A letter from the editor

Letter from the editor – unabridged and unedited

Dear readers, or should I rather say, those who haven’t forgotten about us…

First of all, I would like to say, that this letter has been a long time coming, and not an over-night epiphany that came about to alleviate boredom. My decision to publish it today however came about last night, when I realised that there might indeed be a bit of a void left, in the LGBTI community; and not just within me, by our absence (for those of you that have actually noticed).

In this letter, there are a few talking points I would like to touch on:

·         Why did we leave and where did we go?

So there’s a few answers to this question. A few things happened. Some of the models stopped rocking up for photoshoots and less people volunteered (I will delve deeper into this a bit further on), some of the writers stopped making deadlines, promises from corporate sponsors and advertisers weren’t kept…the list goes on. I also take personal accountability because round about the time The Modern L’s quiet departure came, I was trying to find myself, and time, to juggle being a mom and wife in a young family, writing 6-8 articles a month, doing all the principal photography and layout and having a very stressful and demanding day job with long hours. It also cost me a lot of money with no financial return or compensation.

The first hack set us back tremendously. We lost our .com and with it, a global community of over 50000 views per month. Then it was put up for ransom and how these things work, is that the more views a site has, the more money the hacker wants to return it. Price-tag at the time, around $60000.00 US. Needless to say, we didn’t have that kind of money. What it did however force us to reinvent ourselves, twice, becoming bigger, better and stronger than ever before.

Then we got hacked and ransomed again, and that’s when I found out that we had, most likely, the worst web hosts in the world. Not only did they “lose” all our data along with all the backups, we couldn’t reupload from our own backups and they could not guarantee that we wouldn’t be hacked again, as their templates were now compromised. I was tired, frustrated and heartbroken. This was the straw that broke the camel’s back, and we decided at the time, not to put humpty dumpty together again.

·         Money talks, and the lack thereof SCREAMS!

Just to make it clear, The Modern L never made a cent profit. It was a labour of love and a service to the community that cost me, in 6 years, in the region of a quarter of a million rand. All the models, hairdressers, make-up artists, photographers, dressers, security etc, did what they did for The Modern L, out of love for the mag and the community. They were never paid more than a drink or a few shooters and very few once scored a weekend of two away when we shot on location. That came out of my pocket as well. The writers and content contributors also weren’t paid and did it for the same reasons. And even though we didn’t pay them, we were still strict with what they delivered and with what we published.

So imagine running a fully functional online magazine, with at least 20 articles a month, quarterly photo spreads, a management team of 3, an editorial crew of 12 (local and international), over 30 models, at least 5 support crew, 2 graphic designers, 2 DJ’s, 4 photographers and a web developer, without a payroll. Again, what we did, we did for the upliftment of the community.

In all the time the magazine ran, we had a total of 3 sponsorships. That’s exactly one sponsorship for every 2 running years. It also wasn’t much and not did not even cover a fraction of the costs we incurred. One sponsorship was for a venue for a photoshoot, one was for accommodation for an event, and one was for clothing and props for another photoshoot. That was it. We even paid for the charity events we ran ourselves.

But what about the advertising revenue? What advertising revenue? Each and every single ad we posted, picture we shared, review we did, and event we went to, we did so for free or as a type of barter system for mutual benefit. Again, for the sole purpose of uplifting the community. And as the promise from businesses, event promoters and advertisers came in a dime a dozen, we passed those same promises on to our contributors. When the mag starts making some bucks, we could start compensating them for their contributions to the mag. But alas, those promises were as empty as the Modern L coffers. Coffers that are still empty by the way.

·         So, what now?

Herein lies the double edged sword…People always complain that there isn’t enough out there for the LGBTIQ community and the people trying to create things for the community always complain that there isn’t enough support for these things. I have seen both first hand and to be honest, I’m still trying to figure out why. Has the world become so tolerant that we don’t NEED our own things or is the niche so small that there isn’t a viable market for it? I simply do not know.

What I do know, is that in the magazine’s heyday, we had over 50000 views a month. I know that we were loved the world over, even in arb places like Brazil, and a large component of our audience logging on from Russia! I know that it is easier, being in the closet, to log on to a website rather than risking it putting a print mag in your shopping cart. I know that we gave much needed support to many lost souls, we gave our readers joy, we made people laugh and we gave the lesbian community a place to call home. I also know that a little lesbian blog grew into WOMEN’S magazine and gave a voice to the entire LGBTIQ community:

A voice I can no longer ignore.

Someone I look up to and admire once told me to not let Martha’s dreams die with her, but to be honest, The Modern L wasn’t just her dream, it was mine too. Only, to me, it was more than a dream. It was my safety net, my sanity, an outlet for creativity and something I could watch as it grew and something I could give back to a community that gave me so much. It was an escape and a friend I could turn to whenever I felt alone and deserted. And that is the vision I have…for the Modern L to be all this for all of its readers. But I can’t do it alone…

So now I ask, are there still any readers out there waiting for us to make our comeback? Are there any contributors looking for a creative outlet? (Keep in mind our pockets are still empty) Let us know on the following platforms:

E-mail us: themodernlinfo@gmail.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/themodernl

Twitter: @themodernl

Or simply add a comment below.

As always, I look forward to hearing from you!

Kind regards,

Miss Jones

Managing Editor

Behind Geegee's curtain: The Idiot’s Guide To My Private Life

Bossdykelady told me that apparently you guys like to hear my own stories – hence the whole ‘Behind GeeGee’s Curtain’ thing and if I manage to impart any wisdom, even better.  I guess it means that apart from being the token straight chick it seems I’m the token old one too...  Hehehe

It’s been brought to my attention over the last few weeks that there seems to be a bit of confusion about who’s who in my life so I started making a ‘point by point reference for the confused’ on my Facebook profile.  It started as a status update, morphed into a note and I was still not done so I thought ah Fukkit, just make it a column already so that everyone who is stalking and trolling me can see.  I mean, it really isn’t fair to hide it from them by putting it on my Facebook where only my friends can see it.  I reckon they are the ones who need to see it most anyway because judging by the twaddle they’re putting on forums they really do seem to be the most confused.  Or idiotic.  The jury is still out on that one.

The confusion on Facebook is quite simple to put to rest.  No, I am not a lesbian – not even one who’s waiting for her husband to die before she comes tumbling out of the closet.  Does the title ‘Token Straight Chick’ not give it away?  People please, as much as I love my extended FB friends and chosen family I don’t want to worry needlessly about their IQ levels.  I’m not too clued up about the lesbian ‘mating call’ but after consulting with my Gentledyke I’ve realised I’ve been flirted with many a time when it just went right over my head.  I just thought to myself that lezzies are SUPER friendly people and that I should have become a Lettie Bag years ago.  Instead of running for the hills I kind of liked that though – at my age I’ll take a compliment wherever I can get it – so thank you ladies!  My personal favourite confusion about me is the time I was sent an inbox by a young queen who thought I was a Drag Queen and was looking for someone to be his Drag Mother.  I took that as a HUGE compliment because I’m convinced I was a Drag Queen in a former life and I have always loved Drag Queens because to me they’re like wonderfully brave and dramatic ‘fuck you’ Butterflies who don’t give a damn what people think of them.  So no, as much as I would love to be one I am not a Drag Queen either.  I am also not really a BDSM mistress.  Even though there are days when I feel like I could quite happily beat the living bejesus out of someone and getting paid for it would just be the tiny cherry on a very nice cake, the whole Mistress G thing on Facebook is a tongue in cheek thing, capice?  What I am is a rather vanilla straight woman who has been married for 25 years to a man I met almost 30 years ago – around the time my tits came in and he had 3 chest hairs. 

Ok, now that is out of the way allow me to explain my nearest and dearest.  Apart from the friends I choose as family and the handful of family members who are still in my life I have a son, a daughter-in-law who is like my own daughter to me and  a husband I call Hubs – he’s the straight one who Put A Ring On It 25 years ago.  He’s not active on Facebook because he says businessmen have no business being there.  I don’t do news so I don’t get it at all but News24 is his favourite reading and he loves commenting on the articles so when they changed things that you needed a FB account in order to comment he had to create one - much to his irritation, in fact he was so irritated he had me create one for him.  No, he’s not gay either – homophobia is a foreign concept to him and he accepts my gay friends just the way they are.  I’m rather proud of him for that because despite being accused of being into toy boys and called a sodomite and a fag lover he still welcomes my friends whenever they visit and the vicious slander is like farting in the wind to him.  He is very secure in his sexuality and a true Alpha Male, part of the reason I love him so much.  He even takes my Fag woofing at him with a massive pinch of salt and a healthy dose of bemusement.  That brings me to my Fag.  There is a very important rule in Gayland:  You Do Not Share Your Hag.  Ever.  Fags are extremely territorial about their Hags and I have had to nip many a potential bitch fight in the bud on Facebook.  My Fag is a female impersonator with the stage name Tarren I have known for many years and that bitch is girlier than me.  I love being his Hag, he is one of the most outrageous potty-mouthed people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing and he also has the kindest heart.  He goes out of his way to shock me but I learned years ago not to look at his phone when he thrusts it at me and says ‘Look here doll...’  Tarr is into Bears so I have seen enough hairy asses and ball bags to last me a lifetime.  

Whenever Tarr comes over for a sleepover to keep me company when Hubs is away on business you’ll either find us in the lounge watching ‘Mama Mia’ wearing pink pajamas and fluffy slippers singing along lustily to the songs or we’ll be in the bar downstairs having cocktails and gossiping until the sun comes up.  Then there’s my gay husband I refer to as my Gusband.  He’s not really my husband, he’s my best friend and also the only man Hubs will trust to look after me if he’s not around.  Hubs calls him the ‘straight mans moffie’ and they’re very good friends.  Hawts doesn’t look gay so I suppose that could have caused a lot of confusion in the past about what our actual relationship is.  Although Hawts has never lifted his hand to anyone he could easily flat hand poesklap someone onto their backs if they fuck with me which is why I only ever go to Pride if he’s part of the party.  Tarren doesn’t mind at all because between us all we could ever do to defend ourselves is blow a rape whistle.  Tarr is very good at blowing things so I’ll leave that part to him and I’ll stick to hair pulling.  Then there is my Gentledyke – from the moment we met I knew I had found a friend for life.  She’s also one of the few people who’s louder than Hubs when they watch rugby and personally I find watching them far more amusing than watching the game. She calls Hubs her Strusband and he calls her his Gwife – no, not spelling that one out, it’s not brain surgery.  I am her Strife, although I think she’s trying to be funny when she does that because it should be Swife.  No, nobody is having an affair with anyone – it would be far too complicated to keep things ‘straight’ – geddit? Hahahaha

Right, now I suppose it’s time to address some of the other bullshit that’s out there – until I get bored that is.  We’ve been accused of the most bizarre things but I must admit we did have a bit of a giggle the day Hubs was accused of ‘racketeering’ and we had to Google it.  I am not a thief who steals from the elderly.  The only thing I have stolen in my life was a handful of sweeties when I was 3 and I was made to go back and apologise so I suppose if the shopkeeper was elderly it is true then.  I am not a ‘filthy fucking fag hag’; I shower every day – sometimes twice.  My whole family doesn’t work for Hubs; if they do they must be invisible.  The only person who works here is my stepfather Duffy.  He doesn’t really work here though; he just comes over once or twice a week to have a chat with the Koi because he reckons they’re the only ones who miss him.  Scotland Yard isn’t looking for me, I don’t live in a Top Secret Mountain Lair so if they really were I’d be worried for the entire population of Great Britain about who is in charge of their security.  There isn’t a hit man on his way from Canada to ‘take care of me’ – if there ever was one that fucker must be swimming here and I suspect he may have drowned because it’s been more than a year already.  I’m not actually as thick as two short planks, even though sometimes I really would prefer to be thick.  Thick people never seem to worry about anything and always have a dazed and confused happy look on their faces.  I had about 2 years of that feeling after I had my brain tumour removed and was on handfuls of medication every day and as hard as it was to get off the prescription medication sometimes I miss being in a happy cloud of fluffiness.  I don’t call myself a writer; I’m a columnist and the day I will call myself a writer is the day I have a book published.  A paper one you can touch and feel and smell.  I’m not as lazy as a Mexican on holiday; I think that’s an insult to the people of Mexico because I’m far lazier.  Besides, aren’t you supposed to be lazy on holiday?  I could go into more of the rubbish that’s been written but I’m bored now and I think you all get the point.

All jokes aside though... Comments like the fact that I’ve been lobotomised and saying I only have one child because my husband is gay? Allow me to briefly address my trolls directly here:  Making fun of some of the hardest things I have gone through in my life and spreading spiteful lies about what happened when you know the truth?  You want to show Karma the finger?  Rather you than me thanks.  I have so much dirt on you that I could destroy everything about you but they were shared as confidences when we were friends so I will honour that – despite your actions.   We all have the ability to be vicious; it’s what you choose to do that defines your character.  You’ve done me a big favour though, actually more than one.  I now know I have the patience of Job, this crap has been going on for almost 3 years so my patience muscles have had a very good workout.  You have contacted my friends and family with everything from threats to blatant lies about me and some of them have even been subjected to crap being written on their profile walls. I also know who chose to believe all the utter unadulterated bullshit – unfortunately some are my blood - and I’m not Jesus so forgiving and forgetting is not going to happen.  That shit left the building before Elvis did.  I have had to change my cell number after more than 10 years; the peace and quiet has been lovely – especially since I am super allergic to my phone.  You have also shown me what to look for in people I let into my life.  The reason you were booted out to begin with was because of your obvious lack of common human decency and character and you have done nothing since then to prove me wrong, in fact quite the opposite.  My only regret is that I didn’t get rid of you a lot sooner; I like to think that I would have been spared some of these pathetic attempts at character assassination and your relentless and cruel backbiting behavior.

To me aging is pointless if you’re not going to gain some wisdom from the things you go through in your life.  I’m no angel, I have lost my temper occasionally over the years this has been going on and I regret it because I know I was raised better than that but I own it too because I know it’s me that allowed them to push me to that point.  Since I took out the trash I have made the most amazing new friends and reconnected with old ones.  Some I speak to every day and some I only connect with occasionally but there is always a meeting of minds involved and I know I have found a few lifelong friends amongst them.  I find myself surrounded by creative people with open minds and I love that, I feel like I’m home.  So many of them have kept me sane and been an inspiration to me without even knowing it and I intend thanking them on FB when this goes live as well.  I hope nobody gets all embarrassed about it and all.   So ladies, if there is any advice I can pass on to you from this experience it would be these two realisations:  I spoke to my friend Black Sam the other day - his own moniker by the way, he says it’s because he’s so black he has to smile so you can see him in the dark.  Anyway, I asked him how his wife and kids were and he said to me ‘Life is good thanks Mami, they still smile when they see me so life is good’ and I thought that was so simple yet so beautifully profound and it resonated within me.  As long as the people under your own roof are happy and love you and there is positive energy in your home, life is always good.  Also, no matter how much fun you have with someone or how much you love them – if they become possessive over you and hardly ever have anything nice to say about your other friends and you’re stupid enough to slowly allow yourself to become isolated, sort of like the parable about the frog being put into cold water that is then turned on so slowly he doesn’t even feel it when it starts boiling and he eventually boils to death?  Don’t walk...  RUN!

Live well, laugh often, love much and always remember to dance!

GeeGee xx

Behind GeeGee's Curtain: The Race Card

Anyone who knows me knows that I’m about as racist as I am homophobic and I haven’t been called ‘Superlettiebag’ and ‘Superfaghag’ for nothing.  I’m just fed-up, or as we say here in Gauteng – Gatvol!  I was standing at the till in the supermarket a few days ago and a black man behind me in the queue asked me if I would pay for his groceries.  I’ve done it before when I felt someone needed my help so I glanced down at the contents of his trolley and it was full of luxury items.  Not basic necessities like bread, milk, maize meal and tins of food but rather massive slabs of chocolate, ice-cream, t-bone steaks and so on.  I thought he was joking so I just looked at him and smiled politely so he says to me that he’s serious.  I think the disbelief at the bloody cheek of it was written all over my face because that’s when he called me a racist.  Without me saying a single word I was called a racist.  Asshole.  I thought to myself that he’s a very lucky man because if the incident had happened while the tumour I named Irene was still lodged in my brain it would have ended very badly for him.  Irene didn’t take shit and lost her temper spectacularly when she was fucked with.  Sometimes I miss her.

 

That brought to mind 2 things that happened while Irene was still very much alive and well.  The first was right here in my own back yard.  I’m ashamed (ok, not really ashamed – I just thought I’d put it out there to see how it sits) to say that morning I was a poster child for the saying ‘You can take the girl out of the hood...’  I was sitting minding my own business and having my first cuppa of the day (never a good time to mess with my ass) when all hell broke loose outside.  My elderly Golden Retriever Daisy was going absolutely apeshit and she’s a friendly muttley who loves everyone on sight, so it was strange enough for me to go to the window to investigate.  Our lovely neighbours are the Embassy from some God-forsaken African country.  I won’t mention which one but suffice to say it’s one that hangs gay people for the ‘heinous crime’ of loving someone of the same sex.  Anyway, one of the kids that live there was standing on the wall throwing stones at my dog.

"Hey! Stop that!" *through the window in my sternest voice*

He has the nerve to throw another rock, waggle his bum at me and stick his tongue out!  Well.  Clearly that was me!  Before I knew it I was outside in my robe, pyjamas and slippers trying to climb the 7 foot dividing wall. All I was focused on was getting my hands on that little shit and showing him what a crazy ass white bitch is capable of first thing in the morning if you mess with her muttleys.  I don't know what would have happened if my son hadn't come outside to see what the commotion was about and pulled me off the wall...  I don't even want to think of the image Shadrack now has in his head of his madam being held off the floor by her son, arms and legs flailing in her pink pj's and fluffy slippers.  Said neighbours have branded me a racist.  Assholes.  I would have reacted exactly the same if the child was white, a naughty child is a naughty child, no matter what colour.

 

 

 

The second erm... incident was while I was walking our dogs in the park around the corner with our dog psychologist. Don’t judge – I was trying to integrate my beloved late Doberman Samson with our smaller dogs and finally end the apartheid in our household.  There are massive signs everywhere telling people to keep their dogs on the leash but suddenly this ugly ass dog that looked like a hyena (in retrospect I think it might very well have been) appeared out of nowhere and was trying to bite Daisy.  She’s a gentle soul who wouldn’t hurt a fly and this bloody beast is nipping at her flanks and legs, my poor girl looked terrified.  Two black women wearing black t-shirts with white clenched fists on them come strolling over the rise and shout for us to leave their dog alone.

 

 

"We're not touching your dog, please put it on a leash" *politely*

"We don't have to do it just because you say so..."

WTF???? Huh?

"It's the law, read the signs" *doing my best to keep cool in front of the dog psychologist*

"You white bitches can't tell us what to do, we're diplomats..."

OMG....

Clearly that was me and all previous thoughts of decorum flew right out of my head without so much as a backward glance.  I made such a scene that two old white men who were there in a bakkie full of black construction workers came running. I could just picture the headline: 

Housewife and Dog Psychologist Start Race Riot on the Ridge

It got ugly, really ugly and I got nervous when I realised us whiteys were outnumbered 4 – 30 but my temper had total control over me by then.  At one point the dog lady was holding me back because all I could see was red and I wanted to smack the sanctimonious smirk off that bloody woman's face Oh. So. Badly.  Next thing she was right in my face, spittle flying, shouting that we tortured black people!  Me!?!  I've never tortured anyone or anything in my life but at that point I would’ve been more than happy to start with her.  Things only ended when I told them that one signal from me and Samson would rip all their throats out, starting with their ‘dog’. Gawd, one would think that one could walk one's dogs in peace...  The pure venom and undiluted hatred in that woman’s eyes was something else – I’m pretty sure if she had a gun on her she would have shot me, a perfect stranger.  Asshole.

 

I like living on the Ridge, but these bloody diplomats really get to me. We pay to live here yet they act like they own the whole neighbourhood, happily living the high life off their countries' gravy trains while their fellow countrymen starve to death.  Assholes.  Oh, and while on the subject of gravy trains - since Missus Z No. 5 has moved into the street our electricity bill has gone up by loads, funny that...  Asshole.  I'm not a racist, but days like that, when I'm exposed to reverse racism at its ugliest, I tend to waiver in my beliefs. My generation had no part of apartheid yet we get punished for it every day.  Growing up the first I ever knew racism even existed was when my mother’s best friend Jubi, her husband Josef and their kids would come over to visit and the neighbours wanted nothing to do with us because of it.  When I asked my friends why they weren’t allowed to come over anymore they told me it was because we had coloured people visiting at our house and their parents didn’t want them to play with me anymore because they saw me playing with coloured children.  Fucking assholes.

 

 

I don’t care whether you’re black, blue, green or pink but if you’re an asshole you’re a fucking asshole.  I’m sick to death of being accused of being a racist and keeping my mouth shut, walking on eggshells around black people with chips on their shoulders in case I offend them.  An old friend of mine often rants and raves about the state of affairs in this country – to the point where we tease him that he’s sounding more like a Right Wing AWB leader by the day.  I’m sure old Eugene Terreblanche would turn in his grave if he knew a coloured man was being compared to him!  Can’t help having a bit of a giggle at that...  Ah well, he was an embarrassment anyway – I mean, apart from all the shit the damn fool spoke, the fucker fell off his horse.  Walking in a parade...  And he called himself a Boer?  Perfect example of what I mean by Asshole.

Last year at Pride when I went undercover as a lesbian my Gentledyke and I were asked by a black man whether he could watch us have sex and he kept pestering us for ages, making a complete nuisance of himself.  He got more inappropriate as the hours went by, completely spoiling our day.  If he was white he would’ve had his ass kicked into the next century by the men who were with us but because he was black he got away with it.  Asshole.  And don’t even get me started on the black women in the parking lot of our local supermarket.  Driving massive 4x4’s they can barely see over the steering wheels of – but if they have diplomatic plates you can be sure that bitch is going to either scrape your car or drive over your foot and beware if you so much as say a single word about it, then you’re a racist.  Assholes.  If I did the same thing accidently?  Then I’d be called a racist.  You just can’t win. 

 

 

I have often partied and had great fun with people of all races in our Rainbow Nation but I don’t walk around talking about my black friends.  I don’t talk about my white friends either.  Friends are friends, no matter what colour they are.  So I don’t sit down with Precious for a cuppa and a natter – I had a white maid in Spain and I didn’t socialise with her either, as one does when someone is part of your household staff, but I wasn’t accused of being prejudiced because of that.  Besides, Precious is completely uneducated and comes from a small Xhosa village in the Eastern Cape and communicating with her can be a bit of a challenge.  I had no idea until friends from the UK came to stay and they asked me what language we speak to each other, apparently it sounds like a strange form of Pidgin English.

If there was a word for someone who can’t tolerate assholes I wouldn’t mind being called that at all.  An assholist perhaps? But being called a racist?  Yes, I do fucking mind thankyouverymuch...

 

Time for a voddie shot methinks, I'm all worked up all over again.

 

*clink!*

GeeGee xx

Profits vs People

 

They say that the LGBTI Pride Parade is like Christmas for the gays. It’s the one day a year that everyone looks forward to, the day you spend weeks, if not months, planning your outfit, what you’re doing afterwards, and who you’re mincing with. You look forward to seeing all the colourful floats, what the cute stalls have on display and which eccentric outfits the kweens, bears and fairies will be wearing on the day. You make sure the batteries for your camera and phone are fully charged so you can look back at the day that was and reminisce about the fun you had.

 

I have attended the local Pride parade every year for exactly half my life, and the ones with the fondest memories, I have to admit, were the ones much earlier on in my life. Pride was always something I looked forward to and prepared for and I always felt inspired after attending the event.

 

Seeing the entire gay community standing together for a mutual cause, marching through the streets with a purpose, seeing the public wave and hoot as we pass, our straight friends and family walking alongside us in support, the kweens flinging insults and high heels at the happy clappy homophobes at the side of the road, and most importantly, being free to express yourself, your individuality and not just your sexuality is what Pride is and should be all about.

 

That was then…

 

In recent years there has been quite a lot of complaints and blogposts directed at the downward spiral pride parades all across the country are taking. And this should be cause for alarm to those who organise these get-togethers, but I don’t think this is sinking in just yet. Myself, and many others believe this is due to certain role players making the mistake of putting Profits over the pink People.

 

In the past I have driven and been on 4 floats, once on a motorcycle, I have walked with 5 charity organisations, walked for a cause twice and managed stalls on 2 occasions as well. In some years gone by, float and stall operators had to rock up for a meeting, pay a nominal admin fee, stick to the rules and Bob’s your auntie, you’re good to go! Ever wonder why there aren’t so many colourful floats and as many exciting stalls around? Why ten ton flatbeds decorated in the fabulous rainbow flag have been replaced by convertables and bakkies? Why the stalls with the cheap trinkets and memorable memorabilia disappeared and have been replaced by overpriced junk you know you’ll never use again? Let’s take a look:

 

To have a float in the Jo’burg parade, you’re looking at up to 1500 bucks per float. The Durban parade up to and R1200 and the Mother City R50 to R250. Stalls in Jo’burg range between R450 and R1035 and Cape town between R300 and R1000. There’s also the issue of the method of payment for these events and the so-called Pink Money they use as currency, which is non-refundable!

 

Then there’s the issue of refreshments on the day. We used to be able to take our own picnic baskets and refreshments, but at recent events, even bottled water has been confiscated at the gates. I distinctly remember standing in a queue for an hour and a half for Pink money at last year’s Pride, only to then stand in a two hour queue for a drink (that cost about twice as much as I would have paid at my local pub even now, a year later), and then not having enough energy to stand in another mile long queue for something to eat. The drinks vendor also did not stock what we preferred to drink so what’s the point? Look, I totally get why they would ban bringing in booze so they could sell their own, but why not let people bring in their own soft drinks, water and snacks?

 

So if people pay to operate stalls and floats, pay overwhelming amounts of money for food and booze and spend money to buy a currency they cannot get a refund on for essentially nothing and the organisers get cash from advertising packages and corporate sponsors, as well as sponsorship from service providers and artists, not to mention the rent-a-crowd they brought in by the busloads last year, it looks like Gay Pride has turned into another cog in the money making machine.

 

There are those that argue that money is needed for the organisation and smooth running of the event, which is essential, but with the massive media coverage AND turnout Pride gets every year, sponsorships and advertising shouldn’t be that hard to come by and if insufficient funds are raised through advertising and sponsorship, organisers should really look into firing their PRO’s and marketing managers. The other argument is that they need to pay artists due to perform on the day. When I spoke to a very well-known female artist that performed at Pride a few years ago, she told me that she performed for free and that it was a tremendous honour to perform at the event. Other artists have told me that they’ve done the same in order to get exposure. And to be quite honest, apart from the artist I just mentioned, I don’t think I watched anyone else perform at Pride in the 15 years I’ve attended and no one I know has either. So why pay a so-called fortune for something no one really cares about?

 

Today I was told that apart from everything one has to pay for at Pride, the NMB Pride is charging an entrance fee to this year’s event and this has created a massive storm for the gay community in PE and no doubt it will cause many to boycott the event. For smaller cities, with their Pride parades still being in its infancy, this is definitely a step in the wrong direction. Pride is about people, not profits. About being free to be who and what you are or who you support and not about how deep organisers can dive into your pockets.

 

My point is this: Pride is turning into yet platform for the exploitation of the gay community. Some of my family members used to attend Pride with paper bags over their heads in fear of persecution way back when, and back in the day, some of my drag queen friends were jailed for wearing a disguise in public. They didn’t do that so someone could come along and make a quick buck off our community!