The loudest gay in the room.
Mighty Hoopla 2023.
“YAAAAAS KWEEN!!” shrieks the big table of gays in the private little bar I’ve come to have a quiet drink in. My friend opposite me sees my face react to their grating ruckus. I say nothing, but my look tells her everything. I bring my attention back to her and try to ignore the outlandish spontaneous voguing that has begun behind her.
I lean in as my friend shares some struggles at work, when another volley of incoherent popular culture references erupts from our neighbouring Prosecco enthusiasts, only this time one of them is speaking in an unrecognisable accent. I ask my friend if she thinks one of them is doing an impression of Cher and I catch myself judgmentally assessing these young, cool, queer kids; feeling my eyebrow lift like Spock from Star Trek. Although, unlike Spock, I find myself not wanting them to live long or prosper.
I begin to tell my friend about a new play I’m directing, when just behind her I hear some out-of-tune singing. I fantasise about which natural disaster I’d like to the whole table perish in. I settle on a forest fire and move my chair to put them out of my line of sight.
As I’m delivering a pithy John Gielgud anecdote, the outrageous table of banshees (or manshees, perhaps?) interrupts the punchline by beginning a chase, triumphantly grabbing a phone off another and like an Olympic hurdler, jumps over an adjacent sofa, looks down at the kidnapped mobile, drops his jaw, and provocatively reveals to the crowd the treasure he’s discovered on his friend’s camera roll: a picture of an enormous erect cock. Delighted gasps are heard as the mischievous queen loudly confronts the embarrassed owner of the dick pic, "And YOU said Charlie was a Bottom!". They laugh, I seethe (and I quietly agree it is indeed a tragedy Charlie isn’t a Top).
I’m frustrated and look my straight friend dead in the eyes to apologise for coming here, when instead some venomous words slither from my mouth: "You know, it’s times like these when I understand why some people are homophobic!".
My friend lovingly looks back at my twisted face and says, "It’s just not fair, is it?".
I agree effusively, “Their behaviour is appalling! They’re so loud! So inconsiderate!” However, I have misunderstood her meaning. And she says something that will stay with me for the rest of my life.
"It’s not fair because you couldn’t do any of that when you were younger, could you?".
Silence.
More words tumble out of my mouth: "If only they knew what my generation went through so they can act like this!".
I see now I was being self-centred and unreasonable, but I explained to my friend how when I was younger, I would have given anything to sit with other LGBTQ+ people and be free to laugh over a shared popular queer culture, with visible mainstream queer stories and characters on our televisions, rather than my clandestine ways of shamefully stealing books and plays from local bookshops and libraries hoping to find gay role models, who after I’d find them and begin to cherish their works and voices, would inevitably end up being killed for being gay, committing suicide, dying of AIDS, or perishing thanks to drug addiction, neglect, incarceration, or exile. It’s hard for a kid to imagine a happy future when all his superheroes are condemned.
I prayed to a hateful god for equal rights and openly visible gay teachers who could shield me from school bullies. I endured beatings for standing up against homophobic tormentors and faced apathy from teachers who smirked as I was called faggot and given a soapy cloth to clean the word queer written in indelible marker from my locker. My family supported me (alongside the great Intercom Trust) by fighting against the oppressive policy of Section 28 to keep me safe in school after ending up in intensive care thanks to yet another beating. Unlike today's online generation with apps which can connect likeminded LGBTQ+ people while waiting for a bus, I had to seek solace on an enormous PC, smothering my 56K modem at 2am with a pillow so I might sit for hours talking through my keyboard to other gay people, but as the sun would rise, it revealed a new day in a world which thought being gay was wrong.
These kids on the other side of the bar have PrEP now. I was too late, and instead I have HIV. They have good looks and youth; I have crow's feet, tired eyes, and the greys are starting to show. They appear to have nothing but pride and freedom, while my lifetime seems so drenched in shame.
I reflect on my journey, I can't help but think of that little gay kid, Andrew Derek Keates, born in 1986 and realise I’m still the same boy waiting to have everything taken away, who once believed he wouldn't be much more than a guy in an office. But he defied expectations, leaving his homophobic school with great qualifications and thriving in a college of misfits and creatives in the New Forest and played a significant role in setting up the first Gay Pride in Bournemouth, leading the very first Pride March; shoulder to shoulder with LGBTQ+ people of every shape, size and age. We were united.
He would go to some of the best drama schools in the world, run a theatre with a man who would be like a second father, seek out all those gay playwrights who he used to hide their works under his bed, and direct those plays in theatres on the Fringe, West End, and internationally. He’d be written about in books and even featured in documentaries. And when diagnosed with HIV, he’d become a national poster boy, activist and stand on the Dominion Theatre stage and proudly (and vulnerably) declare his status to a packed house of industry peers so others would learn not to be frightened of HIV and could see a face who wasn’t ashamed. He’d even be lucky to be alive in a time when the virus was not a death sentence thanks to medication.
In the realm of love, he’d find brief and painful encounters, but love nonetheless, each teaching him invaluable lessons about resilience. It seems nearly all of my life has been lesson after lesson of resilience.
As my find refocuses back to my little table with my friend back in front of me. My attention was irresistibly drawn to this group of LGBTQ+ people, instinctively recognising them as my own tribe and I felt somehow left out even though none of us knew each other. I suppose the yearning to belong will never leave my generation because so much of my youth was about identifying the threats and looking for safety while being marginalised and left out. I was one of them. I believe the loneliness experienced as a little queer boy; always looking for playmates amidst the bullies never truly leaves us. But as I grow older, it’s easy to feel more and more forgotten by each generation as we become invisible due to age, beauty, success, failure, relevance and popularity. The quest to be equal and celebrated seems to nose dive the older we become. Is pride only for the young? Perhaps it is to some extent, and I realise we must never judge younger generations for not living through the hateful times they weren’t even born in. And yet, my identity and guidance all came from learning from the condemned of the past. Perhaps it’s time for me to concentrate on the future, or heaven forbid, just live in the present.
At times, individuals who display performative and loud behavior in social settings may do so as a defense mechanism. By being boisterous and critical, they create a facade that shields their vulnerability and insecurities. This performative persona serves as a protective layer, preventing others from seeing their true emotions or weaknesses. In essence, it becomes a coping strategy to cope with feelings of inadequacy or fear of judgment. By projecting a larger-than-life personality and voicing strong opinions, they divert attention from their inner struggles, ultimately masking their true selves. Behind the noise and critique lies a complex tapestry of emotions and a need for validation, understanding, and acceptance. Understanding this underlying defense mechanism can help us approach such individuals with compassion and empathy, acknowledging that their outward behavior might be a means of self-protection.
Later that night, I was in the smoking area when one of these loud, beautiful, glorious homosexuals from the big noisy table came up to me and asked if I had a spare fag. I responded with a self-loathing pun: ‘You’re looking at one.". He smiled and said, "Bitch Please, you’re handsome!”. I gave him a cigarette, he asked me where was good to go and I recommended the same gay bars and clubs I used to go to when I was his age as an older queen did for me when I first got to London too. He took a final drag from his ciggie and thanked me by kissing my cheek and went on his way into the night, loudly and proudly. And I felt seen and with one of my own. And one day, he’ll do the same for another young LGBTQ+ person with their whole life ahead of them, and sadly look back at his own pain too. I only hope times continue to improve for our community, but we all share the fear it could all be taken away.
The hypocrisy of this post is I too can be loud and can appear to be attention seeking. I’ve always had a need to buy rounds of drinks (when I can’t afford them) on a night out, not to show off, but to ensure everyone has the happiest night together. I give sincere compliments and praise for achievements (even to strangers) so at least someone has said something encouraging to them within that day. I’ll even make a fool of myself so laughter can erupt at my expense, better that than quiet sadness or melancholy.
Attention-seeking behavior is often misconstrued as mere self-indulgence, but the truth lies far deeper. It is not about seeking attention for ourselves; instead, it's a profound desire to ensure that everyone around us receives the recognition and validation they deserve by having our attention. Having battled feelings of worthlessness and loneliness for so long, we comprehend the pain of being overlooked or dismissed. To witness another person, even in the simplest ways – a joke, an impression, a supportive gesture, or an encouraging look, a kiss on the cheek – is our way of bestowing a precious gift. It's a way of saying, "I see you, and you matter."
In a world that can be cold and unforgiving, this act of giving attention becomes a powerful source of connection and healing, transcending the misunderstanding and revealing the true essence of our intentions – to uplift others and foster a sense of belonging for all. And that’s why we do it so loudly.
