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Ange has kindly shared these memories with this archive.
I had a short relationship with Michael in the 1960s, and adored him, but it did not have much of a future. He was exquisitely sensitive; I tend to be over-sensitive too, so it was not a good match.
I think he tortured himself about everything when I first met him - typical of a man who grew up without his dad. Even when you are beautiful, you feel just as ugly as the ugliest person, if you are not sure you are acceptable. Makes no difference what you see in the mirror as you only see the imperfections and mind distortions.
We always think we are the one to heal this, but it seems no one did enough. Some men have gay friendships with an older man to work through it, but Mike was very fond of females!
I think I went to the upstairs venue with him for one of the lunchtime productions in Kentish Town or that area, and he was full of it, but I did not see it. I think maybe it was just over.
Hard to see him as a head boy or great athlete. Maybe he did a lot of marijuana or something in the interim, as he seemed far too moody and arty to have ever been that sort of person when I knew him. Mike was prone to sulks if he did not have all the attention.
I cared for him much more than most men I met, and he remains one of the big might-have-beens of my life. I tried to make it up with him after a row about nothing, but could not make out whether he wanted to or not.
I never forgot him, and seeing his floppy-haired, tall figure in the street now and then – we both were in Hampstead – used to cheer me up a lot, but we never talked. People round Hampstead used to say he looked like Mick Jagger but he was cuter than Jagger to look at! I suppose the reason I never met him socially again, after the end of round one, was that he had gone to live over Kentish Town way.
About 10 - 15 years later, I met him somewhere or other, and we stayed up talking all night – until he left in a mood, looking cross. I can't remember anything we talked about, except that when we first met, he had told me his dad was Swedish, but when I mentioned this, he looked bemused and puzzled, and said his dad was a doorman, at a theatre or hotel, I think, in London. Perhaps he had located his dad as an adult.
I was devastated to hear of his death. I am inclined to think Sean McCormick is right - I am sure the pills killed him, as I have seen it so often with people. We moody buggers usually cope with being down, because we know we will feel happy again at some point. But add pharmaceuticals to the mix ...
It is good that someone has made a memorial for him. I hope he knows he is not forgotten, and has a strong web presence. It is so sad he did not live into a philosophical and respected older age, to appear in The Grand Marigold Hotel. Imagine that!
I had a short relationship with Michael in the 1960s, and adored him, but it did not have much of a future. He was exquisitely sensitive; I tend to be over-sensitive too, so it was not a good match.
I think he tortured himself about everything when I first met him - typical of a man who grew up without his dad. Even when you are beautiful, you feel just as ugly as the ugliest person, if you are not sure you are acceptable. Makes no difference what you see in the mirror as you only see the imperfections and mind distortions.
We always think we are the one to heal this, but it seems no one did enough. Some men have gay friendships with an older man to work through it, but Mike was very fond of females!
I think I went to the upstairs venue with him for one of the lunchtime productions in Kentish Town or that area, and he was full of it, but I did not see it. I think maybe it was just over.
Hard to see him as a head boy or great athlete. Maybe he did a lot of marijuana or something in the interim, as he seemed far too moody and arty to have ever been that sort of person when I knew him. Mike was prone to sulks if he did not have all the attention.
I cared for him much more than most men I met, and he remains one of the big might-have-beens of my life. I tried to make it up with him after a row about nothing, but could not make out whether he wanted to or not.
I never forgot him, and seeing his floppy-haired, tall figure in the street now and then – we both were in Hampstead – used to cheer me up a lot, but we never talked. People round Hampstead used to say he looked like Mick Jagger but he was cuter than Jagger to look at! I suppose the reason I never met him socially again, after the end of round one, was that he had gone to live over Kentish Town way.
About 10 - 15 years later, I met him somewhere or other, and we stayed up talking all night – until he left in a mood, looking cross. I can't remember anything we talked about, except that when we first met, he had told me his dad was Swedish, but when I mentioned this, he looked bemused and puzzled, and said his dad was a doorman, at a theatre or hotel, I think, in London. Perhaps he had located his dad as an adult.
I was devastated to hear of his death. I am inclined to think Sean McCormick is right - I am sure the pills killed him, as I have seen it so often with people. We moody buggers usually cope with being down, because we know we will feel happy again at some point. But add pharmaceuticals to the mix ...
It is good that someone has made a memorial for him. I hope he knows he is not forgotten, and has a strong web presence. It is so sad he did not live into a philosophical and respected older age, to appear in The Grand Marigold Hotel. Imagine that!
