Guest Blog: Josh Maughan on Indulging in the Queer Rom-Com Ahead of OUR 1972 at Riverside Studios

When Our 1972 premiered last year, I thought I’d written the next big queer protest drama. But on night one, and in the run that followed, the increasing laughter and swooning from the audience seemed to declare otherwise. Suddenly, it was a rom-com. I was taken aback and, if I’m honest, annoyed. I challenged myself to work out why, and realised I’d been holding back from fully embracing the queer rom-com myself. In talking to others who felt the same, It became clear that queer joy on stage, and the queer rom-com in particular, still feels oddly taboo.

It’s no secret that queer media - especially on stage - often veers towards the harrowing. We’re gifted with an incredible range of stories surrounding shame, trauma, and heartbreak, and they are, of course, vital. We need to remember the past to confront the brutality of what came before, and to acknowledge the fights that aren’t yet over. But I’ve been told several times that my stories don’t have “enough trauma.” Enough for who? And why are we so conditioned to believe queer narratives should be tragic?

I think there’s a collective hesitancy about the queer rom-com. It’s creeping into our cultural diet more than it used to - think Heartstopper, which, for all its cheesy lines and longing glances, is an unashamedly gorgeous portrayal of young gay love. But even then, some audiences rush to roll their eyes. I wonder if part of it is jealousy. We didn’t get these experiences growing up. We weren’t offered these possibilities. Or maybe it’s because joy still feels subversive for us. Drama is familiar. Romance without intense pain? That may still be radical.

For me, the rom-com isn’t frivolous. It’s aspiration in its most delectable form - a cathartic, shared experience between the audience and the creatives. It doesn’t erase our history or struggles, but it dares to imagine what life could look like past them.

Writing Our 1972 was my way of getting lost in a love story unlike any I experienced growing up, but one that inspires the way I live and love now. Set in Britain in the early 70s, it sits in a fleeting window between Stonewall across the Atlantic and the looming shadows of Thatcherism and the HIV/AIDS crisis. It’s a moment of queer resistance, euphoria and hope - a breath of air before the next wave hits.

Against that backdrop, two vastly different boys meet and fall in love. There’s activism, there’s community, and yes, there’s your train-station-in-the-rain kiss. It’s a rom-com, so we know they fall for each other - that’s not the spoiler. The question is, what happens after? And the truth is that indulging in their rom-com only makes the contrast sharper. Their moment is precious because we know what’s coming, and we’re reminded how much further we still have to go. Especially now, when our trans+ siblings are fighting for their very livelihoods, the gap between what could be and what is feels even more urgent.

That’s why portraying authentic queer love - and authentic queer sex - on stage matters so deeply. For younger queer audiences, seeing their desire, affection and intimacy reflected truthfully isn’t just validating - it’s a roadmap and action plan. And for those of us who didn’t get that representation growing up, it’s a chance to allow ourselves to indulge in joy without condition - even for a little bit.

Our 1972 invites audiences into a rom-com that isn’t afraid of sincerity. It celebrates the ridiculous, the tender, the messy, and the hopeful - because that’s love. Queer love especially. And if that feels radical, all the more reason to put it on stage.