Four decades on from its original release, Sophie Wilkinson speaks with Melanie Chait, the director of the 1985 documentary Breaking the Silence.

WORDS SOPHIE WILKINSON

Lesbian mums might be a normal part of LGBTQIA+ culture, but it’s not always been this way. As I recently uncovered for a BBC Radio 4 documentary Missing Pieces: The Lesbian Mothers Scandal, family court judges from the 1970s to the 1990s frequently took custody off of lesbians.

Before the advent of artificial and then donor insemination, women would marry men, as was expected of them, have kids, then realise that they were lesbians. They’d divorce, and while there was no specific law banning lesbian mums from keeping custody, judges’ discretion ruled. So lesbians were often considered unfit mothers simply on the basis of their sexuality. During my research I came across at least 30 women affected, but the true number is likely far higher.

While there was no specific law banning lesbian mums from keeping custody, judges’ discretion ruled. So lesbians were often considered unfit mothers simply on the basis of their sexuality.

In the documentary, women whose children were taken from them, as well as children affected, speak of the traumatic impacts of being separated, and most of them want an apology from the Government. The Government’s official response was: “The law in the 1970s and 80s reflected societal attitudes of the time. We now recognise those societal attitudes as deeply discriminatory, and our heartfelt sympathies are with all those who suffered as a result. While we cannot comment on the decisions of judges in individual cases, the government is committed to ensuring equality and fairness in today’s justice system.” As a result, a petition has been set up to call for a Government apology.

Back then, organising was different. Support groups and phone lines were set up to help the plight of lesbian mums. And awareness was boosted in 1985, when Melanie Chait’s feature-length documentary, Breaking the Silence, was aired on Channel 4. In it, she speaks to a range of lesbian mothers to find out how they parented, how they lost custody and the sometimes years-long battle to try and regain it.

I called Melanie to find out what it was like making that documentary, how hard it was to get it commissioned and what she thinks should happen to those women and their families still dealing with the trauma of being separated from their own kids.

What first inspired you to make your documentary? 

I was a political activist and filmmaker in the 1980s so, as a lesbian, I felt it was important to document and bear witness to the social injustices that surrounded me. I’d made another documentary, Veronica 4 Rose, for Channel 4, because I’d become aware of the escalation of teenage lesbian suicides, and felt it was necessary to portray positive role models and provide a growing support system. But with Breaking The Silence, I wanted lesbian mothers to feel empowered and to know that they weren’t alone. And it was important for wider society to know what happens to lesbian mothers in custody cases, and to have the normative society’s preconceived ideas about lesbians challenged. 

You’re British-South African, so why was the focus on the UK rather than other countries? 

I wasn’t allowed in South Africa as I was persona non grata [the apartheid Government of 1948-1991 not only treated Black and ethnic minorities as second-class citizens but also banned political activists from free expression and participation] and so I lived in London and was lucky enough to come of age during the growing women’s movement.

How was the film funded and commissioned?

had received huge ratings and publicity, and part of Channel 4’s remit was to provide programming for minorities which in the era of  Mary Whitehouse was usually challenged.

On the strength of Veronica 4 Rose I was asked to make more lesbian films. In the 1980s there was research and development money, which meant there was time to find women from all over the UK, not just London. We could represent a cross section of women in terms of age, race, class, region, to show their experience, and also to portray lesbian mothers with well-adjusted children in an attempt to undermine stereotypes.

It was important for wider society to know what happens to lesbian mothers in custody cases, and to have the normative society’s preconceived ideas about lesbians challenged. 

How did you find subjects to speak with?

There’d been a theatre piece called Care and Control by Nancy Diuguid and Kate Crutchley and through that I found women and lawyers beginning to take on the custody battles. I advertised widely through the women’s press and sort of networking available at the time; newsletters, fairs, bookstores. 

What was the environment like for lesbians in the UK at that time ?

Living in London and in the bigger cities was very exciting . There were so many struggles and campaigns, from feminism to anti-racism and nuclear disarmament movements. I think we truly thought we could bring about a new world order. A huge groundswell had begun, and that was just very thrilling. I feel very privileged to have been part of that then, but obviously it was very different in more rural and remote areas.

Courtesy of Melanie Chait

Did you encounter any obstacles while making this documentary?

What was the most poignant moment of the documentary for you?

We managed to obtain permission to film inside the Royal Courts of Justice, which was the first time permission had been granted to film there. And then you see the woman being filmed there, revealing the horrors of what had taken place to them in that very same space, and in a sense, they were claiming back that space and undermining its power.

It felt brilliant and exciting in London [in the 1980s]. There were so many struggles and campaigns, from feminism to anti-racism and nuclear disarmament movements. I think we truly thought we could bring about a new world order.

What did you think of what they disclosed? 

At the time, when an issue was highlighted on TV, it gave it an additional legitimacy. But I mean, change is always slow, and I suppose, as a filmmaker, you are only adding to an emerging consciousness. But by contributing to a developing zeitgeist, it hopefully facilitates a greater understanding.

What was the response like?

There was a huge hunger for lesbian films and TV programmes. Because no matter how awful the stories told, it was recognition that lesbians existed. Until the 1970s the tragically gay feature film The Killing of Sister George was probably the best known. Then in the 1970s, Mädchen in Uniform was rediscovered, also the tragic trope.  By the 1970s there were positive and proud lesbian documentaries coming out of the States made by lesbian filmmakers like Jan Oxenberg and Barbara Hammer. But as far as I can remember no film had been made about lesbian mothers, so Breaking the Silence broke new ground and had a huge response. We had a pamphlet printed for lesbian mothers that was advertised at the end of the film, and Channel 4 was very surprised that it was in such great demand. Jeremy Isaacs [founder of Channel 4] considered it one of the channel’s flagship programmes.

What do you think of the lesbian mum’s request for an apology from the government?

I think it would be wonderful. I think an acknowledgement of what so many women and children lived through would be just very, very appreciated. Whether it would happen, I don’t know. It’s not a difficult thing to do. I think it would just take some respect and humility on the Government’s side to do it.

Listen to Missing Pieces: The Lesbian Mothers Scandal here

The post The ground-breaking documentary which broke the silence on lesbian mothers’ custody struggles appeared first on GAY TIMES.

Before there was Dinah Shore, there was Lesvos. Here’s an explainer on why, exactly, it’s so canonically gay – and what to do when you get there.

WORDS BY SOPHIE WILKINSON

Glinting blue-white waves from the Aegean  lap against pumice-grey sands, Sak Noel’s ‘Loca People‘ bops over from a nearby beach bar… “all day…all night”, and the thuds, slaps, minor groans, claps and cheers of a nearby volleyball game burble in and out. There are little tortoises doing laps in a nearby lagoon. I stretch out, topless, maybe even pantsless, under the dwindling evening sun that casts shadows along this 3km beach. I’m full of Mythos beer, tzatziki crisps and joy. During this absurdly idyllic scene, the type I grew up seeing on TV adverts for far-flung package holidays that stipulated, in the small print ‘applies to couples of one man and one woman only’, I turn to the woman I love. I smile, kiss the tip of her nose, tasting the salt water from our skinny dip, and stroke her hair and give her a hug. She smiles back and our only worry is that this is all temporary.

Skala Eresou, which literally translates to “the pier of Eressos” is a small beachside resort on the Greek island of Lesvos, a two hour drive from the airport, which itself is a short flight (or overnight ferry) from the buzzing brilliance of Athens. Lesvos, in case the etymology of lesbian is lost on you, is the birthplace of the poet Sappho, an ancient poet who wrote extensively of her love for other women. Although debate as to her sexuality has persisted, mainly coming from concern-trolly men who insist they can’t bear her legacy degraded by homosexual connotations, the lesbians are buying it.

The towns of Eressos and Skala Eresou have long been a pilgrimage site for worshipful sapphics. The seaside town is made up of one wood-stilted strip of bars, restaurants and small hotels. The surrounding narrow streets of clothes and souvenirs shops, artisan gift shops, a vegan cafe, a butcher and some places to buy crisps, dips, fruit and veg. And everywhere you turn, there are lesbians.

For the past 24 years, lesbians have been coming to this 3km long beach and its various tavernas, sleeping cats, tat shops and bars for the annual women’s festival. Set up in 2000 by Ioanna Savva, a local lesbian (in both senses) travel agent, it’s now a 14-day event in September featuring workshops around writing, dancing, healing as well as music, poetry, excursions and concerts at the nostalgic open air cinema. At its peak, 650 women – and it’s an inclusive festival, welcoming “participants who identify as women…and non binary individuals assigned female at birth” to all activities, with men allowed into a certain selection of events— attend this space for a fashion show. It’s all in aid of supporting local wildlife, and during it we see women who’ve been to the African dance workshop, the body positivity striptease workshop…one woman does an interpretative dance about her struggles with, and recovery from, breast cancer. These women contain multitudes. There are surgeons, nail technicians, entrepreneurs, former cage fighters, artists, millionaires, teachers, gardeners, you name it. It’s a wonderful reminder that lesbians come from all places and occupy all spaces and that you can relax knowing you’re not having to go first, or go it alone. Plus, it’s not even the only LGBTQIA+ festival to take place here, as the newer, younger and electronic music focused Queer Ranch festival takes place every May into June.

Lesvos: What are the best things to do there

If tranquility is your vibe, then this quiet island is dotted with beautiful beaches for you to pitch up on. Some might involve a drive, but the smooth, some very new, roads through a post-volcanic landscape of craggy rocks and bouncy heathers and scrub feel – especially in a nippy automatic car – really delightful to road-trip along. Other beaches of note include the town beach at Molyvos, the resort-style beaches at Petra and Anaxos, the quiet shores of Tavari, Antissa.

Skala Eftalou not only has a rocky and quiet beach but is home to one of the island’s accessible hot springs, some of which have been in use since antiquity. These baths, which some claim can help soothe all sorts of ailments, brim with natural minerals like sodium chloride, iron, magnesium. Most of the springs charge a small fee for entrance, and offer extras like massages and cafes on the side.

Polychnitou is home to the hottest natural waters in Europe, with temperatures going from 67°C to 92°C. And Thermi on the gulf of Yera overlooks beautiful ocean and mountains. If you fancy a bit more of a hands-on spa day, Eresou is home to a boutique spa and hammam.

Lesvos is the largest producer of Ouzo, and you can take excursions to one of the 17 distilleries to test out the aniseed-y spirit as well as see the process of wine-making grapes being made into a clear grappa.

For early mornings and visits in cooler months like April or October, there are plenty of hiking opportunities, with a vast network of historic trails criss-crossing the island through olive groves, chestnut and pine forests and alongside ravines. The petrified forest of Sigri, a UNESCO Global Geopark doesn’t, at first glance, seem petrifying or forested, but on closer inspection, it’s a vast valley stippled with the remainders of tropical trees that turned to fossilised stone when hit by lava a casual 20 million years ago. Make note, taking a hike through this in warmer months – even September – requires good snacks, footwear, sun hats, SPF and water on board, simply because it’s so exposed, but don’t let that put you off, you don’t often get to see history like this.

As for the women’s festival, there’s broadly four types of lesbian the events cater to. There are the healers – the Monsoon-clad women with crafted jewellery who come to listen to poetry, do yoga and visit grief cafes or try out a session with the resident tantric therapist. Then there are the sportier types, who swim out to and back from a huge rock – the size of a block of Soviet apartments – every Tuesday morning, or mountain bike over the hills to Sigri, or do snorkelling, windsurfing or five-a-side football. They’ll tend to be in polo shirts, shorts and trainers. Then there are the partiers, who lounge on the beach all day, where nudity is expected, if not required, and then fling themselves into the house-music soundtracked afters. These will be the youngest of the lot, with mullets, piercings, everything you’d expect from your local queer bar, just by the beach. At the end of each day, there’s one big event at the open air cinema, whether that’s the alternative fashion show – this year in aid of a local pet charity – a covers night from singer Kiziah or a gig from BBC Radio 6-approved band/podcasters ARXX (it’s also request night, as Ionna picks up a microphone and makes a clear demand they play three more songs). At the end of each gig, some of the older crowd, cosied up in down jackets and jeans, will stroll arm in arm back to their apartments, while others will listen intently to whatever the host is shouting about when it comes to afterparties. From there, everyone heads to whichever themed beachside bar it is and begins to let loose until the smallest of small hours.

Lesvos: Where are the best places to stay, eat and drink?

While lesbians are welcome across the island, Eresou and Skala Eresou are the real hotbeds of sapphic activity, so you’d better book fast as the festival does pack out this tiny town.

There are guesthouses and apartments available for booking, and boutique beachside hotels include rooms above the party-friendly Ohana bar, Sappho Hotel and Hotel Kyma. Close by, options include the Galini and the Ilaria.

Dotted along the dunes, there are camper vans with German number plates, tents strung between olive trees. While there are no official camping facilities, nearby Sappho Palace, a truly DIY community centre built from an old restaurant, provides toilets, cooking and washing facilities.

The most luxurious hotel there is the Aeolian Village Beach Hotel, just a 15 minute stroll from the centre of town, or via a 5 minute drive (parking is pretty much always easy). As well as two sizeable pools, there are infinite loungers, a dedicated beachside bar where you can get towels, loungers and necessary parasols (sun is abundant in this wide valley) and a breakfast buffet full of everything from a full English through to cakes, fresh orange juice, yoghurts, pastries and the rest. Leisure activities on offer are also plentiful; there’s a compact gym, row upon row of bikes for hire, tennis and padel courts with instructors on site and spa.

But most importantly, across the town, the staff here have seen so many lesbians come in and out that it’s not just tolerated to be queer here, it’s accepted and embraced, with plenty of the staff knowing regulars by name. Bemused straight visitors do exist, but are suitably outnumbered.

There’s plenty of decent traditional Greek food in Skala Eresou, with beach-side terraces costing a little more than the grill houses – and famously lesbian-friendly vegan haunt the Lettuce Cafe – tucked away from the beach. Enjoy mezze of Greek Salad, saganaki fried cheese at pretty much anywhere, but the gyros from the grill houses are also divine. For seafood, Soulatso lets you take your pick of fresh catches, which are then grilled to order.

Up the hill – just a 5 minute pelt in a car – you’ve got Eresou, which centres around a tranquil tree-festooned square, where you can eat at the ultra traditional Sam’s Restaurant, which does a slightly Middle Eastern take on Greek staples, so there’s falafel alongside the pastitso. It also has a whole squad of alluring and sleepy cats that’ll be keen to nuzzle up. Across the square is Kafene, which adds pizza onto a menu of more comforting dishes like baked stuffed courgettes and oven roasted succulent lamb.

Bars are centred around Skala Eresou and are small but perfectly formed, some of them with themes; Avatara is the biggest, practically the Fabric of Skala Eresou, which means it can fit a couple hundred people inside and out, just about. Then there’s the lesbian bar Flamingo which does a raging happy hour, tiki bars Ohana and Parasol, Hara which is home to acoustic gigs and serves decent food too. Beach clubs include La Isla Bonita, and the Turtle bar, named after the turtles who swim by. More than just shacks, these places serve food all day and a range of delicious drinks. Some will charge for lounger hire, others won’t.

Lesbos: Why is it so great for LGBTQIA+ visitors?

When you’re in a lesbian couple, so many holidays don’t offer the prospect of easy relaxation that so many straights take for granted. So we write off a lot of places; the ones where we’d have to conceal our sexuality. The ones where it’s not safe to be two women travelling together. The ones that are presumably liberal beach holiday spaces but, as two women, we’ll be subject to sexual harassment and glares from creepy men. So in the main, we opt for city breaks, where gay bars and liberal attitudes are guaranteed, but basically involve costly pelts around busy tourist drags followed by trips to almost identikit “trendy” areas that have all the same exposed lamps and ply wood coffee counters that we get back in east London. All of that’s fun, but it’s not a serene trotters-up on the beach style holiday.

For so long, Mediterranean beachside resort towns have been associated with a heterosexual licentiousness, of freedom and merriment, but only for the lads. However, the calm and revelry of Skala Eresou shows the straights don’t get to claim every shore of the world for their own. It’s a tiny town with just about everything you need, and, right now, not too many people overburdening its resources, even at the busiest of times. Of course there are plenty of relaxing places in Greece to visit, but Skala Eresou’s charm is that it’s a utopia, where lesbians really are the majority, where no-one bats an eyelid when they see you walking hand in hand, and you can just get on with the fun of it all without really having to worry about who you are.

Perhaps making the pilgrimage to Lesvos, and specifically, the broad beach of Skala Eresou, is about honouring not just Sappho, but spending time amidst the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of lesbians who’ve found home and heart at her birthplace.

Flights provided by AEGEAN and car provided by Hertz.

To find out more about Lesvos and to plan your trip, check out www.discovergreece.com

The post This Greek island is a pilgrimage site for worshipful sapphics appeared first on GAY TIMES.

GAY TIMES finds that up to 1000 people have died of possible chemsex-related harms in the past decade, so why are police attending callouts instead of ambulances?

WORDS BY SOPHIE WILKINSON
HEADER DESIGN BY JACK ROWE

“Somebody overdoses, so they call for an ambulance, but the police turn up first,” Patriic Gayle says from across the table at the London HQ of the Gay Men’s Health Collective (GMHC), where he is Project Lead. We’re right next to stacks of condoms, lube, gloves, salt tablets and needles, neatly contained in cardboard packs. These boxes also come stuffed with educational pamphlets about everything from safe fisting to “your rights on arrest”. Gayle explains: “I’ve lost count of the number of times that gay men say, ‘Well, we know we should call for an ambulance. We don’t want anybody else to die. But we are afraid.’ And so they don’t. And I know of stories where guys have been put into Ubers and dropped off at A&E.”

It’s been 10 years since the term “chemsex” was first published, in a paper titled “Sexualised drug use by MSM (men who have sex with men”) and written by activist David Stuart. Since then, the “gay” scene and the chemsex scene has undergone changes. Salacious and borderline homophobic descriptions of chemsex played out in tabloid coverage of the 2016 trial of Stephen Port, who murdered four young men, likely with G/GHB/GBL, before finally being caught. In 2020, the same drug was reclassified to Class B – meaning higher sentences for possession and dealing – after rapist Reynhard Sinaga used it to facilitate his attacks on at least 48 men. 

GAY TIMES analysis of government figures suggests that up to 1000 people have died from possible chemsex-related harms in the last decade, too. So what else is new for chemsex right now? What’s getting better? What still needs work? And as ever, how may homophobia play a part in how chemsex participants are treated?

“Chemsex is a very secretive world,” says Peter Kingsley. He’s an Advanced Paramedic for the London Ambulance Service (LAS), and along with Mental Health Consultant Nurse Carly Lynch and Mental Health Paramedic Lead Daniel Phillips, has identified two types of chemsex participants he’ll see on a callout. There are those “collapsed and fitting from a drug overdose” and those who have “absolutely destroyed themselves with problem drug use and are in a chronic addiction, drug-induced psychosis state.”

Due to the novelty of chemsex-associated drugs such as G/GHB/GBL, mephedrone and crystal methamphetamine, records of their consumption are patchy. The Office of National Statistics’ (ONS) yearly drug survey of adult users in England and Wales has estimated the use of substances like cocaine and cannabis since 2002. But records for mephedrone use – despite being used in the UK as early as 2003 – only began in 2009 (608,000 users, dropping to 541,000 in 2023). Same for records of crystal meth usage, which is only recorded as a sub-type of methamphetamine (292,000 users in 2009, dropping to 171,000 last year). These figures suggest that chemsex drugs are consumed less than 15 years ago, but the ONS only began recording G/GHB/GBL usage from last year (212,000 users). The data isn’t definitive, and so Kingsley tried to put another figure together.

He’s part of Project Sagamore, a multi-agency response to crime and vulnerability within the chemsex scene. It launched in February 2020, “off of the back of the horror that was the Port investigation,” Kingsley says. Initially, he worked out how many 999 ambulance calls in London were related to G/GHB/GBL, crystal meth, mephedrone or chemsex. And “if those keywords were in that initial phone call data, I could find them on the system.” This search found that on average, ambulances are called out to chemsex incidents once a day.

However, Kingsley cannot prove that the drugs mentioned in the call were actually taken. Nor can he prove “they’re taken in a chemsex context.” That could lower the true rate, but what may up it are the times bystanders will make a call about someone suffering chemsex-related harms without recognising they’re coming from a chemsex context: “It’s three o’clock on a Sunday morning in Vauxhall, and there’s a guy, late twenties, who’s semi-clothed in a distressed state and clearly intoxicated. You’ll recognise the toxidrome [symptoms of a toxin] and think, ‘Well, that looks a bit like crystal meth and GHB to me’ but you don’t know for sure.”

Kingsley has realised that trying to obtain accurate data on chemsex-related harms is “futile”, and so “we’ve deliberately held off from really getting too hung up on how big the problem is”. Instead, he’s seeking greater awareness of chemsex: “our rough data shows that about five hospitals receive around 50% of all the patients that we convey in the context of GHB/GBL and crystal meth”. So he works closely with those NHS Trusts to ensure that medics know how to identify and treat chemsex-related harms.

He’s keen to point out that this isn’t just about gay men; “We’re definitely seeing women who are affected.” And as Gayle puts it: “We’re proud of the fact that GMHC serves gay men, but on the other hand, we are very mindful that there are other letters to the spectrum, so increasingly, our work reflects that.”

As the gay scene has become more inclusive of the full LGBTQIA+ community, it follows that the chemsex scene has, too. Dee Dee, 36, is a pansexual sex worker based in Devon. “I help people party and I make sure everyone’s safe.” she says, explaining her own safety protocol of taste tests, never mixing G with alcohol “to stop you going under” and never accepting a drink from someone else.

Since her teens, her drug of choice has been crack, because “with a client it makes you dare to do stuff you wouldn’t normally do, it takes away all the fear”. However, “chemsex” is a new phrase for her: “I go to the clinic every six weeks and they’ve only just added ‘chemsex’ onto the questionnaire. I asked them what it meant, they said ‘sex with drugs’ and I said ‘well that’s normal, isn’t it?’”

“I just call it ‘partying’” she adds. But recently, the party turned sour after a client took multiple Viagra pills with cocaine despite her advising him not to. “He was tripping balls and his head went bright red. I figured ‘I’m not risking this shit’ so I had to call an ambulance.”

Though the queer scene has become more inclusive, its spaces have depleted. Even before the pandemic, the double-edged sword of gentrification and hook-up apps was slashing through prime gay bar real estate. “These places used to have staff, so you could engage with them on harm reduction, give them some training and they would at least be sober.” explains Kingsley, adding that he now attends “very few jobs in commercial premises”.

Gayle draws a line between the clubbing’s decline and a boost in chemsex harms: “20 years ago, there was this incredible symbiosis between clubs and people going to them. We’ve almost reached that tipping point now where even larger venues can struggle, there are less people using the scene. 

“So you can do what you want in your own home and get everything delivered to your door. We all were told we’d be better connected on the phone. Now, most people would argue we’re potentially lonelier than we’ve ever been in our lives.” He has a similar opinion of at-home STI testing kits, arguing that while they are cost-efficient for the NHS, not everyone can use them effectively, “particularly if you don’t have the skills, the confidence, the mobility.” The lack of face-to-face interaction in a clinic, with all its awareness posters and outreach workers means “we run the risk of basically corrupting relationships that we’ve had between sexual health services and the LGBT community.”

Gayle warns: “We are cruising for a bruising, in terms of chemsex, the support that is available compared to the train that’s barreling down the track, it’s pitiful.”

London’s 56 Dean Street sexual health clinic is a world leader in its work. It’s been a decade since Stuart, who wrote that chemsex paper, pioneered a project there placing drug outreach within a sexual health context. The idea is to provide a specialised service with “the knowledge and skills… to discuss the issues relating to sex and the nuances of chemsex” because, as Stuart put it in 2015, many chems users “don’t perceive themselves as having a drugs problem and so would be unlikely to access a traditional treatment service.” His hope was to “create a model here that can be rolled out to other sexual health clinics”, he told VICE in 2015.

We are cruising for a bruising, in terms of chemsex, the support that is available compared to the train that’s barreling down the track, it’s pitiful

Stuart passed away suddenly in 2022, and two years to the day I’m on the phone to one of his former service users. “It’s amazing what he achieved,” says Darren Murphy. It was 2011 when Murphy first got into chems, and by 2014 he was diagnosed with HIV. Murphy only met with Stuart twice “because I was an absolute chaos at the time”, but it would have an eventual impact. In 2019 Murphy was imprisoned “because of chemsex-related crimes, selling crystal meth, mephedrone and GBL.” After moving back in with family in Leeds as part of his licence conditions, he discovered “there was no specific chemsex-oriented support, at all.”

Murphy is now a drug recovery coordinator at Forward Leeds, an alcohol and drugs organisation, and has begun the work of filling the “massive gap in chemsex support” by linking LGBTQIA+ organisations to provide holistic services to those suffering from chemsex-related harms.  

And over in Merseyside, a former colleague of Stuart’s has set up a similar clinic. Chris Higgins, who worked with Stuart for over a decade at London Friend and Dean Street, has set up the Ctrl Alt Delete clinic with Axess Sexual Health clinic. However, “The landscape of drug use here in Liverpool is completely different.” Yes, some people use chemsex drugs, but the LGBT+ drugs scene in Liverpool centres on “cocaine, ecstasy, MDMA, ketamine and weed” and “a lot of the referrals when I first opened the clinic were for alcohol”. Higgins’ theory is that “Liverpool just hasn’t had that same environment for chemsex drugs to blossom”, because it’s never had “licensed sex on premises venues, no saunas, no bathhouses… So if chemsex is taking place, it’s in people’s homes, not in public places”. In Manchester, its Reach Clinic is for people who would like support to manage or reduce their use of chems, and operates out of The Northern Contraception and Sexual Health and HIV Service.

GAY TIMES contacted NHS Trusts covering other areas with large LGBTQIA+ populations such as Newcastle, Bristol and Cardiff to ask if they have services with drug harm reduction working within sexual health clinics. None did, although each made clear that if someone presents at a sexual health clinic with drug concerns, they will be triaged to these services. As for Brighton, its sexual health service staff have all received training in identifying patients who may need chemsex support.

A spokesperson for The Department of Health told GAY TIMES: “The government is aware of the harms caused by chemsex and has issued guidance to local authorities on managing this issue.  We have allocated £532 million of funding to local authorities to reduce harm and improve recovery rates from drug addiction and to assist with rehabilitation… We continue to work with substance misuse commissioners and sexual health commissioners to improve access to support services for those who use drugs in a chemsex context.”

Chemsex-related harms may be, as Kingsley puts it, “niche” issues that are hard to secure funding for, but with fatality still a risk, it needs addressing. Analysis of ONS figures shows that hundreds have died from chemsex-related drugs. While 111 people have died in the past 10 years from a mephedrone overdose, 937 people have died from amphetamine overdoses. Disaggregation of the data to show crystal meth deaths started in 2018 and in the time between then and 2022, 113 died of crystal meth overdose. 238 people died from G/GHB/GBL overdoses in the past ten years. Even a conservative estimate shows that almost 500 people have died from chemsex-associated drugs in the past decade. 

This could be an overestimate; people may have not been taking these drugs in a chemsex context. However, it could also be an underestimate; G/GHB/GBL is not routinely tested for in toxicology reports, and this must be requested for by the bereaved. And in cases where multiple drugs were present, as there were for a fifth of drug-related deaths in 2019, any drugs in the deceased’s system is not named in coroner’s reports, rather the cause of death listed as “multiple drug toxicity” or “drug overdose”. 

Campaigners also warn of seizures and fits, the risk of contracting new STIs, especially HIV and Hepatitis C, which needle users are at higher risk of, as well as addiction. Consent is also an issue that needs more awareness, experts agree, with Kingsley explaining: “If you take disinhibiting drugs, the blurring of the lines around consent is enormous, isn’t it?” 

If you take disinhibiting drugs, the blurring of the lines around consent is enormous, isn’t it?

Chemsex is a public health issue for many queer people, however, it is also treated as a criminal justice issue, with police allegedly turning up instead of the ambulances that have been called. Chemsex participants live in fear of this happening, with Kingsley citing a callout where “somebody had phoned for a collapse from a crystal meth overdose. And when the crew arrived, the front door to the property was open. Everybody else had left, lying him on his side in a sort of recovery position and unconscious, with a blanket over him.” Murphy’s also heard of people “going under” and then “just getting put outside the house. [The people in the house] didn’t want any ambulance coming, or the police coming, because there were a lot of substances in the house, people were scared to get arrested.”

The Metropolitan Police was approached for comment on allegations in this article that they have attended incidents where the 999 caller requested an ambulance, however without specific times and dates of the calls, they cannot respond.

For their part, Kingsley, Lynch, Phillips, and Gayle have collaborated to create discreet cards to be handed out at chemsex sessions gone wrong. Just as someone is stretchered off is a “reachable moment” for the rest of the room, Kingsley says. So partiers aren’t admonished, rather given useful information via a QR code that pulls through to www.stuffyoucantunsee.co.uk, by crew who have been trained by Lynch on Phillips on how to approach those affected by chemsex harms, including overdoses and drug-induced psychosis. 

No other UK ambulance service does this work, but there’s hope that, just like Stuart’s work to connect drug outreach services with sexual health clinics, green shoots will begin to grow. With the closure of so many LGBTQIA+ venues, increased risk of criminal convictions for those dealing G and an increased bifurcation of the LGBTQIA+ community to those who fall in step, socially, with their straight peers, and those who live genuinely alternative lifestyles, it would be no wonder if secrecy around chemsex has intensified. However, this, even more so than seemingly basic metrics like drug consumption and death rates, is hard to measure. 

It’s staggering to me the amount of people that are not getting themselves checked, and not asking for other people’s statuses when they go in to willingly have unprotected sex – not just HIV, but Hep C too

But the solutions to chemsex-related harms remain the same; the biggest risk of all seems to be not just in the sex or the drugs or the heady, horny combination of both, but ignorance. In any drug-taking scene there is an element of gatekeeping, of not wanting to ask simple questions for fear of either seeming naive or for saying out loud what’s apparently cooler to keep quiet.

As Murphy puts it: “It’s staggering to me the amount of people that are not getting themselves checked, and not asking for other people’s statuses when they go in to willingly have unprotected sex – not just HIV, but Hep C too.” He advises care and to “get in there first” with the question “before you actually meet, ask them ‘What is your status? And when did you last get tested?’”. 

Other broad things to be aware of, the experts agree, are your feelings ahead of a session, the drinks and doses you have while there – one person’s small dose of G is another person’s trip to A&E – and your own limits, as well as your exit plan. 

State-funded help for chemsex isn’t perhaps where David Stuart dreamed it would be, and any attempts to criminalise chemsex users rather than assist those struggling with chemsex harms seem dystopic. But there is help out there, there are people who will answer your questions, and wherever you are on your journey, you have choices.

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