We Used to Throw Bricks. Now We Applaud Sandwiches.
How Pride Went from Protest to Product—and Why We Need to Take It Back
Pride used to be radical. Urgent. Uncompromising. Now it’s corporate-branded confetti and hashtags, backed by banks, gin labels, and glitter-coated exclusion. Peter C. Barnes delivers a furious but focused challenge to a movement that’s lost its standards—and a call to make Pride mean something again.
There was a time when my frustration with Pride would boil over into anger. Now, I’m just tired—exhausted, frankly, by the circus that’s replaced what was once a raw, urgent fight for dignity. As a gay man, I’ve spent my life never quite fitting in. That’s no sob story; most people feel like outsiders at some point. But there’s a particular sting when you find you don’t even fit in with the very community that’s supposed to be about acceptance, solidarity, and making space for those who never belonged anywhere else.
Pride used to be that space. It was radical. It was defiant. It was real. It didn’t need permission, and it didn’t care about polish. It was about survival and visibility and basic human dignity. It was about struggle—not entitlement. Now? I look at Pride and see something unrecognisable. The banners are bigger, the sponsors more lucrative, but the soul is thinner than ever. I’m not here to say we shouldn’t have Pride—we need it, now more than ever. But I need it, and the so-called “community” around it, to step up. Because right now, we are falling spectacularly short.
“We used to throw bricks at Stonewall. Now we cheer for a rainbow sandwich and a Spotify playlist.”
I’ve got stories, like anyone else. I’ve never seen myself as a victim. I’m not one. But we don’t get to talk about Pride without facing the truth of what many of us still live through. One night not long ago, I climbed into an Uber with a friend after a night out. The driver’s mood darkened the moment he clocked us. The energy shifted—words came, low and venomous, dripping with a threat that didn’t need to be spelled out. My inner northerner—the fight my dad instilled in me—took over. I demanded he pull over. We bailed into the rain, cold and shaken, but I knew in my bones that was the safest choice.
I’ve got thick skin—I’m in frontline politics, for heaven’s sake—but my friend? He was visibly shaking. I don’t think he’s ever recovered. He never talks about it. I made it my mission to get that driver off the platform. Because next time, my friend might be on his own. Or it might be someone more vulnerable, someone less ready to fight. Reportedly, the man was removed. But there are thousands more just like him.
And it’s not always as dramatic as that. Sometimes it’s quieter—the daily tension, the risk assessment in your head. Just the other day, I walked my partner to the bus stop as he returned to Milan. Our goodbye was private. Instinctively, silently, we both knew not to hold hands. We didn’t need to discuss it—we just knew. You don’t act like a heterosexual couple in public. Because, well, you never know. That’s the line we all carry, and it’s exhausting.
I’ve watched relationships fall apart under that pressure. One ended after repeated street harassment. Another faded under the weight of LGBT insiders who didn’t like my politics. Imagine that—being outcast by the very people who claim to fight for inclusion. There’s a bitter irony in having to defend yourself from both sides.
None of this makes me special. It just makes me part of the reality that too many people want to gloss over. And it’s why I can’t pretend anymore that Pride, in its current form, is doing what it says on the tin.
Because let’s be honest: the LGBT movement sold its soul. It auctioned off its history and symbolism to the highest bidder. The rainbow, once a flag of resistance, is now a seasonal marketing asset. We used to throw bricks at Stonewall. Now we get drunk in fetish gear while an ageing pop star belts out her three biggest hits from the '90s, under a BP-sponsored stage. If you can’t see the decline, you’re either part of it—or you’ve stopped looking.
London Pride today is less a movement and more a marketing exercise. Barclays. British Airways. BP. Rainbow sandwiches from Marks & Spencer. Rainbow vodka. Rainbow car insurance. Meanwhile, youth homelessness among LGBT people is rising. Mental health services are patchy. HIV funding is fragile. And the conversation? All but disappeared beneath glitter and hashtags.
“We lowered our standards. Activism was traded for advertising. Resistance became rainbow gin.”
Activism has been replaced by advertising. We’ve gone from demanding change to chasing sponsorship. We pat ourselves on the back when a gin company tweets "Love is love" in June, and don’t notice that the bar for progress is now somewhere underground. When being gay becomes a brand—and queerness a commodity—there’s nothing radical left.
And the community? That word gets thrown around a lot. But what community? The truth is, there’s more hostility within than without these days. We love to preach inclusion, but we’re obsessed with exclusion. There are rules—unspoken, rigid, and ever-shifting. Say the wrong thing, vote the wrong way, criticise the wrong activist, and you’ll find out how quickly that so-called community closes ranks.
Take London Pride’s decision to ban political parties and politicians. A neat PR move, sold as principle. But it's selective outrage. Pride was always political. Always messy. Banning those in public life doesn’t remove politics—it just sanitises it. It says: “Only the safe, the silent, and the on-message are welcome.” That’s not radical. That’s cowardice.
And while we’re being honest: the LGBT Awards circuit has become embarrassing. Trophies for existing. Medals for visibility. People handing each other awards for being publicly gay. What happened to substance? When did being yourself become a credential? I’m proud of who I am—but my sexuality is not an achievement. It's not a performance. It's not a job.
We now live in a culture that values the mere act of being gay more than it values what you do with it. Attention has replaced action. Identity has replaced integrity. And we’ve built a machine that runs on applause, not impact. Pride isn’t meant to be a pageant of self-congratulation. It’s meant to be a rallying cry—for safety, for solidarity, for standards.
“Visibility isn’t value. Identity isn’t achievement. And Pride isn’t working.”
I still believe Pride matters. I still believe we need it. But I need it to be better. I need us to be braver. I need us to raise the bar—not just for politics, but for ourselves.
Because right now, this isn’t a movement. It’s a mood. And moods don’t change the world.
So here’s my challenge—not to the bigots, not to the outsiders, but to the insiders. The comfortable ones. The ones running the shows, chairing the panels, waving the flags, handing out the trophies. If you care about Pride—really care—then act like it. Show some backbone. Show some values. Stop trading in slogans and performative outrage. Make room for the uncomfortable voices. Let Pride grow up.
Stop mistaking applause for progress. Stop confusing branding with belonging. Stop pretending we’ve arrived when so many are still being left behind.
Because I’m not walking away. I’m not going quiet. I’m not swallowing the idea that this—this—is the best we can do. I still believe Pride can be what it once was: bold, urgent, unapologetic, and necessary. But only if we reclaim it.
So enough excuses. Enough back-patting. If we want Pride to mean something again—we don’t get to coast.
We have to fight for it. We have to defend it.
We have to earn it
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