It’s some time in the late nineties, and a friend has brought round a video: the first film in the Scream trilogy. The film is already infamous for its blood-soaked scenes of gory, violent murders, but its eighteen rating and reputation only makes it all the more enticing.

We’re still in school, and our mams would freak if they knew we were watching something so scary, but mine works at a bar and won’t be home until the early hours. As long as I can get my little brother to bed, the living room and the video player is all ours for the night.

​My estate is never quiet, especially after dark. But we close the curtains, accidentally transform the kitchen into a ridiculous explosion of microwave popcorn, make a nest of dragged-down-the-stairs duvets and turn off all the lights. Grab at each other in jofyul terror from those opening minutes with Drew Barrymore right until that last jump scare in the closing credits. And by the end, I’m absolutely, totally obsessed. The soundtrack, the adrenaline, the references and self-awareness, the chemistry between the cast and that constant whip-smart, fast-paced dialogue.

​Scream is now twenty-five years old. I know, I know. Yet it remains rightfully renowned for redefining the slasher genre and creating the conditions and audience for so many of the teen horror films that followed. But there are other reasons it holds a special place in my heart, and they’re to do with how connected it became to my developing teenage sexuality.

I watched Scream on repeat: at sleepovers, from friend’s sofas in the aftermaths of parties or illicit underage nights out. It was a constant companion when I was home alone, and it was always the background soundtrack to my first few furtive make-out sessions. Also, I’m old, and there were far fewer accessible resources then for figuring out our queerness and kinks; my relationship with my body, with risk, with pleasure and pain, dopamine and adrenaline, affection, intimacy, hormones, curiosity and lust. For the most part, it was trial and error, and Scream and other movies became an inextricable part of that.

Pre-pandemic, I wrote this performance piece. Doing it live was terrifying: it was way more exposing and vulnerable sharing this one than even the most confessional pieces I’d done in the past. And yet, every time, this one was the one people wanted to talk to me about after shows. One of my fondest memories from last Edinburgh Fringe is of a group of us huddled in an alleyway outside the venue in the rain, swapping adolescent wanking anecdotes and laughing like lunatics. So when the Arts Council awarded me some money to adapt some of my performance pieces into films, this one had to be one of them. Appropriately enough, sharing this with you is scarier to me than getting chased round Woodsboro by Ghostface. But I want to do it anyway. Getting to collaborate with Sophie Broadgate, Synda Sova and the actors was an absolute pleasure, and I’m so thrilled with how it turned out.

Watching Scream for the first time, I never could’ve predicted that twenty-odd years later I’d be performing poetry to a film director at 2am, on the doorstep of a Whalley Range caravan. That I’d still be harbouring my ludicrous crushes on Stu and Tatum, or reminiscing about those early clumsy explorations and experiences that went on to have such a formative influence on my sexual identity. I never could’ve known what was coming, but I’m grateful things turned out the way they did.

​So: happy Halloween and blessed Samhain, my loves. May you get your adrenaline-inducing spooky thrills from serial killers, slasher movies, hardcore sadomasochism, innocent smooching sessions, all of the above, everything in-between or something else entirely. I hope you have as much fun watching this as we did making it.