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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The age of loneliness

Profound changes in technology, work and community are transforming our ultrasocial species into a population of loners.

Our dominant ideology is based on a lie. A series of lies, in fact, but I’ll focus on just one. This is the claim that we are, above all else, self-interested – that we seek to enhance our own wealth and power with little regard for the impact on others.

Some economists use a term to describe this presumed state of being – Homo economicus, or self-maximising man. The concept was formulated, by J S Mill and others, as a thought experiment. Soon it became a modelling tool. Then it became an ideal. Then it evolved into a description of who we really are.

It could not be further from the truth. To study human behaviour is to become aware of how weird we are. Many species will go to great lengths to help and protect their close kin. One or two will show occasional altruism towards unrelated members of their kind. But no species possesses a capacity for general altruism that is anywhere close to our own.

With the possible exception of naked mole-rats, we have the most social minds of all mammals. These minds evolved as an essential means of survival. Slow, weak, armed with rounded teeth and flimsy nails in a world of fangs and claws and horns and tusks, we survived through co-operation, reciprocity and mutual defence, all of which developed to a remarkable degree.

A review paper in the journal Frontiers in Psychology observes that Homo economicus  might be a reasonable description of chimpanzees. “Outsiders . . . would not expect to receive offers of food or solicitude; rather, they would be fiercely attacked . . . food is shared only under harassment; even mothers will not voluntarily offer novel foods to their own infants unless the infants beg for them.” But it is an unreasonable description of human beings.

How many of your friends, colleagues and neighbours behave like chimpanzees? A few, perhaps. If so, are they respected or reviled? Some people do appear to act as if they have no interests but their own – Philip Green and Mike Ashley strike me as possible examples – but their behaviour ­attracts general revulsion. The news is filled with spectacular instances of human viciousness: although psychopaths are rare, their deeds fill the papers. Daily acts of kindness are seldom reported, because they are everywhere.

Every day, I see people helping others with luggage, offering to cede their place in a queue, giving money to the homeless, setting aside time for others, volunteering for causes that offer no material reward. Alongside these quotidian instances are extreme and stunning cases. I think of my Dutch mother-in-law, whose family took in a six-year-old Jewish boy – a stranger – and hid him in their house for two years during the German occupation of the Netherlands. Had he been discovered, they would all have been sent to a concentration camp.

Studies suggest that altruistic tendencies are innate: from the age of 14 months, children try to help each other, attempting to hand over objects another child can’t reach. At the age of two, they start to share valued possessions. By the time they are three, they begin to protest against other people’s violation of moral norms.

Perhaps because we are told by the media, think tanks and politicians that competition and self-interest are the defining norms of human life, we disastrously mischaracterise the way in which other people behave. A survey commissioned by the Common Cause Foundation reported that 78 per cent of respondents believe others to be more selfish than they really are.

I do not wish to suggest that this mythology of selfishness is the sole or even principal cause of the epidemic of loneliness now sweeping the world. But it is likely to contribute to the plague by breeding suspicion and a sense of threat. It also appears to provide a doctrine of justification for those afflicted by isolation, a doctrine that sees individualism as a higher state of existence than community. Perhaps it is hardly surprising that Britain, the European nation in which neoliberalism is most advanced, is, according to government figures, the loneliness capital of Europe.

There are several possible reasons for the atomisation now suffered by the supremely social mammal. Work, which used to bring us together, now disperses us: many people have neither fixed workplaces nor regular colleagues and regular hours. Our leisure time has undergone a similar transformation: cinema replaced by television, sport by computer games, time with friends by time on Facebook.

Social media seems to cut both ways: it brings us together and sets us apart. It helps us to stay in touch, but also cultivates a tendency that surely enhances other people’s sense of isolation: a determination to persuade your followers that you’re having a great time. FOMO – fear of missing out – seems, at least in my mind, to be closely ­associated with loneliness.

Children’s lives in particular have been transformed: since the 1970s, their unaccompanied home range (in other words, the area they roam without adult supervision) has declined in Britain by almost 90 per cent. Not only does this remove them from contact with the natural world, but it limits their contact with other children. When kids played out on the street or in the woods, they quickly formed their own tribes, learning the social skills that would see them through life.

An ageing population, family and community breakdown, the decline of institutions such as churches and trade unions, the switch from public transport to private, inequality, an alienating ethic of consumerism, the loss of common purpose: all these are likely to contribute to one of the most dangerous epidemics of our time.

Yes, I do mean dangerous. The stress response triggered by loneliness raises blood pressure and impairs the immune system. Loneliness enhances the risk of depression, paranoia, addiction, cognitive decline, dem­entia, heart disease, stroke, viral infection, accidents and suicide. It is as potent a cause of early death as smoking 15 cigarettes a day, and can be twice as deadly as obesity.

Perhaps because we are in thrall to the ideology that helps to cause the problem, we turn to the market to try to solve it. Over the past few weeks, the discovery of a new American profession, the people-walker (taking human beings for walks), has caused a small sensation in the media. In Japan there is a fully fledged market for friendship: you can hire friends by the hour with whom to chat and eat and watch TV; or, more disturbingly, to pose for pictures that you can post on social media. They are rented as mourners at funerals and guests at weddings. A recent article describes how a fake friend was used to replace a sister with whom the bride had fallen out. What would the bride’s mother make of it? No problem: she had been rented, too. In September we learned that similar customs have been followed in Britain for some time: an early foray into business for the Home Secretary, Amber Rudd, involved offering to lease her posh friends to underpopulated weddings.



My own experience fits the current pattern: the high incidence of loneliness suffered by people between the ages of 18 and 34. I have sometimes been lonely before and after that period, but it was during those years that I was most afflicted. The worst episode struck when I returned to Britain after six years working in West Papua, Brazil and East Africa. In those parts I sometimes felt like a ghost, drifting through societies to which I did not belong. I was often socially isolated, but I seldom felt lonely, perhaps because the issues I was investigating were so absorbing and the work so frightening that I was swept along by adrenalin and a sense of purpose.

When I came home, however, I fell into a mineshaft. My university friends, with their proper jobs, expensive mortgages and settled, prematurely aged lives, had become incomprehensible to me, and the life I had been leading seemed incomprehensible to everyone. Though feeling like a ghost abroad was in some ways liberating – a psychic decluttering that permitted an intense process of discovery – feeling like a ghost at home was terrifying. I existed, people acknowledged me, greeted me cordially, but I just could not connect. Wherever I went, I heard my own voice bouncing back at me.

Eventually I made new friends. But I still feel scarred by that time, and fearful that such desolation may recur, particularly in old age. These days, my loneliest moments come immediately after I’ve given a talk, when I’m surrounded by people congratulating me or asking questions. I often experience a falling sensation: their voices seem to recede above my head. I think it arises from the nature of the contact: because I can’t speak to anyone for more than a few seconds, it feels like social media brought to life.

The word “sullen” evolved from the Old French solain, which means “lonely”. Loneliness is associated with an enhanced perception of social threat, so one of its paradoxical consequences is a tendency to shut yourself off from strangers. When I was lonely, I felt like lashing out at the society from which I perceived myself excluded, as if the problem lay with other people. To read any comment thread is, I feel, to witness this tendency: you find people who are plainly making efforts to connect, but who do so by insulting and abusing, alienating the rest of the thread with their evident misanthropy. Perhaps some people really are rugged individualists. But others – especially online – appear to use that persona as a rationale for involuntary isolation.

Whatever the reasons might be, it is as if a spell had been cast on us, transforming this ultrasocial species into a population of loners. Like a parasite enhancing the conditions for its own survival, loneliness impedes its own cure by breeding shame and shyness. The work of groups such as Age UK, Mind, Positive Ageing and the Campaign to End Loneliness is life-saving.

When I first wrote about this subject, and the article went viral, several publishers urged me to write a book on the theme. Three years sitting at my desk, studying isolation: what’s the second prize? But I found another way of working on the issue, a way that engages me with others, rather than removing me. With the brilliant musician Ewan McLennan, I have written a concept album (I wrote the first draft of the lyrics; he refined them and wrote the music). Our aim is to use it to help break the spell, with performances of both music and the spoken word designed to bring people together –which, we hope, will end with a party at the nearest pub.

By itself, our work can make only a tiny contribution to addressing the epidemic. But I hope that, both by helping people to acknowledge it and by using the power of music to create common sentiment, we can at least begin to identify the barriers that separate us from others, and to remember that we are not the selfish, ruthless beings we are told we are.

“Breaking the Spell of Loneliness” by Ewan McLennan and George Monbiot is out now. For a full list of forthcoming gigs visit:

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood