Bev Grant, 48, and Maria Amidu, 49: friends for 33 years

Bev I was 15, Maria was 16 and we were about to leave school when I met her in Wigan at a party. There were all these people in a garden singing happy-clappy songs, and I was on a bench in one corner and I looked across. Maria was sitting on the other side and we glanced at each other and that was it – we started laughing. We just hit it off.

I lived in a pub, so that was handy, and we went to the same college. We saw each other all the time even though I left and she stayed on. She was the good girl; I was the rebel. Then she started going out with my brother, and I met Colin. He had a little red Chevette car, and we would all go on days out. When I married Colin in 1988, Maria was my bridesmaid.

I think we’re a real mix – worlds apart but very similar as well. We’ve always understood each other. My sons are like family to Maria; she’s known Colin almost as long as she’s known me, and my mum calls her “my other daughter”. I call her “my sister from another mister” because I’ve never had a sister and Maria is like one to me.

We message each other every single day – WhatsApp, or Skype when she’s abroad and she’ll give me a tour of where she is. At this ripe old age, I’ve still never been abroad, but St Ives in Cornwall is special to us and whenever we go somewhere there’s always a funny little drama.

It would be nice if she lived closer, if when we had fed-up days we could call in and put the kettle on and sit and have a moan or weep or rant instead of relying on WhatsApp. I do have other best friends but ours feels like an unbreakable bond. People talk about finding their soulmates and they always imagine a couple, but I think soulmates can be friends. She’s the first person I turn to, before anyone else. We did an all-nighter on the phone once – she rang me at one in the morning and we were still talking at 7.30am.

Maria Between the ages of 16 and 19 we saw each other nearly every day. Her brother Paul was my first serious boyfriend. I had been in Wigan since I was 13 when I was fostered and moved there with my sister from Sussex. Our friendship was the only good thing that came out of me being up there.

It was quite weird at first: I couldn’t understand anything anybody said, so I spent the whole time saying pardon, and everybody thought I talked like the Queen. I had a big afro, I was one of the tallest kids and the only black person in the whole school.

When things started breaking down with my foster family, I went to Bev’s. Her mum and dad were brilliant. Then my social worker got involved and I got my own flat. To be honest, I don’t know how I would have managed if I hadn’t met Bev.

We live more than 200 miles apart now, but I visit her when I can and the telephone has been crucial in our friendship. The key thing is we have the same sense of humour. Her kids are hilarious; it’s like a humour gene runs in the family and that’s been a massive connection for us. It doesn’t matter how grim the situation is, we will make each other laugh. We might have different views, but we have the same love of language. For both of us, who you love and care about is the most important thing in life. Even though we’ve got very different lives now, we’ve got the same principles. It’s rare to feel validated without having to explain yourself. It’s difficult to explain, but it’s an understanding and when we get together we just slot in.

Mohammed Irshad, 81, and Aslam Lone, 78: friends for 58 years

Mohammed The first time we watched a test match together at Trent Bridge was in 1966, when the Pakistan team was on tour and the Pakistan Friends League arranged a dinner for the players. Pakistan came again this summer and we both followed the series, which was fantastic. We talk a lot about cricket wherever it is happening; it’s always exciting, even when our team is losing.

We met in 1958 at Mirpur college in Kashmir, where he was a student and I was director of physical education. My younger brother was in his class and we used to get together for meals and to entertain other cricket teams. I was an all-rounder while he was more on the intellectual side, writing and debating, but he was always with us and everybody liked him. He is a sincere person and very witty; he makes everybody laugh and is never boring.

My father and grandfather were in the army, but I failed my army medical because of a spot on my lung. At that time the British were giving some Kashmiris the chance to settle in the UK because the Mirpur area where we lived was going to be flooded by a dam. So I applied, and came to England from Lahore in 1963. We formed the Pakistan Friends League and helped people who couldn’t read and write fill in forms and so on. The Pakistan Cricket Club was the first Asian club in Nottingham.

I married very early but it wasn’t happy, and so I was separated when I came here. I became a bus driver and over time I made friends, but I always tried to see Aslam as much as possible. He was a family man, while I was alone. I had another marriage here. It didn’t work out, but we are on friendly terms and have a son.

My English friends are different from people I knew in Kashmir because we don’t have the same family integration. Aslam knows my family, I know his family; my friends are his friends and his friends are mine. I live with my nephew and his family and when they go on holiday I call Aslam so we can get together. God gave me relatives, and I thank God I can choose my friends.

Aslam I learned tolerance and respect from this man and I believe I am still learning from him. Even if he disagrees with you, he will not give you a hint of disrespect. I have many other friends but there are few who can disagree with you without hurting you.

Sometimes you respect someone like an elder brother or a father, but he is the all-in-one. Even in the days when he was my teacher, we would chat and go on excursions, and in this country our friendship grew.

I came to England before him, as a law student in 1961, but I got interested in literature and started writing for one of the Urdu weekly publications. I went back to Kashmir and got married, then came back; since 1970 I have been in the Midlands, where I started a magazine.

Somehow he and I stayed in touch wherever we were. We can talk on the telephone for hours. We are interested in history, geography, music, sport, you name it, and he’s a fantastic cook. One minute we are talking about the six a cricketer has just hit, the next about boxing or wrestling. Mohammed is in many ways an unfortunate person. He could have been one of the outstanding Pakistan cricketers had he been given the chance – and I’m not just saying this because he is my friend. No one from Kashmir represents Pakistan in sport because there is no investment.

It’s sad that a lot of our friends have passed away, but those of us who are still alive and well keep in touch, and we remember the others all the time. I have three daughters and three sons and mainly celebrate Eid and Christmas with family, but for weddings and funerals we bring all our extended family and friends together. I think we would have remained friends no matter what, and I believe that even in the next life we will be friends.

Cynthia Barlow, 72, and Anne Austen, 71: friends for 54 years

Cynthia We met in 1962 on our first day at Nottingham University – Anne was in the room opposite mine. Women were a tiny part of the university population then and I think that encouraged us to be supportive of each other. She was from a much more educated background than I was and I didn’t feel as knowledgable. My family life was extremely difficult and I knew I would never live at home again. The last summer holiday we were students I spent at Anne’s house in north London.

There were concerts every weekend, and a wider circle of people that we are still in contact with, but Anne is my oldest friend. Every summer when my daughter was small we went to the seaside at Hastings and Anne was often there because that was where her parents lived. She worked abroad mostly, in Asia and Africa, but we would meet when she came back and yak away.

My daughter was killed in 2000 when she was 26. She was on her bicycle and a concrete mixer lorry turned left across her path. There was an inquest, which was rubbish, and the driver was acquitted. I went into a complete zombie state.

People find it difficult when you’ve been bereaved. They don’t know what to say – they don’t want to say the wrong thing and so sometimes they end up saying nothing at all. It wasn’t like that with Anne, I think because we had been friends for so long. She was very practical, and that counts.

About a year after my daughter died, Anne came to stay with me and she said, “You used to like art, so I’ll take you to an exhibition.” It was a Sunday afternoon and we ended up at the Royal Academy, where there was an exhibition of Botticelli’s drawings for Dante’s Divine Comedy. I can remember walking up the stairs and seeing a notice with the first words from the poem – “Midway along the journey of our life, I woke to find myself in a dark wood” – and I connected with it. I thought, “So I’m not the first person this has happened to,” and as I went through the exhibition I instinctively knew that it was helping me to think.

I realised that I had got so depressed because I felt I had let my daughter down. I began to see it wasn’t me who had let her down – it was the system. I decided I was going to tackle everything and everybody who had done something in relation to her death that I didn’t think was right. Now I’m chair of victims’ charity RoadPeace.

My daughter was my only child. My relationship with her father ended when she was small and she was the most precious person in my life. So many people don’t know how to react when something terrible happens, but Anne understood that just being there was important.

Anne Cynthia was always very warm and grounded. Half the time in Nottingham our doors were open and we drank endless cups of coffee; that’s probably my most vivid memory of being a student. We were away from home for the first time and there was a lot of sharing.

My career was in international development but I knew I would come back to Britain eventually. If you work overseas you can get very lost and detached in the world of the expat, and I didn’t want that; I wanted to stay connected. I could always rely on Cynthia to keep me up to date with what interested us: social policy, social justice and current affairs from a human perspective.

A mutual friend told me Cynthia’s daughter had been killed, but it was when the legal process culminated in a trial that I came and stayed with her for a few weeks. I didn’t really know what to do, but I thought it would be a good idea to have someone around. I didn’t think I would like to be on my own if it was me in that situation. I have two children (a son and a daughter) and I thought for your child to be killed was the worst situation a mother could possibly be in. We used to sit and watch Channel 4 News in Cynthia’s flat; even to this day I think of us sitting together in front of the telly.

Our daughters were good friends. They were close in age and we had holidays and outings together when they were little. I was very fond of Cynthia’s daughter. I knew she was planning a life with her boyfriend when she was killed, and when my daughter got married I wanted Cynthia to be there.

I predict we will do quite a few more Royal Academy exhibitions now I’m retired. We’re both single, and she’s much better informed than I am, so I follow her lead, but we’re both quite cerebral really. I shrieked when I heard she had got an OBE for her work on road safety – it was so wonderful. We had a lunch of our old university friends to honour her. I feel her long campaigning battle has been incredibly important.

Jonathan Ssetumba, 30, and Marjorie Agwang, 27: friends for 18 years

Jonathan I call her Marj or M, or sometimes Sis. I have sickle cell and spent most of my childhood in hospital, and that’s where we met. Every morning we had to go to school on the children’s ward, then to playgroup in the afternoon. Sometimes with this illness your whole body is in pain, so it’s hard.

You can ask her advice about anything. When I had a problem with a relationship, she was the only person I could talk to. I said, “Marj, I’ve got a girl and I don’t know how to tell her about my sickle cell and epilepsy.” Marj said if she couldn’t take me as I am, she wasn’t meant for me. I really liked that girl, but if she couldn’t accept me, how could she love me? So I told her what Marj said. That was it: she went her way and I went mine. But it was the right advice. One day she would have found out anyway.

It’s more common for boys to be friends with boys, and girls with girls. But with friends who have the same illness, you can talk to each other. I like to crack jokes and I think that’s what Marjorie likes about me. She knows I try to keep the illness in the background and look on the positive side.

We both joined the gym to keep ourselves healthy, so we meet up and work out. As I get older she is definitely someone I’ll stay in touch with. If I’m walking and she’s in a wheelchair, I’ll push.

Sometimes people have taken advantage of me. Having an illness can make you too kind. I just want to thank Marj. I’ve got some good male friends, too, but she’s top of the friends.

Marjorie Jonathan has so much humour, even in the most difficult situations. I can be in hospital, annoyed that I’m there, in pain, and he will turn it into something funny. Sometimes I just look at him and laugh. He takes each day as it comes, which is a good thing – you tend to enjoy life more when you’re not stressing about tomorrow, the day after and next week. I think a lot about the future, especially when it comes to being a woman with sickle cell, but he’s showed me how to embrace the day more and enjoy what’s around me.

When I first knew him I was like: does this guy take anything seriously? Can I have a conversation with him? But I found out that I can. If I’m stuck with something, or have financial or family issues, I can talk to him and he’ll be there, no question.

I think every friend contributes to your life in a different way. I try to be around people who don’t pull me down with drama, people who encourage and lift me up. Jonathan fits in that category and that’s why I keep him close. There is no romance between us. If a man and a woman with sickle cell have children, they can inherit the illness, and that’s not something I want for my children. I don’t think Jonathan knew that before I told him, but it means I would never look at a man with sickle cell in that way. But I’m encouraging him to settle down and have kids – I would love to be an auntie.

I think hardships make you more authentic. Naturally, you tend to relate to people who have been where you’ve been emotionally. Jon has been there through my down times, and vice versa. I think ours is a friendship that will keep going, that is rooted enough not to let anything sway it or blow it away.

Stewart Pringle, 31, and Liam Welton, 30: friends for 30 years

Stewart We met soon after Liam was born – we’re both from a very small village in the middle of the Northumbrian fells. Liam was in the year below me at school, where we were involved in a few drama productions together starting when we were about 10. Liam played Bugsy Malone and I was Dandy Dan, and at high school we were both in Sweeney Todd. Liam was more into fantasy and I was more into horror, and over about five years we made a film based on The Wind In The Willows. I wrote it, Liam directed it. The idea was that some time after the liberation of Toad Hall, a killer strikes the river bank and starts knocking the characters off in gruesome ways. We put it on video and quite a few people bought it. We’re still in touch with everyone who was in that film.

We went to different universities but when a spare room came up in my house in Oxford, Liam came down to live there. We ended up in London and started a horror festival. We’ve known each other so long and spent so much time together at every stage of our lives that it’s almost brotherly. We’ve got the same interests in film, theatre and music – we both like heavy metal and went to a lot of those gigs together when we were younger.

We might have had little scraps but never a big falling-out. We’ve talked about moving out of London together – me and my partner, Liam and some other friends. I don’t think there’s a time when we won’t see each other.

Liam One of the best times with Stew was when we were doing Grand Guignol at the Etcetera Theatre in London. He was operating the lights and I was doing sound; it was a tiny, cramped and freezing little box we were in, like being in a sensory deprivation tank together. I don’t think I’d have enjoyed that experience with anyone else. It’s so easy spending time with Stew that it’s almost like spending time on my own… if I squint, it’s like it’s just me there.

Stew has been as present as my parents – he’s just always been there. My dad was in a band and talks of having had close friends, but it does seem as if that stopped when he had a family. My parents have developed friends as a couple since my sister and I left home, but they were career- and family-focused for a long time so I didn’t have a model of adult friendship. I think I am naturally a follower and Stew is a leader, but I don’t think that has anything to do with age. I gain tremendous satisfaction from helping people realise their ideas. We’ve never had much conflict but I’m a bit flaky. I bring a lot at the very beginning of things and then it all gets a bit serious and I want out, and that has caused some friction. We didn’t see each other for a bit because I decided I didn’t want any part of making films any more.

Sometimes people ask: “How come you don’t ever argue with Stew?” and I get the feeling we only had about 200 arguments in us. I’ve known him 30 years and we’ve both changed a little bit, but perhaps not as much as we like to pretend. The weird foibles that we’ve got, I think we acknowledged in each other a long time ago.

Even if we haven’t seen each other for months, once we sit down together, we’re right back to where we were.

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