My teenage revelation that a Catholic upbringing wasn’t going to work out for me as a functioning gay adult was quick, painless and probably best for both of us. The clash between the two cultures looked too extreme, even if my knowledge of homosexuality back then was confined to two Frankie Goes To Hollywood videos. A hovering weekly reminder I was going to hell for being who I was turned out to be the deciding factor. As I told a boyfriend later, in the middle of a brutal break-up, “only a madman would want to be part of something that doesn’t want him.”
One Sunday I went to church as usual. The next I didn’t. I was 14. I felt a little sad for my mum, but not sad enough to carry on craving the attention of something that rejected me. That was almost forty years ago, yet the fragrance of Catholicism still lingers, long after an early apostatic gesture. I still cross myself when passing a Roman Catholic church. Lighting a candle at St Patrick’s, Soho Square is the only reason I keep pound coins in my pocket. A secular Christmas card makes me squirm. Midnight mass is the one theatrical event of the year I rarely miss.
