I still remember the first time I watched Queer as Folk. It was 1999, late at night in my bedroom with the volume turned down low, heart racing every time I heard footsteps in the hallway.
While American TV was still serving up Will & Grace’s neutered version of gay life, Russell T. Davies had just dropped a cultural bomb on British television.
This wasn’t just another gay show (not that we had many of those back then) – it was a revolution, coming kicking and screaming for your parents and neighbours and co-workers.
Watching those first scenes of Manchester’s Canal Street felt like peering through a window into a world I desperately wanted to be part of. No more tragic coming out stories or gay best friend stereotypes.
“All of us have been those people at one time or another,” Davies later explained. “We’ve all been young and stupid, or young and confident; we’ve definitely all been young. That’s what the series was about.”
And he meant it – this wasn’t the sanitized version of gay life that television usually served up. This was raw gay life, with no apologies and zero interest in making straight viewers feel comfortable.
And then the American version came along – and, well, we need to talk about the differences.
Stuart vs Brian: A Tale of Two Bad Boys
Let’s talk about Stuart Alan Jones. God, how I wanted to be him, with all his many flaws – or at least know someone like him.
Played by the ridiculously charismatic Aidan Gillen, Stuart wasn’t just unapologetic – he was that gay guy who treated life like his personal playground and couldn’t care less what anyone thought.
When he wasn’t crushing it in advertising, he was breaking hearts across Manchester with the efficiency of a military operation.
Remember that iconic moment when he drove his Jeep through a plate glass window just to make a point? Pure Stuart – dramatic, excessive, and completely unforgettable.
Then there’s Brian Kinney.
Look, Gale Harold was gorgeous and played him perfectly, but watching Brian’s character evolution over five seasons was like seeing your rebellious friend from college turn into a Pottery Barn customer.
He started as this ruthless, sexy force of nature, but by the final season, they had him practically shopping for matching towel sets.
The Young Ones: Nathan vs Justin
Let’s talk about the baby gays. Both versions gave us a teenager discovering the scene through wide, terrified, excited eyes – but the similarities pretty much end there.
Nathan Maloney (played by a baby-faced Charlie Hunnam) was a mouthy, working-class lad who walked into Canal Street like he owned the place, despite having no clue what he was doing.
His journey felt real – the bravado masking the terror, the desperate need to prove himself, the absolutely cringeworthy attempts to seem worldly. And yes – while I may have wanted to be Stuart – I was probably much closer to Nathan at the time.
Justin Taylor (the equally handsome Randy Harrison) started similarly – that first night watching Brian dance at Babylon captured that same mix of innocence and desire.
But where Nathan remained gloriously messy throughout his journey (albeit a short, 10-episode journey), Justin somehow morphed into the world’s most mature, well-adjusted teenage gay boy.
By season two, this kid was handling relationship drama better than most 40-year-olds I know.
Both actors brought something special to these roles – Hunnam’s raw energy and Harrison’s vulnerable strength.
But Nathan’s story felt like watching your own messy teenage years play out on screen (something we’d later see in another British series – Skins), while Justin’s felt like watching what you wished your teenage years had been like.
There’s something to be said for both approaches, but only one of them makes you want to crawl under your bed in embarrassed recognition.
Also, can we talk about how both these characters somehow managed to land the hottest guy in their respective cities on their first night out? Talk about setting unrealistic expectations for an entire generation of baby gays heading to their local clubs.
A Tale of Two Cities
If the UK version was a night out at your local gay dive bar – sticky floors, dark corners and all – the US version was like a sanitized night at a corporate Pride party (at least in its later seasons).
The original Canal Street felt real – you could practically smell the stale beer. Meanwhile, Liberty Avenue looked like it had been designed by someone whose only reference for gay culture was a 1998 Abercrombie catalogue.
But here’s the thing – for all my snark about the US version, I know it meant everything to countless American teens who were just like me watching the UK version years earlier.
In the pre-social media dark ages, seeing any version of gay life on mainstream TV felt revolutionary, and I can’t take that away from QaF US.
And of course, the UK version told its story in ten perfect episodes (8 for the first series, then another two), leaving us wanting more.
The US version… well, let’s just say by season 4 we had political campaigns, secret babies, and more drama than a RuPaul’s Drag Race Untucked episode. Sometimes less really is more.
What America Got Right
Credit where it’s due – Sharon Gless as Debbie Novotny was everything. While the UK version kept parents mostly in the background, Debbie became the PFLAG mom we all wished we had.
The show’s handling of HIV/AIDS storylines was groundbreaking for American television, especially during the Bush years when even saying “gay” on TV could trigger a congressional hearing – while the UK version deliberately steered away from any mention of HIV.
The 2022 Reboot: Nice Try, Though
When Peacock attempted their New Orleans-set Queer as Folk reboot in 2022 (yes, I know most of you haven’t even heard of it) – it felt like trying to capture lightning in a bottle for the third time.
Despite an admirably diverse cast and good intentions to address modern LGBTQ+ issues, something essential was missing.
Gone was the raw energy of the UK version and even the glossy appeal of the first US adaptation. Instead, we got something that felt more like it was checking boxes than telling authentic stories.
Russell T. Davies was diplomatic about it, saying “It’s the ultimate compliment, really, to think that this lovely old title lives on. But the past is irrelevant. It’s much more important that Queer as Folk exists now, speaking to 2022.”
Nice words from a class act, but the show’s quick cancellation spoke volumes. Maybe some things are better left in their time, capturing a specific moment in our community’s evolution.
Queer As Folk’s Legacy
Looking back, Davies himself put it perfectly: “I’m very proud of what I’ve done, and I know not everyone has to like it, but I know I’ve done it honestly, with diligence, and I’ve worked hard, and that’s all I can ask of myself.”
Twenty-five years later, both versions have their place in queer television history.
The UK original remains the raw, honest trailblazer that showed us what was possible. The US version, despite its gradual slide into soap opera territory, still gave countless young queer people their first glimpse of what life could be.
For me, that scared kid watching Stuart Alan Jones own his sexuality with such fierce pride, both versions of Queer as Folk offered something invaluable – hope.
Hope that somewhere out there was a community waiting for us, a chosen family ready to welcome us, and a life where we could be unapologetically ourselves.
Even if I never quite managed to look that good dancing shirtless until 4 AM.