At eight years old, I start watching Coronation Street. It makes me feel very sophisticated. My parents, working-class ex-Dubliners, watch every soap opera, every night. We live in Drogheda, the biggest town in Ireland that isn’t classed as a city: an injustice, given that its rival, Dundalk, is widely considered a city despite being smaller and worse. Dundalk is famous for its shopping centre. Drogheda is famous for displaying the leathered head of Saint Oliver Plunkett in the town’s biggest church. I go to an all-boys school. I have two acquaintances. We’re not friends, exactly, but we stand together at lunch. What we talk about is soaps. On Coronation Street, Sarah-Louise is 13 and pregnant. We speculate over what’s going to happen next. A classmate notices our conversations and says, ‘You three are gossiping like grannies’, which is true. The other two boys, sensing the danger of being perceived as granny-like, decide to play football like everyone else, and I spend my lunchtimes by myself.
Around this time, I go to the National Gallery in Dublin. It’s my first time in an art gallery. Our teacher doesn’t have to bring us, but she wants to. She’s taken an interest in the cultural enrichment of the kids and is probably a bit posher than us. On the same trip, she takes us to see the statue of Oscar Wilde in Merrion Square. Oscar Wilde is exciting because he’s gay and he’s loved. Loved enough for our teacher to take us to see his statue, loved enough for there to be a statue at all. It’s the first time I’ve heard of a gay person being admired. So far, I’ve only heard of them being pitiable or laughable or disgusting.
