Standing in Trafalgar Square on July 4, 2009, I was suddenly aware of the transformation Pride London appears to have gone through. It would be easy to rail against change and sorrowfully recall days gone by when Pride was good. Marching from Hyde Park to Victoria and then on to Clapham or Finsbury for a free party hundreds of thousands strong. Clocking but not really noticing the sponsors moving in and not before long the £15 then £20 entry charge. Pride at a price?
 
For once we voted with our feet, refusing to pay to be fobbed off with Pop Idol losers through the mists of overpriced WKD. The final straw, a sense of the sidelined, and when you know your city’s dignitaries and Pride organisers are not taking you seriously, is when the whole event is unceremoniously shunted onto Hackney Marshes. And so not for the first time, Pride London moved, not just in its geography but in its heart and soul. The march/parade (depending on your bent) became the focus and its route took on Saturday’s Oxford Street shoppers – why bother unless you’re going to stop traffic? Alongside the political rally and a series of speeches in Trafalgar Square, there was fun to be had with the cabaret around the corner in Leicester Square, DJs and the social throngs in Soho.

Pride finally seemed to have achieved its purpose. The political point, the being noticed by everyone from those planning a gawp to those Japanese obsessive photographers atop the open-top tour bus who can’t quite believe their luck (or misfortune), and of course the very public celebration of life, love and chaps.

I couldn’t help but notice how the very fabric of London had embraced the festivities. To see the National Gallery framed in pink ribbon decorated with its own celebratory labels of Gay, Lesbian and Trans was surprisingly emotional. I have no idea how King George IV responded to the idea of homosexuality or people of transgender, but on Saturday July 4 he was not given the choice. His Trafalgar Square statue base was wrapped in pink and, like it or not, he was part of the party.

Whatever your political persuasion, Boris’s assembly made all the right moves this time round. The newly pedestrianised mall at the base of the National Gallery became a marketplace of political stands, statement T-shirt stalls and not stupidly priced bars. Not cheap, but my emergency tenner came home intact. Sure, there was the obligatory on-stage ‘performances’ from Eurovision losers Scooch but, more importantly, the stage was largely inhabited by ramshackle talented-ish karaoke-style acts that were greeted by the crowd as long-lost superstars returning to the fold.

It appeared not to matter who was on stage or what they were doing – the real focus at Pride London was the people. Thousands packed into Trafalgar Square to come together for a collective celebration. Male, female, young, old, people of transgender, people deliberately having fun with gender, men in make-up, women not, men in tights, women with children, punks and poofs everywhere, and at last: atmosphere.

Oh, the poor sods charged with policing the fountains! Three hapless youths in waders (I’m not sure they felt the irony) hopelessly wandering towards the dozens who chose to jump in and party. Normally one to raise a cynical eyebrow, I found a broad smile lifting my mood as I watched the thousands in the square, on the statues and in the fountains bounce collectively to a mediocre cover of Lulu’s Shout! God I love being gay, I thought to myself, as my hips joined in the public fun of Love Shack. Sometimes naff but always fun with a feeling of the impromptu but heavily organised, there was a real sense of Pride belonging to the people. Forty years on from the events that spilled out of the Stonewall Inn in New York City, Gay Pride started with the people. The sponsors, chancers and entrepreneurs tried to make it theirs, but the people took it back. Bugger off with your pathetic attempts at profiteering from the political or trying to market the marginalised. Pride belongs to us – you can’t have it.
 
So what now for Brighton? We’ll see. On August 1, 2009, take a look around, or if you’re reading this after the event, think back to the fun you had. When walking through your city to the park on the outskirts, when the majority of the parade turns into London Road away from the centre (I’m not knocking London Road – after all I don’t want to take away from it the only excitement it sees all year – but it’s hardly the jugular) ask yourself: Is this my Pride? Does my city know I’m here?

Thank you for flying the flags from your council buildings Brighton, but London just pushed you up a gear. Let’s bathe the town halls in pink ribbons and see the word GAY in all its six-foot glory towering above our shoppers. Let’s not close Starbucks and Costa Coffee, just let’s paint all their windows pink so that they too can join in the fun. In 2010 let’s have two marches/parades (depending on your bent) starting at opposite ends of the Brighton & Hove seafront, let us rally in the Steine, for one whole day, Brighton, just stop the traffic – it’s for one day. Let us at least show the city, if not quite the world, that we are celebrating and joining together.
 
And in the midst of all the partying take a moment to think of the two souls my partner and I met later in the evening of London Pride. They had wandered into town from the depths of Surrey and were taken unawares by the thronging gay masses stretching the boundaries of Soho. They were very respectful of the gays and talked freely of how they had once visited a gay bar in Malaga and had a good time. Upon learning that I had once worked in a college near Epsom, an establishment close to their home, they helpfully informed me, “That place is a shit-hole. Full of darkies and cunts”.

We might wrap our buildings in pink ribbons, but we’re not there yet. Not even close. Don’t stop.