Standing in Manchester City Centre, I took a deep breath in. It was 1989 and I had just relocated to this Northern city. I had visited it over the years, but something felt different at that moment. I was 21 and had just run away from home with my partner at the time, John. I didn't realise it then, but this would be the start of my journey into LGBTQ+ activism, which would lead me to founding LGBT Foundation – an LGBTQ+ national health and wellbeing charity.
In my early years, I was fortunate to have an ordinary, happy upbringing in East Sussex on the South Coast. I had come out to some friends and people at college – many of whom were queer themselves – but not to any family members. I'd always had a creative streak and managed to avoid any homophobic bullying by surrounding myself with other creative people – I found my tribe amongst other artists. I found that was where I met either other LGBTQ+ people or allies.
A Painful Beginning: Disowned and Determined
By the time I was 16, I was very clear that I wanted to go to art college, which my father was adamantly against. We had many showdowns, but in the end, I won and was able to go. I had an amazing time at Lancashire Polytechnic – I joined the Students Union, became a member of the Gay Society, and found myself in student politics. In my first year, I became involved in organising an HIV Awareness Week and went home for the summer holidays dreaming of all the wonderful community organising I'd be able to do the following term.
Suddenly, that was all ripped away when my father found out I was gay and disowned me, leaving me unable to pay my fees and finish my degree. I was devastated. With nothing left to lose, I ran away with John to Manchester – I knew the gay scene there from my time at university, and I felt like it was a place where I could find a new purpose and a chosen family. And I did. I channelled what happened to me into a force for good and it made me more determined to do something with my life.
Founding Healthy Gay Manchester
The people I found in Manchester's vibrant scene led me to co-founding LGBTQ+ charity Healthy Gay Manchester with Hugh Polehampton, a senior officer at Manchester city council, Jamie Peate, a marketing and PR specialist, and Gerard Gudgion, a HIV social worker based in Oldham, in 1994. At the time, everything we heard about sex and sexuality was negative. A lot of people around me were very frightened – there was a general sense of doom, fear, and helplessness. Many hadn't realised the risks they were taking having sex. Condoms were seen solely as birth control, so there was a lot of resistance from gay men.
To change this narrative, I joined (and ultimately ran) the sexual health organisation MESMAC Manchester. I wanted to compete with mainstream advertising by trying different, innovative ways to reach gay and bi men – and we did, by producing several information resources per week in pocket-sized formats for easy distribution. Our workshops became like what you'd see at an Ann Summers party – we'd get a group of men together, in rooms above bars or in the back of LGBTQ+ spaces, and have a laugh while demystifying safer sex.
We even used marketing gimmicks that got people through the door, like offering free poppers – it wasn't until they came in that they realised it was party poppers, not the recreational drug used by many in the LGBTQ+ community. I'd rock up to these venues with bags filled with pamphlets, condoms, and sex toys. At first, because I was so young, people didn't know what to think of me, but as time went on, more people attended the workshops, and my age was no longer a talking point.
Three Decades of Activism: Progress and Pushback
Through three decades of queer activism, I've experienced extraordinary shifts: from Section 28 protests and vicious HIV stigma to the creation of civil partnerships and the gradual recognition of trans+ identities. And yet, for every step towards equality, there has always been a hand trying to pull us back. Today, that hand is stronger, more coordinated, and fuelled by a digital landscape that rewards rage over compassion.
Fear of vilification is making people want to be invisible. And invisibility is dangerous. But experience has taught me that our community is strongest when we refuse to disappear. When I arrived in Manchester back in 1989, queer visibility was an act of defiance. But it was also how we kept each other safe. We showed up, we filled dance floors and meeting rooms. We talked openly about sex, health, and identity when the world wanted us to whisper.
That spirit built the services we now rely on – Village Angels, Pride in Practice, specialist mental health and domestic abuse support, trans-inclusive healthcare. These exist because our community refused to be silent about what we needed. Even though nearly 40 years have passed, many of the issues we face have stayed the same. It's vital that members of our community and our allies stand up and speak out.
A Call to Action: Three Steps to Visibility
So, when I say now is the time to be visible, I'm not asking people to plaster rainbows everywhere or perform their queerness for the comfort of others. I'm asking you to do three things. First, I want you to be counted, by registering with your GP, by registering to vote and then, by going to vote. Where you can, disclose your identity and participate in the UK Census. Second, I want you to show up in your community in whatever way you can. Be it at a Pride event, with your chosen family or simply offering your time to someone in need. And finally, to be unapologetically yourself – because shrinking doesn't make you safer. It only makes you smaller.
If you've got LGBTQ+ people in your life, then being an ally means supporting and enabling the people that you love to be visible. That's how we change the story. 2026 is not just another year. It's a crossroads, and we want a queer revolution.
