Why we have Labour to thank for gay marriage

It was the dramatic advances in gay rights delivered by the Blair government that made the introduction of equal marriage possible.

As a Conservative backbencher in 2003, David Cameron voted in favour of the retention of Section 28, the law that banned schools from "promoting" homosexuality as a "pretended family relationship". It is a mark of how much has changed since then that he now leads a government that has brought forward a bill for the introduction of equal marriage. 

Much of this change is due to a dramatic shift in social attitudes, particularly among the young, one seen across the western world. But while governments reflect the culture of a country, they also help to shape it and on the day that MPs vote for the first time on the Marriage (Same Sex Couples) Bill, the role of the last Labour government in advancing gay equality deserves to be recalled. 

It was the Blair administration that equalised the age of consent, abolished Section 28 (a measure that Cameron has rightly apologised for supporting), repealed the ban on gays and lesbians serving in the military, gave same-sex couples the right to adopt, outlawed discrimination in the workplace and in the provision of goods and services, and established civil partnerships. It is a record that Ed Miliband has rightly described as "proud". Change may have come under a Conservative government but it would not have been as swift or as deep. 

It is because gays and lesbians have already achieved equality in so many other spheres of life, that the extension of marriage to them now seems entirely natural. Cameron's bill is but the cherry on the wedding cake. 

Had the last Labour government not devoted so much time and effort to promoting gay rights, it is doubtful whether the Conservatives would now be introducing equal marriage. So, while Cameron deserves praise for defying the opposition of so many of his MPs, all who support gay equality owe a debt of thanks to Tony Blair today. 

Tony Blair's government introduced civil partnerships in 2004. Photograph: Getty Images.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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I dined behind the Houses of Parliament in my sexually connected foursome

My wife and I would sometimes dine out with another couple. We did not always check the significance of the date. 

I am self-employed and find that working from home, setting your own schedule, the days generally blur into each other, with weekends holding no significance, and public holidays, when those who are employed in factories, offices or shops get time off, meaning nothing. I am often surprised to go out and find the streets empty of traffic because it is some national day of observance, such as Christmas, that I wasn’t aware of. I find myself puzzled as to why the shops are suddenly full of Easter eggs or pancake batter.

Growing up in a Communist household, we had a distinct dislike for this kind of manufactured marketing opportunity anyway. I remember the time my mother tried to make me feel guilty because I’d done nothing for her on Mother’s Day and I pointed out that it was she who had told me that Mother’s Day was a cynical creation of the greetings card monopolies and the floral industrial complex.

Valentine’s Day is one of those I never see coming. It’s the one day of the year when even the worst restaurants are completely booked out by couples attempting to enjoy a romantic evening. Even those old-fashioned cafés you’ll find still lurking behind railway stations and serving spaghetti with bread and butter will tell you there’s a waiting list if you leave it late to reserve a table.

In the late 1980s my wife and I would sometimes dine out with another couple, he a writer and she a TV producer. One particular place we liked was a restaurant attached to a 1930s block of flats, near the Houses of Parliament, where the endless corridors were lined with blank doors, behind which you sensed awful things happened. The steel dining room dotted with potted palm trees overlooked a swimming pool, and this seemed terribly sophisticated to us even if it meant all your overpriced food had a vague taste of chlorine.

The four of us booked to eat there on 14 February, not realising the significance of the date. We found at every other table there was a single couple, either staring adoringly into each other’s eyes or squabbling.

As we sat down I noticed we were getting strange looks from our fellow diners. Some were sort of knowing, prompting smiles and winks; others seemed more outraged. The staff, too, were either simpering or frosty. After a while we realised what was going on: it was Valentine’s Day! All the other customers had assumed that we were a sexually connected foursome who had decided to celebrate our innovative relationship by having dinner together on this special date.

For the four of us, the smirking attention set up a strange dynamic: after that night it always felt like we were saying something seedy to each other. “Do you want to get together on Sunday?” I’d say to one of them on the phone, and then find myself blushing. “I’ll see if we can fit it in,” they’d reply, and we would both giggle nervously.

Things became increasingly awkward between us, until in the end we stopped seeing them completely. 

This article first appeared in the 25 May 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Why Islamic State targets Britain

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