The first
sign that Pride is on the horizon is usually the fancy dress shops. Gone are
the ubiquitous paper masks of Harry Styles, replaced by feather boas and stripy
rainbow hats. In one auspicious corner of the Arndale Centre, a woman stands
decked out like a gaudy Pearly Queen, occasionally dropping handfuls of
colourful wigs and hats on the ground. “Get your Pride merchandise!
Pride this weekend!” she exclaims uninterestedly. I suddenly feel slightly
underdressed when I arrive at the station on the way to work, as hundreds of
ticket holders mill around waiting for friends. I am not one of them.
It’s not like I’ve never been to a Pride
event. Over the past decade, I've lined the streets of central Sydney with
thousands of others to cheer on the processors, joined the after parties in
Bristol and ridden the rickety old rides in Brighton. Just not in Manchester.
Well, there was the once, but I drank too much in preparation and passed out
behind a kebab van somewhere near the Village. I swore this year would be
different.
My mini
Pride Fringe adventure began the Thursday before the fences were put round the
main area. I was to be taking part in an LGBTQ art trail around the Village to
showcase art made by members of the community and to socialise and have a
drink. It turns out that art suits the Village. Seeing paintings hanging in
your regular watering holes gives them a whole new edge. In particular, Via
Fossa felt like an established gallery with its wooden walkways and hidden
nooks and crannies. It was a resounding success. I could feel the kebab van
moving steadily away.
The main
weekend arrived and I stayed away from the city centre in case I was tempted by
the bright lights or hypnotised by Anastacia’s wailing siren call. Sunday
was to be the second part of my toe dipping into the fringes of Pride. I
stepped out into the bustling city centre, narrowly avoiding an inebriated
group of Pride-goers running away from a Princess Street Chinese restaurant
without paying. One member was pulled back sharply by her glow-stick wristbands
as I reached Bangkok Bar and my night’s entertainment.
I should
take this moment to say that I had friends on the inside: wristband holders who
had spent the weekend taking in all Pride has to offer. I waited for them as
the soaring voice of Conchita Wurst rose majestically out of the car park
behind Portland Street and told us all that her heart will go on. A small
amount of envy at the crowd’s cheers was quickly dissipated when I closed my eyes
and saw the kebab van backing up. Back to reality, my friends and I spent an
entertaining evening making ‘Queer Art’ (the Tate won’t be calling anytime soon) and
listening to bands performing. Simple, yet effective. Talk of all the other
Pride alternatives (Drunk at Vogue, Homoelectric) remained just talk, as we
threw shapes on the dance floor. Next time. It may have been a paddle in the
shallow pool rather than full immersion in the Pride Fringe, but it was a start
and set the ball rolling for future years of exploring what the weekend has to
offer. Sadly, however, I still had a kebab on the way home.
Words:
Andrew Collier
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