The death of someone, young, never fails to shock; this week another old friend passed away and memories from thirty years ago came flooding back. The older I get, the more nostalgic I become, so when someone who used to be close dies, it is important for me to not only celebrate their life, but also all those who have died long before their time.
The early 1990s was a time of exploration and discovery, as I look my first tentative steps into the gay world. As a University student, living in the lively British south coast city of Southampton, I was determined to live my life to the full. Every Friday and Saturday night, I would dress up, get drunk and hit the Magnum Club, in Clovelly Road, the same street that I lived on, in a shared house of like-minded individuals.
The Magnum club (sadly no longer with us) was my first foray into the gay scene and I have such fond, enduring memories of the place. The scene in 1993 was very different to today. In an era of high tempo dance anthems, euphoric house music, recreational drugs, liberation and hard won freedoms, being gay was still very much taboo. Celebrating our sexuality, in a safe and welcoming environment, was absolutely necessary; back then hate, and exclusion, was routine, part of the makeup of society at the time. Friends were our kin folk, in all but name, they were a substitute for our parents, brothers, sisters and Grandparents - rejection from family was commonplace; the bonds we formed then have, in many cases, lasted the test of time.
Paul Nightingale, whose life I remember today, was part of our close circle of friends. We met through hedonistic nights of unmitigated chaos in a club, which represented my sense of purpose - fun and living life to the extreme. Paul was genuine, thoughtful, highly intelligent and extremely loving. He was a scene regular, at the club and the after parties that followed - part of the fabric of a scene that sought to protect its Brethren and nurture in the most difficult of circumstances.
As we partied the nights away on the top floor of The Magnum, friendships inevitably formed. Hugs, community spirit, gay family and a feeling of belonging to something bigger than ourselves, all played a part in the formation of deeply emotional attachments. These affiliations struck a chord with me particularly, growing up at an extremely poignant time of change! Paul was part of a wider group of people who offered unconditional acceptance, as many of us struggled with our sexuality, mental health and relationships. He was also a fellow student and an outrageously charismatic personality, who never failed to entertain. Paul was a gentle soul who just wanted to be part of something better.
When I heard of Paul's passing a little over a week ago, another part of me died inside. He is yet another loss from an unforgettable time, that sowed the seeds for the rest of my life in the UK. He is another old friend from that indelible period, who has died far too soon, and the pain never gets any easier to bear. Deep down, I can't help feeling the self-indulgent excesses of the 1990s, may well have played a part, in the long list of lives lost over the years. Equally, I am fully aware of my own mortality and the transient nature of life itself. Someone once asked me if I had any regrets about growing up gay when I did, and I replied, quite adamantly, 'No!' How could I, I wouldn't have met the wonderful characters I have, nor forged the friendships I continue to build on, day after day, 30 years later. Most importantly, I wouldn't have the memories I made, unfaltering in their significance and auspicious in their nature! People live as they think fit, die when their time is up, and the rest of us are left behind.
It has been many years since I last saw Paul, but that doesn't detract from how I feel about his death. In my eyes, Paul will be forever young - colourful, playful, joyous and special; a boy who I regarded as a friend even when he wasn't there. His presence was a continued link to the past, so fragile today, made even more frangible after each and every passing. His loss is a time to remember what he meant to all those who knew him over the years, and the extinguishing of a light that shone so brightly, even during the darkest of days. Rest in peace, dear Paul, we will never see your like again!
The early 1990s was a time of exploration and discovery, as I look my first tentative steps into the gay world. As a University student, living in the lively British south coast city of Southampton, I was determined to live my life to the full. Every Friday and Saturday night, I would dress up, get drunk and hit the Magnum Club, in Clovelly Road, the same street that I lived on, in a shared house of like-minded individuals.
The Magnum club (sadly no longer with us) was my first foray into the gay scene and I have such fond, enduring memories of the place. The scene in 1993 was very different to today. In an era of high tempo dance anthems, euphoric house music, recreational drugs, liberation and hard won freedoms, being gay was still very much taboo. Celebrating our sexuality, in a safe and welcoming environment, was absolutely necessary; back then hate, and exclusion, was routine, part of the makeup of society at the time. Friends were our kin folk, in all but name, they were a substitute for our parents, brothers, sisters and Grandparents - rejection from family was commonplace; the bonds we formed then have, in many cases, lasted the test of time.
Paul Nightingale, whose life I remember today, was part of our close circle of friends. We met through hedonistic nights of unmitigated chaos in a club, which represented my sense of purpose - fun and living life to the extreme. Paul was genuine, thoughtful, highly intelligent and extremely loving. He was a scene regular, at the club and the after parties that followed - part of the fabric of a scene that sought to protect its Brethren and nurture in the most difficult of circumstances.
As we partied the nights away on the top floor of The Magnum, friendships inevitably formed. Hugs, community spirit, gay family and a feeling of belonging to something bigger than ourselves, all played a part in the formation of deeply emotional attachments. These affiliations struck a chord with me particularly, growing up at an extremely poignant time of change! Paul was part of a wider group of people who offered unconditional acceptance, as many of us struggled with our sexuality, mental health and relationships. He was also a fellow student and an outrageously charismatic personality, who never failed to entertain. Paul was a gentle soul who just wanted to be part of something better.
When I heard of Paul's passing a little over a week ago, another part of me died inside. He is yet another loss from an unforgettable time, that sowed the seeds for the rest of my life in the UK. He is another old friend from that indelible period, who has died far too soon, and the pain never gets any easier to bear. Deep down, I can't help feeling the self-indulgent excesses of the 1990s, may well have played a part, in the long list of lives lost over the years. Equally, I am fully aware of my own mortality and the transient nature of life itself. Someone once asked me if I had any regrets about growing up gay when I did, and I replied, quite adamantly, 'No!' How could I, I wouldn't have met the wonderful characters I have, nor forged the friendships I continue to build on, day after day, 30 years later. Most importantly, I wouldn't have the memories I made, unfaltering in their significance and auspicious in their nature! People live as they think fit, die when their time is up, and the rest of us are left behind.
It has been many years since I last saw Paul, but that doesn't detract from how I feel about his death. In my eyes, Paul will be forever young - colourful, playful, joyous and special; a boy who I regarded as a friend even when he wasn't there. His presence was a continued link to the past, so fragile today, made even more frangible after each and every passing. His loss is a time to remember what he meant to all those who knew him over the years, and the extinguishing of a light that shone so brightly, even during the darkest of days. Rest in peace, dear Paul, we will never see your like again!
