Taylor Wessing's Barriejon Levett on coming out in the 1990s

By Barriejon Levett, Business Acceptance Analyst at Taylor Wessing.

As a closeted teenager in the nineties, when Section 28, a Thatcherite policy which forbade schools from "teaching the acceptability of homosexuality as a pretended family relationship" was in full force, I managed to sidestep most of the bullying and humiliation heaped upon anyone who was deemed to be "queer".

I was aware of it, and occasionally subject to it, of course. I was at an all-boys school in the northwest of England. Anything short of hyper masculine was deemed "queer": Washing your hands. Eating salad. Not playing sports. Wearing white trainers. All of these (and many others) would single you out for abuse. Sometimes it was just your mates – banter as they call it but other times it would be the true bullies that found you.

Teachers were deaf to this, gagged by Section 28, they could not even acknowledge the bullying going on in front of them. I recall once, in a history class, being called a "fa**ot" multiple times by one lad. (I was wearing the wrong type of Pods shoes – if you're my age you'll know – if you're not you can Google it). The teacher didn’t hear him until he called me a "Jew". The lad was promptly removed from the class for that.

I was sure this was just "school" in the nineties and have always brushed it off as such but now I realise the effect this had on me.

I knew I was gay at fourteen and the terror I felt at being "discovered" was often overwhelming. I learned to hide, even from myself, the way I felt. How lonely it was to feel that there was no one else in the world like me. I dreaded anything that might give me away. I prayed I would "get better". But I never did. I hated myself.

And my research into this topic shows that my experiences at school, even with the repeal of Section 28, were not much different than those experienced by today's youth:

According to Stonewall's Growing up LGBT+ report published in 2021 things have improved at school but still:

• 42% of LGBT+ school pupils have been bullied in the past year, double the number of non-LGBT+ pupils (21%).

• 48% of pupils have had little to no positive messaging about being LGBT+ at school in the last year. However, pupils whose schools had positive messaging about being LGBT+ also had reduced suicidal thoughts and feelings – regardless of whether they are LGBT+ or not.

• Half of LGBT pupils hear homophobic slurs 'frequently' or 'often' at school

• Almost nine in ten secondary school teachers (86%) and almost half of primary school teachers (45%) say that pupils in their schools have experienced homophobic bullying.

At home, even with my family, I still felt the need to be closeted.

My Dad, from Oldham, a pub landlord and ex-forces, was a walking stereotype of "bloke". He and my Mum had split when I was a baby and by the time I was a teen my big sister was married to a royal marine, my big brother had followed my dad into the Army and both mum and dad had remarried.

The family vibe was "military" for want of a better phrase. Men were Men. Women cooked and cleaned. Poofs were little carpeted footstools, limp wristed actors off the telly or that bloke down the street who you were told "never to accept sweets from".

By sixteen I was off to sixth form college and to hide my gayness had developed an imaginary crush on Celine Dion, filling my walls with her posters. (Seriously – I thought that would hide the gay!)

My dad later told me he knew I was gay when the first Celine poster went up "If you were straight, you would have picked someone with t*ts!" was his less than PC quip.

I first came out to my sister, at 16, in the most nineties way it is possible to come out. We were sat watching an episode of Jerry Springer and it was all about people coming out as gay.

She asked me what I would do if our Nick, my brother, came out, and I answered that it wouldn't bother me.

She agreed with me saying it was not an issue and I'm still not sure to this day, if she was helping me out, giving me an opening, but I quickly shot back, well if its ok for Nick what would you do if I came out. She smiled and said, well I guess you just did, and I cried. Not sure why, pent up emotions, relief, happiness. Probably all of the above.

My sister then said, "you've got to tell mum". I shook my head. She said, "she'll be fine you know" and my mum walked into the living room and said "tell me what?" I answered "nothing!" and like all big sisters do my sister took the reins and, like a tabloid paper, outed me to my mum. "He's gay and thinks you'll hate him".

My mum looked at me, gave me a hug and said "you dozy sod. Why would I hate you. Now do you want a brew?"

Each family member reacted with the same love and affection as I had hoped for but also dreaded would never arrive. Deep down I should have known they would be fine but that fear, that unrelenting anxiety had been built into me by the constant early age barrage of homophobia that I now realise was anything but benign. It had instilled in me a self-hatred and self-doubt that I projected on to my family, it convinced me that the people who loved me most would suddenly turn on me. Disown me. Hate me.

My Dad was the last one to be told. He could have a temper my dad, an unwashed spoon in the sink could set off his last nerve. I dreaded him finding out. I was living at home with him, now seventeen and starting to venture out to Rochdale's premier (only) gay spot – the Stage Door. Known colloquially as the "back door" by the ever-tolerant locals and its gaggle of local Queens.

One night I came home to the pub and only the bar man was there waiting to lock up after a quite weeknight. My dad was out with his wife. I sat down with the bar man, we will call him John, and we had a quick drink. He seemed nervous and then he turned to me and said "I've dropped you in it with you dad mate. I told him I'd seen you coming out of the Stage Door the other night". I blurted some nonsense about that not being true. Why would you say that? Lots of denials but he just said "your dad knows your gay mate. You need to speak to him".

So, I did what I thought was best and avoided him like the plague for a week, slipping home after dark and heading out to college before he woke. Until one night, thinking he was already in bed I snuck into the pub and found him sitting alone at one of the gaming machines, a pint in his hand and cigar between his lips.

I sat with him, and it was quiet for a moment and then I asked, "did you ask john if I was Gay?"

My Dad nodded and said "yes" and I asked, "is that a problem?"

I was terrified, he was a good dad really, despite his flaws, but this was a lot. He was not a man to share his feelings willingly, he found it easier to be angry than to be kind but even so I knew he loved me, and I feared that this would be the end of that.

He looked at me, I remember his hand shook, as he took his cigar from between his lips.

"You're my son" he said "and I love you. It doesn’t matter to me."

I should have hugged him, but I didn’t.

I was in shock I think, I had expected a backlash. I had, like so many young gay men before me, prepared a speech. Prepped myself to my defence. I had it all planned in my head. I'm still me. It doesn't change anything. I just want to be happy. All the cliches and soap opera drama a proper gay could wish for.

And he stole it. He took it away. He was being reasonable for the first time in his life! He did everything right! Exactly what he should have done and that no one believed him capable of. And I threw a tantrum and stormed out as my dad, poor man, stood dumbstruck behind me.

In my defence, I was 17, emotional and scared. I spent the night at walking around in the dark. I pulled myself together and went home as the sun rose. I apologised, we talked, he told me everything was ok.

Before I left for Uni he came with me once to the Stage Door. Chatted to everyone in there. Proudly introduced me as his son to all he met. A great big Drag Queen called Crystal sat on his knee and gave him a rainbow flag card with a big lipstick kiss on the back. He told his wife she had competition. She didn't flinch.

I regret that I didn’t trust him enough to tell him till I was forced to. Perhaps I would never have found the nerve. He was flawed, had his moments, but he was a great dad, even better after I came out and we found that honest place between us. I had built a wall to protect myself but inadvertently shut out the one person I needed to hear me the most.

My dad died three years ago now. He was ill for some time and passed away just as covid restrictions were being lifted so we could only visit him sporadically. I spoke to him each day on the phone and when he passed, they asked me to call into the hospital to collect his belongings. There wasn't much, just his keys and wallet and some clothes.

Later, at home, I went through his wallet. There were the usual debit cards and photos of kids and grandkids. A few quid in loose change and there, tucked in the back was a shabby little rainbow business card, with a big lipstick kiss on the back.

Coming out to friends after that seemed like a cake walk and I consider myself incredibly lucky to have the family I do. They’ve made my life as a gay man easier than many have it and it's something I will be eternally grateful for. The figures for others though are less happy than my own story.

According to Stonewall's LGBT in Britain: Home and Communities

• Only half of lesbian, gay and bi people (46 per cent) and trans people (47 per cent) feel able to be open about their sexual orientation or gender identity to everyone in their family.

• Three in ten bi men (30 per cent) and almost one in ten bi women (8 per cent), say they cannot be open about their sexual orientation with any of their friends, compared to two per cent of gay men and one per cent of lesbians.

• Almost one in five LGBT people (18 per cent) have experienced homelessness at some point in their lives

Just before I came out to my dad, I met a new friend at college, I wasn't fully out at the time, having told only a few close friends. This new friend was Daren, but everyone called him Tinkerbelle, or Tink. They called him this because he was "a little fairy". He loved the name.

Tink was one of the first openly gay people I had met, he was everything his name suggests. He was camp and colourful and over the top. At first, he scared me. I'm not exactly butch, but Tink's level of gay was so far off my radar I had to take time to adjust. At first, I kept my distance but as they say it takes one to know one and Tink new me from the start and broke down my own internalised homophobia.

We soon became fast friends, and I realised then what true and blatant homophobia was.

Tink was homeless, surfing from one couch to the next whilst trying to keep his college work up to date. He was retaking his GCSE exams as his school had become a place of torture for him and the teachers (here comes section 28 again) could not or would not protect him. Worse than that, his mother, an allegedly religious woman had thrown him out at 15 claiming he was a gay devil sent to test her soul. I can be thankful that Tink was an only child. Social workers had placed him in care, but he suffered abuse there and ran away.

I found myself taking on the role of protector for Tink. He was a slight boy, only 5.7. He loved to dress up and wore the most, at least I thought at the time, over the top clothes.

I was all Ben Sherman shirts and indigo jeans whilst Tink would rock up to college in cut off denims so tight and high he would put Daisy Duke to shame. He wore glitter lip balm and spice girl platform trainers. (which still left him shorter than me – which irritated him no end!)

He suffered no end of bullying and name calling. Every day was a repeat of the previous day's abuses. And not just in college. People would laugh and heckle him just walking down the street. I would beg him to report it to the college, but he refused. He said it didn’t get to him, but I knew it did. Often, I would find him in one of the college study rooms. Just sitting. No books. Just an escape from the noise of his abusers.

We tried to find a pub or bar but in Oldham it was difficult. Not that there was a shortage of them just a short supply of pubs where Tink didn’t attract attention. We heard about a place called PJs and we trekked out one evening after classes. It was way out of the town centre. When we got there, it had been burnt down. An arson attack. Someone had spray painted "bummers" across the charred door.

We never stayed out after dark in Oldham again.

When I learned Tink had spent two nights sleeping rough I convinced my dad to let him stay with us. The first time they met was something else. I had told Tink to dress "normal" and prepped my dad as best I could, but he still looked at Tink like he was meeting a Martian for the first time. But it soon settled. Tink was finally somewhere safe, and dad and he would laugh and joke – usually at my expense – but it felt right. I was proud of dad for that. It takes a lot for an ex-soldier born in 1942 to come to terms with a fairy in a gold glitter Mumu mincing round his home.

I recall coming home one morning; it was about 6.30 am and I had been helping out a friend set up a restaurant they were opening, and we had toiled all night. My Dad was sat in his usual armchair in the living room. He was checking the horses in the paper and had a pint of Guiness and a steak pie on the arm of the chair and a roll up ciggie in his mouth. Tink was sat reading the other bit of the paper. He was wearing a burgundy taffeta ball gown. It was huge. It was covered in sequins and crystals. It was a ball gown.

I stood in the doorway and remember saying "what the F**K are you wearing". Tink laughed – " I seen it in the charity shop and it was only three quid. Do you like it?"

I looked to my dad for support. "it’s a ball gown" I said. "it’s a bit much for this time of day"

My dad looked up from his papers. "Leave him alone." He said "he's not doing any harm"

"Are you kidding me?" I blurted.

My dad fixed me an icy stare. "If the lad wants to wear a frock to breakfast leave him be." Quickly followed by "you know what your problem is… you're a homophobe!".

A few months later Tink and I had been to Manchester shopping. It was midday and I was leaving early to get back to do a shift at the pub for dad. Tink planned to head into the village for a drink. We were on Princess Street and as Tink crossed the road a group of four lads called after him. I won't repeat what they called him. It was vile.

I turned to see if Tink was ok, he was halfway across the road when he shouted back at them. It wasn't polite and far too sexualised for this place, and I knew instantly that the lads would not let it go.

The four of them turned and ran at Tink who was now almost across the road. I started running too but they were too close to him, and I didn't get there in time. The first of them piled into him. Tink was half his size and was knocked bodily into the air. He hit the floor hard and before he did, I think the others had already started kicking him. They were screaming obscenities at him as they stamped on him.

I reached them and hit out at the first one I could. I remember seeing people just standing there watching. Doing nothing.

I'm not a fighter. I think, besides my brother, this was the only punch I'd ever thrown in anger. I didn’t last long. They knocked me to the ground and started kicking me too. Luckily, I was close to the wall and my face and head were shielded so they only managed a few blows to my back. As quickly as it had started, they were gone.

I was bruised but Tink was hurt. His eyes were swollen and black, his nose was bleeding. His hand was so swollen it looked like a bear's paw. He was covered in bruises.

A lady from a nearby shop came over and gave us water and an ambulance arrived. We were looked over and they wanted to take Tink to the hospital, but he refused saying he just wanted to go home. The police arrived. Two big constables with beards. I remember it was weird – you didn’t see constables with beards back then.

They started asking us questions. The first thing they said to Tink was, "why are you dressed like that". He was wearing a little vest thing and his signature cut offs. They asked where we were going. Tink told them "The gay village". They stopped taking notes. They asked, "did you try it on with one of them?" One of them reached into his bag and pulled out a pair of surgical gloves and slipped them on. He never explained why. He never touched any evidence.

They told us it would be a lot of bother to try and find the guys. They wouldn’t get charged unless Tink agreed to go to hospital. They said we were wasting their time really. They left us soon after with a parting note. "Just be more careful in future boys. Not everyone round here likes Canal Street."

As I pulled Tink to his feet and we set off to hobble to Victoria to get the train home I heard someone ask the woman, the nice one who had brought us water and stayed with us until the ambulance arrived, "what happened?"

"Oh nothing" said the nice woman "just a couple of queers chatting up the wrong ones." She laughed.

Her laugh rang in my ears all the way home.

We got home and never heard from the police. My dad made a few calls. He "knew a few people". No incident was recorded.

Tink's story isn’t as unusual as I thought. The homelessness, the nasty parents, the educational problems. They're all linked to the bigotry he suffered for most of his teenage years.

Reading through the research reveals some sobering statistics:

Galop's Hate Crime Report 2021 says:

• Two-thirds (64%) of LGBTQ+ people had experienced anti-LGBT+ violence or abuse.

• Of these, 9 in 10 (92%) had experienced verbal abuse, 3 in 10 (29%) had experienced physical violence and 2 in 10 (17%) had experienced sexual violence.

• Only 1 in 8 LGBT+ people surveyed had reported the most recent incident that they had experienced to the police. Less than half of those who did report their experienced to the police were satisfied with the response.

• Only 1 in 8 LGBT+ people surveyed had reported the most recent incident that they had experienced to the police. Less than half of those who did report their experienced to the police were satisfied with the response

• Only 1 in 3 respondents who wanted or needed support were able to access it.

• Two in five trans people (41%) have experienced a hate crime or incident because of their gender identity.

Tink recovered from the attack, but his mental health had suffered both from the years of previous abuse, his abandonment by his mother, and because, like many other LGBT people he feared being discriminated against by treatment providers.

He dropped out of sixth form and started working in the bars in Manchester. He started staying out all hours and my dad was starting to feel taken advantage of.

We had both started drinking, but Tink started taking drugs and all the other dubious pass times a young gay lad could get up to on Canal Street at the turn of the millennium.

I was enabling him really and I know that now but back then, at 18, we were just doing what 18-year-olds do - out every night, the life and soul of every party but I was luckier than him. I had a family and a stable background. Tink was family to me, but Dad eventually threw him out.

Luckily, I persuaded my mum to let him go to her in Bournemouth.

He hated it. There was nothing to do. Mum took him to work with her. Cleaned him up finally allowed him to come home only after she got him a council flat in Blackfriars court in Salford. My mum and dad agreed to split the rent. The first time they'd agreed on anything since 1981.

The Blackfriars estate was known as "fairy towers ", because legend has it all you had to do was tell the council you were gay, and they gave you a flat there. Legend or not it worked for Tink.

He stayed clean but he needed a proper job. I saw an advert in the paper for coop travel agents – I drew up a CV and applied in his stead. He had a telephone interview first – I did it. He didn’t know. They called him in for an in-person interview. I forced him to go. He wore one of my shirts and a tie. It drowned him. He looked like an Orphan. I didn't believe for one second he could get through an interview.

They didn’t offer him the job with the COOP but instead sent him to Royal Caribbean to apply to work out on their cruise ships based out of Barbados or Bermuda. Somewhere sunny. He went straight there – it was only across the street. He left my tie in the CO-OP.

He got the job. Bar person / steward on board one of their ships. I was livid. I was off to Uni in Scotland. Tink was off to the Caribbean.

We had a big party to see him off at My Dads pub. My Dad hugged him. Told him he was like a son to him. Told him not to shag too many sailors. We all laughed. I swear I saw my dad wipe away a tear as we left that night.

Tink left the UK for the first time in his life to go to that job. I had to pay to get him a speeded-up passport so he could get there on time. He still owes me that £75.

His first trip was cut short by a hurricane which damaged the ship before it even left harbour. The company paid to put him up with seven other crew members in a House in Miami so they could be kept on standby. He lived there, with six other gay crew members for seven months. Fully paid. Again, I was livid. I was in pissing it down Glasgow and Tink was being paid to party on the beach.

When they asked him to return to the ship, he got a flight back to the UK instead, but Miami had changed him, and he wanted to travel. He really was never good at "work".

I was at Uni in Scotland and Tink would travel. He stayed with my mum or my dad when he was between trips. He moved out to Sydney, Australia, in 2006. He met a lovely man named Alex. He was kind and loving to Tink.

They are now happily engaged. They have two pugs. Harold and Marge. Tink picked the names. I'm not sure Alex gets why.

Alex, owns a hair salon. Tink works there occasionally. He spends most of the rest of his time on the phone with my mother. Thank God I'm not paying the phone bills.

When the wedding day actually arrives – I think we're now in year 4 of the engagement – I will fly out to be best man. I'm going to wear a burgundy taffeta ballgown.

Before starting this article, I wasn't aware of how much homophobia can shape a person's world. I have always thought of myself as lucky to have avoided the worst excesses of discrimination but should we really have to consider ourselves lucky to have only experienced a bit of prejudice?

No one ever celebrates a "bit of Cancer" for example. Big analogy I hear you say. Not really, I answer. Because that’s what Homophobia, Biphobia and Transphobia are. They are a cancer. A Cancer on society. Like all other forms of prejudice and hate.

Those who suffer from it may recover, like me and Tinkerbelle, but the fear of remission is real and ever present. Like any patient we must constantly be aware of the dangers of a new outbreak. Sometimes we might not recognise the symptoms right away.

Sometimes we ignore the symptoms because it's easier to just live with them but to do that means the disease is all the stronger when we try to tackle it.

We all need to keep striving for a cure daily. Just like cancer we must keep fighting against it and soon, hopefully very soon, we will add these "phobia" to the list of irradicated diseases.