 98. Built in 1946 and I quite liked sitting on the vinyl as he whizzed through the town.


There weren’t many that thought we’d make it, Harry and me, but we’ve been a couple now for almost forty years. We’ve built a comfortable life, all things considered; what with my penchant for home decorations and his dedication to overtime. And we’ve got a static caravan down in Devon Sands and how many people can say that?

He’s always seen to it that I have what I want and I’ve always ensured that his scooter magazine is picked up on the first Thursday of every month come rain or shine.
Course, he doesn’t have the Vespa anymore, sold it when we bought the summer house. He still keeps a photo of it on the sideboard next to his collection of stamps and the signed photo of Lonny Donnigan.

And his suit’s still gathering dust in the back-room wardrobe; it’s faded a tad, a bit like Harry and it wouldn’t fit him now, not by a long chalk.

Looking back, we’ve had some nice years together, but the fifteen-year age gap was bound to catch up with us in the end. There comes a point when the yellow stains on the toilet mat and relentless requests to remove humbugs from his dentures, gets a bit much.

I suppose things started to slide during my ‘menopause years’. He was skating on thin ice back then, what with his dodgy hip and his untimely wind. Not to mention him constantly leaving the cheese out.

Plus, I think I never really got over not having children, so the thought that my organs had completely given up the goat, tipped me over the edge. Oh, we’d had tests, but Harry was told his sperm had deformed heads so they kept being rejected.

There were many occasions when I thought of slipping off to the ‘Dog and Sausage’ to allow another to plough my furrow, but everyone around here knew Harry and besides, I didn’t want to jeopardise the holiday home.

If I’m honest, I don’t think I ever really got over having to empty his commode after the knee operation. It all just hit me; what I’d signed up for I mean. When I uttered the vows, ‘In sickness and in health’ I hadn’t really analysed what that was going to mean. I’ve never been able to stomach bodily unpleasantness – I have a very delicate constitution – always have.

Trouble is, in the last few months I’ve found my patience has all but run-out. I found myself watching him whilst he was viewing endless programmes about extreme fishing and DIY and I reached the point of no return. It didn’t help, him cutting his toenails on the duvet, especially when I found that piece of fungal nail embedded in my pillow. No. After some serious deliberation, I came to a decision.

I started keeping a jotter under the bed, you know, recording thoughts and ideas of how I was going to set about it. I made suggestions for the best times of day to carry it out; the best chemicals to use that kind of thing. I even enrolled on one those courses they were running at the local college. ‘Household Chemistry for beginners’.

Do you know, they did everything on that course: how to get stains off the carpet; the most successful way to clean your oven; making your own creosote. We even spent six weeks learning how to make fireworks with everyday items you’d find in your cupboards. Folk don’t realise how much danger lurks in your average kitchen.

I met some smashing people during those sessions.


‘Gash’ the Goth. Course his real name’s Nigel, but apparently only his parents and the Department of Work and Pensions call him that. He has quite a special relationship with the DWP, him never having worked on account of his anger management issues.

It was Gash who put me on to the Latvian supplier, he drove me over to his farm out in the sticks. I was a bit dubious at first, especially as we pulled up in his converted hearse. There were rusty tractors and piles of broken furniture scattered about around the grounds, but Gash said that this man was ‘kosher’ and told me to stop worrying.

He led me to this converted barn patched up with corrugated iron sheets and tarpaulin and you could smell something very pungent as you approached. Inside there were rows and rows of cerise and lilac-white coloured flowers, their tiny heads bursting in a spray of colour. You wouldn’t think something so beautiful could cause such harm, would you?

I was a bit shocked at first, I mean it wasn’t cheap, but my thinking was, if it was good enough for Socrates then it was more than good enough for Harry.

I watched as eight leaves were taken from the plants and packaged into a greaseproof bag. When we got back to mine, Gash pulled a thick piece of plastic sheeting out of an empty coffin which he’d got in the back of his hearse – well I assumed it was empty, but you never really knew with Gash. He said I should lay it out on the table when I prepared the leaves; to make sure none of the Conium dust was left on the surface.

Harry was down at the social club whilst all this was going on, with the ‘Hendrix’ guitar lads. A group of them met up on a Tuesday to pay homage to their idol, by having a ‘sit-down’ jamming session.

Do you know, there’s not a good set of legs between them. Hip replacements, new knees, varicose veins. There’s even one bloke who’s lost four of his fingers. How he plays ‘All around the Watch-Tower’ is anyone’s guess.

It didn’t take us long to grind down the leaves cus they’d dried up nicely in the bag. I used that old pestle and mortar that his mother bought us as a wedding present. I’d always hated the marble monstrosity so it seemed only fitting to utilise it for such an event.

Green Onions by Booker T, was playing on the wireless as I covered the crushed foliage with some foil and I found myself dancing along whilst I prepared Harry’s favourite ‘garlic-soaked whelks’ He’s always been a bit sentimental about them, you know, since the incident. He likes a lot of garlic too, does Harry, which is fortunate as the smell coming from the mortar is a combination of mouse dropping and parsnip.

Harry certainly didn’t notice as he wheeled himself in on his electric wheelchair, complete with the faux fox tail which he’d salvaged off his Vespa and a couple of the old chrome wing mirrors.

‘Is that my favourite I can smell love?.’ he said to me as he clipped my ankle with one of the wheels.


‘What a treat, I hope you’ve put loads of garlic in.’


‘I have pet.’ I said.


I tried to listen to him telling me about a new guitar strap he had his eyes on, but I couldn’t concentrate. I just focused on his face.

I’ve got to be honest, it happened a lot quicker than I imagined.

He’d only had a few bites when his eyes started to glaze over and when he asked me why I wasn’t eating mine, I noticed his fingers weren’t gripping the fork quite as tightly.

I suppose he was about half way through when his knife fell from his hand and he started staring blankly ahead. I’d concentrated the ‘conium’ on his portion see. I thought I’d disguised it well, it just looked like I’d over done the basil.

The strange think about ‘conium’ or ‘hemlock’ as you non-chemists might like to refer to it, is the clever way it causes paralysis of the body and yet still allows the mind to function perfectly, albeit just briefly.

Course I couldn’t help but point out the irony of the situation to poor Harry as the frothy dribble traced a line down his wrinkled chin. After all, we’d met as he cleverly helped to remove the whelk from my choking throat and here I was watching the same treacherous morsel slowly shut down poor Harry’s respiratory system.

Jules Garvey Welch for Pf Magazine