Seven years ago, I sat with a dear friend of mine in a coffee bar one Saturday morning and we read the Irish Times. The night before, Ireland had elected Mary Robinson. It was an Irish revolution.
As we waded through the wonderful and previously inconceivable results, sharing snippets ( The Aran Islands voted for her! ) and considering the joyous implications of Ireland s choice, we had to pinch ourselves to make sure we weren t dreaming that Contraceptive Mary now symbolised Ireland. As gay men, something important had shifted in our consciousness; we had a Friend in High Places, at a time, remember, when we were still criminals, subject to life imprisonment for the crime of loving.
We knew she would be good; but no-one could have foretold how good. She has chipped away at that most life-defeating monolith, cynicism, and struck a blow for faith, and trust in ourselves. A remarkable feat, and I ll miss her terribly.
The events here in London recently, since the death of Diana, have given me some of the same feelings, seven years later. A revolution has taken place.
Reading the Observer the day after the funeral, there was the same charged the tone in the commentary that was there in the Irish Times that morning in 1990. A flash of insight, a sudden realisation that a nation is capable of so much more than it ever thought possible, that its values are so much more humane, that it is possible for national identity to change, for stereotypes to shatter. That growth is possible on a collective scale, not just individually.
And, as a minor gracenote, there was the same connection to gay people. When David Dimbleby intoned matter-of-factly . . . and here s Elton John and his partner David Furnish as they arrived at the Abbey together, you knew something had shifted, an old resistance had melted.
I remember the flak the Princess received when she cancelled some appointments to be at the bedside of a friend of hers who was dying of AIDS, a few years ago. She stayed with him through the night in hospital until he died; I still remember the shocked tone of the tabloids the next day. They obviously felt that she had taken leave of her senses.
Like so many others, I ve been desperately saddened by Diana s death, and surprised to be so; incredibly moved by the public reaction, fascinated by the sure-footedness of Tony Blair, and the disintegration of the Windsors, and overwhelmed by the floral tributes outside the palaces. I visited Kensington Palace twice, wandering around aimlessly, taking comfort by being surrounded by other sad people. The creativity of the cards, posters, drawings and poems (not to mention the candle-lit grottoes) amounted to nothing less than a monumental organic public work of art; a magnificent tribute to the eloquence and affections of the British.
Most breathtaking of all was Earl Spencer s electrifying (not to mention treasonable) tribute in that exquisitely moving funeral, which reflected the spirit of the age, the desire for change, with an extraordinary passion.
A man called Jack O Sullivan wrote in the London Independent recently about the birth of a new post-Christian religion, whose devotees took to the streets when Diana died. It has a red heart as its icon (the symbol of the cross has been notable for its absence in the public memorials), and its first commandment is to get in touch with your inner self.
He wrote: It is the creed of the confessional society, developed by a priesthood of analysts, therapists, counsellors, agony aunt and psychobabblers . . . We have tended to miss this religious phenomenon because its explicitly individualistic nature, easily pilloried as narcissism, means it has no churches, no great institutions.
I should perhaps declare my interest here in this religion: on the Monday after the funeral, I started training as a therapist. Bless you, my child.
But it is my belief that this religion is as old as the hills, older than Christianity; it is paganism non-hierarchical, individualistic, holistic. Diana was a New Age kinda gal, visiting astrologers and psychics rather than bishops. While the cross symbolised one man s sacrifice for humanity, everyone has a heart. One only had to watch the behaviour of the crowds as the hearse left the Abbey and took her to Northamptonshire.
Astonishingly, the crowds were throwing flowers on to the road before the car, as well as on to the car itself. Surely not since Roman times has there been a ritual of strewing petals in the path of a dignitary; but that didn t stop them doing it. It was instinctive.
This Flower Revolution in Britain is a reaction to over a hundred years of Victorian repression of feeling. But it hasn t been a wave of incoherent weeping and wailing; it has manifested itself in a muscular, vibrant, intelligent and passionate discourse; none more so than Earl Spencer s pledge to his nephews that their souls should sing as their mother planned. What a magnificent mission statement. Sadly, souls don t sing just because someone promises you they will, but it s a good place to start as any.
It is possible to overcome feelings of worthlessness, to find joy when there has been emptiness. That sense of possibility is a legacy of Diana s. I hope that she won t become the next Elvis, for it would distort and pervert what she represented. Let s take that sense of possibility, and apply it to our own lives. n