Marriage Guidance

The debate on same sex marriage has so far been dominated by its opponents.

More than half a million people have now signed the Coalition For Marriage's petition against the government's proposal to permit same-sex marriage.  For a campaign that didn't even exist a few months ago, it's an extraordinary achievement.  A rival petition supporting the equalisation of the marriage laws has attracted barely a tenth the number of signatures.

There have been signs in recent days that the campaign to prevent what had seemed a fait accompli is beginning to scent victory, at least in the battle for public opinion. The government remains committed to the reform, but in the wake of the coalition parties' poor showing in the local elections there has been a notable lack of enthusiasm for it, especially on the Tory benches.  Nadine Dorries spoke for more of her colleagues than usual the other day when she described same sex marriage the other day as a policy "pursued by the metro elite gay activists" that needs to be "put into the same bin" as Lords reform. "Gay marriage" has become a symbol of everything that the Conservative right hates about the coalition and about David Cameron's modernising agenda.  

There is, in fact, a persuasive logic to Cameron's conservative case for same-sex marriage.  With its history and moral weight, the word "marriage" has a magic that the newly invented status of civil partnership lacks.  To invite gay couples to participate in the institution is not only to offer them full acceptance (the "progressive" part).  It is also to ask them to embrace the traditional, and conservative, moral obligations of marriage.  At the same time, opening marriage to same-sex couples might give it new appeal to younger, liberal-minded heterosexuals currently suspicious of its historic baggage.

But the case has not been well made.  It doesn't help that the proposals themselves are illogical and badly thought-through, and would raise more anomalies than they solve.  By closing down options, for example refusing to countenance allowing heterosexual couples to enter civil partnerships, the March consultation document missed an opportunity for a genuine national debate on the nature of marriage and the state's role in registering it.  Declaring the policy already decided also generated a predictable backlash.  The impression of arrogance was not helped by Lynne Featherstone, the Lib Dem minister responsible, offering a "cast-iron guarantee" that the change would be introduced before the next election (a promise she repeated yesterday).  

Instead, opponents of changing the law have dominated the discussion.  Their greatest success has been in portraying the government's proposals as involving a fundamental redefinition of marriage.  Concentrating on the word rather than the substance presents the change as more radical than it actually is (from a practical point of view, the introduction of civil partnerships represented a much greater advance in the state's acceptance of same-sex relationships).  It also leads to some fairly reactionary arguments.  The Coalition For Marriage  states, for example, that marriage "reflects the complementary natures of men and women" -- a position not far removed from a demand that men go out to work while women stay at home looking after the kids.  The same suggestion was made in a letter from the Roman Catholic archbishops that was controversially circulated to Catholic schools.

Ironically, such an argument is itself an attempt to redefine marriage, or at least to return to an older definition.  Even understood as a relationship between one man and one woman, marriage has changed profoundly during the centuries, from being an institution based on the exchange of property and securing the legitimacy of children to one based on the mutual relationship of the spouses.  US Vice President Joe Biden encapsulated it well when he came out in support of same sex marriage at the weekend.   It was, he said, "a simple proposition -- who do you love?  And will you be loyal to the person you love? That's what all marriages at root are about."  This hasn't always been the case.

Rooting marriage in the difference between the sexes rather than their equality, as the Campaign for Marriage does, looks like an attempt to set the clock back.  This is why the issue of same sex marriage should not merely be of concern to gay people.   Opening marriage to homosexual couples isn't just a recognition that they are now a full part of society.  It's also a logical expression of the modern understanding of marriage as a partnership between equals.  

 

Same-sex statues on top of a wedding cake. Photograph: Getty Images
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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad