I’m on the homosexual express to Euston. It’s not called that, but its nature cannot be hidden. It doesn’t need to declare itself to family in a nervous fireside chat. 

It’s a warm Saturday in July and there’s a holiday atmosphere. The buffet car announcements are drowned out by unusually carefree and high pitched giggles. At the terminus an older chap gets off the train and shouts down the platform 'Come on girls!'. He is greeted by cheers, laughter and some very studied mincing. It’s 1989 and we are enjoying cautious liberation. Do what you like, just don’t draw attention to yourself, and don’t get caught where you shouldn’t be. Today the unacknowledged weight of conformity is lifted. We are still not ready to be ourselves, but we are allowed to be a different version of ourselves. 

We make our way to the assembly point. We’re short on glitter but we have our pink triangle badges. Most importantly we’re here, and the importance of that is not underestimated. 

I’m here with Ian who claims to be 28. Maybe he is. He has introduced me to important things like the music of Edith Piaf and the meaning of a 'Friend of Dorothy'. I have already tired of him and as we climbed into our sleeping bags the night before, he had whimpered in his lyrical dialect, 'Div ye nae love me ony mair loon?' I don’t, but I claim to be a stitched together creature who is just learning how to feel. He buys it and we make it to the march without further drama.

In Whitehall we stop to jeer at Downing street. The crucible of homophobia. The crack in the earth’s crust where molten wickedness seeps through. The witch is still there, injured but hanging on by her talons. My normal anger is multiplied by the rage of the crowd. Today I feel something new. I feel empowered. I have a voice. I believe I am brave and I allow possibility to sweep though me.

After the shouting, I stop to breathe as we cross the calming progress of the river and joy returns to replace indignation. We are exhausted by the time we get to Kennington Park, the ancient place of execution. It’s a fair old walk.

I see the man in front with so many holes in his jeans, more skin than denim. I see other boys. Not my kind, not clean cut. Tarty. A bird lands on the grass beside me and I catch myself. Even here I can’t shed a lifetime of judgement. 

The Eurovision winner is on the stage in the late afternoon warmth. She won before I was born, but she still counts as a celebrity. She sings well and I am grateful. She turned up to sing to me. She vindicates me.

On Monday I will go to work. I am back to being cautious and I won’t share anything about the weekend with my workmates. But I am taller and stronger.

Allan MacWilliam