Out in the Army: My Life as a Gay Soldier (29 page)

In the mail, quite unexpectedly, a fancy letter arrived in what I remember was a posh-looking envelope. I opened it up and saw immediately at the top of the small-sized note the words ‘10 Downing Street’. Inside was a card invitation which read:

I read the note and was alarmed to see that the date of the event was the following day, allowing hardly any time to prepare for such an occasion. What on earth would I wear? What would I say to the Prime Minister? I hurried to the squadron leader’s office and showed him the invite.

Major T-A did a double-take at the note I handed him. ‘Wow, well I’ve never been invited to the Prime Minister’s house!’

Major T-A told me to wear uniform, which I was relieved about. The plus side to being in one of the fanciest regiments in the world was the array of different posh uniforms ready to be worn which would all turn heads in a room full of important people. It was decided I should go wearing 2 Dress Mounted, a uniform consisting of knee-high riding boots and spurs, with khaki-coloured riding breeches and my usual dark-brown coloured jacket, finished off with my Iraq medal and service cap. It was possibly my favourite outfit hanging up in the wardrobe, alongside my Blues and other uniforms that were generally reserved for the Queen.

Awkwardly, the regiment had some work on that week, too. There was a state visit planned for the following Thursday, just a day before my wedding, and we had our usual set of
early-morning rehearsals in preparation for the occasion. One of those early rehearsals was scheduled for the Thursday
morning
, only hours after my evening with Gordon Brown was set to finish. According to the invitation, the reception would be over by 9 p.m., which would give me six hours before having to wake my horse and ride through the escort. It was annoying, but
something
I was used to with the Household Cavalry.

The following evening, after spending the day answering questions from people in work, and even a brief chat in the commanding officer’s office, listening to him tell me how pleased he was about the affair, a car from the barracks drove me the small distance down the Mall and onto Whitehall, before pulling up outside the gates of Downing Street, where a small line of people were queuing to pass through security.

The feelings I experienced handing over my invitation,
passing
through the metal scanner and casually chit-chatting with the officers charged with the security of the Prime Minister were bizarre. I’d always been hugely interested in British politics and always wondered what it would be like to be in the company of the most important man in the country, and I was about to find out.

The door was opened for me and I walked in. My phone was taken off me and my chance of a sneaky picture of the loo
disappeared
in an instant. I decided to keep hold of my hat and of course my whip, which was a custom with the uniform I was wearing, as something to hide behind and grip as the event took its course. I was incredibly nervous.

Ushered upstairs, I entered a large room with many paintings on the wall which overlooked my usual place of work, Horse Guards, the very place I’d be bouncing around on a horse in the hours that would follow. The room was filling fast. Stood near the front shaking the hands of the many assembled guests was the wife of the Prime Minister, Sarah Brown.

I was handed a glass of white wine and moved towards the centre of the room, where people began talking to me, mostly asking about my uniform. My whip was quite the centre of
interest
for the majority of folk I spoke to, which delighted me as it meant I didn’t find myself in complex conversations about
equality
in the army.

It didn’t take long for me to realise that the majority of people in the room were famous personalities from one area of the media or another. There were TV stars, pop stars, famous journalists and the occasional well-known politician. It was an incredible experience to be talking to such an impressive collective from the gay
community
, but what I found even more amazing was that these people wanted to talk to me. By the end of the evening, Paul O’Grady had taken my whip off me and was carrying out an amusing gesture with the end of it, to the gasps and delight of the massed audience.

The Prime Minister eventually made an appearance, shaking the hands of many as he made his way to the front of the room and onto an assembled stage where he made an address. He made reference to the number of famous people in the room and also highlighted the few of us who weren’t off the TV but who were, in his opinion, equally relevant on a ‘night like this’ to be recognised for our commitment to the gay community.

After he spoke, Gordon Brown made his way to the exit, where I’m sure he returned to the busy duty of running the country, but before leaving he stopped to say a few words to me.

‘It’s brilliant you are here tonight,’ he said while holding his hand out to shake mine. The memory of my briefest of
conversations
with his predecessor, Tony Blair, on the steps of Windsor Castle six years before entered my mind. I was about to repeat the only words I had said then to another Prime Minister.

‘Good evening, Prime Minister…’ I couldn’t leave it there. ‘And thank you for inviting me, I’m honoured!’

The Prime Minister nodded as he pulled his hand away and walked towards the door. At that point, I assumed the wine would be taken away and everyone would be ushered out of the door, but that didn’t happen at all. Instead, we were all left to enjoy another hour of mixing and wine sipping, before most headed on to another venue. I, of course, needed to head back to Hyde Park barracks and get what little sleep I could before the following morning’s early rehearsal. Such is life.

That evening at Downing Street is a wonderful memory. In the years that followed, going to Downing Street would become a regular occurrence but that night, heading back to camp in a taxi, I couldn’t believe that the Prime Minister of Great Britain had ‘requested the pleasure of my company’, and when it actually came to chatting with me, knew full well who I was and, more so, what I’d done.

In work, some hours later, Major T-A, while showing the commanding officer around the Blues and Royals stables, stopped me grooming my horse to ask questions about the experience at Downing Street. Once I’d told them both about the run of events, Major T-A joked that I should have stayed in bed and taken the morning off.

‘You’d have got away with saying the party with the PM
overran
. What on earth could we possibly say to that?’

As much as I’d probably have enjoyed staying in bed while the rest of the regiment were out practising for the forthcoming escort, I had no need to. I’d enjoyed the evening enormously but at the end of it I was happy to return to my duties with the Blues and Royals squadron. I had a day job to do, after all.

T
he morning of our civil partnership finally arrived. I woke up in Putney alone, save for the new addition to our family, Pickle, our half-pug, half-Jack Russell puppy that I’d bought Thom as a gift leading up to the big day. It was quite a lonely feeling waking up that Friday morning, my face being licked to death by Pickle. Across town, and in a somewhat different environment, Thom was waking up surrounded by friends, before being pampered as the morning continued and sipping the occasional glass of champagne as he went.

Our ceremony was taking place at Old Marylebone Town Hall, which was also the venue of Paul McCartney’s wedding to Linda some decades before. It was a lovely, historic building, with grand steps leading up to the large entrance. Every aspect of the day had been chosen by us, down to the reading my sister was to give and the colour of the Range Rover that was to take us on to the reception.

My best man was the only person it could ever have been, the person who’d been there for me on that day back in 2005, knocking at my door holding a coffee for me to sip over while he counselled me through my difficulties: Faulkner. Of all the people who had passed through my life in the military, soldiers coming and going as our careers took different paths, Faulkner was the one person who’d been pretty constant.

Faulkner and I both wore the ceremonial uniform of the
Blues and Royals, and the two of us looked, as usual, very smart. Another friend and confidant, Pikey, acted as my usher and wore a different uniform to Faulkner and me, though he looked equally as sharp. As the three of us walked along the Marylebone Road towards the venue, dozens of cars beeped their horns and shouted messages of good wishes as they passed.

Thom had kept his outfit hidden from me and when I arrived at the steps of the building with Faulkner and Pikey, I was moved to tears by how beautiful he looked. He had chosen a grey
three-piece
, formal morning suit that fitted him perfectly. He looked smarter than me even though I was in regalia. In the commotion of everything that was going on, our parents and friends standing on the steps applauding our arrival, Thom began to cry. I guess it was just all a little too much.

Pikey sprang into action on my nod and started to usher everyone up the steps and into the room on the first floor that was housing our special occasion. Thom and I stayed back while everyone filed in. I grabbed his hand and asked if he was OK. Our hearts were beating fast and we were both visibly nervous about the
magnitude
of what we were about to do together. Everything we’d been through as a couple, the highs and the lows, was about to take its place in the past as we cemented our lives together. What was done was done, we were now sealing our love and the future was ours.

We entered the ceremony to the music of Sir Elton John; ‘Rocket Man’ is Thom’s favourite song. Flashes from the
photographer
lit up the room intermittently; we could hear the click each time he aimed his machine at us. Behind me I could hear the sniffles of one of our mothers. Our wedding was actually happening. The music came to a stop and the registrar began with our chosen words.

Half an hour later, the business was done and we were
officially
civil partners. We’d planned a few moments of light-hearted
humour to break up the formality of the occasion, with music from our favourite show,
Priscilla, Queen of the Desert
, playing while we signed the relevant paperwork that accompanied the ceremony.

Outside, on the steps of the Old Town Hall, passing vehicles again beeped and honked their horns to the sight of us both walking, hand in hand, down the steps, confetti passing over us and the photographer aiming to capture as much of the moment as possible. In the days that followed, the many different shots captured by the photographer would appear, firstly in the
newspaper
that had the exclusive on our special day, but then in almost every newspaper in the land. The image that adorned the many articles was the same striking picture of a soldier, decorated in state regalia, grasping his new, beautifully dressed husband with a loving embrace and kissing him on the lips as they sealed their ceremony with a moment of intimacy.

Pikey took us to the waiting Range Rover and we were whizzed to Hyde Park barracks, where our reception was to be held. The short time it took for us to travel the distance to the barracks was the only period of solace and privacy the two of us would enjoy for the rest of the day. I deeply appreciated how far some friends had travelled to be with us and I loved catching up with members of both of our families who we’d not seen for some time, but those few minutes alone in the back of the car, my new husband and me, were perfect and I wished the journey had taken longer.

The cake we’d chosen, a beautiful, fresh cream-filled,
profiterole-stuffed
, white chocolate-laced magnitude of baking, had been successfully delivered to the mess and was now pride of place in the centre of the room, where we were to all enjoy a curry lunch. It was utterly breathtaking to look at and it certainly tasted delicious; Thom and I had enjoyed a tasting session with the bakery, Patisserie Valerie, three weeks before. My state sword had been placed on the table next to it, still sheathed in its
scabbard, and Thom and I would later use it to cut the cake. It was the very same sword I’d carried in my right hand so often when escorting the Queen.

The guests began to file into the mess, initially into the bar, before taking their seats. The food was served and everyone enjoyed tucking into the curry, even Thom’s father, who, as a master chef in the military himself, I was sure would find fault in the offerings.

I’d written a speech and was anxious to get the words out of the way, feeling I wasn’t able to fully let my hair down and enjoy the day until it was done. Thom’s dad wanted to say some words, as did Phil. Faulkner didn’t write a speech, but calmly pulled off a few words in a cool manner, thanking everyone for coming along and looking so fabulous.

We had about forty close friends and family for the formalities of the day and had invited close to 200 for the night, including top brass from within the Household Cavalry, like Major T-A and the corporal majors of both the Blues and Royals and the Life Guards, as well as the policy-making high-ranking officials who’d put me on the cover of
Soldier
and were behind a lot of the media that were reporting on the occasion.

Some might think I would be a little hostile to those who placed this high degree of responsibility on my shoulders with all this heavy press exposure, but in all honesty, at the time of my wedding, I didn’t mind it at all. I could see the benefit to having gay relationships covered in the national media. I knew people would see the images and read the words and begin to change their opinions on gay people and gay equality. I also knew that there was a chance that gay people might feel inspired to be themselves and even come out of the closet as a result of the images in the newspapers and online. I didn’t just wear the uniform to look good, I wore it because I was incredibly proud
of the status that came with being part of the Sovereign’s Escort and, to an extent, I knew it would be challenging to some old conservative right-wingers, who’d see my picture in the
Daily Mail
in the days that followed and be forced to comment on it. I enjoyed the thought of challenging people’s perspectives on what exactly a gay man was in the twenty-first century. Two years later, when media interest in me continued, I began to feel differently towards some of those people who’d tarted me around to the army’s benefit, but in March 2010, I certainly didn’t feel put out by the work they were having me do. It made the army a much more gay-friendly place and of that I’m incredibly proud.

In true mess tradition, the party ended the following
morning
at 6 a.m., the last person to leave being Bruce, the Life Guard corporal major, who in the early hours after Thom and I departed took over as host for the remaining guests who wanted to continue with the show. Thom and I got a car home, and in my drunken state I carried what was left of our wedding cake, deciding that none of it should go to waste.

We’d received hundreds of cards from well-wishers and,
thankfully
, the mess allowed us to leave some gifts securely behind, to save me carrying yet more heavy items home. It had been the greatest of occasions. A friend, some weeks before, warned me that the entire episode would flash by in an instant, and it certainly had. At about midnight, just before guests started to leave, I took a moment on my own, sat in the corner of the mess, to look at all our friends and family, enjoying themselves and being happy. I realised that everyone had come to share our special day with us and that tomorrow it would all be over. It was a very comforting thought that all our friends and family had come along to support us on our big day with so much love and acceptance. I remember talking to my mum on the day, and on a number of occasions since, and she spoke of her pride in seeing the second of her
children marry the person they loved. Liza had married in 2006 and it was a wonderful occasion. Her wedding occurred just a handful of weeks after I’d told my family I was gay, and I took Thom along as my guest. Back then, I considered some of the feelings Mum might have been having, watching her only
daughter
marry. I know she worried that I, as a gay person, would never have the white wedding she’d always dreamed of for me. On the day of my civil partnership with Thom, I know she felt relieved that her grand plans for me, which I suppose every mother makes for their children, had come to pass in one way or another. She was incredibly proud, and for that I love her.

Nothing else could have made the day any more perfect than it was. Since, and quite recently, I’ve been asked if Thom and I would marry properly if the law changed and, if we did, what our plans would be. The answer from me is simple: nothing could ever live up to the magic of that special day in March 2010 and there is nothing in the world that would make me want to
undermine
the magnitude of the occasion by ‘upgrading’ to marriage just because the government of the day had finally got its act together and was affording equality in marriage to all. It should have been on offer to us then and, if it had, we’d have enjoyed a formal wedding. That chance has now gone, and we will never change the past, nor replace the memories we have of our civil partnership ceremony. It was the happiest day of my life.

Just ten years after the lifting of the ban on gay people
serving
in the British Army, the celebrations of my civil partnership were held within the walls of the most traditional environment in the country. I felt hugely privileged and immensely proud of my regiment for taking such a lead with the occasion. To quote my commanding officer at the time, ‘The Household Cavalry has a fine tradition of leading from the front; it’s only natural for us to be the leader in this exciting new world, too.’