London: Palaces, Pride, and the Perfect Comeback

The World Traveller Series — Entry No. 6

by Brett Hayhoe

There are cities you fall in love with gradually, and cities that claim you before you’ve even unpacked. London claimed me long before I arrived. It claimed me through history books and royal occasions watched from the other side of the world, through pageantry and ceremony and the particular weight that this city carries in the imagination of anyone who has ever felt the pull of the Crown. By the time I finally stood on its streets, London did not need to introduce itself. I already knew.

My first visit, in 2009, was technically a stopover — a day or two each way, en route to the InterPride AGM in Belgium with my then Deputy Chair of Pride March Victoria, and on the way home via Amsterdam and Paris before doubling back through London. We drank, we wandered, we did nothing of any particular significance. London was barely a glimpse.

But glimpses, sometimes, are enough to confirm what you already suspected. It was 2012 that gave me London properly — a full week, as International Guest of Pride London, with the city laid out before me like a gift I had been waiting rather a long time to unwrap.

THE GOLDEN CITY

Paul, the then President of Pride in London and his husband Neil, known universally and affectionately as FiFi, were the most generous of hosts. My accommodation was entirely complimentary and entirely five stars, which is, I can confirm, the correct way to experience London. They gave me a guided tour that I would not trade for anything.

We began, as any self-respecting monarchist must, at Buckingham Palace. I want to be precise about what I saw, because photographs do not prepare you for it: the gates are gold. Not gilded, not gold-coloured, not gold-adjacent — gold. Standing before them, I felt exactly what I expected to feel, which is to say I felt everything. For someone who has followed the Royal Family from the other side of the world with the devotion most people reserve for religion, this was not a tourist moment. This was a pilgrimage.

From the Palace we walked The Mall — that magnificent, tree-lined ceremonial route that stretches toward Trafalgar Square, which my feet came to refer to, by the end of the week, as something rather less polite. London’s cobblestones are spectacular to look at and absolutely merciless to walk on. I went through two pairs of shoes. London did not apologise.

Trafalgar Square. Leicester Square. Soho, in all its glorious, unapologetic vitality. The Tate. And then, on an evening that I still think about with considerable pleasure, the National Portrait Gallery — opened for the launch of Gay Icons, a book celebrating LGBTQ+ figures of history and culture, where I found myself in conversation with Sir Ian McKellen. Knight of the realm, titan of stage and screen, and one of the most fearless advocates the LGBTQ+ community has ever had. As a royalist, I confess the knighthood made the encounter approximately thirty percent more thrilling. He was magnificent.

Later in the week, because London does not believe in doing things by halves, there was GAY and there was Heaven — two of the most legendary LGBTQ+ venues on the planet, both within the same city as Buckingham Palace’s golden gates. Only London could offer you all of that in a single week and consider it perfectly normal.

THE MARCH

And then there was Pride. I marched in Pride London on a day that was everything a Pride march should be — enormous, joyful, loud, and moving in ways that sneak up on you even when you think you are prepared. To march through the streets of this city, this particular city, with its history and its weight and its golden gates, was something I had wanted for a long time. It did not disappoint.

Before the march, I was standing near one of the fountains in Trafalgar Square, wearing an official Pride t-shirt. A man approached and asked if he could ask me a question. I said yes.
He then informed me, in the manner of a person who felt he was making rather a good point, that he wanted to know why — and I am paraphrasing only very slightly — “you poofters need a day of your own.”
I told him it was because the other three hundred and sixty-four belonged to arseholes like him.
He did not have a follow-up question.
London, I thought, as I rejoined the march: I do love you.

THE SUMMARY

Where: London — Buckingham Palace, The Mall, Trafalgar Square, Leicester Square, Soho, the Tate, the National Portrait Gallery
When: A fleeting stopover in 2009; a glorious full week in 2012 as International Guest of Pride London
Why it matters: For a monarchist and royalist, London is not simply a great city — it is the city. Add Pride, Sir Ian McKellen, five star hospitality and the golden gates of Buckingham Palace, and you have a week that defines a life of travel.
Don’t miss: The gates of Buckingham Palace — photographs do not do them justice; The Mall at any time of day; the National Portrait Gallery; Soho on a Pride weekend; GAY and Heaven if the night calls for it
The vibe: Monumental, joyful, cobblestoned, golden — exactly as magnificent as you always knew it would be
Who was there: Paul and FiFi, Sir Ian McKellen, several hundred thousand Pride marchers, one very rude man in Trafalgar Square, and a monarchist in two pairs of ruined shoes

The World Traveller Series is published in Q Magazine and on the concierge and shop to the stars WordPress site ‘Ask Brett’, where there is also a storage of each episode as a Podcast. Entry No. 5 — Montpellier: The South, the Sun, and a Rolls Royce — is available now.