Turbulent Times

As if the world couldn't be any more mad, the last couple of weeks have topped much of what we've seen over the last few months.

With Coronavirus rates finally on the decline in the UK, there was an opportunity for optimism, until the killing of a man thousands of miles away in America sparked an uprising across much of the western world.

George Floyd was arrested in Minneapolis on 25th May 2020. During the arrest he was restrained by two police officers whilst a third knelt on his neck and a fourth prevented onlookers from intervening. Floyd died from cardiac arrest or asphyxia, depending on which of the two autopsies you read. A number of videos, each showing parts of the incident, have been widely circulated.

This reconstruction by the New York Times shows the sequence of events pieced together from the various clips available:

https://www.nytimes.com/video/us/100000007159353/george-floyd-arrest-death-video.html

The police officers involved were all sacked and charged; one with second degree murder and the other three with aiding and abetting second degree murder. They await trial.

Floyd's death sparked civil unrest in Minneapolis which quickly spread. Protests and riots against police brutality and racism erupted across the United States setting city after city alight. Internationally protests have been seen (and indeed are ongoing) across Europe, in South America, Australia, West Africa, the Middle East and Eastern Asia.

Despite warnings from politicians and other authorities about the danger of a new spike in Coronavirus cases (and subsequent deaths) thousand upon thousands of people decided that the risk was worth it in order to protest against what they saw as institutional racism in all parts of society.

The Black Lives Matter movement has come to the fore and, around the world, leaders and citizens are responding to its calls and protests. Social media is naturally ablaze and on 3rd June a social media blackout was widespread with people posting black squares as a sign of solidarity.

In the States the police implemented curfews and used teargas and rubber bullets as buildings were looted and vehicles set alight. Their president appears to have no sympathy with the reaction and has threatened to use the military to win 'total domination'. 

Here in the UK protests have been largely peaceful with a handful of isolated incidents. Manchester saw thousands of people flock to Piccadilly Gardens on 6th June. Targets have been made of memorials and statues including the Cenotaph on Whitehall, a statue of Churchill in Parliament Square and the highly publicised toppling of the statue of Edward Colston in Bristol.

In response to this there have been subsequent events where people have gathered to guard statues and memorials. It appears a significant number of these people are servicemen or ex-servicemen standing up against what they see as the desecration of war memorials. This has, almost inevitably, attracted a number of far right groups and there have been a number of violent outbursts.

Both sides of the political spectrum are up in arms about the actions of the far wing of the opposing side. 

For what it's worth I feel uneasy about the Black Lives Matters movement. Not because I don't believe that black lives matter, but because I suspect it has been infiltrated and is being influenced by some sinister folk intent on nothing less than the upturn of society as we know it. 

The fact that one of their key demands is to defund the police, and  that the call of 'capitalism is racist' is regularly associated with the movement, bothers me. I can only imagine what the UK would be like if the police were defunded - chaotic and dangerous no doubt - and as a proponent of capitalism I struggle to envisage a country steeped in socialism.

As with many political flash points these days I rarely put my head above the parapet because I've had to endure insults and abuse on a number of occasions over the years for my centrist / ever so slightly right of centre views. It's difficult to say you don't like the Black Lives Matters movement without being accused of racism, and slogans like Silence is Violence coercing people into being involved, essentially say if you don't join us, you're against us and therefore you're racist. 

I don't believe in direct action, it rarely makes a difference; I prefer to see the steady pressure of a changing society and its opinions make their point; I dislike the wringing of hands and self hatred I keep seeing - I saw a Facebook quiz this week where you could work out what percentage of white privilege you had which left me gawping at my phone; and the apologies people are making for things that happened hundred of years ago are baffling to me. 

In the meantime wokeness appears to have reared its condescending head again and its first victims have been old films and TV programmes. Gone With The Wind was temporarily removed by HBO Max, ironically on the birthday of Hattie McDaniel, the first black woman to win an Oscar, for her role in that very film. To be perfectly honest, I'd never heard of HBO Max before that story broke, nor have I ever watched, or indeed read, Gone With The Wind so I'm not in a position to comment on its content. I am broadly aware though that its depictions of black people are hugely different to acceptable norms today, are offensive when seen through the prism of modern standards and morals, and are something that reflect to an extent the times and place it was made - 1939 America. 

Fawlty Towers' 'Don't Mention The War' episode was pulled for review by UKTV, not for the first time by all accounts as a particular racial slur has been edited out of it by many broadcasters for about a decade now.

The lineup of TV programmes either removed, being reviewed, or in the crosshairs also includes Little Britain & Come Fly With Me, Only Fools & Horses, League of Gentlemen, The Mighty Boosch, Bo Selecta, Summer Heights High, Ant & Dec's Saturday Night Takeaway, and Cops.

While this has been happening, or not happening, on our screens almost every town in the UK has been reviewing its collection of statues. Amongst those up for discussion are Robert Baden-Powell, founder of the Scouts movement, who was racist, homophobic and a Nazi sympathiser, and Winston Churchill who despite arguably being the person to have done most against fascism and for individual freedom in Europe, currently sits in a large grey box in Parliament Square which protects his likeness.

Here in Manchester the city council has promised a full review. The list includes Robert Peel, not for his actions which include being Prime Minister twice and forming the very first Metropolitan Police Force, but for his father's petitioning against the abolition of the slave trade; Queen Victoria at Piccadilly Gardens for her role in the British Empire; Cromwell at Wythenshawe Park for his brutal conquest of Ireland; and Gandhi next to Manchester Cathedral, for his anti-black racist beliefs. Even the darling of the left wing working classes in the city, Engels, has been pulled into question.

I think censoring things that don't sit well with contemporary sensibilities is wrong and I think it's potentially a slippery slope. I suspect changing tastes and opinions will prevail anyway - I mean who wants to watch Love Thy Neighbour now anyway? We see it for what it is and disagree with it, so without a market nobody is going to air it.

Let's discuss these things, if we need to, and understand the context both of the story and the time the it was made.

If we start ditching films and TV programmes because companies fear a backlash (which suggests to me that it's a commercial decision and a box ticking exercise) then it has the potential to extend to many areas and become a tool of blackmail from people with a particular viewpoint.

Generations could potentially lose classic literature, buildings, paintings, music, photography, plays, historical artefacts, and all manner of things that are part of an ever evolving culture and history of the world.

There are things that don't sit right with me, for example the Engels statue outside HOME, because I disagree with socialism and communism which he represents, churches which oppressed the poor and persecuted gay folks, TV shows like Are You Being Served or Mrs Brown's Boys for their stereotypical portrayal of gay men, but there's no way I would see these things removed for those reasons. They're part of the tapestry of a society.

I recently read a Tweet which read: You will NEVER be woke enough. Ever. You can surrender inch by inch until you don't recognise yourself in the mirror but in the end they will demand you accept something you can't stomach and when you refuse they WILL come for you. 

Finally, I think it's rash to make comparisons between the UK and America when it comes to police brutality and racism. Whilst there are similarities in the past, the two countries have taken very different paths over the generations since American independence, and what happens in the USA is not the same as what happens here.

The conventions of our class system, American segregation, the commonwealth & African colonisation by Britain, Red-Lining in the States, gun laws, policing standards, the Windrush generation, and the history of slavery are just some of the factors that make racism in each country different. 

To treat and respond to racism, here and abroad, in the same way, ignoring the nuances of history, culture, society and politics is, in my opinion, foolhardy. The UK should address its own issues in the context of its own elements. Hearing chants of 'Hands up, don't shoot!' at a London BLM rally, while no doubt a show of support, seemed not to fit the bill when the police escorting those protestors were unarmed, as most of our police officers are.

As an observer I'd say that racism, whilst it certainly exists, is nowhere near as bad in the UK as it is across the pond. Of course I'm white, I'm socially liberal as are my circles, and my experience of racism directed towards me is minimal, so I might not be the best person to ask about that.

I can't possibly come to a unifying conclusion in a blog post, besides that would do a disservice to what is an incredibly complicated, ongoing and ancient problem, and to the people who face it.

What I can do is be a responsible individual that lives their life with integrity, calling out where I can, where it's safe to do so, and where it might make a difference, those that I believe are in the wrong, and continue to listen and learn as I grow older, inevitably making changes along the way.

One thing I will not be doing however is wringing my hands and offering meaningless and public displays of virtue, just so others know just how woke I am.

Gucci loafer under the couch.

"Okay honey, so, when you hear your name, walk across the stage, the hostess will talk to you, then get into the shower, pull the handle up and the water will come on," he explained. "Make sure you're good and wet all over then get out of the shower, walk to the middle of the stage and dance your ass off!"

"Em, excuse me," I asked, "I have a couple of questions..."

"Oh my gawd! Your accent is too much!"

"Thank you." I was flattered, naturally.

"Whadda ya wanna know honey?" the young man cocked his head and smiled through me.

"Well it's not so much as a question but I need to check - will he, er she, touch me? They won't try to take my shorts off will they?"

"No honey, don't worry, you'll be great! Now take your clothes off behind that curtain, leave your underwear on, and take a seat over there until you hear your name."

The backstage assistant minced off to brief another contestant as I ducked behind the curtain and started taking my clothes off wondering why the hell I was about to go on stage at a gay drag bar on the American border with Mexico.

*  *  *  *  *

That morning we'd woken in La Jolla, San Diego, at the house of Peter Nedley and his boyfriend Stan. Peter was originally from Wythenshawe in South Manchester and after a stint in the merchant navy had settled in Southern California, married and had a son. After a subsequent stint in which he played the role of straight family man, he and his wife had split and Peter met Stan.

We'd arrived the afternoon before after being introduced, long distance, by Peter's cousin who sold us our flights to The States, back in the UK.

"I love the gays me." she'd said in that matter of fact way of a Mancunian. She didn't take her eyes off the screen while tapping away at the computer. "My cousin's gay you know. Lives with a Chinese lad. You should get in touch when you get to California. He'd love to see you."

Somehow this off the cuff comment resulted in us staying with Peter and Stan for two nights and being shown the sights of San Diego. 

We arrived after a four hour drive from Santa Barbara and knocked on the door of the bungalow. It was 1997 and communication was very different then. We'd not had email contact, we didn't even speak to them on the phone ahead of our arrival. It was all arranged through the cousin and we just rocked up on the doorstep on an agreed afternoon in May.

"Hello. I'm Chris." said Chris.

"You made it!" Peter face lit up and he flung his arms around his guest.

Chris struggled his way out of the bear hug. "And this is Richard." 

"Um, hello?" I was a shy 21 year old and unaccustomed to American hospitality.

Peter gripped me and pulled me into his chest before introducing his partner with an open palm and a flourish of his hand.

"This is Stan!" he enthused in his California slash Manchester accent.

Stan looked us up and down, we were dishevelled and sweaty from being in the car. He pouted, raised his eyebrows and said, "We kick our shoes off when we come into the house," before turning on his heel and disappearing inside.

Whilst it can be said that Stan's welcome was slightly cooler than Peter's, he soon warmed up and within no time was talking me through a new painting that had caught my eye on the wall of the sitting room. It was by a friend of his, in acrylic, and was called 'I lost a Gucci loafer under the couch'. 

The painting was in the style of a sixties Hockney and wasn't bad for an amateur. It depicted a domestic scene between two aloof men, one was fishing around under a Robin Day-esque sofa for a just-out-of-reach shoe while the other stood in the doorway frowning at his wristwatch.

I admired it, and cooed to Stan, while secretly fancying that one day Chris and I would recreate that scene. I'd be the one who was missing the shoe, naturally.

The house was lovely, in that effortless Californian style. Single storey decorated with a mix of original art, orchids and flea market finds. Above the table in the open plan kitchen-diner hung a wooden candelabra made up of four angels with terracotta skirts and ochre wings, each holding two candles, one in each hand. 

The indigo table was distressed before distressed was even a thing, and despite having two foreign strangers about to arrive neither Peter nor Stan had seen fit to clear the rubbish off it or indeed tidy the house at all. It was immediately relaxing.

"You'll be staying in my son's room." Peter said, "it's just down the hall."

"Perfect, do you mind if we drop our bags in there now?"

"Sure, just leave them wherever, and mind the toys. You'll be in the double at the bottom and he'll sleep in the top bunk."

We dragged our enormous suitcases to the bedroom, closed the door to and I turned to Chris. 

"Did he say his kid would be sleeping in here with us?"

"I think so." 

"His four year old child? With two strangers? I could be a paedophile for all he knows!"

"But you're not."

"He doesn't know that!" I protested, "You'll have to tell him." I was less confident about speaking my mind back then.

Chris waited for an opportune moment to tell Peter that we didn't feel entirely comfortable sleeping with his toddler, to which he replied, "No problem, he can sleep in between me and Stan." 

With the sleeping arrangements agreed we settled in for an evening at home and a barbecue in the back yard. Stan had been to the farmers' market and picked up a butternut squash and some aubergines which would be perfect for me before the other three tucked into steaks the size of my head.

We woke late the following morning, enjoyed brunch - a novelty for two Brits used to three square meals a day - and sat around sipping artisan coffee and discussing what we'd like to do with our day.

"We know this really cool beach." suggested Peter.

"I love the beach!" I piped up.

"Yeah," drawled Stan in his soft, Californian tones, "Black's Beach is beautiful. We could go there."

"Great, sounds marvellous." 

Little did I know what I'd agreed to.

"It's a gay beach." said Stan.

"Okay..."

"And there's a nude section."

"I see."

"More coffee?" Peter topped me up as I side-eyed Chris and twisted my mouth.

Whilst getting ready for the beach, surrounded by stuffed toys and wooden toys, I turned to Chris and quietly but urgently said, "I'm not going on a nudist beach!"

"You don't have to take your clothes off." Chris was nonchalant.

"I don't care! I have no intention of taking my clothes off in public and I certainly don't want to see that man's ginger pubes!"

"Don't be silly." Chris already knew he was fighting a losing battle.

"It's our first anniversary in a couple of days. It's completely inappropriate. I'm not going."

"Okay, okay. We don't have to."

I stuffed a towel and a bottle of sunscreen in a backpack and headed back out to our hosts.

Later, as we sat in the back of Stan's green, open top four by four, Peter passed the time of day by asking "So what's the gay car of choice in England these days?"

"I don't drive I'm afraid," I replied.

"We don't really have one," said Chris. "I drive a Renault Laguna," he offered.

Stan looked quizzically at Peter and they both shrugged.

"You see this drive?" Peter pointed to a gate as we sped up a hill. "They say it leads to the house where Tom Cruise takes his boys at the weekends."

"Ah." I acknowledged, wondering who on earth these boys were and whether Nicole went with them to the house.

 

We continued the drive to the national park and Black's beach practically in silence until after nearly fifteen minutes Peter had another bash at small talk.

"So what's the gay car of choice in England nowadays?"

"You asked that already." Stan interrupted, shutting him down.

Eventually parked up, and bags retrieved from the back of the Californian gay car of choice, Chris told our hosts that we weren't really comfortable (again) with the nudist beach, especially as it was so close to our anniversary. They seemed to sense that it was me that didn't want to go and began poking fun. I laughed it off while secretly promising myself I'd punish them by breaking something in their home or starting a small fire just before we left.

At the time I assumed they were teasing me for being shy and self conscious but, with the hindsight of over twenty years, I now suspect they were annoyed that they weren't going to get to see a good looking twenty one year old lad naked. 

The irony is that if I'd have once thought I was good looking at that age I might have actually gone to Black's beach and got undressed but, as it happened, I thought I was a dog. I think that's probably what they mean by youth is wasted on the young.

Chris and I stopped before the cliffs began to rise leaving Peter and Stan to walk the two miles or so along the Pacific coast to the gay, nudist beach. We had a lovely afternoon sunbathing and splashing around in the sea before our hosts turned up again. Stan looked tanned and healthy, Peter on the other hand looked for all the world like like a walking beacon, his fair skin still being unused to the southern California sun. As we walked back to Stan's four by four I wondered if Peter had used a higher SPF on his nether regions to avoid singeing and, if so, did Stan help him apply it or did he take matters into his own hands.

That evening our temporary landlords took us to the Kazumi Sushi bar in downtown San Diego before driving us to another venue for after dinner drinks. The late night coffee shop was magical, we took a table outside and I ordered a glass of wine and a slab of chocolate cake with gold leaf running through the sponge and a rich black cherry glaze. We chatted about our day at the beach, our thoughts on San Diego and La Jolla, and our plans for the rest of our holiday as we were due to travel north again for our flights out of San Francisco which left a week later.

Every now and then either Peter or Stan would make another sly dig about Black's beach, but I was chilled now after self lubricating with a few glasses of wine so the gentle drubbing was like water off a duck's back.

As I finished off the last of the gateau, washing it down with a swig of chardonnay, the enchantment of the twinkly lights and soft music that enveloped us was dashed when I saw the biggest cockroach known to human kind make a bolt for it behind the counter, swiftly followed by a tap dancing waiter intent on stopping the creature in its tracks.

"Ready to go?" Peter stood up and led us back to the four by four. Next stop was a nightclub where Chris was thrilled to be asked for ID at the age of thirty three, Stan ruined the experience for him by revealing that everyone had to show ID. The police, it was rumoured, had a habit of coming down hard on gay venues that couldn't prove they'd checked everyone inside was old enough to be there. 

Jaywalking was apparently another tactic the cops would use to torment the gays back then, something I learned half way across the road when Peter clutched his pearls and shrieked "Oh my God Richard! No!" 

Normally a minor misdemeanour officers would hang around near gay bars in the hope they could ticket someone for crossing the road in the wrong place, a strange cat and mouse affair I wasn't used to back home in 90s Manchester - a place where I'd seen a police van drive past a full blown fight taking place in the middle of Princess Street without the officers batting an eyelid.

It was too early to be in the club, and it was practically empty, so once we'd necked a quick gin and tonic, and I'd marvelled at video-mixing, a novelty to my British eyes, we moved on.

We landed at an open air venue, apparently close to the Mexican border, with a stage at one end and the bar and toilets at the other. 

After stuffing my face on sushi, and the huge slice of incredibly rich chocolate cake, I was dying for the toilet and so left the group buying margaritas at the bar, to go for a sneaky poo. I was aghast when I walked into the empty restroom to find two urinals on the wall next to two sit down toilets which, despite being in cubicles with dividing walls, were missing doors leaving the latrines open to the room. I weighed up my options - risk a flash-crap and relieve myself or hold on to it for the rest of the night. I'm British so I had a wee, clenched my cheeks and went back to the bar hoping it would crawl back up inside me.

Eventually seated at a table I learned that tonight, being Friday night, there was a regular competition where the winner would walk away with a hundred dollars. It was the highlight of the week and the reason Peter and Stan had chosen this particular bar. 

Contestants would get up on stage, shower in their underwear, and dance for the crowd. The winner would be the person who received the biggest cheer at the end of the game. 

A round of tequila arrived at the table. I tipped mine into the remains of my cocktail and swilled it down before ordering another jug. I read the leaflet on the table and beckoned Chris over.

"I'm going to do it." I whispered cupping his ear.

"What?"

"The competish'n. I'm going to take part." I slurred

"What? Why?"

"They think I'm a prude becaushe I wouldn't go to that beach."

"Richard..."

"Sho I'm going to do it." The jug of margarita was delivered, I paid the waiter and grimacing through the booze said, "Keep the shange."

"You don't have to, you know." Chris was worried.

"I know. But I'm gonna..." I flared my nostrils and gave him a slightly crazed but defiant look before turning back to the table.

Just then there was a roll of drums, a fanfare of Mexican trumpets and a spotlight illuminated the centre of the stage. A seven foot drag queen occupied the stage, she grabbed a microphone from its stand and addressed the audience.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome! This is your ten minute warning. If anyone wants to try their luck for this week's grand prize of one hundred dollars," the crowd whooped, "then raise your hand now and let one of the waiters know who you are."

My hand shot up and everyone round the table gawped at me.

"You don't have to." pleaded Chris.

"I know." I replied through gritted teeth.

A waiter came over. "Hi sweet, you takin' part tonight?"

"Yesh! Where do I shine?"

"He means sign," explained Chris.

"Come with me," and with that he grabbed my hand and led me to the side of the stage where I was delivered to the back stage assistant.

"Name and age please?"

"Rishard. Richard Douglash." I hiccuped. "I'm twenty one."

"Where are you from?"

"England."

"They're gonna love you honey!"

"Thanksh."

"Before I go through everything, I need to check - will your shorts become transparent when they're wet? Because if they do then I've got some here you can use instead."

The next few minutes whizzed by as I prepared myself. I sobered up instantly and the next thing I knew a voice from the stage announced, "Hey fellas, we've got a real treat for you tonight! A British twink!"

The crowd roared; backstage I regretted not risking the poo.

"Go easy on him you guys! This is Richard, he's twenty one and he's all the way from England!"

I was shoved onto the stage and immediately went into auto drive. The drag queen asked me a few questions before pointing to the glass sided shower to her right. I bit my lip and got in.

As the water drenched me the music started booming. I was soaking. I looked down to check my shorts, thankful they hadn't become see-through. My dignity intact and dripping wet, I headed back to the middle of the stage where I spent what felt like hours, but was probably all of 45 seconds, gyrating and dancing for the baying crowd.

Money maker shaken, I retreated backstage until all the contestants had had their turn. The final humiliation was spent as we all returned to the stage for the final applause, still damp, wearing only our boxer shorts and one by one contestants were voted off based on how loud the crowd cheered and clapped. 

I wish I could say I won but sadly I came second. Returning to the table with my chin held a little higher I was consoled by the subtly impressed Peter and Stan. They told me the guy that came out on top took part every week and had a gang of friends who would help him win. According to my hosts he used the money to pay the rent which made me feel slightly better. At least I could walk away with my pride.