Whatever position taken on the subject of Brexit, there is some agreement that on all sides of the discussion behaviours have led much to be desired. Neither lies nor fears projected during polarised arguments are attributes we should be aspiring to and yet we perhaps shouldn’t be surprised that these characteristics emerge.
It took many years for me to appreciate the game changing LGBT+ artists of my youth. Thirty-five years ago I would have been terrified to associate myself with openly gay popular music performers for fear of a correct assumption that I was leaning that way too. When I think now of Jimmy Somerville, Bronski Beat and their 1984 album Age of Consent, emblazoned with the pink triangle symbol of gay oppression, imprisonment, torture and death, I appreciate how brave and progressive that was for artists at that time.
And so at a gently ripe 46 years old, our protagonist is calm and content, a happy homosexual with, hopefully, half his life ahead of him. It’s now June 28, 2018, exactly 49 years to the date since the Stonewall riots of New York launched the LGBT+ civil rights movement and international Pride events were born.
Russell Tovey announces his marriage and receives almost no Tom Daley-style vitriol from the gay community. It couldn’t be because we would all serious make a play for his rugby playing beau Steve Brockman, could it?
Within almost a month of meeting my then boyfriend, now husband, he became an uncle for the first time. I remember receiving the text from him, which screamed in capital letters; I AM AN UNCLE. My automatic, and I concede extremely unattractive response, was one of searing jealousy. I had, until this moment in life, managed to avoid boyfriends worth any mention (because if you don’t ‘feel’ it why bother, right?) but this one was serious and I did not intend to compete for him with a frickin’ baby.
As a youngster, I assumed the day would come when I would know all there was to know about life, love and happiness. The reflecting, the neglecting, the mistaking, the breaking, the betting, the fretting, the yearning, the learning would all eventually subside, and after the maelstrom of tortured youth, I would be ready to set out upon the road of life with all that I had gathered packed neatly away, ready to assist me in my adult years.
“Isn’t it great that Pride feels like a national celebration now?”, my husband exclaims as we wander around London for some last minute holiday shopping. And as I look around at every other shop, wall, skyward banner and lamppost, adorned with some manifestation of the rainbow, I cannot help but agree. In the 22 years that I’ve been attending Pride events, the integration of these into our national psyche is nothing short of terrific and the importance of this not to be underestimated.
2017 begins inauspiciously for the international LGBT+ community. As the inauguration of the US President Elect looms, even those parts of the world whom in recent years have made significant parallel political and social progress, face an ominous future as rumours of rolled back legislation abound.
