The streets, on the night I died, were slick with rain and heavy with rioters. It was utter chaos and picture-perfect anarchy.

Before this night, tensions had been running high in London town. We’d just recently passed the bill to allow gay marriages and a large percentage of Londoners were less than thrilled with it.

The lager louts and chavs had become more vocal and violent than usual since the bill had passed and they were itching for a fight. You could just feel it in the air – overgrown assholes staring daggers at any slightly feminine-looking boy in the pubs, nasty spats of violence in isolated areas around the city. It was truly awful but also, sort of thrilling in a way.

“Ash, you can’t go you’ll be mobbed.” Steven, the ever-present voice of reason said to me, as I was getting ready. “You’re too well-known. Plus let’s face it, you’ve got enemies.”

“Fuck them Steven. I’m going and that’s final.” He usually knew when to back off. I’m quite used to getting my way.