Doug PollardIt's Only A Game
Back in the 1970s I used to host dinners for student of English as a foreign language, to give them some practice in conversation, and expose them to some British culture.
I thought Richard would be a perfect example. A retired senior army officer in his sixties, slim, straight-backed, always immaculate in regimental blazer with a tasteful cravat and a mane of silver hair, like Jon Pertwee’s Dr Who.
Wealthy, charming, erudite, a good war record - and openly gay.
We assembled at a good restaurant, to be followed by a trip to the theatre – after all, the students were all wealthy, and I wasn’t – a diverse crew, including statuesque Alexandra from Greece, the diffident young German oil-broker Anton, a couple of Norwegian bankers (man and wife) and a charming Japanese boy called Manus.
Conversation over dinner was lively, dominated by Alexandra with her loud voice and dramatic gestures. In gold sandals, long white dress and hair piled high, she looked like she was auditioning for the role of Aphrodite. By contrast, Manus, in his conservative business suit, had to be coaxed into saying anything at all.
Richard was, as expected, superb value. He exerted himself to entertain and engage everyone, deflected Alexandra’s more outrageous statements, encouraged the shy Manus, and I thought the dinner had gone well.
Until he suddenly stood up, announced that he was feeling unwell, made a gracious apology, and left.
The following day I dropped by to see if he was OK.
“I’m fine,” he said, “and I do hope I didn’t ruin the evening.”
Not at all, I replied, and I hoped he was feeling better.
“You weren’t to know, of course,” he said, “but ever since Burma, I can’t stand to be around Japs.”
I was aghast.
“Y’see – I know it’s nothing to do with that poor boy last night, and I do hope he didn’t notice anything – but they made me watch as they crucified a rather special chum of mine, and ever since then I haven’t been able to stomach them.
"They beheaded the Jap boy who’d seduced him.”
Fast forward to the present day. I am now the silver-haired out gay man in his sixties. I may not have faced the prospect of execution, but in my lifetime I have known people like me who’ve been given electric shocks to ‘cure’ them of being homosexual, being given drugs to make them vomit at the sight of a naked man. Because of the guilt self-righteous preachers had inculcated in them.
I’ve seen friends lose their careers. Some have been blackmailed, imprisoned, or committed to mental institutions. Some have killed themselves because they just couldn’t cope with the hatred and disdain surrounding them – some because they were abused by those self-same priests, and then denied justice by their churches.
One of my good friends and business colleagues was murdered, his skull smashed with one of those heavy soda-syphons that used to stand on bars.
All for being gay.
Many friends were lost to AIDS, some treated appallingly by self-righteous medical staff – I remember one cross-wearing nurse at the bedside of a dying friend saying, “Well, what do you want now? We also have the sick to treat, y’know.”
So I’m afraid you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t stand idly by while people like Margaret Court try and stuff me into a closet or a coffin. While my love for my partner of 20 years is called an abominable sexual practice – in a caring, sharing, loving, Dame Edna sort of way.
While perfectly normal kids growing up gay, or lesbian, or trans are told, I can cure you, only to kill themselves when they find they can’t be cured, because they were never sick to begin with.
If you want to know what it’s like on the receiving end of Court’s ‘love’, listen to this Really Long Link
I’m sorry if wearing a little rainbow ribbon, or flying a little rainbow flag, annoys you while you’re watching tennis, but I’m trying to stop people’s lives being ruined.
If I may blaspheme for a moment, at the end of the day, it’s only a game.
And while I don’t support calls for That Arena to be renamed, you’ll forgive me if the sight of this person’s name blazoned over the ‘crown jewel’ of Australian tennis makes me want to throw up.
Ever since I first learned, 20 years ago, what she dreams of doing to people like me, I haven’t been able to stomach her.
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