As the rumours began escalating yesterday about Peter Mandelson’s likely appointment as the next ambassador to the USA, I began thinking, as a gay man, about that special place of respect one must preternaturally keep for Mandy. Agree with him or disagree with him politically. That’s everyone’s prerogative. But personally, you cannot help but love him.
In my voting adulthood, Peter Mandelson has distinguished himself from all gay competition to climb some serious, lofty heights. These momentous achievements, including not just presiding over the one British government that organised equality across the legal spectrum for lesbians and gay men in the country, turned him into first the most powerful gay man in Britain, then probably the most powerful gay politician of my lifetime. He’s far from the most likeable gay politician of his generation (that would be Angela Eagle or Chris Smith) or indeed the most heroic (that’d be Peter Tatchell, clearly) but he has singularly been the most effective.
Watching a sofa full of smug hacks crowing about Mandelson on Newsnight last night, someone began saying what wonders he could do with trade. That made me giggle, obviously. I don’t think it was even meant to and I became annoyed with myself afterwards for laughing at what was just some unfortunate wordage. The dude is genuinely, hugely impressive.
Mandelson is the most obvious living symbol of my generation of gay men
During the first two Blair premierships, through which time Mandy rarely missed the daily headlines, some of my fancier gay friends would play a game as to which one of them would date him, should the offer arise. It wasn’t until Mandelson that gay men really began to understand what proximity to power meant as a strange aphrodisiac in real time. He was always so well-groomed and unrufflable, with a good tie and decent shoes.
Mandelson is the most obvious living symbol of my generation of gay men, a generation who craved the approval of the same Establishment that rejected us as children, teenagers and young men, often to the point of vilification. During the late 80s and early 90s, I used to find his insistence on privacy around his sexuality awkward, slippery and uninspiring. Like Alan Bennett’s or the Pet Shop Boys’. Just spit it out, loves. Nothing to be ashamed of. Yet once he finally did come out as gay - or rather, was outed, during Blair’s first term, on Newsnight by Matthew Parris (who maintains that he thought it was not a secret) – he kept up his insistence on his right to privacy. His steel touch bleeds into most of his character, lending him a kind of autocratic consistency. You don’t go to him for the touchy-feely side of gay. Nor should you have to, it’s not like he’s presenting a chat show.
The more I thought about Mandy, the more I realised how much quietly embedded respect for the man I’d developed over the years since he was everywhere. All those prince of darkness, Voldemort accusations have built up into a kind of unassailable shop window for his incredible tenacity and staying power. He has a handsome Brazilian husband, a pension for life, several positions to reaffirm his cultural significance. Yet still he marches forward, as if the real work of being Peter Mandelson – bluff, verbose, reliable high watermark of gay achievement – is never quite done.
Part of the dazzling success emanated by Mandy has been his own close proximity to the political names which have defined our times. As such, becoming the closest official British conduit to Donald Trump through his second US presidency feels like a surprisingly cosy fit. One suspects, in fact, that his forthcoming brokerage of a tricky Transatlantic moment might just be the time for Mandy’s most Machiavellian instincts to shine brightest. I’ll watch in partial astonishment, admiration and good humour. Peter Mandelson is gay ambition, not just personified but nailed.
Paul Flynn is a London Standard columnist
