sebastiansandys

Reparations Rebellion

2020-08-02T09:13:00.001+01:00

I have just got on the tube at Brixton to head back to Old Street in North London.

What happened today in Brixton was quite extraordinary and it will take us many weeks and months to process and to see the effects.

I think my favourite moment was ChantalIe (?) couldn’t quite hear her name because of the music (in the yellow dress in the picture, middle right) not only giving a very moving and proper vote of thanks to XR for the support we have given today and then segueing, with only a brief dramatic pause for breath, into berating her own community for not getting out of bed on time.

“These people were here at 7 o’clock and were ready to block nine roads for you”,

she said,

“and you didn’t turn up until the afternoon”.

“Next year” she said,

“you will all be here at seven.”

The scenes we saw today were unthinkable even a year ago. Everybody was behaving better. And they were behaving better because Extinction Rebellion has modelled a different way.

The white owning class rebels, the black working class rebels, the police, the public, everybody. Everybody behaved better than was even imaginable a year ago. It was a joy to be a part of and it’s consequences will be far reaching. It was one of those days after which nothing is ever quite the same again.

It will, as I’ve said take weeks and months, and years to fully comprehend what happened today. And I hope that XR will take some of that time to ask ourselves whether, in the light of today, it really is necessary to risk losing everything (as they have in the States) by adopting a divisive and now possibly, before we have even adopted it, an outdated “Fourth Demand”.

At the very least nothing definitive or irreversible must be done before September

Today was a seismic shift and it would be a great disservice and betrayal of the people out on Brixton Hill today to ignore their contribution to our debate and press on with our business as usual regardless.

Let us pause the discussions. Focus our energy on September and then, as of course we must, take stock and see post Rebellion that if the XR that exists in late September, really is the XR of six months ago that so badly needed what the fourth demand is designed to deliver.

On the evidence of today I would happily place a small wager that says it is not.

Beyond Satire

2020-07-22T19:38:00.000+01:00

As we get ready to pop down to Parliament in a few weeks, I thought it worth reminding myself, and you why when invited I decided that being involved with Roger Hallam's rather reckless new decorating enterprise is incompatible with membership of Extinction Rebellion. This is a post from 15 June.

o, “Beyond Politics” the new political party has launched. It aims to be independent of Extinction Rebellion in...
Posted by Sebastian Sandys on Sunday, 14 June 2020

Airbnb vs Islington Council

2020-07-07T02:03:00.000+01:00

Islington Borough Council this afternoon served a Statutory Enforcement Notice on AirBnB UK.

My understanding is that the notice relates to a property in which there have been repeated breaches of social distancing and other regulations. Despite repeated approaches from the council Airbnb have maintained their mantra of "Nothing to do with us guv" . This has been their standard (and successful) retort when confronted with any of the negative impacts of their business model on city communities. Not for much longer.

On March 30th in the first of his cozy little chats CEO Brian Chesky attempted to explain to a quarter of a million hosts why he had just shafted us. Of the decision to offer guests full refunds without consulting hosts he said:

"Please know this decision was not a business decision, but based on protecting public health...... I believe we did the right thing in prioritizing health and safety."

My 2020 earnings

Aww bless.... There's hoist by your own petard if ever I saw it.

Having endured almost four months of Airbnb's sanctimonious waffle about Frontline Responders, The Superhost Relief Fund, the 25% that was really 12.5% etc I am delighted that Islington looks like the place that is finally going to effectively and comprehensively call them out. Richard Watts, Leader of the Council this afternoon tweeted his fury.

He and other councillors are furious and there is now the political will to say enough is enough. No doubt a sledge hammer will be used to crack the nut but I suspect we will now see the beginning of the end of the ninety day exemption and a move back to Airbnb only listing proprties in which the host is resident.

Once that happens here in Islington there won't be a single candidate in next year's Mayoral elections who will oppose it on a London wide basis. If London lobbies for it then I'm afraid dear readers in the North (and other places) it will happen.

And because of the way Airbnb recommended constructing the legislation in the first place it cannot be repealed here and not in Brighton, Bridlington and Blackpool.

Open Letter to Brian Chesky - CEO Airbnb

2020-04-14T04:46:00.002+01:00

Dear Brian,

I wonder if you remember the times we met in the very early days in London, probably 2008 after I signed up to be one of the first Airbnbhosts in the UK. I remember it well. Mostly for being struck by your honesty, integrity and enthusiasm for this strange new project of which I had immediately grasped the potential. You gave me the confidence to keep faith with Airbnb as it has evolved into the global brand it is today.

That faith is now sorely shaken and looking to you as CEO to rebuild trust and confidence is proving very difficult. Your actions (and ommissions) are making things worse and give the impression that neither you nor the company are going to be able to restore the bond of trust you have broken.

That trust is the vital component in the extraordinary way I have bden able to lead my life over the last twelve years.In the trade union movement, and in The Green Party as an activist, national officer and parliamentary candidate). Most recently, that life has been lived within Extinction Rebellion as we have changed the global discourse, and sought to disrupt national and international 'business as usual' as we continue to hurtle towards the peak of the climate catastrophe and ecological disaster that frankly, unless averted, will make Covid -19 appear to have been a walk in the park.

I had begun writing to you at the time you spoke to us on April 3^rd. Despite the incalculable harm you have overseen perpetrated on us, Airbnb’s, hosts I was much encouraged by your promises. It is desperately sad and of very great consequence that you have not kept your word.

At a time of desperate financial hardship, the early April has now passed and there is still no word on when the 12.5% of cancelled online booking value will be paid. While I an unaware of any effort by Airbnb to contact my previous guests my own attempts to contact cancelled guests has been prevented by Airbnb. Even guests who have offered me support have had their attempts to get in touch thwarted by the company. The company continue to believe that the value to them of keeping guests and hosts separate and unable to communicate is two high to relinquish.

Unable to pay rent in March, it looks as though April and May will be the same. No sooner do I pass on to my landlord promises and information given to me by you and Airbnb then deadlines pass and trust is further eroded.

I was unable to join your second call on Thursday and have now spent five days looking at a screen promising a video “shortly”.

And so, if you are unable to meet the commitments you have made voluntarily, and without urgent and immediate financial support then it looks as though my twelve year journey with AirBnb will be over. With will go my home and my income and at 57 with three years to go before any provision for my retirement becomes available, that is not a prospect I welcome.

I hope you are staying well.

Best,

Sebastian

Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life

2020-03-31T02:22:00.004+01:00

Well, the bright side of life has revealed itself in two different 180^ degree U turns (or clarifications, or developments) today. Neither of them in any way a panacea but both welcome in their own way. First, I understand that the prime minister has undertaken after pressure from colleagues and "the media" to send every household an A4 sheet of toilet paper. Bravo Sir. Your finest contribution so far. I have so far been unaffected by this aspect of the developing crisis, and if I'm honest had rather thought it to be an invention. After all, the best way to cheer up the British is to point a finger at how poorly some of our former colonies, Australia, the United States (not Canada) seem to manage without us at the helm. What content editor could resist footage of overweight Trump voters engaged in fisticuffs over 4ply before returning home to meet an early death from lack of health insurance.. The President of the United States For The Time Being must surely be the first to reduce his vote share by bringing about the early death of his core support. It surely wasn't happening here? However, the other night in a Zoom meeting an otherwise sensible comrade (who I previously imagined lived a well ordered life) was on his 'phone in the streets after dark hunting down loo paper. He was passing the home of someone else in the meeting and so a couple of rolls were defenestrated to everyone's delight and his relief. Wasn't clear whether it was a failure of household management, a failure of the supply chain or simply poor time management at the root of the crisis - but we all laughed. Not having a shortage in the People's Republic, I shall find an alternative use for the prime minister's gift when it arrives.(Suggestions in the comments welcome) In the second volte face, Brian Chesky, one of the founders of Airbnb summoned us all (Airbnb hosts) to our screens at 11pm this evening for "a chat". I've always liked him. And trusted him. In the early days he would come and visit. He couldn't I think quite understand how this bonkers english bloke, living in a leaking unheated hovel with mice (The Watch House) in Bethnal Green had so embraced his very Californian platform and with such success. I didn't take to the others and their funny little San Francisco ways but I took to him. That the whole AirBnb phenomenon happened in the teeth of his Grandma's opposition, "Don't be silly Brian dear. People will never have strangers to stay in their home" showed a contrarian streak that appealed. Anyway tonight he came good. Not only did he say all the right things, he announced a financial package which by no means compensates, but will mean poverty instead of penury and that is a great improvement on how things looked this morning. As well as a substantial sum in a 'hardship fund",there are measures to ensure the sudden losses will be more equitably shared going forward and retrospectively. And in a touch that really does speak to the Airbnb I embraced eleven years ago, all guests who have stayed with me in that time will be contacted. They will be given the opportunity to get in touch and offer a bob or two if it would help. Sweet in it's way, but I'm about to find out whether my adventures think of me as fondly as I do of them and I'm not sure I want to know. But, hey ho, needs must.

How to Beat Coronavirus Capitalism

2020-03-29T23:14:00.001+01:00

I've joined a couple of online sessions with Naomi Klein this week. Safe to say she's a woman who has a clear sense that she is no longer a voice crying in the wilderness. I'd not come across Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor before. She too is tremendously impressive here. I do recommend this broadcast. In Islington we've had two great online discussions this week.. The first after "Shock Doctrine" was our first 'Zoom Movie Night' and the second after watching this when we were joined by the magnificent Ruthie Shallcross. (Lovely to see you xx). Perhaps the only certainty at the moment is that nothing will ever be the same again. Whatever world emerges from the period of physical distancing we are experiencing, we will all, individually and collectively have been changed and that change will bring almost limitless possibilities.

From the transformed relationships we will have with the neighbours we have come to know and discover through to profound changes in the the geopolitical discourse and relationships that shape the entire world.. Whilst the public faces of the forces of conservatism and reaction haven't so far covered themselves in glory we can take no comfort from that. The second rate numpties in the White House, in Downing Street are the window dressing. The people who put them there have been, as Milton Friedman told them to forty years ago been waiting for this moment, have been waiting and are ready.

As has already happened in China, on Thursday the US Environmental Protection Agency announced on Thursday they would no longer be policing or enforcing legislation regulating extraction, safety in the workplace, pollution, employment or the live of indigenous communities. The limited rights in these areas that have been so hard fought for look set to be discarded in the pursuit of private weath.

Those who would wish it so, are skilled. They are smart and they are savvy. They are highly organised and disciplined. But so can we be. We must be or we fail.

Watch and listen to folk like Naomi Klein, like Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor . Sure, watch them from the sofa or in bed at the moment but get three or four people together afterwards. Online, or on the 'phone, In corresponce or by email. Doesn't matter. What does matter is that we collectively start to imagine. Start to imagine the world as it will become in the ".afterwards". Those concerned with amassing private wealth and the power it buys are doing just that. Right now. Tonight. They have money, and they have guns. They have the apparatus of the state and largely compliant legislatures. And they have the fear and exhaustion of the people. It's an impressive armoury.

What we must not do is add to it. The most valuable tool of all, which they will be banking on, is the failure of our imagination.

Let's not give them that. So start swimming or we'll all sink like stones.

https://open.spotify.com/track/52vA3CYKZqZVdQnzRrdZt6

Forgetting to go to a funeral

2018-01-30T01:13:00.000+00:00

Bill's funeral was today. And I forgot to go.

Bill was one of the pioneers of a decent, human response to HIV. In times, that today's readers could not, and indeed perhaps should not, comprehend Bill's response of simply being alongside stigmatised sickness was a beacon.

His impact on my own personal life is immeasurable. He founded Streetwise. My time as the first outreach volunteer, hanging out at midnight in Dunkin' Donuts at Piccadilly Circus speaking with young rent boys, encouraging condoms (and showers) has informed more of my character and being than I have words to describe.

Like me, Bill joined the Franciscans. We talked a bit about it some decades ago. We both knew why we joined. And we both knew why we left. That's 'God' for you. Let the reader understand.

Bill and his mind parted company some years ago. Since then his friend Verena has faithfully updated us with quarterly emails. When I got the latest to say Bill had died I put today, midday, Bill's Funeral in my diary.

Yesterday, I saw a message on Facebook. It alerted me to the fact that the Chief Planning Officer of the Corporation of London was up to no good. I'll not bore you with details, though if you want to know how corruption works in EC1 in 2018 do ask.

As I sat in the Livery Hall of the Guildhall, listening to deliberations of the Transportation and Planning Committee of the Corporation of London I glanced at my diary.

"Fuck. I shouldn't be here" was my first thought. "Oh, yes I should" was my second.

The Chief Planning Officer's wicked recommendation was voted down 11-12.

Bless you Bill, and thank you. For everything.

Remembering and Resolving

2018-01-04T23:29:00.000+00:00

As I write this in Bouillon Chartier some thirty odd years after I first ate here, I am brought to mind of how that first dinner came to be.

I was twenty.

I’d met Michael on my first visit to Heaven in Charing Cross a couple of years before. It was Toga Night. Michael was beautiful. About ten years older than me, strikingly handsome, german, and very, very smart.

We saw each other on and off, mostly off, for a couple of years. An eternity when you are eighteen. I loved him, and he was fond of me.

Michael had a place in Paris and he’d said I could stay there. I booked my ticket, (a train to Dover and ferry to Calais in those days), and planned my stay. He’d told me about Chartier, and I couldn’t wait.

The day I was leaving I went round to collect the key to his Paris place. It was weird but he didn’t seem at home and didn’t answer the door. I put it down to forgetfulness, and once in Paris found a room in a hostel near the Opèra instead.

I remember well that first night. Eating at Chartier, exploring the Marais, and the sauna. Discovering a friendly, respectful and joyful gay nightlife that in London had eluded me.

When I got back home I called Michael. No mobiles or emails in those days. Just a landline, or 1st and 2nd class post. Unable to reach him at home I called his office. His secretary answered. We’d spoken before, she knew who I was and was shocked that I had called.

Michael was dead. She was surprised I didn’t know.

Three days before I’d left for Paris the mother of one of Michael’s lovers (who was nineteen) had reported him to the police. He’d killed himself the night before I left.

When I knocked on the door to collect the key, he wasn’t out, he hadn’t forgotten. He was lying dead, perhaps twenty feet from where I stood.

Remembrance of Things Past says Proust, in whose footsteps I have been walking. Yes indeed rememberance, but not just that.

I’ve never had much time (literally or metaphorically) for the modern fashions of analysis and therapy, but if I found some I expect it would confirm that it is the burning sense of injustice at the circumstances of Michael’s death that has determined how I've spent much of my time since.

Tonight I am grateful to Paris, to Chartier, to Proust and to red wine, for helping me to remember, and to resolve.

A Boxing Day walk

2017-12-26T18:27:00.000+00:00

I have had many lovely Boxing Day walks in my time and today’s was no exception.

Perhaps not as pretty as the frozen water meadow at Wadenhoe or as wild as the river at Glenluce (two of the more memorable), but revelatory nevertheless.

On Wednesday last week I was selected as a candidate to contest Bunhill ward in May’s local election. I know the area well but I have never set off to walk the boundary before. And so today, I did.

What an extraordinary corner of the planet it is.

On the grand scale we are home to Moorfields, global player in ophthalmic medicine. We have LSO St Luke’s, familiar to listeners of Radio 3’s Lunchtime Concerts. To the south we have Bunhill Fields, where lie the mortal remains of some of our greatest voices of dissent, William Blake, John Bunyan and Daniel Defoe. And of course, to the west we have The Charterhouse, within whose walls the history of England has been made, on more than one occasion.

But of course, “the grand scale” tells only one story. Walking around a place with new purpose lends it new eyes. Here in the south of Islington where we abutt the City, Shoreditch, Brick Lane and the river, it really does feel as though much of human life is here.

Yes, we are mostly white, and yes we are mostly male. We are mostly in good health and in Islington, only Clerkenwell and Highbury East wards score lower than us in the Index of Multiple Deprivation. Most of us here are “ok”.

But that is by no means the whole story. Yes, we have obscene wealth, and yes we have the obscenity of poverty which is it’s consequence. A ward councillor, in a minority party is not going to be able to do much about that. But as I walked around with new purpose and new eyes I saw shabby, neglected social housing. I saw stupid and dangerous road layouts. Ridiculous, expensive and unnecessary “street furniture” which costs money and takes up space where trees could be.

Whatever the outcome in May, these next few months of campaigning, knocking on doors and talking to people in Bunhill and the wider borough will do me the power of good. Whether it will do anybody else any good..... well, that will be decided by secret ballot in May.

Not here, or in any other "blog", or "tweet", or "post".

2017-12-22T22:26:00.000+00:00

Merry Christmas, everybody,

Whether you enjoy it, or whether you endure it.

Whether you are with the people you love, or whether you are with your family. (Or indeed, with a happy combination of both.)

Whether you are at home, or if you have no home,

whether you are feasting or whether you are fasting.

Whether you have or whether you have not.

My limited understanding of the christian theology of these coming days, is that they contain a message of hope. Not a misplaced or naive optimism, but hope.

That conviction, contained within ourselves, that it doesn't have to be like this.

Our present days are dark.

But "brexit" and "austerity" are only words. And we can choose what they mean.

I look at the fortitude of my brother. If words meant what he was told they meant in August, he would be dead. He is not.

Accept nothing. Challenge everything. And stir yourself to change.

(Doing so of course, does quite wear one out.

And that my dears, is why we have holidays.)

Once again,

Merry Christmas,

Love Seb x

PrEP Sex

2017-06-19T23:02:00.000+01:00

I had my first PrEP sex just before I left Brighton about eighteen months ago.

For the first time in thirty years of sexual encounters no decision or choice about who did (or didn't) put what where was informed by either of our HIV status and whether one of us might be about to harm the other.

It was a glorious and liberating experience. As sex can sometimes be.

The length of time, and money it is taking to get it made available to people who need it is one of the lesser well known scandals of the current crop of scandals.

However, beyond playing a part in getting Green Party policy amended (!) I have done little campaigning on the subject outside my bedroom (and occasionally on Hampstead Heath).

So it was a delight to spend this evening with the sassy, sexy people who are. We were at an Elton John Foundation funded roadshow in east London. I felt I'd gone back to the early days of GMFA. Sitting in a pub, having a cuddle, laughing and joking, informing and challenging, building community and changing the world.

As we left, we were asked to tell two of our friends about PrEP. I've just done that, and if you've read this far then you have to too.

Lib Dem Wittering

2017-06-16T01:07:00.000+01:00

Lib Dems have been wittering all over my timeline today.

Seems they chose the wrong leader. Oh, get over yourselves. You're not the first and you won't be the last.

Glad to read they're thinking about a co-leadership arrangement with Jo Somebody or Other and "Strong and Cable" though. Wonder where they got that idea from?

Don't get me wrong. Some of my best friends are LibDems. I cut my political teeth in the 1974 General Elections telling at Polling Stations for the Liberals. As a party they are attractive and they have fantastic councillors up and down the country doing amazing things.

But, and it's a big but. Until their national election strategists disavow deceit, misinformation and lying to voters as legitimate local campaign tools I'll stay where I am thanks.

Strong and Stable. Election Reflections.

2017-06-13T01:21:00.000+01:00

Here I am. Strong and stable.

It's 1am. I'm in County Clare. Celebrating the lawful marriage of two men.

One of whom is a Roman Catholic priest.

It's all a bit weird and very, very lovely. And indeed, drink had been taken.

This was in March.

Life was going swimmingly.

I was employed and everything.

And then this happened

Bloody woman.

And then this happened

Wonderful woman

And then this happened

Somebody tell me this.

What the fuck does "strong and stable" mean ?

Marina Piccinini

2017-02-12T01:10:00.002+00:00

This virtuoso is amazing.

The UK premiere this evening of Aaron Jay Kernis' Flute Concerto (2015) at the Royal Festival Hall blew my mind.

I'd spent the afternoon knocking on doors and troubling Highbury residents with some facts about air pollution.

Appropriate really.

The programme notes tell us that,

"the movements are united... by their tendency to spiral out of control from calm beginnings".

BTW. She played it wearing a fabulous gold, shimmering frock.

LGBT History

2017-02-01T23:00:00.000+00:00

The last time I met Stik was in the bookshop. He remembered my story about refusing to sell a nineteenth century flower book to a woman I believed would cut it up to make collages.

We met again tonight at the Hackney Museum to mark the beginning of LGBT History Month.

It was lovely. Met some cool, energetic and exciting young people.

(I was especially delighted by the one wearing real fur. In Hackney.)

They want something from me for the museum. A wimple perhaps. Or a charge sheet. Or some heels. I don't know.

Anyway, I'm still not reconciled to the perception of me and mine as History, but I'm happy tonight to bask.

After all, tomorrow we all have to get up and make some more.

Forbidden love in Ireland

2017-01-30T00:19:00.000+00:00

In the last days of August 1961 I was conceived in forbidden love. In Ireland.

Patience Cooke was 21, "An intelligent and vivacious young woman who is fond of music, reading and all outdoor activities" has returned to Newtownforbes, Co. Longford to nurse her grandmother through serious illness. She had left for London "as soon as she was old enough" several years earlier and joined the Queen Alexandria Nursing Corps. and spent three years abroad. She is "about 5'2" tall with light brown hair with reddish tints" and has "a lovely Irish complexion and blue eyes". And is a Protestant.

Thomas O'Malley is 24. He "left school at the age of eighteen" and is working on his father's farm. He is "tall and well built with blonde hair, a fair complexion and blue eyes". And is a Roman Catholic.

The two had known each other all their lives.

For reasons that are perfectly clear to me, during that summer "they went about together".

Patience's grandmother recovered and in the autumn she returned to London to resume nursing, unaware that another journey had begun.

She was safely delivered of me on the last day of May in the following year.

Circumstances, and there were many,
heart-wrenchingly many, left me at the Coram Foundation from where I was adopted by Mum and Dad on 11 December 1962. Deo Gracias.

In the last days of January 2017 I returned to Ireland for the first time to celebrate another forbidden love.

We celebrated the marriage of Billy M Desmond Esq and Dr J. Bernard Lynch.

Billy is a Gentleman and Bernard is a priest.

Just pause for a moment. Say nothing.

Wonder though, as I do, how different things are for Gentlemen, Protestants and Priests, (and even Roman Catholics), since that happy day in 1961.

Every thing in quotes, is documented by the Coram Foundation. To whom, my heartfelt thanks.

On returning from Istanbul

2017-01-24T19:05:00.000+00:00

Recep Tayyip Erdogan is not "my" problem. In much the same way, Donald J Trump is not "my" problem. Marine Le Pen is not "my" problem and since Saturday Yahya Jammeh is certainly not "my" problem. Even Vladimir Putin is not "my problem".

(Theresa May is my problem of course, but she's doing far more than I ever could to ensure her place as a footnote in history and I'm inclined to leave her to it. As long as I'm an active trade unionist, member of an opposition party, registered voter and occasional blogger then I'm confident the old "hoisting and petard" maxim will come into play.)

As a human being of the white, male, European, housed and well fed kind I am personally well protected against the sort of nonsense deluded, quasi-religious, narcissistic demagogues spout and the harm they can do.

Not immune, but well protected.

Erdogan though. Because I have friendships, attachments and obligations in Istanbul he gets to me more than the others.

Returning this afternoon two things from my latest visit stay with me.

First, I learnt, with sadness, that late last year formal prayers were said in Aya Sophia for the first time since 1935.

Before you shout and scream at me, some context.

Built as a Christian site of worship, this astounding building later served as a mosque.

(Those sixteen words sum up several centuries of wars, empires and carryings on which could, and do, fill several libraries across the globe btw.)

In 1935, the building was nationalised and became a museum and if you will, a temple to the secular nature of the Turkish state. And a very fine museum it is too. The Viking graffitti is great.

However, last year "in retaliation", for Pope Francis' acknowledgment of the Armenian Massacre, Muslim prayers were said there for the first time in seventy years.

Yup, that's right. Prayers, as retaliation. Not good.

To be honest, the cat didn't seem bothered but....

The second thing was conversation with liberal, educated, secular friends who are looking for ways out.

People with good jobs, incomes and lives rooted in Istanbul who had never imagined they would leave.

One of them said to me "People in Istanbul are scared to have sex".

(Turkey is one of the few countries in the world where homosexuality has never been proscribed by law btw, and the person who said this is married with a baby. This is not a "gay" thing.)

All of which of course distresses but definitely does not deter me.

If I can help, with the aforementioned protections, (and a British passport) to look after, if not the whole of Constantinople, then at least my friend's guest house for the duration of the present troubles, then I shall.

It's lovely. Please come too. It really is safe. For us.

https://www.airbnb.co.uk/rooms/16205644

Sumptuous Framing

2017-01-14T19:21:00.000+00:00

I've recently been enjoying Elton's photograph collection that he and David have graciously lent to the Tate for a brief moment in time.

I commend them to you all.

Today, on I think my third or fourth visit, I noticed for the first time, the curatorial note displayed as you enter the exhibition,

"All photographs are displayed in the frames they are displayed in at the home of Sir Elton John and David Furnish".

I like a bit of gilt as much as the next man.

But a curatorial apology?

Organise

2017-01-10T18:18:00.002+00:00

A very encouraging afternoon. My appointment as workplace rep for Unite was recently confirmed. In order to introduce myself, and encourage more reps, myself and one of the full time regional officers visited the Mind Head Office in Stratford this afternoon.

We spoke I think, to every member of staff who was at their desk. And we had a fantastic reception from members and non-members alike. I was a little hesitant, uncertain as to whether quite everybody shares my sense of solidarity with comrades in the tube unions but the support was solid.

On a day when mental health is again headline news, when the consequences of "austerity" within the NHS are writ large it is encouraging to see the management and workforce at a major organisation such as Mind clearly understanding and supporting wide spread trade union membership.

Working where we do, where we enjoy better T and C's than many, it is important that we, as members of the largest trade union in the U.K. stand in solidarity, through our membership, with members in workplaces far less conducive to health and well being, as well as supporting and representing our colleagues.

If you're reading this and are not a member of a union, why not?

Swallows and Kafka

2016-12-28T20:01:00.001+00:00

The flat is quiet tonight for the first time in weeks. And all is well at the crib. Moments of silence have punctuated my day, allowing reflection.

Twenty five years ago, for many queer people, Christmas was a time when you left behind the people you loved and went to see your family. I am confident that is a truth for fewer queer people these days.

This year my family came to see me. And it was wonderful.

Three days (the fish rule) of good food, good wine, some silly games, familiarity and affection. And of course, love.

Other guests were here too. Families are very like gin. OK neat, but better diluted.

At the Christmas Day table we played a toasting game. Something I learned in Georgia. Person One toasts whatever comes to mind. Everyone repeats. Person Two repeats the first toast, then adds their own. Everyone repeats. Person Three... well you get the picture.

At our table we toasted (and this list is not exhaustive),

The fall of Capitalism; swallows; Kafka; Javier's grandmother; Brexit; the rise of the Radical Left; the downfall of Jeremy Corbyn; Nancy; William Shakespeare and Emily Pankhurst.

The last toast fell to a ten year old confident young woman who in a clear voice toasted "Feminism".

We all concurred and cheerfully toasted.

Except her mother, who leant over and whispered,

"Sweetheart, next time make it the Destruction of Patriarchy".

I love my family, and I love my friends.

Merry Christmas.

2016-12-20T19:26:00.000+00:00

A man I once called friend has died. And I am sad. Not sad because he has died, that was timely and proper, but because it's fifteen years since we spoke and when the opportunity to renew our friendship arose a year ago I put it on the "to do" list. And now it's on the "too late" list. I hate both those lists with equal loathing.

Several years ago in circumstances I can't quite recall Lionel and Jim came to lunch. The Revd Professor Lesley Houlden ( the eminent New Testament scholar whose many achievements in life do not include my mastering of New Testament Greek) was the other guest. It was Easter Sunday and we ate lamb. I was, as is oft the case in reduced circumstances and we ate the lamb off a table in my bedroom. We ate and drank and laughed, laughed a lot as I recall. I expect theology was discussed but I would have been making the gravy at that point, saving everybody the trouble of smiling sweetly as I ostentatiously expressed ill informed opinion. I was young!

Lionel was a love. He made me smile and feel good about myself. His greatest achievement, in my ostentatiously expressed opinion was his mastery of three minutes on the wireless.

Three minutes on the wireless from time to time can change the world.

Mother's Day

2016-03-06T23:06:00.000+00:00

In the midst of the first wave HIV epidemic we created a home for people living with, battered by and otherwise fucked by that virus.

One of them was Anna. She was married to a Ugandan diplomat but fled that marriage for reasons you may imagine.

She came to live with us in Bethnal Green and filled the house with stinking cheese and a vegetable so noxious my memory has erased its name.

For months she talked about returning to Uganda to claim her daughter and bring her to live with us. We, white gay and lesbian folks, would pat her on the head and say "Yes dear, Of course you will." We thought that would make her feel better.

One day, and I still have no idea how, she caught a plane to Uganda. Three weeks later we received an airmail letter (for those of you reading this in the digital age - airmail letters are light blue, terribly thin and have stamps stuck on them) telling us which plane we should meet at Heathrow.

A desperately sick Anna emerged from the plane clutching a daughter. Anna was admitted to hospital within 24 hours and we were left with the daughter. She was six years old, flooded the bathroom, spoke no English and, shall we say, challenged our household.

We rose to the challenge, got her into school and somehow persuaded the "authorities" that our home was a safe home for a child.

After a while Anna became well enough to leave hospital and come home. In due course the "authorities" found her a flat in south London and she went there to live with her daughter until she died. She died on the day of Derek Jarman's funeral. I got drunk and was arrested outside Parliament later that night and charged with causing a riot after the House of Commons rejected an equal age of consent. (Not a day to forget.)

The picture you see is her daughter, Claudia, holding her daughter. Claudia, 30, is now living a successful and happy life in London bringing up her daughter.

The picture you see represents the thing I have done in my life that I am most proud of.

So far.

Happy Mother's Day.

Epidemics, Owen Jones and LGBT suicide

2016-01-31T21:44:00.000+00:00

Spent Friday in Bristol at the LGBT Suicide Prevention conference organised by my employers.

Not exactly a laugh a minute day. The statistics are truly grim. Nevertheless good things occurred.

I got to touch and talk to the creature illustrated here. I broke all the rules about never meeting heroes but I can report - he doesn't disappoint,

Especially when he agrees with me.

There is truly inspirational work going on out there. Good minds and good hearts are engaged in this work.

One thing that became clear during the day is how many of us who had roles tackling the first wave of the HIV epidemic have pitched up tackling the current epidemic of mental distress.

There is learning to be learned.

Poppers and me

2016-01-24T15:28:00.000+00:00

On April Fool's Day buying poppers will be illegal.

It was clear to me over a decade ago that this would happen. I saw them for sale in the newsagent on Bethnal Green Road where I would go to purchase my copy of The Lady, a pint of semi-skimmed milk, and a Mars bar. The writing was on the wall.

The current bill is a very real consequence of assimilation.

I first encountered the drug in question when I was seventeen. In a flat in Knightsbridge, just behind Harrods. They came in a glass phial which you had to snap open (pop), inhale and... The occasion is memorable not just for the amyl nitrate but because the man I was shagging was from the Eastern Orthodox tradition. He had the Blessed Sacrament reserved in his bedroom. First (and to my best recollection) the only time I have fucked with Jesus in the room.

There are other stories.

The man who contrived for me to shag with a porn star whilst he watched. Overcome with excitement and desire, I spilt a bottle on a carpet that cost more than I have ever earned in a year.

The brief fashion for dipping the end of your cigarette in a bottle before lighting it. (It took few conflagrations for that fashion to die out).

Poppers give me a headache. I don't like how my friends and partners use them. I hate how many gay men use them as an 'excuse' to do things they otherwise believe they couldn't.

I have no idea of the economics of their production but I suspect I wouldn't like them if I did.

However, I will be fucked before I sit quietly and let this ridiculous legislation pass.

It is an attack on my story.

Up with that I will not put.

Carnival of the Gays

2016-01-11T00:33:00.000+00:00

Joyous and enjoyable pilgrimage to the shrine of Abba this evening. In 1974 on the stage of the Brighton Dome they won Eurovision with Waterloo.

No such triviality tonight. We were given Saint Saens' Carnival of the Animals, some Wagner, a dash of Paganini and an arrangement of Albinoni's Adagio that I had certainly never heard before.

My highlights included the soprano's frock. In other circumstances it would have curtained the Brighton Pavilion (at least twice), and the highlights from HMS Pinafore. My companion, (a musicologist) hadn't read the programme and it turns out is allergic to Gilbert and Sullivan. He came over quite unnecessary and at one point didn't know whether to sing along or scream in horror. All of which of course added greatly to my enjoyment.

The only fly in the ointment was that the whole thing was performed by a "gay" symphony orchestra and a "gay" chorus.

I had hoped we'd be past such things by now.