Return to Oz

A week and a half in London, a week and a half to go, and already I’m looking forward to Oz again. The weather here is as bad as I remember: apart from the odd hour of sunshine on two days, it’s has either been dark and grey and/or raining the whole time I’ve been here.

Of course, that means the colours in the countryside are much more vibrant than I’m now used to: instead of dusty reds, browns, and grey-green, it’s mainly vibrant green grass – the garden’s just had it’s last mow of the year – with trees mostly still deep green, but here and there red and yellow as the leaves turn and fall. Soon it will just be the charcoal sketches of bare branches against a background of green grass, grey sky, and ploughed brown earth.

Back in Eltham I hear it’s hot days and cold nights. There the view from my balcony across the valley is green, but it’s that grey-green of eucalypts, and to English eyes all Oz trees look half-dead, near-leafless, hurried impressionist sketches of trees, arty minimalist trees, compared to the thick foliage of England. Nowadays, however, my eyes are Australian, and the thick lush English countryside seems excessive, almost oppressive, as if the trees were only just held in check by humans, standing ready to take over once more as soon as we are gone. Tolkien’s ents seem much more likely here than in Oz. I guess Australian ents would be like those incredibly thin, bony aborigines, more twig than trunk. Here they’d be hulking Schwarzeneggers. Termin-ent-or?

Good day / Bad day

Mother is having a good day so far today: she’s humming to herself, tackling housework, and can remember her PIN number, so we can get some money from her account. Two days ago she didn’t even know what a PIN was. Today she’s argumentative and pretty near normal. You never know how long this will last, however. Yesterday, by contrast, was a bad day, culminating in an ‘accident’ in the bathroom which today she doesn’t remember, the consequences of which are currently in the washing machine. Still, at least this brief stay gives me some time with her (while she still knows who I am, as my sister puts it), and means my sister doesn’t have to worry for a week or two. And compared to what Sis deals with 24/7/365, it’s a small sacrifice.

More of a theme park than a city

None really, although it might have been nice to catch a show or two. On the other hand, looking through the listings, there are shows still running that I saw before I left the UK almost ten years ago. It used to be The Mousetrap was the only show that ran for ever: now London theatre has morphed into something like a theme park, where most of the rides run for years, and occasionally one is torn down for something new.

A new Lloyd Webber, for example, much the same as the old one, or a new Les Mis / Miss Saigon / Blood Brothers. Once a roller coaster is scrapped, it’s gone for ever, but old shows never die, so every so often there’ll be a ‘new’ Shakespeare, or a revival of a Sondheim, this time probably by an opera company. Most West End productions nowadays, rather than representing the pinnacle of an actor’s career, have become the equivalent of a stint as Prince Charming in Disneyland, or a residency on a cruise ship. On the other hand, the generally high standard demanded and the constant turnover of cast members means England still produces and trains lots of good actors. It just gets very boring for the people who actually live here.

Old fags out

As to schlepping around the gay scene, I have no interest in it whatsoever. It was bad enough when I was thirty-five, being ignored and avoided, and I’ve no reason to enquire how much worse it might be twenty years later, having committed the cardinal gay sins of getting older, fatter, and wearing glasses. I don’t like the music, I don’t dance, I don’t do drugs, I barely drink any more, I never liked drag, I don’t care for group sex, backroom sex, rent sex, or sex in public, the kind of guys I fancy don’t fancy me, and anyway, I’ve got a man back home in Oz. Why on earth would I bother?

New fags in

It’s wonderful to see how much we’ve become part of the mainstream here. While the situation is still far from perfect, it’s light years ahead of Oz. I have yet to open a newspaper that doesn’t have at least one GLBT-related story, and while the coverage isn’t always positive, at least it’s there. Gay couples are a standard feature of soaps, dramas, cop shows, doctor shows, quiz shows, lifestyle shows, property shows and gay issues feature regularly in the nightly local and national news.

Last night I watched a lifestyle show which aims to find an ideal second home / holiday home / rental property for a couple: the twist is that they show them three properties in the UK and three in a European country, such as France, Spain or Italy. So far every couple has plumped for Europe, after discovering that what will buy a two-bed row house in the Lake District will net them a six-bedroom palazzo in Piedmont. Mother sleeps through it every day, so I’ve seen quite a few editions.

Mostly they’ve been comfortably-off suburban couples approaching retirement, and last night was no exception, bar the fact that they were two mid-fifties guys, retiring after running a B&B in Devon. The fact that they were a gay couple was never mentioned, nor ignored, just taken for granted. And the same thing happened – this time with two lesbians – on another show which aims to help couples starting out find a home within their target area and budget. And these are shows on the commercial stations.

Then in the evening news third lead was the Anglican report on gay clergy, while a feature piece covered the gay group in the European Parliament teaming up with the socialist bloc the get rid of that dreadful Papal bedwarmer, Rocco Buttiglione, who thinks homosexuals are sinful, single mothers bad mothers (Really, asked the press? You misunderstood me, he said, actually they’re heroines of our time for refusing abortions), marriage is to give women children and a home and the protection of a male: and this is the man who the Italian Prime Minister (and the Pope) wants to see installed as the European Justice and Human Rights chief.

Later we had a brief item on the progress of the civil partnerships Bill in committee. And please don’t get the idea there was anything abnormal about this level of coverage in either the press or television - it’s normal. OK, the news bulletin above was on the BBC, but all the issues have also been covered on the commercial channels, too.

The situation on the ground isn’t quite as rosy, especially in Northern Ireland, where sectarian bigots on both sides, no longer able to terrorise each other, have taken to terrorising gays and lesbians instead. The fact that the government south of the border, in the Republic of Ireland, is looking at legalising gay marriage, only fuels the fire in the north. And I do mean fires – people’s houses have been set alight, people have been attacked, and the suicide among young gay men in particular is the highest in Europe.

And you wouldn’t want to live in the West Country – Devon and Cornwall – either, with England’s highest reported rate of homophobic violence. Now we know why that couple sold their Devon B&B and plumped for a place in Italy