There is a pall hanging over my city, a sense of foreboding. A fear hanging heavy in the hair that something unspeakable could happen at any moment, and that when it does, the cry of Allahu Akbar will be heard. It’s the third chapter in a triptych, following the Blitz and Whitechapel during the reign of the Ripper.
I am a gay man. I have seen the aftermath of Orlando. I have watched videos on the internet of what happens to gay people in the Middle East. Not just the roof-hurling horrors of ISIS, but the death penalty imposed in a dozen Muslim countries for homosexuality. My people hanging from cranes. And I’ve seen journalists, politicians and celebrities look the other way because they’re frightened to offend.
Now the sinister cloaks of those who would see me hang fill the streets I grew up in. One hundred per cent of British Muslims think my lifestyle is unacceptable. Over half of them want my sex life to be made illegal.