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


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

The Monologues of Clementine Close ~ Jean


I was at the doctors earlier today. I’ve had to wait nearly three weeks for an appointment. If it wasn’t for the fact that the receptionist is only in her early thirties, I’d have sworn she used to be one of the guards in ‘Tenko’.

She was going on about me being a few minutes late for my appointment but I wasn’t having any of her nonsense so I gave her a piece of my mind. I think she muttered something under her breath but I didn’t wait to find out what it was, there weren’t many seats left in the waiting area and I wanted one near to the facilities, just in case the doctor was running late. My bowels can’t face a backlog.

Ooh, don’t get me started on the trouble I’ve been having downstairs, I haven’t had any ‘movement’ for weeks and the pain in my back, well you’d think I was giving birth.

My friend Cynthia said it was wind but I told her, there’s nothing coming out; solid, liquid or gas. It’s all blocked up. I’ve tried everything, syrup of figs, liquid paraffin, I even tried to get it moving with a warm sponge but it wasn’t budging.

It’s all a bit embarrassing really. I’m a proud woman, always have been. There are bits that can go on show and others which I’d rather keep hidden, even as a woman of my age and experiences.

I’ve always advocated that what goes on behind closed doors is no one’s business but your own, but in public, you need to exercise a modicum of decency. ‘Paddling in your stockings, wearing gloves to match your hat and controlling the noises which are trying to escape your nether regions.’

All I can say is, it’s a good job the Doctor and I are well-acquainted. He’s been my physician for years, there’s nothing he hasn’t seen already.

Nursed me through my fibroids and the gallbladder incident – he used to call in for a slice of Jamaican Ginger cake and a bit of light refreshment back in the day, only in-between his visits – he never shirked his responsibilities. Sometimes, he even popped in, in the evenings if his wife was away.

I had a smashing place back then. A lovely big Georgian house on the outskirts of town – it was a perfect spot for my business.

It had six rooms upstairs, all en-suite (and that was before it became fashionable) and there were a further two rooms downstairs, plus all the usual: kitchen, lounge etc. Oh, we had some lovely times in that house – me and the girls.

The place was always busy. And I like to think that’s because we provided such a good service. I only employed the best well-mannered staff you see, with impeccable cleanliness and good breeding. It’s important in the ‘hospitality’ industry, you need to set the tone if you are going to run a respectable establishment. And I took great pride in my work and demanded the same from my girls.

All the big shot judges from the Crown court used to visit, whilst they were presiding over one of their long cases – they’d stop for months sometimes.

Course, many of my suites were themed back then. I had one done out in fawn buckskin leather, cost me a fortune it did, headboard, chairs, wall panels, there was even a full buck throw on the bed. People said it had quite a unique aroma; it’s the leather see.

As I recall, it was one of the most popular rooms, although that may have had more to do with the special cabinet I kept in there. You wouldn’t believe the gadgets I stored in it, some dating back to the Jacobean period.

It was a favourite of old Stan’s from the nursing home – he used to teach Modern History at the grammar school before his dementia set in. He was always partial to a bit of James l erotic memorabilia as I recall. His wife was chairwoman of the WI, had a look of Hattie Jacques about her, although unfortunately for him, she didn’t share any of his unique interests.  

One fella stayed with us for almost a year; cost him a fortune poor love. Mind you, he wasn’t short of a penny or two – had one leg shorter than the other and a hump on his back. Big in artificial ceilings, if I remember right. We didn’t know it at the time, but it turned out he had a large house which is now owned by the National Trust. The obituary in the paper said it sold for over two million. I’ve always said, money doesn’t always bring you happiness.

We all went to his funeral, I even shut the house down for the afternoon – the girls had become very fond of him see. That’s the thing people didn’t get about my business. It was more than just a room for the night, it was a place to relax; a space to get away from the hustle and bustle. Me and the girls did our best to make our guests feel contented and relieve their tensions and I made sure all their appetites were seen to.

I took great pride in the service we offered and I’d never let any of the girls feel ashamed of what they were doing. We were a respectable house. Whatever people thought about what we did, I know that the service we provided was of a very high standard and I would not hear otherwise.

All the regulars were devastated when we had to close-down due to the misunderstanding with the Ash Smacker and thigh restraints. Some low-life newspaper reporter from one of the red tops, claiming he hadn’t signed the disclaimer.

I knew he was lying. Elsie was pedantic about that sort of thing, but it turned out he’d purposefully smudged his signature with grape butt plug lubricant so that you couldn’t make out the lettering.

When the two-page spread appeared in the paper the next day, it was enough to get us closed down. I heard that he’s an MP now, up in the Midlands.

A couple of the regulars put themselves out on a limb and tried to block it, but it’s a funny old business. Most folk like to keep quiet about their sexual preferences. I lost everything. The house was repossessed and I had to sell all the furnishings to keep my head above water. I made sure the girls were all alright though.

Fortunately, Mike from the council owed me a few favours and managed to wangle me a place in the new assisted living block down by the canal. I don’t know how he did it.

He pops in from time to time and we have a good old chat about the old days; he fills me in about what everyone’s up to whilst I rub cream on his cracked heels – he says I’ve always been good with my hands.

I’m off to meet him now, he’s been rummaging through his old photos and found a few from that party we had just before we closed. He reckons he has one of the gob-shite MP who wrote the story, wearing a ladies Basque and stilettos, by all accounts. Course he’s bound to have aged since then, but Mike reckons, you can still tell that it’s him.

He thought it would make a great poster for the forthcoming elections.

Jules Garvey Welch for Pf Magazine


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