THE NEW WORLD ORDER

It’s increasingly hard to keep up with the growth in the subdivisions of the homosexual community’s acronym, currently LGBTQI.

I’ll guess L is for lesbian, ‘G’ for gay, ‘T’ for trans, ‘Q’ for queer and I’ll assume the ‘B’ is for bestiality, thus pulling in our sheep farmers, which given current lousy lamb and wool prices, is about the only joy left in their lives.

I don’t say that lightly, mindful of when a famous knight of the realm once bemoaned to me that age had caught up with him and he could no longer catch ewes in their paddocks. But he was adamant about one thing and that was when he had been able, once at it, the ewes plainly enjoyed it. If you doubt this then ask a sheep farmer as they’re all at it all day, there being bugger all else to do outside of the shearing season.

That’s said, there’s huge scope for growth in the acronym after all bestiality alone offers subdivision potential into the sheep fanciers, horse ravishers, pig pursuers and so forth. Don’t dismiss any of these contingencies. For example, a few years ago a Trentham racecourse stable hand appeared in Court charged with having it off with a mare. It transpired he had previous convictions in the South Island for the same offence. Doubtless you’re wondering about the mechanics of this action. Apparently the horse was stabled and the offender stood behind on a ladder.

His lawyer offered the unimaginative defence that his client was lonely. Far better I’d have thought to produce the salient details of the average genital measurements of respectively mares and chaps and argue that notwithstanding his intentions, no meaningful congress was capable, at least from the horse’s point of view which would have been oblivious of anything happening, ergo no crime.

Then there’s queer which includes such extremes as the besuited sharebroker who favours chaps (most of them actually) at one end of the pole, to the shrieking sodomites at the other extreme. Also, there’s the burly rough trade, plus there could be a rugby division for forwards, which incidentally, explains why scrums these days are constantly being re-set. Someone deliberately offends so they can joyfully return back down again, heads in one anothers bums. If you doubt me then as with the sheep farmers, ask them.

Finally, there’s ‘I’ which I’m advised stands for intersex. This is a mystery. Inter with what? Inanimate objects perhaps given how frequently we read of chaps in trouble having to have ‘it’ cut out of vacuum cleaner nozzles and the like. Probably best not to know the details of this peccadillo.

There’s also potentially P for pervert, the variety of options which I won’t detail in this family site.

That said, here’s a tale providing food for thoughts going back to the mid eighties when Fran Wilde’s homosexual reform bill was passed. Labour never mentioned this in their 1984 election manifesto, indeed the only party ever to do so as a policy plank was the New Zealand Party, consistent with its libertarian philosophy.

I suspect an awful lot of folk at the time probably objected to Fran’s bill but were afraid to say so. Not so though some church groups but perhaps the strongest protester was Invercargill National MP Norman Jones whom older readers will not have forgotten.

Norm was one of the post-war era’s great Parliamentary characters, much loved by both sides of the House. That’s because despite his extreme conservatism, like Winston he could laugh at himself, and was never offended by the mockery sometimes poured on him. Indeed he surprised our literati set when towards the end of his parliamentary career he produced a beautifully written autobiography, launched by me actually to a huge Invercargill audience. Prior to my speech he gained my assurance not to mention a long list of things for fear of his wife’s reaction, all of which I reneged on.

When Fran’s bill was going through it coincided with a large party at my home. Norm was present and was outraged to see the very popular then Soviet ambassador and his glamorous wife there, those being the ludicrous cold-war days and Norm being convinced the Russians were coming. He was carrying on about it, waving his walking stick so cartoonist Tom Scott and I decided to take the mickey out of him re Fran’s bill. I’ve never forgotten his reaction.

“I know, I know,” he cried. “It will go through, I’m pissing in the wind. But mark my words, wait a decade and I’m telling you, the buggers will be parading in the streets”.

My how we laughed at this ridiculous notion.

Homosexuality in all of its rich variety has now acquired the status of a higher art form and on current trends, as doubtless Norm would say were he still alive, we’re about a decade away from it being compulsory.

If I’m still hanging about, doubtless I will be exempted on age grounds but not so most readers. Still I suppose it’s in the category of an acquired taste so best to go with the flow for fear of being socially ostracised.

3 Comments

The farmers apparently sing “My sweet embraceable ewe”

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Well sir, I choose to identify as a male lesbian, after all, I have never seen two women do anything to each other, that I would not readily partake in.

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“were about a decade away from it being compulsory” – Many a true word is spoken in jest

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