[Note regarding a quick update in 2026, a year after original posting: with a handful of minor changes to make things contextually clear (including the first sentence, the video at the end, and the last paragraphs) this text is mostly taken from my in-progress memoir about homophobia in the South West in the late 1990s. I'd like to take this opportunity to sincerely thank all those who knew Michael, who have since emailed, or posted below, with their kind words about the Michael, or the text, or for sharing their own reminiscences of this major, deeply beloved figure in my life]
I’m devastated to learn that one of my heroes, Dr. Michael Halls, passed away two years ago, without my knowing.
In 1997, Michael co-founded a charity offering advice and support to victims of homophobic crime and bullying in the South West. I volunteered there full time until I left Devon, from 1999 to 2000, working with him in a small office, and on many projects, including an anti-homophobic bullying campaign, which led a "first of its kind" set of guidelines being sent to every school in Britain, addressing homophobic bullying in a way that bypassed Section 28—the then-current law that silenced discussions on homosexuality in schools.
The Trust had a helpline, largely staffed by Michael, and each week we handled calls from victims of homophobic and transphobic crime. Every story was heartbreaking. A teenage boy might recount how childhood friends—ones he had known since toddlerhood—suddenly turned on him and began a relentless barrage of insults: “gay-boy,” “bum-boy,” “fucking faggot”, the taunting cry of “Backs against the wall, the faggot’s coming!” Victims frequently dismissed this verbal abuse, or being spat on, or even physical attacks, as something they could “put up with” or wait out, hoping the problem would fade.
It rarely faded. Anonymous calls woke families in the dead of night. Windows were smashed; eggs hurled against doors; the word QUEER! spray-painted across garage doors and garden walls. Fresh dog shit was left steaming on doorsteps in the winter cold. We took one call from someone who’d had human excrement shoved through their letterbox.
By the time a victim finally called us, their voice shaking, they had often endured months of horror. One of five would have attempted suicide at least once. And yet Michael often reminded me that the true scale of the problem was far greater than we could see. A recurring theme in our discussions was the chronic underreporting of homophobic crime in rural areas. A core part of the Trust’s work, he believed, was building victims’ confidence to step forward.
Michael once showed me a report where 80% of South West schools acknowledged homophobic bullying but did nothing about it. He worked tirelessly with both schools, and local police to change attitudes towards the community.
His efforts paid off. Within three years, largely as a result of his training them, Devon & Cornwall Police had become one of the country’s leading forces for LGBTQ+ outreach and a frontrunner in tackling homophobic crime. This transformation—within what had once been one of the UK’s most homophobic institutions—was largely down to Michael’s persistence, his constructive criticism, and his mastery of the subtle politics involved in dealing with large, resistant institutions like the police.
He ran the charity almost single-handedly, but always found time for me, offering guidance and support during my own struggles, which were legion at the time. He was a great educator, a friend, and the author of Homophobia and The Bible: A Self-Defense Manual, which shows how the supposedly "homophobic" passages of the old and new testaments are actually the result of a millennia of maliciously poor translation choices.
He had a sharp eye for academic absurdity and was a connoisseur of the hideously overwrought art-writing that was quoted in Private Eye’s “Pseud’s Corner”. I could always tell when he was about to share an especially egregious example of this, or of some academic waffle, when I’d notice him shaking in the corner of the room, his tuts of disbelief escalating into a hooting fit of laughter so intense it would leave him coughing, his cigarette wobbling precariously and scattering ash across the page as he struggled to regain composure.
He wouldn’t let any homophobic slur pass uncommented, and he scanned the papers every day for the latest outrage. The charity's filing cabinet had “Bigots” folder where he’d store cuttings from the Tory politicians, “Family Rights” groups, and fusty Colonel Blimp types who were frothing at the mouth over the slow, unstoppable march towards gay equality—along with, in many cases, his own calm, rational, perfectly-worded “Letter to the Editor” replies.
Because of course, homophobic bullying wasn’t just a problem confined to school corridors and playgrounds; it was the symptom of a much larger societal sickness. Michael would often point out how deeply embedded these prejudices were, how they seeped into every corner of life. “These kids aren’t inventing this hatred,” he’d say, pointing to the letters printed in local papers, or in the way a vicar might casually sermonise against gay marriage, equating love with sin.
He saw the Intercom Trust’s work as part of a broader campaign to shift society itself, to change hearts and minds as well as laws. Of course, know-nothing bigots would cry, with alarm, that our efforts were an attempt to “promote homosexuality” (which was the exact language used in the legislation, Section 28). But that wasn’t the point: we weren’t trying to make straight kids gay. We’re trying to make gay kids survive.
He was very private, and this is the only clip I've been ever been able to find of him speaking, but here he is in typically articulate fashion, talking with pride about the grant the charity received from police and crime commissioners, about ten years ago:
It’s been a few years since we last spoke, but we met for lunch every five years or so, and he was frequently on my mind. I regret not reconnecting sooner. His impact on my life and on countless others will never be forgotten.
Farewell, old friend.
“Atque in perpetuum, frater, ave atque vale…”