North London (and Queer) Forever: London Pride

Pride Month may be over, but we are never done. This weekend I found myself back at London Pride for the third year running. Like every year, central London transformed into something that feels increasingly precious: hundreds of thousands of people celebrating queer joy, proving that despite everything happening politically around the world, we’re still here.

As a lesbian, Pride has always felt important to me. I love being queer. I love loving women. I love the community we’ve built and the history we’ve inherited. Existing openly still feels political, whether we like it or not, and that’s precisely why Pride still matters.

This year, though, something caught me off guard; I accidentally ended up marching.

My girlfriend and I hadn’t signed up to walk the parade. We’d come to watch, wave some flags and enjoy the atmosphere. Through what I can only describe as a complete lack of direction and a lot of being swept along by crowds, we somehow found ourselves handed wristbands and ushered into the parade itself.

Suddenly we weren’t watching from the sidelines, we were part of it.

I’ll admit, walking through central London with thousands of people cheering does wonders for your ego, but after the novelty wore off, I realised there was somewhere I wanted to be.

I knew Arsenal had their Gay Gooners bus in the parade. Friends of mine were on it. So, with the determination only a lesbian fast walk can produce, I spent the next half an hour weaving through the parade trying to find it.

Eventually I found a sea of red shirts and a red bus covered in ‘champions’ and rainbows, and it instantly felt like home. It made me realise something I’d never quite put into words before. Being queer and loving football aren’t two separate parts of my identity anymore, they’re completely intertwined.

For so many LGBTQ+ people, football hasn’t always felt welcoming. The men’s game is a hostile environment that has often struggled with homophobia in stadiums, chants and online discourse, even while many fans, clubs and supporter groups continue working to change that culture. 

Women’s football has grown differently - queerness isn’t treated as something unusual, but is in the walls of the game. Players have wives and girlfriends, fans wear Pride shirts without it becoming a debate. LGBTQ+ supporter groups aren’t hidden away, they’re celebrated.

Representation has always been important, but representation alone isn’t enough. Allyship can sometimes be passive - advocacy is active. There’s a difference between saying everyone is welcome and actively creating spaces where people genuinely feel they belong.

Arsenal have understood that for years. They were the first football club to officially march at London Pride, and seeing not just Arsenal but Chelsea, Crystal Palace, West Ham and Tottenham all represented showed just how much football is changing.

Still, I can’t pretend I’m unbiased, there is just something about Arsenal.

Supporting Arsenal has never just meant supporting a football team, it’s meant supporting an institution that has consistently shown LGBTQ+ fans they belong. Walking through central London wearing that badge, hearing crowds break into chants of “Arsenal!” before launching into North London Forever; I didn’t feel like I was carrying the club but instead, it felt like the club was carrying me. 

For queer people, community isn’t a luxury, it’s survival. So many of us spend years wondering why we feel different, trying to mould ourselves into versions that seem easier for everyone else to understand. 

For queer women and many non-binary people, spaces that truly feel like ours are surprisingly rare. Queer venues still often revolve around nightlife, alcohol and environments that don’t work for everyone. The demand for community has never been the problem, we’ve always been here, the problem is finding places where we can wholeheartedly exist.

That’s why women’s football feels so different, there has always been something inherently queer about it. Women’s football has spent decades existing outside what society expected sport to look like. That “otherness” has created a culture where difference isn’t something to hide but something to celebrate. Add to that the number of openly LGBTQ+ players, coaches and supporters, and it becomes more than just a football match, but somewhere people can see themselves. Matchday becomes a daytime, public space where queer people can exist openly, surrounded by thousands of others who simply see it as normal. For many people, that’s a feeling that’s difficult to find elsewhere.

Finding queer friends changes your life, let alone finding an entire football community that celebrates that part of you changes it again.

I found myself unexpectedly emotional walking beside that bus, not because we were at pride, but because I realised just how much Arsenal has become part of my understanding of home.

It’s the club that has given me friendships and people who feel like family. The club that has given me daylight space to, with confidence, hold my girlfriend’s hand in open space. A confidence doesn’t come from nowhere, but from knowing the badge on your chest represents people who would rather stand beside you than stay silent.

After the parade, Arsenal had even hired the top floor of a pub for supporters to celebrate together, which summed up exactly what makes community feel different from marketing.

When I was younger, I never really understood why football supporters spoke about clubs as if they were family - I thought people were exaggerating - now I don’t know what I’d do without it.

If you’re queer and searching for somewhere to belong, my advice is: go and watch your local women’s football team. You might go for the football, but end up staying for the people. Because somewhere between the chants, you may just find what I found on a London street this weekend; home.