Now meet the real gay mafia

Gay taxis, gay funeral directors: people make money out of keeping homosexuals in a ghetto

I've often found it helpful to seek an outsider's perspective on complex issues, and so while pondering the possibility of a gay mafia, I decided to take my sister out for a night at one of London's hottest gay nightclubs. She confirmed my suspicions. In a heavy night of partying, she saw a happy, exciting community that thrives despite being oppressed. She saw the beautiful people, the cutting-edge fashion, the unadulterated fun; she went home in disbelief that we still picket parliament demanding more. A recent survey found that 65 per cent of gay people regularly lied about their sexuality to avoid being beaten up, but in spite of that we've adopted a lifestyle that heterosexuals envy. Pure genius or an own goal?

I believe that there is an explanation for the gay lobby's lack of political progress, in changing both the statute book and the hearts and minds of the public. The responsibility lies with a small group of businessmen who have a major financial interest in keeping lesbian and gay people on the fringes of society - where they are most profitable. Welcome to the real gay mafia.

Gay business, or the "pink pound" as it has crudely become known, is big business. Richard Branson owns Britain's largest gay nightclub, and hundreds of other investors are opening gay shops, restaurants and bars in the knowledge that fortunes have already been made by tapping into the gay market.

Many people believe these companies provide powerful examples of how integrated society has become; how successful and accepted gay people are in Tony Blair's Britain. Not so. Homosexuals need so many exclusively gay businesses precisely because they are not an accepted part of mainstream society. Gay people voluntarily opt out of society in order to escape from homophobic abuse. By using gay taxi firms, gay doctors and even gay funeral directors (look under F in the Gay to Z business directory: there are a dozen in London alone), gays are able to live a life relatively free from prejudice.

A significant number of businessmen are trying to stall the progress of gay rights campaigners for as long as possible. A handful of companies are using their financial muscle to penetrate campaigning groups and subtly ensure that all their resources are focused on legal reforms so that social prejudice is left unchallenged. With prejudice left intact, segregation continues and gay businesses thrive and make money.

Stonewall, the leading gay rights organisation, has an annual budget approaching £1 million, much of which is raised through the business community. Sponsorship, advertising and corporate fund-raising deals bring in enough revenue to fund a slick campaign, a spacious suite of offices in central London and a regular stream of champagne receptions and events.

In return for their generosity, major donors are often rewarded with a place on Stonewall's board of directors and, because the organisation has supporters rather than members, these positions are the only official way to influence Stonewall policy. A quick glance through the organisation's literature will show that yesterday's sponsors are today's decision-makers; and most of those involved have financial interests in lucrative gay businesses.

By giving financial donors the only voice in setting the agenda, gay rights organisations have left themselves open to a serious charge of having a conflict of interests. Can it really just be coincidence that most groups are fighting exclusively for legal reforms and ignoring calls to tackle social prejudice, while accepting money from a business community that thrives because of social inequality?

In a survey by YouthSpeak, the gay rights youth group which I chaired for a while, it was found that 84 per cent of young people valued social changes over legal reforms, and that over 70 per cent thought that most gay rights organisations put too much emphasis on trying to change laws. This reflected a growing trend in the gay community which recently provoked the formation of several new organisations to focus on social campaigns. Existing organisations have famously clashed with these new groups, and maintain that their own, unsuccessful, attempts to lobby parliament have been the single greatest contribution to the gay rights cause to date.

One Stonewall volunteer, who has asked not to be named, said: "You have to bear in mind that gay businesses only exist because of the niche market which is created by gay people being a socially excluded group. If we managed to get ourselves accepted, the gay pubs and shops would probably fold, and Stonewall would lose a large proportion of its funding."

The Pink Paper, the leading free gay newspaper, is funded entirely by advertising. One former editor, Andrew Saxton, remembers a series of occasions when advertisers' interests were items for discussion at editorial meetings. "Although our news coverage was never substantially censored, I think there's a fine line between censorship and honest journalism, and I had to fight hard to keep us on the right side of that line."

This will not surprise those whose actions provide the gay press with regular stories. Duncan Hothersall is a pivotal figure in Scottish gay politics but has found the gay press to be reluctant to cover events north of the border unless there is a commercial link. "One example was the first Gay Pride march in Scotland which 10,000 people attended," he said. "The Pink Paper only gave it a brief mention, and that focused on the launch of Quentin Crisp's new brand of whisky which was only a small part at the end of the event."

Gay Times is widely acknowledged to have far higher editorial standards than its rivals because the £2.50 cover price enables journalists to remain independent from advertisers. The editor, David Smith, believes that his magazine gives a more balanced view than any of the free gay newspapers, but cynics have pointed out that the publisher, Chris Graham Bell, also chairs the Gay Business Association. While Smith insists there is no conflict of interest here, it is surely no coincidence that the magazine features gushing tributes to gay businesses, while barely finding space for campaigns against homophobia in schools or for regional groups involved in the gay rights movement.

Perhaps it is naive to talk about a gay rights movement at all; a gay rights industry would be a more accurate description. While ordinary gay people yearn for a day when they can live without fear of violence and discrimination, the gay mafia seems to be profiting, in all senses of the word, from continued inequality.

The tragedy of modern gay politics is that those who sit on the gay rights platform are, for whatever reason, allowing their agenda to be dictated by a handful of people who have a vested interest in delaying progress.

While political parties must adapt to win the widest support, the role of pressure groups is to maintain an ideological stance and fight the opposition. This is simply not possible when the oppressed and the oppressors become entangled.

The ultimate irony of the gay struggle is that true victory demands that gays surrender their gay identity, and with it the gay taxis and funeral directors that provide them with temporary shelter from homophobia.

While gay companies insidiously continue to govern the policies of gay rights campaigners and the press, a temporary shelter is all it is possible to achieve.

This article first appeared in the 12 February 1999 issue of the New Statesman, Kick out the image-makers

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An English hero for the ages: Ian Botham at 60

Botham blends his sportsmanship and deep-seated passion for cricket with a lust for life.

Begging W H Auden’s pardon, it is possible both to honour and to value the vertical man, and in the case of Ian Botham, who turned 60 on 24 November, it is our bounden duty. No sportsman has given Britons so much to enjoy in the past half-century and no sportsman is loved more. Two decades after he retired from first-class cricket, his reputation as one of life’s champions remains unassailable.

No mere cricketer is he, either. Botham is a philanthropist, having raised more than £12m for various charities, notably Leukaemia and Lymphoma Research. In December, 30 years after his first walk from John o’Groats to Land’s End, he will set off again, in South Africa, where England are on tour. And he really does walk, too, not amble. As somebody who accompanied him on one of his dozen walks said: “You can’t keep up with him. The man is a phenomenon.”

Of all postwar sportsmen, only Bobby Charlton and, at a pinch, Henry Cooper come close to matching Botham’s enduring popularity. But Charlton, a shy man who was scarred by the Munich plane crash of 1958 (and may never have recovered from its emotional effects), has never comfortably occupied a public stage; and Cooper, being a boxer, had a solitary role. Botham, by contrast, spoke for England. Whenever he picked up his bat, or had a ball in his hand, he left spectators in no doubt.

Others have also spoken for England. Bobby Moore and Martin Johnson, captains respectively of England’s World Cup-winning football and rugby teams, were great players but did not reach out to people as naturally as Botham. Nick Faldo, Lester Piggott, Sebastian Coe and, to bring us up to date, Lewis Hamilton have beaten the best in the world, but they lacked those qualities that Botham displayed so freely. That is not to mark them down. They were, and are, champions. But Botham was born under a different star.

It was John Arlott, the great cricket commentator, who first spotted his uniqueness. Covering a match at Taunton in 1974, he asked the young colt to carry his bags up the rickety staircase to the press box, where Arlott, wearing his oenophile’s hat, pulled out a bottle of red wine and invited Botham to drink. Forty years later Botham is a discriminating wine drinker – and maker. Along with his friend and fellow England great Bob Willis, and their Australian wine­making pal Geoff Merrill, he has put his name to a notable Shiraz, “BMW”.

Arlott, with his nose for talent and good company, saw something in the young Botham that Brian Close, his captain at Somerset, was beginning to bring out. Later, Mike Brearley, as England captain, drew out something even more remarkable. As Rodgers and Hammerstein wrote, you’ve got to be carefully taught. And Botham, a fine team man as well as a supreme individual performer, has never withheld praise from those who enabled him to find his voice.

If sport reveals character, then cricket is the game that reveals it most clearly. In no other sport is the individual performance rooted so firmly in a team context. Every over brings a contest of skill and intelligence between batsman and bowler but only a team can win the match. “A cricketer,” as Arlott said, “is showing you something of himself all the time.”

Cricket also reveals national character more than any other sport. Football may be the most popular game in the world but cricket, and cricketers, tell us far more about England and Englishness. It is instructive, in this regard, to hear what Philippe Auclair, a French journalist and author long resident in London, has to say about Botham: “He is essentially an 18th-century Englishman.” In one! It’s not difficult to sense a kinship with Tom Jones, Fielding’s embodiment of 18th-century life, who began his journey, as readers may recall, in Somerset.

A country boy who played for Worcestershire after leaving Somerset, and who lives by choice in North Yorkshire, Botham is an old-fashioned Englishman. Although nobody has yet found him listening to the parson’s sermon, he is conservative with a small and upper-case C, a robust monarchist, handy with rod and gun, and happiest with a beaker in front of him. He represents (though he would never claim to be a representative) all those people who understand instinctively what England means, not in a narrow way, but through something that is in the blood.

Above all, he will be remembered for ever as the hero of 1981. Even now it takes some believing that Botham bowled and batted with such striking success that the Australians, who were one up after two Tests, were crushed. Some of us who were actually at Headingley for the famous third Test – thousands who claim to have been there were not – recall the odds of 500-1 on an England victory going up on the electronic scoreboard that Saturday evening.

Botham made 149 not out as England, following on, beat the Aussies by 18 runs. For three hours the country seemed to stop. In the next Test, at Edgbaston, Botham took five wickets for one run as Australia fell under his spell. Then, at Old Trafford, on a dank Saturday afternoon, he played the most memorable innings of his life and one of the greatest innings ever played by an Englishman: 118 magnificent, joyful runs. Joy: that’s the word. Botham brought joy into people’s lives.

Yet it was the final Test at the Oval, which ended in a draw, that brought from him a performance no less remarkable than those from before. He bowled 89 overs in that match, flat out, continuing to run in when others withdrew with injury. That was the team man coming to the fore. Little wonder his comrades thought the world of him.

Modest, loyal, respectful to opponents, grateful to all who have lent him a hand, and supported throughout a turbulent life by Kath, his rock of a wife, and their three children, this is a cricketing hero to rank with W G Grace, Jack Hobbs, Wally Hammond and Fred Trueman. A feature in the lives of all who saw him, and a very English hero. 

This article first appeared in the 26 November 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Terror vs the State