It's 1999. Tucked away in a dingy industrial estate far away from the vibrant historic centre sat my first gay haunt. With purposefully blacked out windows to hide the secrets inside with an inconspicuous facade sat Angels, the local and only gay bar where I gleefully spent my misspent youth.

To access the venue, you would wrap around your disguise for ultimate anonymity. Hat pulled down long dark coat and walk in the shadows, heart racing and petrified I’d be spotted. A trail of other closeted boys and girls on a similar treasure hunt to debauchery and hedonism. A jewel in an industrial crown, tucked behind the heavy doors and the burly bouncers lies a secret treasure of colour and sparkle. The drag queen heels were high the show was well rehearsed the classic songs like church hymns and the outfits daring and revealing.

For hours we moved on the dance floor, often in perfect synchronicity to the well-known rainbow anthems. The crowd grew wild as the drinks did flow, lust and temptation, snogging and groping and grinding without fear on the crowded dancefloor – look! – lit by the disco lights. 

Dirty old men, mincing Mary’s, twinks, bears, drag queens and lesbians all united in our desire to be free in our secret world, before we go back out in the straight grey world and pretend our glitter didn’t exist

No matter what the occasion I found myself drawn like a moth to a flame, tempted by my yearning loins and a craving for handsome men. I had an insatiable appetite back then, going back for seconds time and again.

I traded it in for the bright lights of London, the contrast hit me in a new world twice the size and double the glitter, my stomping ground upgraded to Compton street a world away from angels. What I wouldn’t give for another dance around that old camp fire. Gone now of course and lost, the history of that early pink world. 

Craig Binch