I didn’t exactly explode onto Birmingham’s gay scene in glorious rainbow technicolour, more creep apprehensively down a flight of steep stairs… and straight into an awkwardly familiar face!
In my late teens, Friday nights were spent alternating between several pubs on the social triangle of Aston University. I’d been drinking on campus for months prior to turning the legal age, but being student pubs, used to a clientele of fresh-faced undergrads, our spotty faces barely stood out. Doormen would turn a blind eye if you could rattle off your fake date of birth with enough conviction.
“My only previous knowledge of a gay bar came solely from The Blue Oyster in the movie Police Academy, which had a glitterball that the leather queens danced romantically beneath. I was now convinced every gay venue in the world had one.”
On one evening out, I couldn’t shake thoughts of another bar in town, the idea of which ignited my teenage hormones like a drop of blood screaming to a hunting shark. I decisively downed the dregs of my cordial-coloured Snakebite & Black, turned to my best-mate and announced, “I’m going to The Jester.”
The Jester was a basement gay bar, lurking beneath Scala Building, a shabby curve of concrete and glass on Holloway Circus. This typical 1960s development, of the style old-school Birmingham is notorious, had seen better days, even back in the ’80s.
I paced outside for an age, trying to muster the courage to go inside, but somebody would walk by or a bus would circle the roundabout and I would lose my nerve. Finally, the coast was clear and I dashed to the door. The unremarkable entrance took me to a tight flight of stairs, leading down into… well, I had no idea.
My heart pounded with a giddy mix of fear and excitement as I descended the steep stairs. All I could think was, Please, don’t let me trip.
I gripped the handrail with white-knuckled intensity, while trying to convey casual nonchalance. I managed to get to the bottom of the stairs upright and with the maximum dignity a gawky teen could carry off.
Guys turned to check out the new chicken in town.
I crossed to the elliptical central bar and ordered a beer.
Waiting for the barman to return with my drink, I dared a quick glance around, taking in the small dance floor, the neon lighting and, to my delight, a glitterball. They actually had a glitterball! My only previous knowledge of a gay bar came solely from The Blue Oyster in the movie Police Academy, which had a glitterball that the leather queens danced romantically beneath. I was now convinced every gay venue in the world had one.
“The Jester was a basement gay bar, lurking beneath Scala Building, a shabby curve of concrete and glass on Holloway Circus. This typical 1960s development, of the style old-school Birmingham is notorious, had seen better days, even back in the ’80s.”
I clocked one cute guy around the curve of the bar to my left.
He looks very handsome, I thought, around my age, chiselled jawline, slicked back black hair. Oh, hang on… It’s a lesbian.
My drink arrived. I let out a sigh of relief. I had made it inside, down the stairs and got a drink, all without incident. The night was mine!
A hand fell upon my shoulder.
“How are you, young man?”
I turned to find the benignly smiling face… of my form teacher.
Sat at a bar with my teacher wasn’t exactly how I’d expected my first night on the scene to turn out… but I could not have wanted for a better introduction.
It was a relief to finally have another gay man to confide in, even better that it was a familiar and trusted figure. Here was an opportunity to talk to someone with experience of a world I was taking my first steps into.
Although being caught in a gay bar by Sir had been a shock, I had not been surprised that he frequented such establishments. Rumours about him had circulated school for years. The shaved head, handlebar moustache, penchant for a leather jacket and the general Village People vibe had also been a bit of a giveaway. He wouldn’t have looked out of place swaying beneath that glitterball at The Blue Oyster.
“He looks very handsome, I thought, around my age, chiselled jawline, slicked back black hair. Oh, hang on… It’s a lesbian.”
As the evening progressed, Sir suggested we move on to The Nightingale, the city’s only night club in the 1980s. He was a member and offered to sign me in as his guest.
At this point in the club’s history The Gale, as it is affectionally known, was situated near the stage door of the Birmingham Hippodrome, at the end of a short alley. You had to ring the bell, wait until a face appeared behind a sliding slot, then confirm you knew what type of bar it was before being admitted.
Once inside, there was a cloakroom and small bar dominated by a gaudy fountain. Beyond was the main disco. On the far side of the dancefloor was a dimly lit area, partitioned off from prying eyes. I remember being baffled as to why anyone would want to disappear into a dark subdivision of a busy nightclub. How naive! So much to learn… and so much fun learning.
At the end of the night, Sir drove me home, dropping me off a few streets away, so as not to arouse suspicions of sleepless parents, inevitably awaiting their teenage son’s late-night return.
I am eternally grateful to my then form teacher for looking after me on my first night out on Birmingham’s gay scene.
I have told this tale many times over the years, inevitably greeted by cynical eyebrows and the implication he was on the make… but no, he was the perfect gentleman… and continues to be to this day.
To Sir, With Love. X
