Julie Hamill: My friend Jim died

I’d known him since I was 15 or 16. He moved to London about ten years after me. He lived South, I lived North and when meeting up in Soho pubs we fought about which was best. He might as well still have lived in Scotland, the amount of moaning he did about getting trains and buses to and from where we met.

“If I get the 9.17 to London Bridge that’ll get me in time for the next train, then I’ll catch the bus and walk and by 11.15…”

As teens, we shared a bond in a group of five for a while: Jim, Scot, Gillespie (Allan), Gillian and me. The boys were about a year-and-a-half older, and after Scot passed his driving test we had use of a car. Like many teenage memories, those of squashing into the tiny yellow Golf, front seats crushed forward to get three in the back, feel like a mini caper movie, with Scot speeding maniacally around Airdrie and sometimes into Glasgow, all of us annoying the hell out of each other, then laughing. That was the extent of the social skills we had. Memories include:

• Berating Jim for buying a new leather biker’s jacket that had a belt (total no-no). We pushed him to breaking point, where he cut off the belt with his mum’s kitchen scissors, leaving two little belt stubs at the back, making the situation worse for himself. Any time he wore it, we collapsed into hysterics.
• Gillian and I taking Scot’s £1 note to go into McDonald’s with orders for chips, but deciding it would be funnier to spend his money on a toasted tea cake for him. I remember Jim and Gillespie sliding down the seat, crying with laughter as Gillian handed over the bag and Scot looked inside and raged, “What the hell is this? An old folk’s tea cake? Where’s ma chips? Where’s ma change?”
• Going to Gillespie’s house and spotting his three-years younger brother’s very unique-looking jeans. His mum had sewn pub bar towels all over the legs and one on the bum in cool design. Naturally, I “borrowed” the jeans and wore them around town. One day, my mum sent me to the Post Office with a parcel. Unfortunately for me, Gillespie’s mum was three or four behind me in the queue, “Are those our Gordon’s jeans you’re wearing? I sewed all those patches on myself!” I was mortified. I gave them back the next day.
• In the days of Gold Blend sophistication, we decided to throw a “dinner party”. With everyone else out, Gillian and I dressed up in my mum’s fanciest frocks and her high heels and we cooked frozen chicken Kievs with peas and corn. We knew how ridiculous we looked, and our anticipation of the lads’ arrival was enough to make us hang onto each other and bend to the floor in nervous laughter. We set the table, and our guests arrived to be greeted by Gillian at the door wearing my mum’s plastic apron over one of her dresses. On the front of the apron was a big smiling orange and the caption: “I’m juicy! Squeeze me!”
  “Oh my God, youse are idiots” they laughed, shoving us out the way.
  We continued our charade of playing the parts of grown women, offering coffee as they regressed into being more brattish.
  “Whit ye dain? Whit’s this dinner? We’re no eating that. Get lost, ya Fly!”
  (The Fly was my nickname, as they rightly found me small and annoying, buzzing in their faces. The Cramps’ Human Fly was often sung in my face. I took it, as Gillian took “Carrot”. Rightly or wrongly, we gave them hell and they gave us terrible nicknames.)

We had so many more little adventures during that period (especially at Davie Lomas’s house parties). We pretended to be enemies, but thrived as a group.

At that time, teens from Airdrie’s rival St Margaret’s High and Airdrie Academy schools were mixing and weaving a colourful patchwork of relationships and friendships. Much of it was slagging each other off and laughing in local pubs when not strictly of age but carrying convincing (not at all convincing) fake IDs that bouncers waved on by. I suppose now you’d call it banter. It was that heightened currency and curiosity that kept us nimble and sharp, ready to fire darts.

When Gillian turned 18, she got a job in the pub we loved, the Staging Post. That was when Jim confessed to me his love for her, and asked how he should ask her out. He was entirely useless at talking to girls. After much prompting, he approached the bar.

“Give me a pint…Ya Carrot!” he blurted out.

Gillian laughed at his stupidity and told him where to go.

“Jim, you’re an idiot,” I said, “You messed that up.”

“I know but….this is all your fault, ya stupid Fly.”

I have a particular memory of a day trip to Strathclyde Park for a picnic (“cans of lager”). We jumped onto a rowing boat and, out on the water, took photos in the sunshine. Jim took a lovely one of Gillian and me in our Smiths T-shirts.

Gillian died in 2018, aged only 47. She took a piece of me with her, which I gave gladly, because I didn’t want her to go without me. Now Jim has gone too, aged only 55, and I don’t understand (do other people think this?) why I’m here and they’re not, because, just… it’s not fair, is it?

Anyway. In later London years, Gillian (of course) and Jim remained my separate pals, and we had a million adventures in and out of other pockets of proper grown-up life that I’ll probably write about one day.

Heading to Jim’s funeral at Honor Oak Crematorium on Monday, I thought maybe he was right about the “deep South” of London. It really is a nice place to live, or at least to visit for the day, with its beautiful houses and well-kept gardens full of bloom. But I struggled with the crumbling of my past, as I thought of Gillian and Jim in the sunshine. Edging closer to my destination, I felt my body stiffen and mind harden as I prepared to take on the sadness and acceptance of another goodbye I didn’t want to say.

We took our seats and the coffin was brought in. The front pallbearer was Gillespie, Jim resting on his shoulder. The service was lovely, led by Jim’s ex-girlfriend, Irene, and his sister, Morag, who wrote a beautiful and moving eulogy.

Afterwards, at the wake in the Waverley Arms, I was so happy to talk to Gillespie, who I hadn’t seen for maybe 35 years. We had stories to relive, something to connect and smile about during this sore day. We could be kids again. Funeral wakes can bring little lights of relief like that, happy interludes, almost like Jim sent them to help us cope. (“For godsake don’t sit there greetin!”)

As the years passed between us over the Thames, Jim stopped responding to my texts and, as I found out later, withdrew from not just me, but all of his old friends. I always felt protective of him, as if we was part son or brother. He carried a boyhood vulnerability and insecurity into manhood. All the girls loved his good looks and sweet personality, and although he never married, he did eventually find someone special in Irene.

My friend Jim was a combination of shy yet bold, with bones of mischief and the sort of original humour that would catch you unawares, like a schoolboy kick on the back of the knee. All he wanted to do was party, sing, drink, have a good time. He was wonderful to be around, his big smile always igniting sparkly eyes, revealing the kind person he was inside. And that’s how I’ll remember him.

RIP Jim Frame (14th April 1970 – 25th April 2025). You really did look cool in that biker’s jacket. I wish you had let us help you.

Playlist: Songs for Jim.

With special thanks to Gerard.

Julie Hamill writes novels, appears on Times Radio and does lots more. Follow her on Bluesky.