The Brighton Line

Bingo players around the world share a call and response lingo. If the caller says "I-22, little ducks," the response is "quack-quack." If the caller says "G-59, the Brighton Line" the stupid response is "woo-woo". I think you get my drift. I had a woo to rhyme to phew experience on the Brighton Line.

I had an alternate experience to the alternate experience of the alternate experience that was Lambeth one evening when I went to one of the seven wonders of the opera world - an evening at Glyndebourne. Glyndebourne is like Tanglewood on steroids. The strictly black-tie affair with champagne-laden picnic hampers oft served by butlers was quite a change to life at the University of Kent.

My very dear friend, Dr. Michael Sansbury, arranged this outing feeling that I, like a Fresh-Air Fund child, needed a day and evening in the country. Mike in his Trews and Prince Charlie and I in a left over evening frock from the crossing scrubbed up nicely headed off to Lewes to see Carmen. We rode in these outfits on the train headed for Brighton.

Brighton was hosting the Pride Parade that day. You should also know that we didn't have a hamper or butler. We ate our intermission meal in the restaurant.

I learned an interesting thing about Pride in the UK. When it was a protest gathering seeking human rights and full inclusion of LBGT folks, the organizers did not have to pay for the security details, police and crowd control apparatus. Now the event is charged a fee for the police, etc., because officialdom deems it a celebration -- mission accomplished. This word apparently has not trickled down to Lambeth Palace.

After one of the most enjoyable evenings in my entire life, we boarded a coach back to the train to travel back to London. One stop later my humming the arias and reveries of the exotic Carmen came to an abrupt halt as all hell broke loose.

Our coach was set upon by drunken revelers from the Pride Parade. I think they decided that the bourgeois establishment looking passengers seemed right for intimidation but little did they know that I was from Brooklyn and had seen it all. They were loud and rude. One particular stand out was a silly little confused queen wannabe who was throwing his dress over his head showing off his codpiece. Maybe he thought he was the flirtatious Carmen but this Car Man, with apologies to Michael Bourne, couldn't cut it. Not only was his mother's dress ill-fitting and way out of style, it was the wrong color for him. He was so tacky that I wanted to slap his manscara off!

I had to catch myself and remember that he, too, was one of God's children and that he was my neighbor that God calls me to love. Following God has never been easy and I was being testing. This ill-fitting dress wearing person, he,too, was one of the many who was being denied full inclusion and he, too, was one of the children of God that Lambeth was discussing. I have to admit that I was glad that he was a far piece from the University.

I wanted to say to him "Child! Do you know what people are going through - have gone through - will continue to go through - for you to have the right to act a fool in this coach? If you don't, you need to wise up and next time, get a better looking dress and some shoes that match."

The Pride revelers departed at Clapham Junction and we continued on in a strangely silent coach on the Brighton Line - woo - phew!