Peter Tatchell lives where he has always lived, in a tiny flat round the back of the Elephant and Castle roundabout. In the 1990s, interviewers were always surprised by his modest surroundings, on that ritzy, fin de siecle logic that he was pretty famous, so why wasn’t he rich?
The world has now become accustomed to the fact that he will never find a way to monetise his quest for global justice, and younger activists will probably gape in amazement that he can afford to live in London at all. But his place is still a surprise, stacked high with posters and folders; endless, endless paperwork; dramatic, trenchant demands – Arrest President Mugabe; Free Raif Badawi – printed in neat and unassuming Helvetica on A3 bits of paper. We could create a third category of hoarder: clean hoarder, dirty hoarder, cause hoarder – and Channel 5 could make a documentary about him.
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