Do ask do tell … Well done America.
It was London Pride, in Brixton, in 91 or 92. I left the car at a railway station in Surrey and took the train and tube to Brixton. On the tube, a very portly and bad tempered looking dykey looking woman sat opposite me, cradling a pack of beer.
Once again, I wondered how the hell to get into that rainbow world. I was with my brief and sweet first girlfriend then, but she was working that day.
There was a field and a stage and that fat woman from Cell Block H (oh how I date myself) and maybe one of the guys from Erasure and a bunch of soul-ish nineties brit music types. I was going to buy a beer, but never managed it. I either ate or smoked some hash and after that I wasn’t navigating too well. Some fags shot and me with water pistols and I was delighted.
I bought my first ever queer shirt – dyke with attitude.
I didn’t really understand the need to be political then, I was too busy trying not to be unhappy. I didn’t stay late. It was a sunny day, for England.
Barely memorable, all those Prides ago.