The dreams stopped when I slept next to him. Nothing - only silent blank spaces. No words. No monsters. Funny really, now that I think of it. My monsters were chained, tamed, even. But it was his that billowed smoke and ripped us apart in the dark. Stealthy. Deadly. 

I’m supposed to be writing something light, fun and bubbly for a summer anthology, and that’s what I started out with instead. It’s difficult to find the warmth in pain. 

​Yeah, I think Miley gets it. On repeat repeat repeat

The big upset of the Golden Globes was Bohemian Rhapsody’s win, snatching it from front-runner A Star is Born. 

I wasn’t surprised. 

Bohemian Rhapsody is actually a pretty shite film. It’s so obviously someone’s version of what happened and not what did, in fact, happen. There was drama in getting it made, controversy dogging its every move, and critics hated it. A Star is Born is way better in many respects. 

But, it didn’t have him.  

Freddie Mercury. 

Freddie Mercury. On. The. Big. Screen. Or rather Rami Malek as Freddie (and it’s so damn close it could almost be.)

That’s it. 

The man is a legend. And has tons of fans. Who cares that the film bobbled along on well-worn biopic tracks? Who cares that big chunks were left out? Or that canned drama took the place of character development (sorry, John Deacon, but you are clearly awesome and all anyone can say is that you were played by the kid from Jurassic Park). 

Watching Bohemian Rhapsody, we get a little closer to his and their ‘kind of magic'. 

I know a lot of people comment that there’s an irrational amount of grief for superstars we never knew. What aboutery abounds. 

I remember when Freddie died. It was the same day our Grade 11 marks were returned. I sat sulking, waiting for my cue as a shepherd in the nativity play rehearsal. Rain clouds threatened and all I could think was that my life was over as I’d ploughed Afrikaans, again. And then, the shattering news arrived. Freddie. Gone. 

We used to sing Flash Gordon in the lounge to my dad’s tape. The Innuendo album played on repeat when we were racing yachts just outside Durban harbour. Whenever I felt shite about my expanding arse, I’d turn to my personal feel-good anthem, Fat-Bottomed Girls. 

Queen sang to me, bolstered me up, made me feel I could be a ‘Prince of the Universe’.  An ally. A friend. An icon.

This year hasn’t started well for me. My heart is broken. My dreams in tatters. I have no idea what this year will bring and I hope for kindness, but somehow, that’s not always what will transpire. 

I cannot think of a better song, from a band and a man who fill me with such inspiration I can barely breathe. 

​Hope 2019 is good to you. 

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