Cardinal Keith O’Brien, leader of the Catholic Church in Scotland, has been named as Stonewall’s Bigot of the Year 2012. He gets my vote. His ‘Eminence’ (these people do so love their titles and do so hate to be questioned) has declared ‘war’ on the Scottish Government’s plans to introduce marriage equality and likens gay marriage to slavery and child abuse. He should know. The Catholic Church is well-acquainted with war, slavery and child abuse.
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Liam and I attended the No to Hate candle-lit vigil in Norwich’s Chapelfield Gardens on Saturday evening which commemorated the savage homophobic murder of Ian Baynham in Trafalgar Square in September 2009. He was set upon by a feral trio of two drunken girls and a lashed-up boy, all minors at the time. They kicked him unconscious and stamped on him, screaming homophobic abuse as he lay defenceless on the ground. He died of his injuries 18 days later. This was not a case of the dispossessed hitting out at a callous society (not that this is a valid excuse). One of thugs had been to public school. Depressingly, queer bashing is nothing new and used to be quite de rigeur back in the day. We may live in more enlightened times, with the likes of the Daily Mail being slightly less incendiary and a Tory Government (of all things) struggling to introduce marriage equality against the bitter opposition of the bigots of the Right and the Cloth. But, the times are not enlightened enough to prevent vicious bullying in our schools and hate crime on our streets (total recorded crime may be down but reported hate crime is up).
The vigil was organised by Norwich Pride and coincided with events held up and down the realm and the mother of all tributes in Trafalgar Square with a cast of thousands. Our event was a little more modest with about 100 or so huddled around one side of the bandstand. Small is beautiful. The scene was lit by dozens of tea lights flickering away in hand-painted rainbow-coloured holders. There were a few speeches, a tuneful set by the Sing With Pride Choir and a two minute silence heralded by the striking of the City Hall clock. For me, the most tender moment was the last speaker, a young man call Kai (I hope I have spelt this correctly), who told us of his struggle as a man born in a woman’s body. I’m a cynical old queen these days but it brought a tear to my eye. Of course, that could just have been the pain from the hot wax dripping down my fingers.
The remembrance was particularly poignant for me as I knew Ian Baynham. We had a brief fling way, way back in 1980. I still have a photograph of him in a dusty old album that’s miraculously survived being dragged across country and foreign field. Ian’s murder has come to represent the campaign against all hate crimes of whatever hue. Perhaps his untimely demise was not in vain. I can only hope for the best. I can’t help wondering, though, where were the trendy young things? It was a Saturday night and there was plenty of time to swing by before heading to the bars for a bit of boozing and cruising. It’s not that much to ask.
I checked out the coverage of the event in the local press. Norwich Evening News Online did a nice piece. However, I was rather incensed by the comment from Noah Vale who wrote:
“It’s a shame that the constabulary doesn’t have the same attitude to ALL reported crime – not just trendy “right-on” minority group PC crime. How about clearing the streets of aggressive beggars , unlicenced buskers with various animals , illegally riding dangerous cyclists & other assorted drunks & litter louts.”
I was moved to register and reply. I wrote:
“Is this for real? No one ever died from excessive litter. There’s nothing trendy or right-on about being kicked to death by a baying mob or blown to pieces by a nail bomb.”
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I’ve been asked to answer the question ‘What does writing LGBTQ literature mean to me?’ As a typically liberal fence-sitting Libran, the answer is both nothing and everything. An endorsement from my queer peers is of Oscar-winning significance; it lifts the spirits and brings an immediate rush. However, my sexuality is not the only thing that defines me (though, I suspect, it may be the biggest). I hope I’m more rounded and grounded than that. When I was young, reckless and idealistic, the stirrings in my loins did tend to get in the way. Had I been writing back then, I might well have been a one trick soft porn pony. Now I’ve matured in the oak and reached the vintage years, my pink-tinged ramblings have a broader brush. For me, it’s important that my writing touches, tickles or resonates, whoever the reader is. When I started this blogging lark, the fruity blend of ‘out-and-proud’ and ‘living in a foreign field’ was a successful recipe that brought unexpected recognition. This explains why the subsequent book is about a gay couple living in Turkey, not a book about being gay in Turkey (that depressing tome remains to be written). This may have disappointed some but I think delighted many more. In my view, this wider appeal does a great deal for the cause.
The one theme that has remained a constant preoccupation of mine is all things equalities. I do tend to bang that particular drum rather a lot. After all, it is the universal rainbow thread that unites us all. Equality has never been achieved by anyone asking nicely and saying please. It’s taken hand-to-hand combat with the hard of hearing. Let’s face it, the equalities marathon is hardly off the blocks in many parts of our shared global home, even in some so-called first world countries. Rights won the tough way can be lost in an instant. Threats lurk at every corner and apathy is the greatest threat of all.
I’ve been thinking ahead to a third episode of my pansy brand (the second is already on the drawing board). Now I don’t actually do anything useful for a living, I might as well carry on scribbling, whether people tip me the wink or not. If nothing else, it fills my day and keeps me away from tranquilising doses of daytime TV. I might take a mince down the towpath to my probationary dalliances, in which case, volume three might be an under the counter affair, wrapped in a brown paper bag and served up with individual tissues. How does ‘Fifty Shades of Gay’ sound? Minus the cuffs and corsets, though. Slap and tickle have never really got my juices flowing.
I wrote this post to celebrate and support the launch of Rainbowbookreviews, a brand new and exciting LBGT book review website. To join in the fun I’m offering a free signed copy of Perking the Pansies, Jack and Liam move to Turkey to comments left on this post from UK callers. A Kindle edition or ePUB version of the book is on offer to international readers (please state your preference). Winners will be chosen at random and the competition will end on midnight on 1st September.
No comment required.
I’m nervous. I got an email from DJ Di Cunningham inviting me along to Future Radio to be a guest on Pride Live! Future Radio is a community station broadcasting on 107.8FM to the good citizens of Norwich. Their mission statement is:
We promote social inclusion in its broadest sense, freedom of expression and the dissemination of information for the benefit of our local and wider communities. We use music of all genres to promote racial and social harmony, embrace social, cultural and economic diversity and promote tolerance, understanding and democracy.
You can’t argue with that.
I’m on a 6.30pm this afternoon. Face for radio? Certainly. What am I going to say? No idea. Triumph or flop? I’ll tell you later. Meanwhile, you can catch the show online.
As Olympic fever goes into hyperdrive, I was thinking about homophobia in sport, particularly the beautiful game. Even though the likes of David Beckham are in touch with their feminine side and Eric Cantona is prone to writing a poetic line or two, there are no fairies in top flight football, apparently. Why is this, I wonder? Even rugby, the butchest of sports, has the wonderful Gareth Thomas quietly waving his rainbow flag. There was Justin Fashanu a few years back, of course, but his revelation led to excommunication by the soccer establishment, misery and his eventual suicide. It was a shameful episode.
Despite a campaign by UEFA to stamp out homophobia (as well as racism), the footie fraternity still thinks of itself as the last bastion of traditional machismo, both in Blighty and across this soccer-obsessed world. Nowadays, these obscenely overpaid dandies are preened, pressed and waxed to within an inch of their lives. They also drive too fast, drink too much, brawl in public, chase empty-headed bottle blonds with assisted tits and visit prostitutes old enough to be their mothers. Well, not all of them do, but you get my drift.
Imagine, therefore, a startled Gallic nation that witnessed Olivier Giroud grab teammate Mathieu Debuchy’s face and land a big French smacker* full on the lips. Debuchy did not squirm or resist. This heat of the moment intimate encounter occurred just after Giroud scored for France in an international friendly with Germany a few months ago. Shocking, but then, that’s the French for you.
This French kissing malarky seems to be infectious. A similar incident in Mexico caused outrage among the big wigs and hacks. Femexfut (The Mexican Football Association) El Presidente, Alfonso Sabater said:
‘A gay kiss is not a good example for children and vulnerable people. We must censor this behaviour.’
Get the madam!
*2014 Update: There used to be a YouTube video of the French kissers which has since been removed. I wonder why?
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Typical indecisive liberal Libran, I’m all in a silly tizz. I just can’t make my mind up about the Government’s marriage equality law. Just for the record, the proposal is to legalise same sex civil marriage (a good thing) but will enshrine in the Law the notion that religious marriage is only between a man and a women (a bad thing). Presumably, this is a typically British fudge to placate the lofty preachy men who’ve got their cassocks in a twist. One minute I think I just can’t support this daft nonsense that will introduce a kind of marriage apartheid. The next minute I think that this is a step in the right direction. Maybe it won’t matter as the Government seem to be running scared of the blue-rinse brigade and getting cold feet anyway. The proposed Act has been kicked into the long grass by being dropped from this year’s Queen’s Speech which sets out the Government’s legislative agenda for the coming Parliamentary session. This smacks of political cowardice. It will be left to the Scots (as usual) to lead the equalities charge.
The law may eventually pass and, if it does, I suspect the dust will settle and people will wonder what all the fuss was about. Perhaps an amendment will then be carried to remove the discriminatory religious marriage clause and allow all those religious organisations who wish to conduct ceremonies for same sex couples to do so. Maybe then the preachy men will turn their attention to something more worthwhile like world peace and eradicating child abuse.
Interestingly, in Turkey, a Muslim majority country, religious marriage is not recognised by the State. As a secular republic, anyone wishing to marry (that’s opposite sex couples only, obviously) must do so in a State registry office. Those who are religious have their union blessed by an imam, priest, rabbi, etc.
While the debate rages on, take a look at the video of men in uniforms.
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Throughout the Middle Ages, Norwich was England’s largest city outside London and, until the eighteenth century, vied with Bristol to be the Sceptered Isle’s second metropolis. The original source of the city’s wealth was the wool trade (England’s principle foreign exchange earner in those far flung days). As the industrial revolution swept through other parts of the country, Norwich slipped down the civic rankings. The city was relatively untroubled by industrialisation and avoided most of the urban blight that followed it. Much of what did exist was flattened by the Luftwaffe in 1942. The blanket bombing was a bit of threadbare affair as the Jerrys missed both the enormous city hall and Jeremiah Colman’s mustard mill. Despite the bulldozing frenzy of the 60s and 70s that disfigured too many British towns, Norwich has managed to preserve much of its charming medieval legacy.
Apparently, Jeremiah Colman was one of those rare Victorian philanthropists who were good to their workers. This goes to prove that you can get filthy rich without screwing the poor. Until recently, Colman’s was the main sponsor of Norwich City Football Club. This crown has now passed to Delia Smith, Blighty’s most famous no-nonsense cook and obsessive football fan. However, St Delia (as she’s known in the pie trade) is not a local lass. Norwich’s most famous daughter is Edith Cavell. Nurse Cavell was shot for treason by the dastardly Germans in the Great War because she helped smuggle British prisoners of war out of occupied Belgium. It caused an international outcry at the time and badly damaged Imperial Germany’s image. Well, it just wasn’t cricket and not nearly as funny as ‘Allo, ‘Allo.
Like anywhere, I’m sure it has its problems but Norwich today is a sparkling hilly liberal jewel within a flat sea of true blue conservatism. The council is Labour-controlled and the city returns two members to Parliament. The current incumbents – Simon Wright (Liberal Democrats) and Chloe Smith (Tory) both have progressive social views, including a healthy understanding of LGBT issues. Right on Norwich, here we are.
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The marching season will soon be upon us. I’m not referring to the archaic and socially corrosive pipe and drum marches in Northern Ireland. No, I mean the collective act of uninhibited worship by LGBT communities in towns and cities up and down the realm. He-men in heels, lads in lycra, dames in dungarees and enough gingham to supply every Doris Day film ever made will be parading through the streets chanting the pink anthem, “We’re here, we’re queer, we go shopping.” All are welcome. It’s a glorious celebration of diversity without the slightest risk of disturbance by fascist thugs. Blighty isn’t Russia. The only skinheads on view will be in frocks. It wasn’t always like this. The Sceptred Isle has come along way in a few short years. According to The European International Lesbian and Gay Association Europe, Blighty is the best place in Europe to be gay. From what I’ve read and experienced, I would agree. Who’d be openly gay in Moldova?
Sadly, the dancing days of mega-prides are almost behind us. Most of them operated on a wing and a prayer at the best of times: a single bad weather day would financial cripple the lavish parties in the park with their huge overheads, top billing acts and decadent consumption of alcohol and recreational drugs. The cost of the clean-up operation alone was enough to bail out the Greeks. Brighton Pride is the lone survivor. Last year, for the first time, it was pay-on-the-gate affair. I fear its days are numbered.
We’ve been following the preparations for Norwich Pride with keen interest. Money is tight but the dedicated volunteers are doing all they can to ensure the festival remains both fun for all the family and solvent. The fundraising efforts that have caught my eager eye include ‘Ping Pong for Pride,’ a table tennis knockabout at a local primary school (with rainbow balls) and a Eurovision Song Contest party at Cinema City (proceeds to be split between Norwich Pride and the BBC’s Children in Need). On the 28th July, the gayest day of the year, Norwich will be awash with an ocean of fluttering rainbow flags, including over Hellesdon Hospital, Aviva Insurance, the Norwich Puppet Theatre, City College, Norwich City Council, Norfolk County Council, the Castle Museum and the Fire Service Head Quarters. We’ll be there to cheer on the drag queens, soak up the gaiety and to dance to diversity at Norwich’s very own family-friendly rainbow ball.
I’ve just responded to the British Home Office consultation on same sex marriage. As I understand it, the original proposal was to make us all equal under the Law by allowing same sex secular marriage (replacing and/or supplementing civil partnerships) and to enable those religious organisations that wished to conduct a religious ceremony for same sex couples to do so. The Quakers really wanted their oats on this one: our Friends were at the forefront of agitating for reform. They will be disappointed; a collective ‘tut, tut’ will echo around the polite meeting houses of Blighty. Why? Because the proposed statute will introduce civil marriage equality but will also enshrine in law the notion that religious marriage is between a man and a woman only. Presumably, this typically British fudge is a concession to the meddlesome priests who think they have the divine right to call the shots. This is absurd. Where’s Henry the Eighth when you need him? Either there is marriage equality or there isn’t. A religious ceremony isn’t right for me but to deny it to the religious isn’t right either.
If there is to be a two-tier marriage system can we also have a two-tier tax system where I pay less for fewer rights? A kind of citizen-rights lite.
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Perking the Pansies 