I suppose I can console myself with the idea that gay couples technically have the same rights as de factos. You know, straight people who choose not to marry. Choose. That’d be nice, wouldn’t it? A bit of choice? Did you know locking someone out in the cold is not the same as giving them an air conditioning unit?
And to get those same rights - a lot of paperwork, no party. No celebration. I don’t get to pop the question. The question I get to pop is, “Would you do me the honour of switching off the life support if I get squashed?” That’s not fun.
As it stands, my next of kin are my parents. These are not the people I need to be in charge of these decisions. When my dog, Ronnie Barker, was old and sick … my dad took him to get put down. Twelve. Times. He just can’t be in charge of these decisions!
And my mum is far too fond of death to be in charge. She wouldn’t give me a chance to fight through the coma. She wouldn’t. She’d just waltz on in, start switching shit off. “Mrs Gadsby, she’s just having a nap; that was the television.”
That’s why I want gay marriage legalised, because obviously I’m a romantic.
— Hannah Gadsby