The Faversham, Leeds
I can mark out stages in my life by the pubs I’ve been to – and I started early. My grandparents used to take me to the Sandford Arms across the road from their house in Leeds on a Saturday afternoon to play the jukebox – and since I remember records like Boney M’s Rivers of Babylon this must mean I was about four. My other grandparents, meanwhile, actually ran a pub in the city centre. Their days usually started with my grandad, who did not have the bonhomie of a natural landlord, groaning to my grandmother: “You open up, Kath, I can’t face it!”
The summer before I went to university I worked in the tap room – where the beer was slightly cheaper and the presence of women discouraged – of my local pub, the Eyrie, known to my friends as the Dreary. By then, I was a regular at the Faversham, an enormous pub close to Leeds University. When I started going, “the Fav” was heavily patronised by student goths who probably hoped to meet members of local bands Sisters of Mercy or the Mission. This would have been about 1990, when I was underage – the bouncer on the door would ask younger clientele for their dates of birth (a slightly tricky inquiry if one had been pre-loading with vodka on the nearby Woodhouse Moor), but I don’t remember ever being turned away.
Soon, the Faversham had a dramatic makeover. Out went the flock wallpaper, crepuscular lighting and cider-and-black, the goth tipple of choice. In came a soundtrack of thumping house music, video screens showing fractal patterns, projections of lava lamp bubbles, and bottles of K Cider. Rave culture had hit Leeds, and my friends and I plunged in enthusiastically. One minute we were staring at our Dr Martens while listening to Curve and Chapterhouse; the next we were dancing to K-Klass’s Rhythm is a Mystery in Global Hypercolor T-shirts that changed colour with one’s body temperature, resulting in fluorescent armpits.
The Fav would be the first port of call on a night that would end up at the Gallery or the Warehouse in Leeds city centre or, as we got more adventurous, the West Indian Centre or Trades Club in Chapeltown, where the signature tune was the epic, sampledelic Is There Anybody Out There? by Bassheads and the dry ice was so thick you could hardly see your hand in front of your face. Even without the stimulants that were an integral part of the scene, but which I was far too nervous to take, it was an incredible relief just to merge with the crowd and let go.
My teens weren’t easy. I was at an all-male grammar school where rugby was compulsory and almost everyone admired Mrs Thatcher. Homophobia was constant and, by then, I was aware I was probably gay. But none of these things seemed to matter at the Faversham or in the club scene. Even the moodiest characters (and there were a few) seemed content to live and let live. Soon our explorations took us to Jungle, a “gay rave” at the Warehouse (leading to an awkward conversation when my parents found the flyer) and then to Vague at the same venue, an unabashedly camp mixed-gay party where a night of hedonistic house music would culminate in a big pop anthem like Wham Rap! or Madonna’s Vogue, and which subsequently became so popular that straight men would be ordered to snog each other to get in.
Leeds was loosening up – even the city centre post-pub brawls that regularly raged as I waited for the night bus seemed to be becoming less frequent. By then I had headed south to university, only visiting the Fav in the holidays. The last time I went, it had transformed again, hosting young “New Yorkshire” 00s bands to appeal to the skinny-jeaned fans of indie sleaze. For me, the pub was a refuge from the pressures of everyday teenage life, as well as a portal to other exciting places. I’ll always be grateful for the mind-expansion it served up along with the K cider.
