Apology for Alan Turing

A reminder of Labour's gay-rights achievements

 

Fifty-five years after his death, and following a Downing Street petition, Alan Turing has received a heartfelt posthumous apology from Gordon Brown. Turing was a code-breaker at Bletchley Park during the Second World War, instrumental in cracking messages from German Enigma machines. He is also widely considered the father of modern computing.

In 1954, aged 41, Turing took his own life with cyanide after being sentenced to chemical castration for being gay. Two years earlier, he had been convicted of "gross indecency" with another man -- essentially, in the pre-Wolfenden Report era, just for being homosexual.

The petition was signed by well-known figures including Ian McEwan, Richard Dawkins and the human rights campaigner Peter Tatchell. Tatchell, head of OutRage!, commends the Prime Minister but also calls for an apology to the "estimated 100,000 British men who were also convicted of consenting, victimless same-sex relationships during the 20th century".

In Downing Street's lengthy statement, the Prime Minister called Turing's treatment appalling:

Thousands of people have come together to demand justice for Alan Turing and recognition of the appalling way he was treated. While Turing was dealt with under the law of the time and we can't put the clock back, his treatment was of course utterly unfair and I am pleased to have the chance to say how deeply sorry I and we all are for what happened to him. Alan and the many thousands of other gay men who were convicted as he was convicted under homophobic laws were treated terribly. Over the years millions more lived in fear of conviction.

I am proud that those days are gone and that in the last 12 years this government has done so much to make life fairer and more equal for our LGBT community. This recognition of Alan's status as one of Britain's most famous victims of homophobia is another step towards equality and long overdue.

As much as being a long-overdue tribute to Turing's genius and recognition of his persecution, it is also a reminder of how much Labour has done for LGBT Britain since 1997 -- and the stark contrast with Labour's Tory predecessors. Thatcher's government, let's not forget, introduced Section 28 in schools in 1988 and continually resisted lowering the age of consent for gay men (a campaign latterly spearheaded by the bitterly prejudiced Janet Young). Since 1997, Labour has repealed Section 28, lowered the age of consent first from 21 to 18, and then again to 16, and legalised civil partnerships.

The new face of the Conservatives is of a caring, sharing, gay-friendly party, which boasts its own LGBTory group, and where Mayor Boris joins the Pride march in London. But how much have beliefs at the Conservative grass roots really changed? It's unlikely that a Tory government would, for example, reintroduce a version of Section 28, but with a widely predicted Tory election victory in the offing it remains to be seen whether David Cameron will be able to keep the less tolerant elements of his party in check. With the religious right also in the ascendant, gay rights campaigners shouldn't let their guard down just yet.

Thomas Calvocoressi is Chief Sub (Digital) at the New Statesman and writes about visual arts for the magazine.

Getty
Show Hide image

We knew we’d become proper pop stars when we got a car like George Michael’s

“That was George Michael!” we both shouted. “And he was driving the car we want!”

One of the clichés about celebrity life is that all celebrities know each other. Back in the Eighties, when we were moderately famous, Ben and I did often bump into other famous people, and because of mutual recognition, there was a sort of acquaintance, if not friendship.

There was a random element to it, as well. Some celebrities you might never catch a glimpse of, while others seemed to pop up with an unexpected regularity.

In 1987, the car we drove was a 1970s Austin Princess, all leather seats and walnut dashboard. In many ways, it symbolised what people thought of as the basic qualities of our band: unassuming, a little bit quirky, a little bit vintage. We’d had it for a year or so, but Ben was running out of patience. It had a habit of letting us down at inconvenient moments – for instance, at the top of the long, steep climbs that you encounter when driving through Italy, which we had just recklessly done for a holiday. The car was such a novelty out there that it attracted crowds whenever we parked. They would gather round, nodding appreciatively, stroking the bonnet and murmuring, “Bella macchina . . .”

Having recently banked a couple of royalty cheques, Ben was thinking of a complete change of style – a rock’n’roll, grand-gesture kind of car.

“I wanna get an old Mercedes 300 SL,” he said to me.

“What’s one of those?”

“I’ll let you know next time we pass one,” he said.

We were driving through London in the Princess, and as we swung round into Sloane Square, Ben called out, “There’s one, look, coming up on the inside now!” I looked round at this vision of gleaming steel and chrome, gliding along effortlessly beside us, and at the same moment the driver glanced over towards our funny little car. We made eye contact, then the Merc roared away. It was George Michael.

“That was George Michael!” we both shouted. “And he was driving the car we want!”

We’d always had a soft spot for George, even though we seemed to inhabit opposite ends of the pop spectrum. He’d once been on a TV review show and said nice things about our first album, and I knew he had liked my solo single “Plain Sailing”. We’d done a miners’ benefit gig where Wham! had appeared, slightly out of place in their vests, tans and blond bouffants. There had been a bit of sneering because they’d mimed. But I remember thinking, “Good on you for even being here.” Their presence showed that being politically active, or even just caring, wasn’t the sole preserve of righteous indie groups.

A couple of weeks later, we were driving along again in the Princess, when who should pull up beside us in traffic? George again. He wound down his window, and so did we. He was charming and called across to say that, yes, he had recognised us the other day in Sloane Square. He went on to complain that BBC Radio 1 wouldn’t play his new single “because it was too crude”. “What’s it called?” asked Ben. “ ‘I Want Your Sex’!” he shouted, and roared away again, leaving us laughing.

We’d made up our minds by now, and so we went down to the showroom, flashed the cash, bought the pop-star car and spent the next few weeks driving our parents up and down the motorway with the roof off. It was amazing: even I had to admit that it was a thrill to be speeding along in such a machine.

A little time passed. We were happy with our glamorous new purchase, when one day we were driving down the M1 and, yes, you’ve guessed it, in the rear-view mirror Ben saw the familiar shape coming up behind. “Bloody hell, it’s George Michael again. I think he must be stalking us.”

George pulled out into the lane alongside and slowed down as he drew level with us. We wound down the windows. He gave the car a long look, up and down, smiled that smile and said, “That’s a bit more like it.” Then he sped away from us for the last time.

Cheers, George. You were friendly, and generous, and kind, and you were good at being a pop star.

Tracey Thorn is a musician and writer, best known as one half of Everything but the Girl. She writes the fortnightly “Off the Record” column for the New Statesman. Her latest book is Naked at the Albert Hall.

This article first appeared in the 12 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's revenge