Frank Sidebottom & me

I've been reading the obituaries and memorials to Frank Sidebottom. Aside from the fact that since I turned 40 earlier this year, I have become obsessed somewhat with my own mortality, I have a personal interest: I think I once kissed him.

Now, anyone who has 'lived' can claim to have kissed or shagged a celebrity, I know this. And the event itself was unremarkable enough for me to forget it, until now.

It happened half a lifetime ago, in the Sugarmine, the Bournemouth University student venue. Picture a dark, smoky dancefloor, a buxom goth with lots of hair and a little unsteady on her feet after Happy Hour, and a proposition from a man who whispered in her ear that he was Frank Sidebottom.

In retrospect it is a WTF moment; but I accepted his proposition and snogged him. Not because he was allegedly Frank Sidebottom, trust me when I say papier mache is not my kink. Partly it was the kindred Northern accent, also it was the alcohol, and the fact I like snogging, and he'd been bold enough to ask.

His obituaries are poignant, human, touching, as they should be. As a reporter I have loved writing obits, speaking to families about their loved ones, gently touching and trying to portray the connections between people that last beyond death, what else remains when ashes are the only visible remains.

Obituaries are also a tool by which we can examine our lives: what trace do we leave, who will miss us, what did we contribute, what did we achieve, and did we achieve our dreams?

The last is a question rarely asked by a reporter to a grieving family. At least, I never asked it. It's an uncomfortable concept: did your husband die happy, or was he unfulfilled? Were there times in your wife's life that she expressed a keen desire to do something, but didn't manage it? How did they feel about that? How do you feel about that?

Frank's death and ensuing trip down memory lane reminds me of my younger self, the one with ambitions that middle-age and the fear of mortality delivered a kick to. He's a fine example of someone who made something unique and lived his dream, too. Presumably.