Section 28, the notorious clause in the Local Government Act 1988 that outlawed local authorities from “promoting homosexuality”, was so preposterous I can almost laugh about it today. But 30 years ago it was a huge issue, and we were angry. It’s hard to imagine what life was like for gay people back then: I studied politics, and wanted to apply to the diplomatic service, but as a gay man I wasn’t allowed, supposedly for fear of blackmail.

In February 1988, shortly before section 28 was enacted, Manchester staged a huge rally. Special trains were laid on to take people from London, where I was living at the time. It was a wonderful atmosphere, as you can see from this photograph. Even though we were outraged about the clause, it was a joyous event simply because there were so many gay people there. It felt empowering, and it galvanised us. The banner that says “Gay Unity” sums it up: opposition to section 28 brought all gay men and women together, even those who would not consider themselves political.

We were singing chants: “We’re here, we’re queer, we’re not going shopping” and “Gay sera, sera”. In fact, we were so busy singing that we let a gap form in front of us, and a news photographer leapt in and took this picture.

The banners behind us read “Never going underground”, which was the name of the north-west campaign against section 28. The man with his arm around me is someone we met on the train; the two men on the far left are good friends of mine; and the man next to me with the black leather cap is my best friend. He is shielding his face from the photographer because he was a civil servant and wasn’t out to everyone at work.

I had smartened up for the day, and wore a shirt and tie. At that time, aged 27, the main focus of my life was going out, but I didn’t want people who saw the march to think we were all just party-hard dropouts on the scene in London. I wanted to convey how serious this was.

I first saw this picture 10 years later, at a Manchester Pride march, blown up large. I remember thinking, “Hang on, that’s me!” It gets wheeled out every year now. Most recently, I saw it last summer at the People’s History Museum in Manchester, as part of an exhibition, also called Never Going Underground.

More than 20,000 people marched that day; it’s been called one of the UK’s largest gatherings for gay rights. I had assumed London was the centre of the gay universe, but Manchester was amazing: the community was huge. There was even a gay village with a few bars, a barber’s shop and a doctor. It seemed a great place for a gay person to live. I moved up two years later and still live here: I met my partner Andy Harris three months after this march, and we’re now civil partners. He is, by a million miles, the best thing that’s happened to me since this picture was taken.

It wasn’t until several years into New Labour’s tenure, in 2003, that the wretched clause was repealed. It took 15 years, but what that campaign started was a tide of gay activism that has since achieved so much, above and beyond the repeal of section 28.