Back in 2004/2005, I was 14, about to turn 15. I didn’t have anyone around me that I could truly identify with, and the reality of my surroundings was becoming increasingly bleak. I was different. I stood out - even when I tried to blend in.
But I wasn’t the chic, club-kid kind of different you hear about in songs or see in movies - I just didn’t fit in. The popular kids mostly thought I was weird, the alternative crowd in my hometown barely acknowledged me, no one else (to my knowledge) was gay, and everyone else just didn’t get it.
David Bowie and Madonna had made being different seem so seductive, but all I got for it was abuse and dirty looks. People were polite to my face, but I’d catch them exchanging glances as I walked past or spoke.
I had always been painfully aware of my surroundings - and it did nothing but hurt me. Sometimes, I wished I wasn’t.
To this day, my social awareness is a double-edged sword. It keeps me safe—some might call it street smarts - but it also has a way of ruining my mood in certain social situations.
As recently as Christmas drinks in 2024, my evening was derailed when I overheard a nearby table making clocking comments about me and my friend.
TW: Transphobia
I am your stereotypical bullied teen. I got beaten up regularly walking around town, shoved around in hallways at school, and mugged for my first flip phone (which I’m still pissed about). I was given the nickname tranny - a slur that people would use to prank call me, screaming it down the line on my parent’s house phone. (Remember those?)
I grew up in South-East London, in a town called Eltham. My hometown has a reputation for a few things - bad behaviour, white trash stereotypes, racism, and general xenophobia.
Stephen Lawrence, an 18-year-old Black man, was murdered in a racist attack Eltham in 1993, when I was just three years old. It happened right outside my childhood home on Well Hall Road. His murder became one of the highest-profile racial killings in UK history, changing the way people viewed Eltham - and racism as a whole.
I used to tell everyone I was from Greenwich. Technically, I was.
I didn’t like my hometown. I used to get so frustrated that no one understood me that I’d regularly find myself sitting in my room, crying. The frustration buzzed through my body like a drug, making me twitch with little spasms. I’d clench my fingers into my palms, like I was on drugs as the energy didn’t have anywhere else to go.
A mix of teenage hormones and constant bullying had completely taken over my life. I remember feeling claustrophobic, trapped - like my life was going nowhere. It wasn’t self-pity; it was just the reality as I understood it.
I was extremely introverted and hated attention. Lunchtime was the worst - I dreaded standing in the queue, exposed next to all the kids who were already seated and eating. I remember one time when someone threw a turkey burger, and it smacked me right in the face and covered my shirt in ketchup. I can laugh about it now, but at the time, I was absolutely devastated.
At the same time, I didn’t want to be like the popular kids in my year. I wasn’t sure what I wanted, but I knew it wasn’t this. As I am typing this, I remember that feeling of absolute suffocation and misunderstanding.
Ironically, many of those popular kids have reached out to me over the years, telling me that I inspired them - that they were actually jealous of how different I was. I would have never believed that back then.
The early 2000s were an incredible time for pop culture. Now, in 2025, people are emulating the trends and aesthetics of those Y2K years. It was fun to be a part of, but back then, I never imagined I’d actually be involved in anything exciting - I always assumed I was just a voyeur, watching from the sidelines.
My brother had always been into alternative music - everything from death metal to grunge and punk. I’d watch MTV with him, feeling a deep connection to these outcasts, identifying with their lyrics, and loving the way they dressed. A want to be involved with that excitement - this was how I discovered FOMO (fear of missing out).
Through MTV, I discovered The Osbournes, a show full of colorful, chaotic people who, in some ways, reminded me of myself. Curious, I started browsing online forums for news about Ozzy-and-gang, and stumbled across a pinned post about Jack and Kelly Osbourne supposedly being on a website called MySpace. What is Myspace?
It’s important to remember that this was 2004 - social media was still in its infancy, and these websites felt a little strange. Was this a dating site? The format didn’t really make sense to me, but I clicked through anyway, signed up, and suddenly found myself in the middle of an entire subculture - emo.
Everyone on Myspace looked so pretty. It kind of worked for me. The boys looked like girls, so I was already halfway there.
But then - boys were kissing boys… and it was cool?! My brain couldn’t process it. I’d never seen anything like this before. And yet, I felt an instant connection to this scene.
Little did I know, this website was about to change everything.
The format was simple - upload a pouty, posey photo and give yourself an edgy name. I went with xDearDiaryMyTeenAngstHasABodyCountx (a From First To Last song - their lead singer is now Skrillex) and started posing for my brothers PC webcam.
My hair wasn’t long enough to be considered emo yet, so I tied a black bandana around my forehead. In other pics, I’d grab my blonde hair and pull it as hard as I could to create a makeshift fringe. I uploaded a few photos, sent out friend requests to pretty people at random, and then… kind of forgot about it.
A few weeks later, while checking my Hotmail inbox, I noticed a few friend requests and picture comments waiting for me.
I braced myself for the worst. A bad experience had already taught me what to expect - some younger kids at my school had once posted about me on a slut-shaming site that had just launched online. It caused all the drama in Year 10. Some girls in my year had it far worse, with their photos being posted, but my section? Just a few lines explaining how I allegedly had AIDS, insulting how I looked and… insinuating that I put worms up my butthole.
Yep.
I logged into MySpace and… it was all positive?! Exceedingly so.
I’d somehow attracted a good amount of attention - something I was not used to. One comment stood out: "hawt". I had to do an internet search to figure out what it meant.
Hot.
Wow.
One thing led to another, and over the next few months, I built up quite a strong friends list - none of whom I’d actually met in real life, of course. I curated a selection of photos that made me appear as mysterious and androgynous as possible. My hair was growing, and for once, I wasn’t going to cut it short just to look more masculine for safety at school.
My About Me section was pure angst - completely contrived. I wrote about how no one would ever understand me anyway… so why bother? I cringe so hard, looking back, as all I wanted was to be understood.
As time passed and I posted more, I got used to being told I was attractive. I had never heard that from anyone besides my parents. It felt incredibly strange, but the buzz it gave me was addictive. Though, in the beginning, I was never sure if people actually meant it. For context, where I came from - Eltham - looking androgynous wasn’t in. Masculinity and chavvy style were the standard. I was not on trend. At all.
Either way, for the first time, I felt like I had found my tribe. I just hadn’t MET them yet.
One day, while endlessly browsing high-rated profiles, I came across one called RibenaXcore - a striking looking girl from Hassocks (near Brighton) who radiated ferocity and argumentative energy. She scared the shit out of me. And I loved it. I have always been drawn to strong women.
Nervously, I sent her a message and a friend request. She accepted. That night, we ended up on MSN Messenger, chatting for hours. We clicked instantly - she appreciated my ability to clap back at anything she batted my way.
By the end of the conversation, she told me that at the end of the month, she and a group of kids were meeting in Camden Market. Would I like to come?
I had been invited to sit with the cool kids.
I know how corny that sounds, but I cannot emphasize enough just how alien—and exciting - this was for me.
Her name was Emily. She looked so emo. And we were actually… friends?
We were going to meet in real life.
Was I about to be a cool kid now, too?
I was terrified.
When the day finally came, I remember talking to my parents that morning, desperately explaining how scared I was. I since found out that my Mum was equally scared, but excited, for me.
I didn’t have any ‘emo’ clothes. All of my MySpace photos were just my face and shoulders in t-shirts. I could have been wearing anything. But I had done my research, and I knew that it had to be Famous Stars & Straps - and it wasn’t cheap.
Famous Stars and Straps is a clothing brand owned by Travis Barker, of Blink 182 fame. It was ‘the’ brand to be seen in, in the early days of Myspace as it celebrates punk music, tattoos, and cars.
I also found out there was a shop in Camden Market that sold it, and I absolutely had to get a black hoodie with a red bleeding heart on it. It had to happen.
I didn’t feel confident enough to wear tight jeans - puberty had given me thick thighs and a big bum, which I hated back then. (Now? Different story.)
That morning, my mum and dad handed me a £50 note to take to Camden. I never would have expected it - we didn’t have much money - but it was enough to buy the hoodie and still have something left over for McDonald’s… or whatever else I found.
In hindsight, I can see that they did it because they were happy I’d found something that made me happy. By 15, my misery and growing isolation had become impossible to ignore.
I got to Camden early that day and quickly found the market shop selling Famous Stars & Straps. I bought the hoodie, tried it on, and - thankfully - it looked good. Instantly, I felt better.
Feeling a little more confident, I made my way down toward Camden Town station. That’s when I saw Emily and a group of effortlessly cool, emo-looking kids walking past.
Panic.
Without thinking, I ducked behind a phone box. The pressure was too much. I just could not handle that moment.
I don’t think I’ve ever told them that I hid from them that day - well, there you have it.
I walked through the Camden alone, trying to build up my confidence, until I reached the food market in the Stables. That’s when I heard a girl scream -
“TOPHER!”
I spun around. It was Emily. RibenaXcore.
Fuck. This was it.
I took a deep breath, put on my bravest face, and decided to act as confident as I had pretended to be online.
Emily was with a group of people, and to this day, I still remember all of them - Yaz, Mog, Hannah, Adam, and Holly Enright. I spent hours talking with these strangers, yet I connected with them in ways I never had before.
They weren’t like the grungers and alternative kids at my school and in my brothers bands. They were socially aware, they cared about how they looked, and they had an effortless blend of everything I’d seen on TV. And I liked it.
It didn’t take long before I stopped pretending and just was myself. Well… with a few tweaks here and there. As you do, I was fifteen after all.
We ended up jumping on a bus to Tottenham Court Road and stopping at Virgin Megastores. Downstairs in this huge shop (now a Primark) was a Costa Coffee. This was one of the ‘emo HQs’ of central London. I can still smell it, when I think about it, to this day.
We joined a group of boys who were in a band at the tables, there. Emily had snuck vodka in a Ribena bottle and was sharing it with me. I got tipsy and felt a genuine happiness and inclusion that I’d honestly never felt before.
Sometimes, I wonder if Emily knows just how much she changed my life. And probably saved it, without knowing.
I found myself (for the first time in my life) dominating conversations with an audience. People were hanging on my every word at points. It was totally surreal and utterly addictive.
We got thrown out of Costa that day for being loud and migrated over to Soho Square, where we joined a group of older alternative kids that were covered in tattoos. They looked really cool and I felt inadequate. One was a guy called Mike Duce, who went onto front a band called Lower Than Atlantis, and is now a music producer. I was completely intimidated by all of them, but wouldn’t dare to show it.
Soho Square became my second home - a place I was synonymous with.
It’s important to remember that this was 2005, a time when not everyone had mobile phones. People just knew to come to the square on a Saturday at 1 PM, and I’d be there.
In just a few months, I went from barely leaving my bedroom on weekends to spending every Saturday in Soho.
Each day, I was getting tens, sometimes hundreds, of friend requests. We became popular through word of mouth - mostly because of our loud, chaotic energy at gigs and house parties. We dominated every space we went into and I loved it.
Somewhere along the way, I gained a reputation for being nasty and cutting. Looking back, I think I was angry - angry at people for suddenly kissing my arse when I’d done nothing to deserve it. Maybe it was some kind of post-bullying thing, my turn to dish it out? I’m not proud of it. Even now, I cringe when someone says they knew me from MySpace. I find myself sending people DMs apologising, to this day.
I could psychoanalyse myself for hours, but who knows? All I knew then was that I felt powerful. People were buying me drinks, hanging onto my words, agreeing with everything I said.
Most of our time on MySpace is a blur - we went from nobodies to extremely popular at light speed.
I was internet famous in an era when that didn’t really make sense yet. It was such a fucking strange experience.
More importantly, we were accessible. You didn’t have to be an internet celebrity to find us - you could just show up in Soho on a Saturday and watch us behaving badly.
People wanted to be around us, and we knew it.
We drank litre bottles of Lambrini like water, and there was always drama to watch unfold. I carried a lot of guilt over my behavior, but at the same time, I had never felt better. I had finally found a scene that fit me - and somehow, I had risen to the top of it.
The only thing I didn’t dare tell anyone? I wasn’t actually into emo music.
Sure, I liked some of the popular tracks, but my heart was in electronica. Fischerspooner, especially.
I breathed a huge sigh of relief when electroclash happened. It was tied to the same scene, but this time, I actually loved it.
Phew.
No more awkwardly miming along to songs I didn’t know.
We got up to so much mischief, constantly encouraging each other’s bad behaviour.
My memories blur - from the time I was using hairspray in Soho and Lyndon lit a cigarette, accidentally setting my hair on fire - to being carried out of the Astoria by my armpits for being too drunk, only to swap outfits with Emily so I could sneak back in.
Adele (yes, that Adele) came to Soho Square a few times - she was friends with Lyndon - and I really liked her. She was warm and her accent reminded me of the girls from Eltham. We all knew she was going to be famous; her song Daydreamer was already a hit on MySpace.
I remember sitting on her lap once.
I might be wrong, but I think it was Lyndon who convinced her to create a music page on MySpace - setting off a chain of events that would ultimately make her a global icon and one of the most successful female artists in music history.
That same day that I was sat on her lap, a guy (lets call him ‘Skully’) jumped off a bench and landed on a pigeon, killing it instantly.
Bleak. Poor thing.
I was furious and refused to engage with him after that.
Later, we found out that ‘Skully’ wasn’t even our age - he was in his mid-twenties. To us, back then, that was ancient… and frankly, very creepy.
My friend Holly often describes the first time she met me. She approached a pair of legs dangling over the edge of the fountain (now demolished) at Centre Point in Tottenham Court Road. When she tapped them, I suddenly flipped up, soaking wet from the water, stuck my hand out and said, “Hi, I’m Topher”, as if nothing had happened.
I have no recollection of this. But apparently it was fabulous.
Emily’s behaviour had become notorious. You’d often find her charging through Piss Alley (the alleyways behind the old Astoria and Mean Fiddler venues - RIP) with a handful of stolen pashminas and a plastic pirate sword, swiping drinks from poor, unsuspecting emos.
There was a trend at the time - girls (and boys) would put in wefts of black and blonde hair extensions if they didn’t want to wait for their hair to grow. Not that any of us had time to grow our hair properly - we were constantly dyeing and cutting it.
Some had even committed to the infamous bowl-cut-fringe (we’ll get to that soon) without really thinking it through.
Emily, however, was endlessly irritated by these hair extensions and the lack of originality. So, naturally, she created a blog titled ‘The Extensions Blog’.
Now… to say this blog caused drama would be an understatement of absurd proportions. It tore through MySpace like a forest fire, racking up thousands of comments from furious girls (and boys) who had either found their photos used without permission - or worse, been name-checked outright.
Emily was never one to hold back. She had balls of steel. The blog earned her a lot of attention - and by association, me too.
Meanwhile, my own photos became more and more provocative. I posed confidently in underwear, dyed my hair different colours, cut it different ways, and embraced an overtly sexual energy that most boys wouldn’t dare to. I was posing like Madonna and David Bowie, but no-one knew that.
People were confused by my sexuality. As was I.
Boys were confused by how female I looked (pre-facial hair).
I was treated differently from the boys, and differently from the girls - because I had carved out my own space somewhere in the middle. And I protected it fiercely.
Boys were starting to like me and I was learning how to play the game.
I shattered my own attention-seeking records when I agreed to do a photoshoot with a photographer in Ealing named Titus Powell.
I had this idea: I’d stand in front of an open fridge, drinking milk, letting it drip down my neck and clothes. In my head, it would look like I’d just woken up in the middle of the night - moody, cinematic.
For the shoot, I wore a Dodgers T-shirt, green and white star-print H&M underwear, and nothing else.
I was 16.
That photograph changed everything.
It racked up over 2,500 picture comments. Back in the MySpace days, likes weren’t the currency of notoriety - comments were. The more comments your photos and posts had, the bigger you were. And I was fucking killing it.
That photo spread all over the internet. It went viral - or at least, the 2006 version of viral.
A company in America even used it to promote milk-drinking in schools, and it somehow ended up in the window of a gay bar called Vavoom in Brighton.
Within days, other boys started imitating it. Within weeks, it was everywhere.
The truth was, I couldn’t sing. I couldn’t play an instrument. I didn’t have (or want) any tattoos. I didn’t know I wanted to write yet. But I knew how to create a strong image.
I used my aesthetic - and my ability to manipulate it - to my advantage. I wasn’t afraid of ‘gender bending’ aesthetics, like so many boys were.
And just like that, I lost all insecurity in my appearance.
In 2005, a group of about 25 of us went to Give It a Name, a one-day music festival at Alexandra Palace. From the moment we arrived, the atmosphere was electric - and it stayed that way all day.
MySpace kids from all over the UK (and even some from Europe) had travelled to be there. This wasn’t just about the music; it was a chance to show off and further promote your internet personality.
I looked around and realised - everyone had the same black-and-blonde haircut. It was driving me crazy. I felt like a clone. This was not the day to blend into the crowd.
Luckily, my friend Lyndon was there with his hairdressing scissors. So, on impulse, I asked him to cut in a bowl fringe for me - right there, in front of everyone.
I sat next to my friend Mari, people giggling as Lyndon hacked away at my (now very long) fringe. Not long after he was finished, some guy looked me dead in the face and laughed.
A few weeks later… he had the exact same fringe.
I won’t name names (we’re friends now), but I saw you, bish.
On another occasion, I was standing with Emily (RibenaXCore) in Soho Square - also known as my office - when a young blonde girl came running up to me, clutching a tiny notebook on a keyring.
She asked for my autograph.
I got asked for my autograph.
I’ll never forget that moment because we could tell she was genuinely sincere. I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered… or to feel sorry for her as I knew my friends would loudly cringe about this.
But, I signed it.
Soho Square had become the place to be seen if you were on MySpace. Its reputation wasn’t just big in London - it was known all over the UK.
Anyone from MySpace who came to London had to visit Soho Square.
But would they be welcome there? That was always another story.
For the two to three years that MySpace dominated the internet, this was our spot. It was where we made our plans, had our fights, met new boyfriends and girlfriends, and created memories that would stay with us forever.
The MySpace effect had completely reshaped our friendships, personal lives, music tastes, and confidence levels. Suddenly, I was on guest lists for gigs, getting drinks bought for me (despite being 15+), and receiving a lot of sexual attention.
I even had both “I Hate Topher Taylor” and “I Love Topher Taylor” MySpace groups. I encouraged both - I didn’t care why people were talking about me, as long as they were.
People I’d never met would publicly discuss how disgusting I was, how I bullied people, or how I looked nothing like my MySpace pictures.
To this day, I’ve lost count of how many people have approached me, thinking they’d had an online friendship with me - only to realise it was someone using my photos.
Fake profiles were everywhere. Some were made to catfish people. Others were just there to attack my looks or twist my words. My email and MySpace account got hacked constantly. My page was deleted twice.
I remember when my friends were queueing for a My Chemical Romance show at The Astoria. I got into an argument with a group of boys who made a homophobic comment about me.
The next day, I received messages from a blank profile telling me that a group of kids in High Wycombe had put a bounty on my head.
Apparently, I had 365 days to live.
While that queue was happening, the My Chemical Romance production team announced they were filming extra footage for the concert DVD. They told the crowd that a hearse would be driving past and that we should all look moody for the cameras.
Fuck that.
As soon as the hearse came within metres of me and Emily, she ran, jumped onto the boot, sat there gracefully, and waved to the crowd like the actual Queen.
All you could hear across Soho was me - screaming, laughing, cackling, trying to follow the hearse but completely doubled over, crying with laughter.
That was the first time I literally pissed myself laughing.
It was a lot.
I had no idea why anyone gave a fuck about me, but I certainly enjoyed it. Sometimes, I wonder if I imagined the whole thing - if I’m exaggerating it in my head. But honestly? If anything, I don’t think I’m doing it justice.
How does a nobody 14-year-old suddenly become some sort of internet celebrity?
It was a weird time, and I had no real awareness of just how popular we had become. I was too young to fully grasp the impact my words and behaviour could have - on people, or on the internet itself.
Thankfully, this was pre-screenshotting days, so I could make my stupid mistakes without becoming the internet’s most hated person.
For the first nine months or so of MySpace, I was still in secondary school. My online antics had become common knowledge, and people knew that I didn’t need them anymore. That invited a lot of negativity - and, in some cases, jealousy.
Some of my childhood friends felt alienated by my new friend group, struggling to understand who this new version of me was. But the truth was, I had found something that set me on the path to discovering (and accepting) the real me.
It would take another ten years to truly understand who I was and what I wanted from life.
I didn’t go to my prom - I went to Lyndon’s 18th birthday party at Popstarz (at SCALA) in King’s Cross instead.
I was 16 years old and woke up the next morning in Ealing, at a girl called Kylie’s house.
I’d met Kylie during Give It a Name - she recognised me from MySpace, and from the moment we spoke, she instantly felt like a big sister.
Our friendship opened up new doors.
But I’ll save that for the next blog.
MySpace had a profound effect on my life - on my confidence, my self-image, and the way I saw myself.
I developed a strong sense of humour about who I was, a confidence in my appearance, and a deeper understanding of people from all walks of life.
This was where the seeds of my left-wing views were sown. Without realising it, I was becoming incredibly open-minded at a rapid pace - a stark contrast to the suffocating right-wing atmosphere of my hometown and school.
Where I had felt rejected by the gay scene, the South-East London scene -and so many others - I found acceptance among goths, punks, cyber goths, scene kids, and emos. And not only did they accept me - they celebrated me.
I’m so grateful to that website for helping me build not just a circle of friends, but a network of contacts that I’ve drawn from over the years - both in work and in confidence.
Sometimes, I wonder where my life would’ve gone if Emily hadn’t found me in Camden that day.