Just be gay

You thought Pride month was over?

I spent my Saturday afternoon in a sea of peacocking shirtless gay guys with abs listening to techno music, and left coated in their sweat. I sat on the bus home feeling happy despite the fact I did not relate to them. They were on lots of drugs (good for them, genuinely!) and I was very sober. Their tops were off and mine was on. I, a gay man, don’t see myself in every gay man I meet. Some are right-wing pundits; others give a fuck about Bebe Rexha. But we are—perhaps the fascists, Republicans, Tories, etc aside—bound by a desire to live our lives in a way some might find genuinely repulsive. There was a queue for the darkroom at that party. A queue. I found that politeness in the face of an uncontrollable horn sort of beautiful.

There is a gay existence that requires assimilation. I get that. I understand that. Your safety comes first. For everyone else, I do think that there’s never been a more important time for gay people to be militant in their homosexuality. I think there’s something truly baller about those who keep cruising like it’s 1974, even though they have perfectly nice homes to do that in. I think the people who do the gnarly stuff at Folsom Street Fair have a god-given right to. That guy on Instagram who wears latex to the airport? I don’t want to assume your alphabet, but babe I’m proud of you. Whenever I see an unmistakeably queer person walk down the street, doing everything in their power to be looked at, potentially othered, I want to hug them for being so cool and brave for not giving a fuck. There’s a power in our collective nihilism that makes it harder to quell who we are, which seems, day by day, like the intention of the previously normal people around us.

I never thought of Britain as a particularly homophobic country when I was growing up, beyond the kind of bullshit most people get in school anyway. But more and more I’m noticing normies take an active interest in dictating the rights of the LGBTQ community. On Saturday, before I ended up with the sweaty shirtless gay guys, I was in central London watching a street preacher say his piece on the sins of practicing homosexuality. Two teenage furries were goading him in a way that felt appropriate for their age, teasing him, but keeping their hands (paws?) to themselves. But when they walked away, a girl with a high ponytail and a Coach handbag waved them off with a “ba-bye!”, her other hand interlocked in her sportswear-clad boyfriend’s. Two years ago, a diva like that would’ve been on the furry teenager’s side.

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1. Tweet

2. The new Ryan Beatty album

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I was in my first year of school when Section 28 was repealed in the UK, but I have no real recollection of learning much about queerness growing up. (To be fair, I didn’t live in a particularly cosmopolitan town; I think I’d met three gay guys by the time I’d turned 15.) We use that as a reference point for the era we’re returning to: one where overt displays of queerness are used as fodder for the tinfoil hat crew. Evidence, to them, that laying eyes on a queer person in public is akin to brainwashing. That we’re trying to ‘trans’ kids. My friend Liam has been on a determined campaign to get GB News, Britain’s cursed right wing TV station, to apologize for airing a braindead pundits’ unfounded claims that gay adoptive parents are more likely to sexually assault their children. But no one has—they’ve just brought on other pundits who echo the same sentiment. The fact is that, at the moment, so few people with mainstream sway are willing to put their name behind supporting those whose rights are being rescinded—namely trans people. You know things are bad in this rotten nation when you feel nostalgic for the days of Theresa May, our old Conservative prime minister who, despite being bigoted, sort of useless, and iconically bad at dancing, at least had it in her to stan the dolls. Today’s left-wing Labour leader Keir Starmer, who’s thankfully on his way out, seems terrified of standing with six feet of a progressive LGBTQ+ flag.

As my favorite scholar of the moment, @meditationsfortheanxiousmind, puts it: “The rainbow flag flops violently above institutions that manufacture missiles, drop bombs on hospitals, poison the water in developing countries, and then host a seminar on workplace inclusion.” So every time I see a queer awards ceremony presented by Peugeot, or an influencer post their collaboration with a supermarket on Pride weekend, I wonder if the route to true acceptance is the antithesis of assimilation. Maybe it’s saying the F-slur in a room of people who wince when they hear it, or wearing nothing but a jockstrap to the club, or reclaiming the forests of Hampstead Heath from the dog walkers to ensure its history lives on. Saying “pride is a protest” is as platitudinous and unhelpful as the parades that phrase exists to reject. So what’s our protest, in real terms?

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I’ve started hanging out with Geordie Campbell after our mutual friend Ellis Howard connected us, mostly to gossip about the theme of his next collection. He just did a collaboration with Queer Was Always Here. He also gets the Alex Kessler seal of approval—that means a lot in these streets.

I asked him: Can you name a gay person?

Geordie Campbell: “Pride month was last month.”

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• I saw the Anish Kapoor exhibition at the Hayward Gallery this weekend. I’m a bit shruggish on the new works, which look like chewed up steaks, but the vertigo-inducing Vantablack and mirror pieces are worth the price of admission.

• Can’t stop thinking about this headline??

• I’m off to Madrid to finally see the Zara Larsson show on Wednesday! My allergy to London soil shall lift shortly after that.

• IDC about football, sorry x