In front of the bar, I flinched, said “no” (a lie) and carried on taking in every detail of this new life.Ĭollectively, we know the familiar mundanity of being in a workplace, on public transport, at school. That night, I begged, borrowed and eventually stole a chunky Ralph Lauren pullover from my big brother, not thinking that in a city that frequently entertained entire dancefloors of men wearing cagoules, it would be any reason for concern. I was 16, at sixth-form college a couple of miles down the road in Rusholme. It was 1987, the summer before Clause 28. It was run by a chirpy, resilient fellow named Bubbles.
T he first time I went to a gay club, a stranger looked over his shoulder and said: “Aren’t you hot in that?” It was a Thursday night at the Number One, a small underground box tucked behind Bootle Street police station, Manchester, with a ludicrous corner VIP area where you would occasionally see Coronation Street actors.
