GCN contributor Patrick O’Byrne takes us on a journey back in time to explore the gay life of 1970s London.

I love the London Underground. The journey on the Piccadilly line from Heathrow airport to the centre of London with its distinctive smells (body odour, bad breath, stale booze and cheap cologne) and sounds (“mind the gap”, “please excuse me”, “is that your bag?”) has always had the same effect on me that the little madeleine had on Marcel Proust.

It was even mildly erotic once in the 1970s, especially on the trains that went to, or departed from, Earls Court tube station. Earls Court was the centre of the gay universe for me in those days. I sometimes met a kindred spirit on the tube heading to or from Earls Court. Eyes would meet, a smile might follow and, next thing you know, you are having breakfast with him in his flat the next morning, trying to remember his name.

My first visit to the Colherne pub at Old Brompton Road in 1972 was a real eye-opener. The Colherne, with its blacked-out windows and dingy interior, was frequented by men who were clad from head to boot in black leather. However, and surprisingly to me at least, when you got chatting with some of them, they were very interested in discussing quice recipes and Farrow and Ball colour cards not dungeons, leather and whips.

Nearby was a club/disco called the Catacombs situated on the lower ground floor of an old period property. The Copa wasn’t licensed to serve alcohol, only soft drinks and milk. I entered the Copa late one night, going down the dimly lit stairs to behold a crowded dance floor of people, mostly male and young. As I paused to gaze in wonder at this spectacle a tall, dark, handsome Englishman (he was so very English) pulled me onto the dance floor to the sounds of George McCrae belting out ‘Rock Your Baby‘. My dance partner was wearing the whitest of white shirts.

The disco was in full swing, and the dance floor was heaving and pulsating with abandonment. What joy! How exhilarating! Every time I hear the lyrics “Take me in your arms, rock me baby”, I remember the white-shirted Nigel and his beautiful face.

I wonder where he is now, fifty-plus years later? Is he dead like so many others who danced away the nights in the 1970s London gay discos and clubs without a care in the world? Or perhaps he is living with his husband and two golden retrievers somewhere in Shropshire? I do hope so. Nigel was one of the many ships that passed briefly in the night, the nights we hoped would never end.

Last year, I travelled to Heathrow on the Elizabeth Line. It’s new, bright and shiny. It lacks, however, that essential ingredient, at least for me, the odours of the old Piccadilly Line.