As I entered school, I was led to believe that being gay was akin to having a serious medical condition—something akin to, say, having one leg shorter than the other, or having a teacher who’s also your parent. This was during the time of Section 28, which prohibited the promotion of what they called “homosexual acceptability” in British schools. Back then, the word “gay” was basically synonymous with “lame.” Everything from detention to double math was tagged as gay. And, well, two men together? That was extremely gay, and finding a comparison seemed almost impossible, except maybe for a brand of cheap trainers.
So, many men my age grew up feeling quite embarrassed, lacking in self-esteem. This probably led a lot of us to seek out risky behaviors, whether through casual encounters, self-harm, or adopting bizarre fashion choices like sports harnesses. Unfortunately, I didn’t conceal my sexuality well at all; it shone through like a bright light in a dark room, and the things I wanted felt unfairly skewed (any queer kid knows that jarring sense when someone says, “Can I ask you something?”). At eleven, grappling with my identity felt like a life sentence, almost like a prison sentence, and inherently degrading.
Then, Channel 4 aired a show that changed everything. For the first time, I saw gay people leading their lives openly. They weren’t models or anything glamorous (one of them worked in a supermarket), but they lived on their terms. Stuart was reckless and indifferent—during one scene, after learning about a salesman’s profit from a deceased young gay man, he drove his jeep right into a car dealership’s glass entrance. It was reminiscent of those dramatic movie moments, yet so real, especially for a man like him.
That show somehow allowed me to feel good about myself, or at least optimistic.
It stirred up a lot of debates, though. The Daily Mail raged about what it dubbed destruction of society. Peter Hitchens even claimed that it was propaganda to convince people that “homosexuality is normal behavior.” In my limited view of the world, normal seemed defined by football chants and witty remarks from shows like South Park. The quirky characters weren’t what most would consider typical. For once, I started to see my differences as a potential strength rather than a burden. A bit later, I resonated with Tom Ford when he mentioned growing up in the Bible Belt, saying, “I thought it was great, and everyone else thought it was stupid.” Queer figures like that gave me the license to feel proud.
Now, I’m not one to shout about “Queer Joy.” My Instagram isn’t filled with colorful hair or any of that overflowing positivity. It’s a mix of funny, sad, heartbreaking, and yes, sometimes, sexy. I risk being seen as part of some left-leaning agenda, but, truthfully, that show filled me with happiness about being gay. I first came out to myself and then started to share it openly. Fear isn’t something that grips me anymore.
The future seems uncertain, with troubling developments in LGBTQ+ policies and some men resorting to “the gym date” trend, but I still felt a strange promise of brighter days ahead. It was a signal, perhaps, that my salvation was closer than I imagined.
