London is a living, breathing anthology of stories. From Soho to Dalston, every corner whispers tales of those who dared to be different. It’s in these streets that Oscar Wilde once walked, where Virginia Woolf penned her thoughts, and where countless unnamed heroes lived authentically, even when the world wasn’t ready for them.
I wrote my book The Queer Bible as a love letter to the LGBTQ+ community, asking my heroes, including Elton John, Munroe Bergdorf, Graham Norton and Lady Phyll, to write about theirs. It was meant to be a gentle reminder of our contribution to culture and society, but now, as we see queer narratives and lives erased from government websites in the States, and the rolling back of LGBTQ+ rights at home, it’s become a rallying cry.
The recent march in Parliament Square was London at its diverse, radical best
The Queer Bible protects and elevates our histories. I want queer people to not only survive, but thrive, knowing that they walk in the footsteps of bravest, most fabulous human beings to ever exist.
London’s Pride doesn’t switch off when the parade ends — that big, brilliant explosion of colour every summer. It’s in the café owners who put up rainbow flags without worrying about complaints. It’s in the tiny bookshops stocking queer authors because they know stories change lives. It’s in the nurses, the teachers, the bus drivers, the everyday allies who make it their business to say: you’re safe here. You’re seen. Soho on a Friday night reminds you you’re not alone. There are people just like you — falling in love, dancing badly, oversharing in kebab shops at 2am.
There are nights that can only happen in London: watching Madonna with Alan Carr and then heading into Soho. (We kept asking tuktuks to take us to The Box, everyone refused, the third driver laughed and politely informed us that we were standing outside it). Or organising The Queer Bible readings in the House of St Barnabas chapel. Candles lighting the church as we sat rapt listening to Russell Tovey reciting David Robilliard poetry. Watching Diana Vickers (!) standing on a chair in The Spurstowe pub belting out the battle cry from Wicked to a gaggle of cheering gays. London nightlife is what it is because of us, Londoners, in our wild, eccentric, diverse beauty.
A bigger vision of our city
One thing that gives me hope? The next generation. They’re loud, they’re proud, and they’re refreshingly impatient with bigotry. If you think you’re going to scare this new generation back into closets, you’ve clearly never met a 19-year-old, non-binary activist from Hackney.
Walk around east London, scroll through TikTok, sit in a classroom — you’ll see young queer and Trans+ Londoners building spaces on their own terms. Demanding better.
The next generation shows we’re not stuck. Progress doesn’t stop just because a loud minority want to drag us backwards
There’s power in that. They remind us that we’re not stuck. That progress doesn’t stop just because a loud minority want to drag us backwards. They’re busy painting a bigger, more inclusive picture of what London can be. And I, for one, am ready to follow their lead.
The recent march in Parliament Square in response to the Supreme Court’s ruling that “women” can only be defined by “biological” sex was London at its best: diverse, radical, and joyful. Yes, there was anger, but the prevalent feeling was of community, of coming together. Families with kids joined East End punks and activists to call for change. And in that throng of people calling for change I felt the opposite of shame, a shame I’d grown up with, I felt pride.
Difference is a superpower
I still remember the first time I walked down Old Compton Street as a nervous, closeted teenager. Wide-eyed. Terrified. Convinced everyone could see how different I was.
And then, a miracle. No one cared. A drag queen winked at me. Two men kissed in the middle of the pavement. A group of lesbians howled with laughter outside a pub. I realised, in one dizzy moment, that being different here wasn’t a weakness. It was a superpower.
London nightlife taught me queerness wasn’t something shameful to hide. G.A.Y. at Astoria in the early 2000s, Kylie performing on the bar of Boombox, beers at The George & Dragon and then on to The Joiners Arms where bricklayers rubbed shoulders (and other things) with the fashion set, including Alexander McQueen. These venues are long gone. Yet, while LGBQT+ spaces are closing at an alarming rate, and need protecting, we remain. Kids are starting new club nights. Every day a new fairy gets its wings. That’s the beauty of our fair city… it transitions. That evolution can be scary and painful, but on the other side, I dare to hope, is something more beautiful.
If you’re feeling scared right now, I get it
Of course, there’s work to do, always. Homelessness among queer youth is shockingly high. Trans+ people are vilified daily in the Press and live under the constant threat of harassment or attack. Racism, sexism, ableism: all those ugly forces haven’t magically disappeared just because there’s a rainbow crossing in Clapham.
But here’s the thing: London gives us the tools to fight back. All the messy, brilliant energy of different people saying: “This is our home too. We’re not going anywhere.”
So if you’re feeling scared right now, I get it. I am a very privileged, white, cis gay man, but I stand with you. Remember this: London has your back. Not in a fluffy, lip-service kind of way. In a sweaty, scrappy, shouty, dazzling way. In the way a city does when it knows that its soul depends on the people others try to push out.
Jack Guinness is the host of the podcast Queerphoria, and author of The Queer Bible, published by HQ in paperback, out now
