I WAS drinking with an old friend in a small and friendly gay pub in London, run by an Irish couple, when a big man strode in, who looked as if he had just stepped off a construction site. He wore a yellow hard hat, a leather toolbelt with electrician’s tools, tight jeans, workman’s boots, lumberjack shirt and jacket, and a big khaki army bag full of tools. It was six-thirty in the evening.

Just finished work? I wondered. He stood beside us, drink in hand, and I noticed how clean his clothes were, and wondered whether he was the genuine sweaty article or not. And then something caught my eye, and I looked down at the toolbag. Sitting on it was a tiny little black dog with enormous eyes and downcast ears, with a silver collar festooned with little bells.

I tried to break through the hard shell that the man was studiously erecting around him, and asked him what sort of dog it was, and how old; he, with an effort, turned and told me that she was a pug, and she was eleven. He said it in such a gentle, soft, tender way, confirming that she was loved and cared for passionately for all of those years, that I wanted to respond with the praise that the little creature deserved, and find out all about pugs. And, indeed, him.

But his defences snapped shut, he was back in cruisy mode, a steely glint on his getting-on-for-fifty face. No talking, please, I’m mean and dangerous. But his little dog, no bigger than a cat, was doing the socialising, standing on her back legs and nuzzling my knee, giving the lie to her master’s display of sang-froid. He was a big softy, alright. But he was dressed for hardness.

Across the table from us that evening were two men in their fifties, who said practically nothing in the hour or so that we were there. One was a hugely overweight skinhead, with tattoos on his hairy arms, and an enormous beerbelly, protruding over the belt of his combat trousers. He sat quietly beside the other man, who looked older, with combats, a white airtex t-shirt, and whiter hair. I thought they were strangers for a while, because they were ignoring each other, but then the big guy started banging his fist absent-mindedly on the other’s knee.

Utter strangers became life-long companions with that gesture. They didn’t need to talk, they knew each other so well. The thinner, older one retaliated with a quick tweak on the giant’s nipple, and then they were scuffling like two schoolboys. I almost looked around for the teacher to stop them. Then they calmed down, with sheepish grins on their faces, and they finished their drinks and left. All without a word.

Burnt to Death

On their way out, they passed two pensioners sitting beside the door, who were wrapped up warmly in scarves and overcoats and nursing their glasses of ale with the care of the impecunious. One of them was eating a piece of what looked like ginger cake, that he had brought with him in a brown paper bag. They were telling each other stories, and enjoying the interchange thoroughly, grinning toothlessly at each other. They were completely unremarkable in any way, but for the fact that they were old, and in a gay venue. Their very ordinariness was intriguing; they weren’t using their clothing to make a statement, it was just keeping them warm.

One of the most difficult things to explain to people who aren’t gay is how we seem to recognise other gay people a mile away. This is true of most minorities – I’ve seen Jewish people spot each other within seconds, and I am left flabbergasted, unable to see any difference whatsoever. Our antennae are highly sensitised to the subtleties of posture and diction, looking for the give-away signs. But most of all, it is what we wear that declares us as gay.

It is something to do with the fact that we have become sensitised to the way in which gender is emphasised in this culture by what we wrap our bodies in; when we become self-conscious about our gender, through not matching the stereotypes of masculinity or femininity, we become doubly self-conscious about our sartorial style; one reflects the other. The simplest way to suss out a man’s sexuality is to look at whether he is aware of what he is wearing.

If he is not, and that lime-green polyester gansaí is thrown on in the mornings over a pair of shiny-arsed wine-coloured slacks, with holly-and-ivy socks and gold-buckled slip-ons, then I would be willing to wager that he has not had a moment’s doubt (unfortunately) about whether he fitted in or not on this planet, and would probably not be gay. That said, I have met many slobs who are gay – but there’s usually a give-away sign – the aftershave isn’t Brut, the shoes are Doc Marten’s, and the trousers fit snugly around the bum and crotch.

The other night in that pub, however, I looked at the “building site worker” who must have invested hours in getting the look just right, ready for the Saturday evening on the town, with only his beloved pug for company, and I looked at the pensioners not caring about anything but the craic, and I hoped that when I get to that age, I would have a human friend who didn’t mind how I looked for company.

That is, if I’m lucky enough to get old.

That same night someone put a torch to a gay film club down the road, and eight gay men were burnt to death. Not one of the people there escaped without terrible injury.

Some day we, as gay people, will lose our self-consciousness, and feel that we belong naturally and easily in the world around us. I hope to live to see it.