Ian Baynham vigil in Trafalgar Square

Thousands of people converged on Trafalgar Square on the night of Saturday 31 October in a peaceful protest against hate-crime.

They were there to remember the assault on 62 year old Ian Baynham who died of brain damage on 13 October. He was a gay man who stood up to people shouting homophobic abuse at him. Gordon Brown has sent a letter of support whilst Boris Johnson has signalled his support.

Lobbying is one thing. Looking to those with influence is important. But there’s another angle we shouldn’t lose sight of.

I have a friend whose tales of similar abuse and his boldness in tackling it head on in public spaces leave me breathless with pride. Like the Baynham friends and family described in the speech last night, my friend is not frightened about dealing with such abuse head on. There have been numerous occasions where the coda to his reports have always been a chorus of “Be careful, won’t you? It’s right you do what you do. But do be careful.”

It isn’t war on the streets. At least, I don’t think so. Instead, Baynham’s murder and the solidarity shown in the many thousands who turned up at Trafalgar Square remind us that such homophobia does still exist and we should all strive to eradicate it. Such action requires a loud voice from a united community.

I didn’t attend the vigil last night. I look at the pictures and read the tweets from it I end up feeling as though I’ve let the side down. Maybe that’s my inner-critic. The overriding aim of the vigil was to remember Ian Baynham, the Soho nail-bomb and James Parks. If I’m thinking about it now, should I have made the effort and gone last night?

Possibly. You might argue that. But something strikes me as even more important as I watch the moving speech delivered with Ian Baynham’s sister Jenny standing in the background. Vigils are one thing. Memories of vigils are something else. But what’s most important now is that the overwhelming statement made by that vigil and all who attended continues. The best place for that to continue is on the internet.

So, do this.

Your sexuality is of no consequence. Everyone should do this. Reserve a small part of your mind and file this event and the one which precipitated it in a folder marked “hate crime”. It doesn’t demand a great deal of thought. Nor does it require debate, proposals of how we might tackle it or a great long list of people you need to lobby to eradicate it. Just remember that this event happened and that thousands of people converged on Trafalgar Square (the majority of whom won’t have known Baynham) and remember that as sad as this tale is, the speech still raised a smile about someone you didn’t know.

That alone should be sufficient to motivate you into saying something the moment someone hurls abuse, or indeed leaping to someone’s aid if you see another individual being physically attacked in the street. You’re not telling me it was totally silent in Trafalgar Square that night. There would have been plenty of other people around. We all share a responsibility.

There’s a fine line between freedom of speech and all out homophobic abuse – some people haven’t found that line yet. But whilst we’re looking for where exactly the line can be drawn, we should continue to keep such issues uppermost in our mind, vowing to tackle any examples of abuse at a local level.

Be bold. Be safe. But for goodness sake, don’t let it slip.

Members of the London Gay Men’s Chorus sing “Something Inside So Strong” at the vigil

Stephen Gately

There are at least two truths I can think of when it comes to unexpected deaths.

Truth number one: unexpected deaths will take an audience by surprise, focus attention and maintain that focus considerably longer than an ongoing story.

It’s happened plenty of times in the past. Think of where you and what you were doing when you learnt that Princess Diana had died or most recently when Michael Jackson dropped off his perch and if you search around in your memory you’re recall that fleeting moment when you thought to yourself: “that’s just weird, surely that’s a mistake”.

Then you’ll wonder why it could be a mistake. People die all the time after all. And, given that I didn’t know the person at all why would their death be noteworthy for me? Why am I listening to this story? Why am I still thinking about this person in death when I never thought about them when they were alive?

It’s the same with news of Boyzone member Stephen Gately’s death announced this morning. I’m not a fan of the band and even though all would agree the guy was cute, I wasn’t especially a fan of him either. And yet his death whilst on holiday with his partner Andy Cowles leaves me feeling sad.

On BBC Online, Stephen Fry’s comments about Gately’s death illustrated the performer’s popularity in the industry, whilst the singer’s most recent Twitter update provided a possible early indication that this wasn’t suicide. In these moments of relative shock when an unknown individual’s death grabs one’s attention, such individual comments can help shape your reaction to the news and insodoing secure the memory of his or her life and death.

Truth number two: people who use the internet see death as permission to leave downright unpleasant comments about the deceased merely to voice their own prejudices.

At the time of writing, Boyzone’s recent video Better had attracted all sorts of comments in light of Gately’s death, including the line ‘he choked to death on cock’ and ‘you fucking cunt, god hates you’.

Social media types often advise that “feeding the troll” is never good in these situations, preferring to rely on the community to self-regulate. Those experts are wrong. Ocassionally an opportunity arises to hold up such prejudices and ridicule them in a bid to reach a base-level of decent human behaviour.

Gately was a gay man who succeeded in the entertainment industry as a member of a product whose target audience was largely teenage girls. Boyzone succeeded in attracting that audience and maintaining it when Gately later came out as gay and subsequently entered into a civil partnership with his boyfriend. Boyzone didn’t ditch Gately because of his sexuality. Far from it. They didn’t exploit it either. Boyzone became the group which always prompted one predictable question: “Isn’t one of them gay?”

Embracing Gately’s gayness in a suitably well-balanced way was in industry terms a big step and although ultimately private, the low-key publicity of his civil partnership to long-term partner Andy Cowles did much to promote an air of positivity soon after it had been made possible for same-sex couples to marry in late 2006. Gately was to most gay men what they’d quite like to be themselves. Happy, loved and successful.

It’s a shame that younger gay men may well (I’ve seen one or two comments abound today closer to me than I would have expected which have left a sour taste in my mouth) dismiss Gately as unmemorable, questioning why news of his untimely death has warranted so much attention. To many younger than the singer he was just a popstar in a boyband. Shame on them.

Yet there is a shatteringly positive message his gay life has promoted – illustrated in the appearances he makes in this video. It’s vital gay men and women remember that at this moment in time. His life experience was unusually positive and one some people will continue to strive for.

Watch Watch ‘Better’.

Gareth McLean, homophobia and crap jokes

Guardian TV critic and Radio Times soap expert Gareth McLean has penned a scathing attack on the use of gay stereotypes in comedy. He writes:

” … there seems to be no appreciation of the part that such characters, and the attitudes that spawn, them play in the continuing insidiousness of homophobia and the resultant violence, intimidation and bullying that gay men and women endure … “

His piece inevitably taps into Chris Moyles’ “insulting” use of the word “gay” in his radio show, the character Mr Humphries from Are You Being Served? and most recently, the gay war reporter Tim Goodall from the understandably much-maligned recent new sketch show from ubiqutous “comedians” Horne and Corden.

McLean’s piece in the Guardian leaves me seething. Always a good starting point for a blog post, I find.

As a gayer/bender/poofta/homo/batty boy/fudge-packer myself, I have a rather different take. I don’t object to stereotypes in comedy because I know when I see a stereotype. If it wasn’t a stereotype (in whatever comedy I’m watching) it wouldn’t be funny (assuming it is). In fact, as difficult as it might be to believe, I actually know one or two people who bear more than a striking resemblance to the Tim Goodall too. If derogatory terms should be outlawed, should we outlaw the individuals in society who do actually bear a resemblance to the stereotypes comedians sometimes rely on for a cheap gag?

More than all of that however, I have more of a problem with those who hijack the supposedly derogatory terms using them to build a soap box on which to stand on than I do with the words themselves. If you’re to take Mr McLean’s viewpoint a stage further, presumably the world will be a much safer place for me as a gay man if we ban all the nasty names and the cheap gags. Excuse me whilst I reach for my tight white t-shirt and dog tag and rub wax into my cropped hair but dahling … I’m fuming.

Why?

Words on their own aren’t offensive. It’s the context in which those words are used which causes the offence. If the context is an overture to a violent attack then obviously it’s wrong. If we’re having a laugh then having a laugh is OK. OK?

Here’s an example. Some years back I found myself in a bit of a sticky situation. I had met my partner. I’d fallen in love. He’d given me a set of keys to his flat and I’d given in my notice to my then present landlady.  

Up until that point I had always been in what Stephen Fry charming describes as “the vagina business” but having gone on a bit of a “Gay Road to Damascus” type experience, I found myself in need of “coming out”. I needed to explain why I was changing my chosen route, why I was moving in with a bloke called Simon who was five years older than me and why it was (should anyone call me on my new number) the landline answerphone had a message with Homer Simpson saying “I like my beer cold, my TV loud and homosexuals flaming!” Coming out seemed the best path to follow.

The process was traumatic. It was the greatest fear. Perhaps the most difficult thing in the world I could have done. I hated it. I decided to use my best friend as a trial.

It was an agonising telephone call I made her from Oxford Street. I ummed and aaahed. I hesitated. I couldn’t bring myself to say the word “gay” (because I’d spent many years denying it) and I certainly couldn’t bring myself to say the word “homosexual” either. In fact, I couldn’t bring myself to have the conversation full stop.

So with traffic thundering past in the background, sensing my obvious unease (and possibly tapping into something she had already sensed but dared not say before then) my friend took up the responsibility of driving the conversation.

“Are you engaged Jon?” she asked.

“No,” I replied.

“Are you pregnant?”

“Well no, obviously not.”

“So,” she said quite abruptly, “are you in fact a bender by any chance? Is that what you’re wanting to tell me?”

The word “bender” was the last thing I expected her to say, especially given her Sunday morning committments at church. “Yes,” I smiled, all nervousness now dissipated, “I am in fact a bender.” We laughed a great deal. The laughing was borne out of surprise and inappropriateness. It made less of the issue I was worrying about. I needed to laugh about it.

The joking continued in the coming weeks. She would call me to find out how things were going in my new relationship, whether I’d spoken to my parents and how other friends had reacted. Every time we spoke we would laugh over all the derogatory terms she could think of to describe me. Once she left a message on my answerphone using a put-on voice asking to speak to “a Mr C. Ferrett….”

Despite her best efforts to mask her voice (and the fact I recognised the number) it wasn’t until I called her back to discover the “C” stood for “Chutney”. Yes. Not only was I (technically) a fudge-packer but I could also be referred to as a “Chutney Ferrett”. It made me laugh. And laughing when I came out was the best way of dealing what was quite possibly the most traumatic process I’ve ever been through.

It almost certainly wouldn’t have helped to have Gareth McLean taking my friend (or me for that matter) to task over the use of language because it might be deemed homophobic.

Gareth Horne and James Corden are certainly not guilty of creating characters or script which might be seen as homophobic (just look at the latest clip on the YouTube which shows the camp and effeminate character Tim Goodall taking on an equally stereotypical character who has been taunting him as a “batty boy” – it’s the gay character who comes out on top – please forgive the pun).

If they’re guilty of anything, it’s only for having written and performed something which is as unfunny as it is (although interestingly I’m finding myself laugh a lot at this character possibly because of his unfeasibly white teeth). They’re not the first nor will they be the last comedy duo to have turned out some duff material, and as much as I don’t want to do this (I’m not a big fan anyway) I’m prepared to forgive them for that.

Does perceived homophobic comedy increase the chances or provide motivation for a homphobic attack? I find it difficult to believe there will ever come a time when attacks on gay men will stop by narrow-minded crazed individuals who failed at the well-adjustment classes most of us attended at some point in our lives. I’m sure as hell certain that banning words or comedy characters will make a difference either. What might help is stopping ourselves from leaping on the bandwagon marked “Crying Wolves”.

Nigel Owen’s coming out story

 This morning’s piece in the Guardian G2 about now openly gay rugby referee Nigel Owens made for refreshing reading this morning.

His story is dramatic. One of those stories I instantly connect with.

Owens, had a girlfriend. He wanted to be married. The only son wanted to provide grandchildren for his parents. But there was a problem. He also realised he was attracted to men. Usher in a big problem and an overwhelming sense of internal conflict. It’s enough to push a man over the edge and it nearly did. He tried to commit suicide writing a note and taking a dose of sleeping pills before positioning himself high on a hill where noone could find him.

It didn’t work. Someone found him. The emergency services airlifted him to hospital and now he’s come out. Not only that, he’s written a book about it.

I understand that pain. I’ve been in the situation myself. Total conflict, total confusion, total fear. It’s the most hideous experience. Time stands still. Appetite goes. Personal cleanliness requires additional effort and is fundamentally pointless. Everything weighs down on your shoulders like a ton of bricks. You need a release. You want someone or something to lead you away from under the dark clouds.

His subsequent experience coming out to his rugby union bosses and colleagues was a brave one. It was also successful. Everyone was supportive. By all accounts no-one gave him a negative response.

When I read the piece in the Guardian G2 this morning I felt refreshed and enthused. I’d happened on something as I jostled for foot room on the 0816 from Hither Green. I’d read an uplifting story even though my early rise (5am on account of an over-insistent cat requiring food) meant I desperately wanted to drop off.

His experiences were positive and exactly what the gay community needs. Here was a normal looking bloke, doing a reasonably normal job with a vitally positive story to tell to the rest of the otherwise closeted gay community. His brush-off of the “banter” from the stands the cherry on the top:

“”Hand on heart,” he declares, he has not heard any homophobic abuse from rugby crowds either. “I’ve heard the odd comment like ‘We’ve got the bent referee today’ and everybody laughs because they think the referee is bent because he’s going to award tries to the home side. That’s a joke and banter. You laugh about it and that’s the best way to deal with it.”

It’s this kind of skilfully contextualising of what some regard as unforgivable gay taunts which sends out a powerful message, a message which communicates exactly what being gay is all about. It’s about nothing.