Georgia – Land of Family Values

How brave and admirable it is that Georgians are this week celebrating traditional family values, by hosting the World Congress of Families, whilst in the decadent, faithless, Western world many of the rest of us are marking May 17th as the International Day Against Homophobia and Transphobia.

But after all, as all Georgians know, Georgia is the paradise that God almost kept for himself. The story goes that at the Creation the Georgians were too busy doling out hospitality, and being generally nice to other people (though probably not to members of the LGBT community), and they failed to pay attention to what God was doing with the land he’d created, and got left behind by all the other nations in the land grab. They petitioned the Almighty and so moved was he by Georgia’s commitment to family values, that he ended up giving them the special bit of land that he’d been keeping for Himself.

How appropriate then, that in this utopia same-sex marriage, abortion, gender transformation, gay adoption and so on, should be reviled. Though it must pain true-believers to say so, God must have been inattentive himself when he mistakenly created the LGBT community. Perhaps he was too busy listening to the Georgians’ excuses. But hats off to the Georgian Orthodox Church for resisting science, tolerance, and plain common sense ever since. Georgia is God’s land, and there is no place in it for sin. No gangsters, no drug addicts, no child-molesters, no murderers, no LGBT men or women. Well, no TRUE Georgians who are any of those awful things.

How lovely the world can be!

family values

Actually, Georgia must tread a difficult path. How it would loathe to be lumped together with that other bastion of plain old-fashioned gay-bashing, its arch-adversary, Russia. No, no, Georgia has found the middle way. It has retained the virtues of the prehistoric East whilst rejecting the vices of the secular West. And look how happy they are.

As Chairman Levan Vasasdze puts it in his Welcome Address to this year’s World Congress of Families in Tbilisi, ‘Georgia has to be very careful to walk the fine line between modernization and a spineless behaviour and lethal absorption into the family destructive pseudo-culture that is overwhelming Europe as we speak.’

How sad it is that family values have eluded definition. I well remember how former Tory Prime Minister John Major was derided for his ‘family values’ campaign, especially when he was forced to admit he was cheating on his wife with a Cabinet colleague. And look around you at your family and your friends’ families. I’d bet a Lari or two that they’re all entirely normal, straight, good, Godly, faithful, generous, peaceful and properly bigoted and  intolerant when the good Lord requires it. Where are the neurotics, the gays, the confused? I do not see them in Georgia.

How terribly wrong Philip Larkin was when he wrote:

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
  They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
  And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
  By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
  And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
  It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
  And don’t have any kids yourself

Such ‘spineless’ cynical nonsense. If only Larkin had listened to the Georgian Orthodox Church, he’d have known that none of this is true. Not in Georgia, anyway. All we LGBT folks have to do is to pray more and we’d be normal.

 

All I Want for Christmas

Downton_Abbey_season_1

All I want for Christmas this year is that Edith should marry Bertie in the final episode of Downton Abbey. She’s certainly the more likeable of the two surviving sisters – sensible, independent, brave, intelligent and she’s had more than her fair share of bad luck. The decent man she’d planned to marry a few series earlier, and whose baby she bore, got himself murdered in Germany and she was left alone to conceal her bastard daughter and publish the magazine he left her. She’s ever so much more likeable than her stuck-up bitch sister Mary, who, undeserving by comparison, won her man in the penultimate episode. I suspect he’ll turn out to be a cad, but we shall never know because this really is the final episode.

I’d also love to see a happy ending for Thomas. He’s the bitter, lonely, gay under-butler at Downton, whose destiny is only to scowl, and scheme and be unhappy. In the equations that rule period drama and generate the marvellously predictable plot lines and dialogue of Downton Abbey, homosexuality means unhappiness. Sadly the cast doesn’t, as far as I can tell, offer Thomas many candidates for companionship, but who knows, Carson may yet ditch his overly dour wife and surprise us all. But it would be churlish, surely, of Julian Fellowes not to sprinkle a little magic dust over the only gay at the Abbey, especially at Christmas. I wouldn’t want to think he’s homophobic.

The fact is that Downton Abbey is as real to me as the Gospels, which is to say they’re both a lot of lovely nonsense. Lovely nonsense is what Christmas is all about, a pause from the laws of physics, biology, and dog-eat-dog. For a day or two, reindeers fly, Santa squirms through a billion chimneys and consumes a billion mince pies, and for a moment we believe that a baby can be fashioned out of a single set of chromosomes. The nostalgia we feel for simple make-believe must, I suppose, occasionally be indulged, though I’m hard pressed to understand why we feel such joy in children’s misplaced hope. Even if we want so much to believe that anything is possible, faith in the supernatural is usually a mistake.

My own disillusion came when I was about five. I couldn’t quite see how Santa could get everything done, and at a children’s party in Newport, Shropshire, in the early 1960s I set him a trap. Safely ensconced on Santa’s lap (the laps of elderly gentlemen were safe in those innocent days) I asked Santa what he planned to bring me for Christmas. I’d sent him a letter up the chimney just a day or two earlier and it seemed reasonable that he’d remember what I’d asked for. I half suspected, of course, that he wouldn’t know and his artful ‘Well, just let me think for a moment. I get so many letters from little boys like you.’ didn’t fool me for a moment. When he admitted to being stumped, my faith in Santa, fairies, leprechauns, and talking animals, was immediately, and forever, lost. I became then the knowing, smug cynic I am today.

Just a few years later I realised there isn’t much difference between Santa, God and little Baby Jesus. Religion may promote more complex ethical ideas, I suppose, and I’m not against a ‘religious sense’. I just can’t bear the words and strictures that the unctuous derive from it. These can be absurdly complex (the sheer technical detail of Roman Catholic dogma, for example, is astonishing, indeed impressive) but it’s still the wrong answer even if to a deeper need. Santa and God, they’re on the same spectrum in my opinion.

But I’m not against Christmas. Make believe, as long as we know what it is, reminds us that the world can be a wonderful place where dreams, both the selfish and the unselfish ones, come true. But I won’t be kneeling in a drafty church for my dose of hope this year, but will watch the last episode of Downton Abbey instead in the warmth and comfort of my mother’s home, with a mince pie and a glass of wine. I can’t wait for the final Christmas Special. I hope Edith gets her man. And Thomas his.

Have a Happy Christmas, all you of great, little and no faith at all. Be good, but don’t be credulous.