We’ve all had our Bowie TV moment. You know the one. 1972. Arm dropped casually over Mick Ronson’s shoulder as he performed Starman on Top Of the Pops. Moments that made us feel we were no longer alone, that we were part of a tribe. I can’t sit here and claim that when I saw Frankie Goes To Hollywood on Channel 4’s The Tube one night in my hometown in Essex back in 1984 I thought that’s me sorted, pass the leather chaps. But it was me sorted. Me queer sorted. And all at tea time whilst I was supposed to be laying the table. Learning much to Thatcher’s dismay that I did have an inalienable right to be gay.
The dirt, the energy, the sex, the unapologetic gayness of the lads from Liverpool and that funky as fuck bass line made me want to go rather than come. I needed out. 14 years old and I started planning my escape. My queer escape and thanks to Frankie and the boys it was no longer courtesy of some softly spoken Brideshead angst-ridden soul or a horse-obsessed WWI ambulance driving lesbian, undivided and all. It was time to escape from the school library. I wanted what Frankie was having and yeah it would take a while but give me a couple of years and I’d be living the queer dream. Minus modelling those chaps Frankie was so keen on, although my shaved head adventures with Venus Rising and Chain Reaction almost saw me come close. So thank you, Holly, you made me take my eyes off Paula Yates for four minutes and just like Jimmy, Neil, Marc and George showed me the power of queer love
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