East Nine. And Counting.

Gay care home residents have a right to express their memories too

2008-12-28T12:51:00.000Z

Posted on Independent Minds, 28 December 2008

There’s an article in the Mail on Sunday today which does everything I detest about the Mail newspapers. It makes up an issue out of nothing, manipulates headlines in order to generate as much outrage as possible, and treats gay people as less than human. The headline to the piece is Home for retired missionaries loses grant - because it won't ask residents if they are lesbians.

What happened was this: Brighton & Hove has reduced funding to a Christian care home for the elderly, because it wouldn’t demonstrate that it was an inclusive community. Residents were not forced to declare their adherence, or otherwise, to the charms of lesbianism.

I can imagine how a council officer could turn a genuinely important enquiry - does this care home, which is a recipient of public money, meet the needs of all of Brighton’s residents? - into an exercise in officious form-filling. But that’s not the point. Brighton & Hove council didn’t demand that residents announce their orientation against their will, and nor, pace the Mail’s hysteria, did it force an enquiry into their current or previous sexual histories. The points are these:

Gay people are as likely to be residents of care homes, per capita, as anyone else.

All of us fund care homes through the fees paid by Councils.

Some of ‘all of us’, at least, are gay, and have a vested interest in learning whether or not our money is being spent appropriately. Appropriately, in this situation (for the benefit of MoS readers) means according gay residents the same amount of dignity as would be accorded anyone else. Any care home which refuses to contemplate the very existence of homosexual residents is clearly not meeting this appropriate requirement and should forfeit its claim to taxpayers’ money.

If you think I’m over-reacting, read this:

[Phil Wainwright, director of human resources for Pilgrim Homes] said: ‘We have every reason to believe that we have given places to gay Christians, and no questions were ever asked.’

I read this to mean: we tolerate homosexuals living here, so long as they shut up about their love lives prior to their arrival. They’ll be expected to keep their mouths shut when other people talk about their marriages, and not disgrace our Christian ethos by correctly labelling their relationship with anyone who comes to visit them.

Not a penny of my money, thank you, to fund an organisation which believes that asking ‘no questions’ of the people in its care is an adequate discharge of its Christian ethos.

The Sacred and Profane Love Machine

2008-12-27T08:59:00.002Z

Posted on CentreRight on 23 December 2008

The Pope has said that saving people from homosexuality is as important as saving the rainforests ... something like that was the first thing I heard this morning, weaving my way back to consciousness, to the headlines on Today. I look at Keith. He looks at me. Is the tea ready?

Yes, this is going to be personal, but I don't think that matters, in fact it might be important. Some Christian leaders say these things, I think, because - unlike the wholly wonderful Archbishop of Canterbury - they think that a focus on the bigger picture is more important than consideration of individuals. When the leading Vatican official in October described homosexuality as a deviation, an irregularity, a wound I imagine he was thinking of the bigger picture, and not about all the individuals he must know who are physical manifestations of this deviation, this irregularity, this wound.

The bigger picture goes something like this: God determined that we would have two genders, and that only single couples formed from one of each of those genders would sexually couple, and then only for the reason of reproduction. Therefore, any deviation from this pattern is a sin, is sinful, and ... this is where it breaks down a bit ... homosexuality is particularly wrong, almost uniquely so in the universe of pathology, probably because it mimics a bit too closely for comfort the ideal model. I've written elsewhere that we make too big a fetish of our biological variability, and that such a fetish leads to the growth of Identity Politics (one thing the Pope and I can agree upon).

OK but let's give the Pope's ideas a go. Let's do a thought experiment. Turn left. Rewind the clock. Let's start the day again, but without the homosexuality:

The Pope has said that saving people from homosexuality is as important as saving the rainforests ... something like that was the first thing I heard this morning, weaving my way back to consciousness, to the headlines on Today. I look at Keith. He looks at me. What are you doing in my bed?

Err, I dunno, sorry, some sort of an irregularity. Won't happen again. He leaves for work. He leaves for good, of course. The path of this good man's life, which is spent in acts of duty and care to others, leads to ... nothing. An empty bed and a solitary grave. None I think do there embrace. At least he's free of being a wound, an irregularity or a deviation.

I find an article I once wrote, about waking from a nightmare, with the sweat of the dread on my brow. I'm sure it once ended: It's OK. Not alone. Not alone. Now it ends: Alone. Leafing through the photo albums I find all these blank spaces, where holidays didn't happen, families weren't visited, children weren't loved, weddings didn't happen, connections weren't made. Only disconnect.

Fast forward a few years, and the stability which my psychology requires having vanished, my life goes off the rails. I catch my last glimpse of Keith while I'm waiting in the GP surgery to have my blood pressure checked. I see his large frame pass by the window, taking his dog to the park. The affection of dogs for humans, and vice versa, mercifully left uncontaminated by doctrinal urging.

This experiment has to end now, sorry. Not alone. Not alone.

*

There is no bigger picture. You, and how you interact with the people who are close to you, are all that matters in this world. All you can change is all you can know and all you can touch. I think this is part of what Dr Williams was saying in his wonderful article earlier in the week. The Pope can wish the love I have for Keith out of existence if he wishes: if he could do it, if he could wipe the world free of my deviation, my irregularity, my wound, the only outcome would be a reduction in the amount of love on the Earth. Is that the church's message to the planet?

You probably know that the title of this piece comes from the work of a certain lady, whose humanity and complex thinking about human beings had such an impact on my early life. The picture on the right is the portrait by Tom Phillips, which you can see at the National Portrait Gallery, if it's still hanging. One of her sentences occurs to me every day, because I believe it to be very true. It's my credo, if you like. In the end, all our failures are failures of love. I am very imperfect, and my life is filled with many such failures, but my love for the good man who shares his life with me is not one of them.

Merry Christmas everybody.

Insomnia

2007-05-08T23:56:00.000+01:00

I read a comedy article in the Observer this week about how insomnia is just one of those made-up diseases from a non-existent pathology that middle-class people use to make themselves more interesting (like wheat allergies etc). I wish. The author also said that insomniacs write too much on their blogs about it and it's boring. I guess this is true. But tapping away into the ether is preferable to staring at the wall. What happened to old cures? [Old cures were: any trashy murder story (not good literature: that requires a heavy bout of flu); the World Service; Something Too Dirty To Write About Even For The Ether]. They don't work anymore (actually books work less and less in any sense for me, something else for me to worry away at as the hours tick by -- is this the real thing about aging? A creeping anhedonia? I was thinking about this walking back from the Lido today ... I am fairly sure that when I was younger I was more or less interested in everyone who swam into view in front of me; but now I find it hard to care about anything out of my immediate perspective. I suppose the advantage to this is that one becomes more focussed with age but oh my goodness you could easily become very blinkered. Anyway hope that's not happening to me (yet) so I tried talking to the woman in the sandwich shop where I bought my caprese roll (don't ask) (oh, you didn't) but she just sort of grunted. Perhaps narrow perspectives are easier. Where was I? Oh yes. Not sleeping. New cure which does work but which terrify me because of tolerance (growing ineffectiveness over time) is to antagonise (pharmacologically) one's histaminic receptors until one glides into slumber. Unfortunately (apart from my terror that I become tolerant to the therapy) this is what tends to happen to me the next day:

Anyway why should I worry? There was a news report a few weeks ago that this BLOODY government is going to make it illegal to purchase such mild sedatives over the counter (or any cold remedy which contains them: goodbye vicks sinex inhaler; goodbye night nurse) and leave them prescription only, which since I can't get on a GP's list because of this BLOODY government etc means that they will be as elusive to me as sleep itself.

When Did You Last See Your Conservative Government?

2007-05-07T16:07:00.000+01:00

BBC Parliament is re-running its 1997 General Election coverage ... where were you when the bastards stormed the Citadel? And did anything good come from 1997?

It taught me that I'm not always right about everything (this came as a shock :-0)). I had an election party at my manky student pad in Glasgow in 1992 and suffered hours of socialist friends saying "Och weil it's a shame for you Tories", only to have to run to the kitchen to stuff spoons in my mouth and shout for joy when it became obvious we were going to win again (Stirling! Galloway!). Then in 1997 I attempted repeat though by this time was expat in Italy and perhaps me and my other right wing expat friends were a little out of touch ... there were no Labour voters present to jeer but we fell silent, one by one, leaving the spumante untouched (that last bit is made up).

Antisocial Irresponsibility tackled head-on by Mayoral Candidate Boff

2007-05-05T16:36:00.000+01:00

There I was, congratulating Mayoral Candidate Andrew on his great showing in the Conservative Home members' poll and discussing the themes for his platform, standing on the corner of Broadway Market, Saturday Farmer's marketing in full flow all around us, and just as I was making the most arse-y statement of the week ("I watched a really good videopodcast from Cameron about social responsibility, in the car that brought me back from the airport last night"), waiving my recently purchased organic leek around for emphatic effect, when a hooded youth threw away a half empty can of fizzy pop, which landed at our feet. Oi! I shouted, and Oi! I'm glad to report, also shouted Mayoral Candidate Andrew at said youth, and what's more, he went after and upbraided him. Social Responsibility in action!

Later during the same marketing trip, Mr Keith and I were asked to sign a petition to help protest against the erection (oh for goodness' sake) of a phone mast on London Fields. I signed, happily, but fear I was unable to resist pointing out to the earnest young environmentalist that you get the sort of local government that you vote for, and while indeed much of Britain will today be waking up to a brighter, greener, Tory-er borough, here in Hackney we Labour on (geddit) under the crushing boot of municipal failure/socialism.

What joy it must be to be alive in Gedling this morning, for example! Unless one works for the BBC. My favourite This Paper Is So Crap You'd Be Better Of Looking At The Back Of The Bogs In Your Local For Political Insight Than Parting With Money For This Shit headline was in The Times yesterday: Conservative Limp To Finish was how they described: an increase in Tory councillors of more than 800; the complete wipe-out of socialism in the south; the destruction of the Liberal Democrats; the highly respectable new showing of our party in the North (a quarter of the Tory gains were in the North); &c &c. Not sure what planet Times political writers are on (Planet BBC?) but it's not one which contains the UK.

Well time to scrub the squash I think. I'm making roasted squash and beetroot, with roasted sesame seeds on top (I got the recipe from a Sainsbury's packet!). Am beyond belief amused that if one types "butternut squash" into the Google image search engine, one is presented with a range of photographs which would have kept That's Life chortling away for weeks, viz:

Drinks With David

2007-04-29T18:44:00.000+01:00

Mr Keith and I went to have a drink with David Cameron last Monday. OK the truth is that we went to a very crowded room in the new Tory HQ at Millbank, and stood at the back while The Leader addressed about 200 of us crammed into a room designed for at most 50. Reader, all human life was there! First visit to the new HQ ... very nice whitewashed floorboards in reception. And more champagne than I can manage. Unfortunately I have a rule "never say no to champagne", largely because you never know if you'll ever get any more.

Mr C was cool as ever. Normally Keith and I just hang around the back of these events, enjoying the ambience, people-spotting ("oh look! Lord Strathclyde! He's lost weight and he's looking great!" [he was, too]) but this time after the Vote Blue, Go Green baby roundup from David, he toured the room and introduced himself to everyone. Someone had the unenviable task of preceeding him, asking the names of each group of to-be-introduced-ees, then telling David who he was about to meet.

I engaged the leader in 10 minutes of witty badinage at Gordon Brown's expense, and am sure there will be several references to me in the index of his autobiography. Actually, the conversation went like this:

David Cameron [for it was him!] : Hi, where do you two come from?
Me [sweaty with nerves, eyes-bulging at proximity of greatest hope in UK politics &c &c]: Hackney.
Dave [screwing up face] : I'm always in bloody Hackney!

It's true you know. The borough could have been designed as a show-piece for any centre-right politician who wants to show what's wrong with socialism and how we need a bit more social responsibility. There are lots of examples of social responsibility happening in this place, in the teeth of Labour opposition, and it makes a great backdrop when Mr C wants to introduce a political theme.

Sadly I think I didn't make the most amazing impression (I didn't have my Converse trainers on, perhaps it was the fact that Keith chose this moment to launch into a tirade about the fact that we didn't get a Christmas card last year, whereas Michael and Sandra Howard always found the time &c &c) but we had fun. Despite the press he gets, only Keith and I are ever tieless. There's nothing like a gathering of senior Tories for making me feel scruffy. The funny thing is, at work that day, Andy said to me "ooh look at you all dressed up".

Victoria Park Saturday

2007-04-15T15:53:00.000+01:00

We had a lovely walk round Victoria Park, the Roman Road market in Bow and back to Bethnal Green yesterday. I took some photos, starting in Victoria Park's "Village", on Lauriston Road, and some of Keith looking quite funky I thought in the Fat Cat at Bow Wharf.

You can see them all on the Facebook photo page here.

Verona or bust

2007-04-11T16:51:00.000+01:00

Here we are on the 5th floor of the ubersexy building where I work sometimes on the outskirts of Verona. What a beautiful day it has been here. It almost makes getting up at ten to five this morning and travelling on the Gatwick Express worthwhile. I had one of those cab drivers this morning who make you love London. I always meet them just as I'm leaving. When I get home at midnight on Friday (the 13th! Friday the 13th!) I'll not meet said cabbie, I can tell.

Another Sunny Day, I Found You At The Herbaceous Border

2007-04-01T11:58:00.000+01:00

The Joy of Together

Celebrating Mr. Keith’s 47th birthday

Anyone who has spent more than 10 minutes with me will know how importantly I take those markers in the year when a community takes note of significant milestones: New Year’s Eve is a great time to think about what you’ve been up to over the last 12 months (in my case: to reflect on those to whom I could have behaved more charitably); Christmas time is about reminding yourself that the winter will end, and Easter time has such obvious renewal imagery that nuff said (apply own theology for added benefits of course). All of these markers refer to something external to one’s self, really, so I think everyone deserves one day a year where they are quite clearly marked out as Numero Uno, where no apology has to be made for putting one’s self centre-stage, and where every minute should be crafted around the advancement of one’s own (perhaps guilty) pleasures. That’s your birthday, that is.

It was Keith’s birthday yesterday. I think we didn’t celebrate it sufficiently last year, so we started the evening before, Keith’s-birthday-eve that is. I had got surprise tickets to Boeing-Boeing, a West End farce which has garnered 5-star reviews across every review in every publication and which stars such luminaries of stage and screen as Ms Tamsin Slapper, star of dozens of hours of crap TV that you feel sick after watching (like when you eat too much cake), Ms Gomez-Gomez, the oddly-limbed squirrel-creature from TV’s Green Wing (no, I didn’t laugh at the second series either), Mr Mark Bender, all-round-luvvy and someone who would skip gaily at a funeral procession and – the star de stars – Ms Francis De La Hag, the 410-year-old craggy cliff-face – the Eiger - of British Theatre and who is destined to be remembered for nothing other than that rubbish sitcom from the 70’s that one’s parents inexplicably found amusing. OK so you know the West End theatre drill: for just one hundred of your earth pounds you and the husband of your choice can cram yourself into uncomfortable chairs designed, not for the mass of the audience (American tourists in Velcro-ridden comfort ware), but for midget stick-insects, while the air-conditioning is set to “Desert Storm”. You get to pay an extra twenty of your earth pounds for two glasses containing a sparrow’s spit worth of gin and Martian tonic water. And then the show begins, and while all around you people are literally howling with manic laughter, you get to sit stoney-faced, staring at the lumbering, illogical, tired and over-acted drivel taking place on the stage in front of you. Such was our experience of Boeing Boeing and so typical was it of our West End theatre experience that afterwards we decided we’d had a great time.

Tuesday dawned bright and sunny, one thing about Keith is that it’s quite clear that God loves him, because it’s always teeshirt weather on the 27th March. Remember this if it ever falls on a weekend and you’re considering a picnic. So – pausing only to devour special birthday bacon-and-egg sandwich (not me) and watch two special birthday episodes of Fawlty Towers we rang for our driver (the no.48 bus) and proceeded in a southerly direction until we hit the buffers at London Bridge (London Bridge! What a gorgeous station!). We then spent a couple of hours being terrified by the London Dungeon Experience. What happens is this. You get put underneath the ground in a sequence of unlit tunnels which smell of something excremental … think Paris in the strong summer sun … while various young gore-covered actors (who put the cast of Boeing Boeing to shame) play the part of nefarious characters from London’s history … I was physically unwell during the Jack The Ripper chapter and picked on mercilessly by the Newgate judge. And there’s one of those ghost-train water-bath journeys too! Absolutely fantastic to be honest, I loved it.

Blinking back into the sun we made our way westerly along the Thames’ southbank. We found a new Wagamama next to Vinopolis so stopped there to stock up on noodles, chillis and edamame, soya beans so fibrous that I was farting like a sleeping puppy well before the meal was ended, much to the well-hidden joy of the couple at the table behind us who were trying to conduct an office affair.

Back onto the riverbank and we meandered along till we got to Tate Modern where we remembered that there’s a Gilbert and George exhibition on at the moment. You know Gilbert and George: those two gay blokes who live in the East End (sounds familiar) and who make art by taking pictures of themselves naked, which they then blow up (fnarr) to art-gallery-wall size and cover with bits of graffiti they have photographed on the benches of Victoria Park. I think it’s really good, surprisingly, and not just in the “that’s a nice bit of colour for the wall that faces the garden” sort of a way. I think there’s something pretty bloody clear about what they’re saying about the state of the East End, but amazingly, not, one never reads about this in the Guardian’s review of their work. Nuff said matey.

You’d think that would be enough for a day out wouldn’t you! Well think AGAIN. Because at this point Keith’s birthday overlapped with a present he gave to me last Christmas: yesterday evening we had tickets to attend the Times/Intelligence-squared public debate, held at the Methodist Central Hall, Westminster, where the motion to be voted on was that We Would Be Better Off Without Religion. Speaking for the motion was Prof Richard Dawkins, Prof A.C.Grayling, and Christopher Hitchens. Against was Rabbi Julia Neuberger, Prof Roger Scruton, and some loser called Spivey who makes programmes with names like “Digging for Jesus”. Now I wasn’t completely mind-made-up before we started, though Dawkin’s last book acted like a sort of wake-up call on my general beneficent drift towards Anglicanism. I’ve been sort of thinking about the importance of a national agreement on the way we should act towards one another, and the Church of England seems to embody that for me. But there’s no getting away from the anti-scientific belief in the supernatural on which all these belief systems are based, and at the end of the day that’s an appalling basis. I do love Roger Scruton though, surely the most intelligent Briton alive? He nearly persuaded me, but I think the spiritual beauty he described was a description of the transcendental, not the religious. The Anti side were severely let down by Rabbi Julia. She almost got it right, by beginning her talk by referring to systems of behaviour and communal practice. But she stuffed it up by ending with a recitation of the Lib Dem manifesto and implying, strongly, that only religious people are capable of being decent-minded. This was a theme which ran through the opposers’ speeches and which I believe was a tactical mistake; because you don’t convince people like me, who believe that they’re more or less living a Good Life, that they should incorporate a belief in the divine, by telling us that without such belief we’re tantamount to dull, prosaic horrors who would happily force children back up chimneys (this example was used). In the end – to my surprise – the motion was strongly defeated by around 1200 votes to 700. Absolutely brilliant night out.

After that there was time only for a quick tube ride home, a ridiculous amount of birthday cake, and a butcher’s at another birthday DVD, Bob Hope and Bing Crosby On the Road to Singapore.

Happy Birthday Mr Keith.