We have become somewhat inured of late to the phenomenon of newspaper columnists detailing the minutiae of life under the shadow of a terminal illness. The Observer’s Ruth Picardie and The Times’ John Diamond both arguably became more famous as cancer sufferers than they ever had been as the accomplished journalists they already were.

There was a period when a fatally ill columnist was the latest accessory for the newspaper about town, even deserving a satirical sideswipe from Brass Eye creator Chris Morris in his Time To Go column for the Observer.

It’s hard, then, to remember how much Oscar Moore’s columns for the Guardian, PWA (Person with Aids) affected their readers. Moore had been HIV positive for ten years until, on New Year’s Eve 1993, he came down with a severe attack of shingles that was to result in the first of many admissions into hospital. The ups and downs of his condition, his medications and his state of mind were chronicled from 1994 to 1996 with a characteristically frank style that often included a large quantity of dry wit.

Adapted and directed by Malcolm Sutherland, PWA takes Moore’s words and places them in the mouth of actor Pip Torrens, leaving him with just a minimalist set and a couple of slide projectors to accompany his monologue. It’s all that’s needed: anything more, and the impact of his words would be drowned out.

Initially, the slide projectors illuminate the breaks between columns with brief, clinical descriptions of some of the terms used: septicaemia, CMV, EBV, 3TC, Retrovir. As Moore, who as a film critic valued his sight, finds that a virulent strain of herpes called cytomegalovirus is slowly destroying his retina, we also see a blown up image of the viral cell; when in words Moore describes it as ‘the Pac-man of herpes’, chomping away at his vision, the sight of the spherical virus adds an extra layer of poignancy to the rich metaphor.

Any play that you know will end in the main (in this case, only) character’s death always runs the risk of falling into melodrama. Here, there is no chance of that, with Torrens’ superb performance the perfect counterpart to Moore’s writing. The actor holds the audience with him every step of the way, whether it’s as the Oscar who finds wit in minor inconveniences or the bemusement of children, the Oscar who has to deal with excruciating pain and deep depressions, or the Oscar who can no longer hide his anger about the prejudice faced by gay people with Aids. ‘We’re guilty until proven dead,’ he rails at one point, noting how the media always refers to HIV+ haemophiliacs as ‘innocent’.

As the stage version of Oscar nears the end, he turns to the topic of the columns he’s been writing. It’s a weapon, he explains, a means of fighting the virus. After all, while HIV can mutate enough to render medical therapies useless, it hasn’t yet learned how to type. Moore was being modest: not only did his words help him fight his own battle, but they also contributed to the battle against ignorance and homophobia. This superb stage production deserves to continue Oscar Moore’s legacy for some time to come.

• Diary of a PWA was at the Drill Hall, London. This review was written for Gay.com UK (link no longer available)

It’s a funny old world where an over-the-hill prostitute and former stripper lands a lucrative deal with ITV Light Entertainment. That’s exactly what happened to Lily Savage, the blond bombsite from Birkenhead, though. Now the man who plays the Blankety Blank-ing drag act, Paul O’Grady, is making a further bid to be known in his own right with his latest travelogue series, Paul O’Grady’s America.

Following on from last year’s series set in the Orient, the opening episode of the US-based sequel is set in New York City. The formula remains much the same: O’Grady takes an occasional tour of the city before meeting up with interesting people. Oh, and he has a row with the hotel staff. One of the highlights of the last series was watching O’Grady get increasingly riled by some perceived discourtesy foisted upon him. While his tirades were diverting first time round, here the abuse meted out to the staff of the New York Plaza comes out of the blue and disappears as quickly. It’s as if he’s performing to quota, with ITV Network Centre demanding at least one bust-up per city.

Busts of a different nature come under the spotlight when O’Grady meet Sherry, a former burlesque dancer who could shimmy across the stage balancing a glass of water on each breast. Even here, though, the ego takes over, as Sherry’s wonderful reminiscences are cut short, reducing her to spectating as a fifty-something man gyrates his hips on stage. It’s a shame, as when O’Grady lets other people get a word in edgeways he shows every sign of having the potential to be a great interviewer, showing real interest and sparking off fondly-remembered anecdotes. Which makes it all the more bizarre that in a show that’s supposed to be about the Big Apple, most of the people he meets are C-list Brits. Why go all the way to America to interview Julian Clary and Cilla Black, for goodness’ sake? You may just as well stick a camera crew in the LWT cafeteria for much the same effect.

It’s all summed up rather neatly when O’Grady meets Miss Revere, a choreographer at the American School of Ballet. After Paul professes a long-held desire to be a Broadway starlet, Miss Revere quickly establishes that O’Grady can neither sing, dance nor act. He sums up his abilities as, “I dress up as a middle-aged prostitute and do a game show.” The look on his tutor’s face says it all.

• Originally written for Gay.com UK. Original link no longer available

There’s a growing sense these days that Manchester’s Canal Street is far too, well, straight. Many ascribe this to the appeal of Queer As Folk: All the straight girls started coming down to gawp, with the hetero lads in hot pursuit. If there is any truth to that, it’s only partial. The area was already on the decline before Russell T Davies wrote his series of life and lust on the Manchester scene. His latest work, Bob and Rose, is less likely to stir up similar feelings regarding his portrayal of inner city nightlife, but may provoke other reactions.

For while Bob does hit the scene occasionally (indeed, he quotes one of his favourite haunts as Babylon, the fictional club from QAF) and is not averse to pulling complete strangers. The potential for controversy, however, comes not from drug use or underage sex, but from a subject far more incomprehensible to many gay men: Bob Gossage, comprehensive teacher and well-adjusted gay man, falls in love with a woman.

Russell Davies’ press interviews prior to the broadcast have concentrated on the fact that his inspiration came from the real-experiences of a friend. This has possibly been an attempt to counteract the opinion (voiced by more than one friend of mine) that “it’s just not possible - you can’t be gay AND like women.” He needn’t worry, though, for the cast and production team whose job it is to bring this unlikely situation to the screen do so in an utterly compelling and believable manner.

It does help that the central character of Bob is played by Jonathan Creek’s Alan Davies. Here is a man whose sexual charm is lost on most men, but who has acquired some degree of a following among straight women. The everyman persona he has created through his stand-up comedy and acting roles is just about believable as a single gay man who pulls relatively easily and whose bewildered, little-boy-lost look is perfect for a man, who feels completely overwhelmed by the emotions that are induced by a completely unexpected source.

Davies is matched and, indeed, surpassed in every way by Lesley Sharp, a character actress of the highest calibre without whom Playing The Field, Clocking Off and The Full Monty would have been the poorer. In her first role as the ‘romantic lead’ instead of an ensemble player, she finally gets the chance she has deserved for so long. Both leads are perfectly served by Russell Davies’ warm, funny and occasionally painfully honest script, as both Bob and Rose deal with their own and each other’s vulnerabilities.

To carry six hours of primetime television, though, you need more than two characters. At first glance, the supporting roles seem to conform to various stereotypes: Rose’s ineffectual, even ditzy, mother and her no-good boyfriend; Bob’s best friend Holly, who is jealous enough when Bob’s time is taken up with other men, let alone another woman.

In episode two we’re introduced to Bob’s parents. Monica, played to a T by Penelope Wilton, is the ringleader of Parents Against Homophobia!, always up to date with the latest human rights injustices around the world and who spends her spare time stuffing condoms into safer sex packs. In contrast, Bob’s father (John Woodvine) can joke about condom use with the other women of PAH!, but is monosyllabic in Bob’s presence.

As with Queer As Folk, however, it’s quickly apparent that while on the surface these characters could be viewed as ciphers, there is far more to them. Each has their problems, neuroses and secrets just bubbling under the surface.

By far the hardest job in this regard falls upon the shoulders of Jessica Stevenson (Spaced, The Royle Family) who has to win us over to thinking of her character, Holly, as a viable best friend to Bob even while she’s plotting to eradicate any chance of happiness he has that doesn’t directly involve her. It’s the performance of her career to date: a lesser actress could easily have us hating Holly from the start, but Stevenson’s scene-stealing portrayal gives us a suspenseful ambivalence towards her true motives.

Indeed, with all the characters, there’s a significant lack of malice. This is not a piece about homophobia or, come to that, heterophobia, in the traditional sense. Instead one gets the impression that there’s an underlying theme of the danger of secrets, a need for openness, and how Bob and Roses’ eventual honesty about their own feelings towards one another could give their friends and loved ones a route to an outlet of their own.

If there’s a downside at all to Bob and Rose, it’s minimal. Both Queer As Folk and Red Production’s other recent hit, Clocking Off, benefited strongly from the musical genius of Murray Gold. The absence of his exuberance here (replaced by the understated subtleties of a score by Martin Phipps) is noticeable, but the subtlety of incidental music does draw attention to the myriad awkward silences that punctuate the course of the protagonists’ relationship. Indeed, it does at times seem rather melancholic, although it does contain some of the finest comedy the channel has seen in some time; it’s quite feasible, for example, that nobody watching the first episode will ever be able to give a serious name to a pet dog ever again.

In crafting a completely believable, normal gay man caught up in a strange, yet honestly compelling situation, ITV has produced in Bob and Rose something that Queer As Folk never quite managed to evoke - a painful, honest account of everyday life among gay people and their friends in a way that all, gay or straight, can immediately feel they relate to.

It’s also, despite its subject matter, a very traditional morality tale; yes, there is someone out there for each of us. It may be someone who we may only meet by chance and could be far removed from our own preconceptions, but for everyone there’s the chance of a happy ending.

• Originally published on Gay.com UK

When adapting any book for the stage, the original writer’s work, more often than not, gets diluted. Not so with New Boy. Director Russell Labey has adapted William Sutcliffe’s first novel faithfully, which unfortunately means that the novel’s flaws are magnified in front of an audience.

Sixth former Mark (Neil Henry) is drawn into a sense of awed fascination when new boy Barry, played by Leon Harris, arrives in school. As their friendship grows, the boys realise they have one big thing in common — their virginity. The main difference, though, is that every woman (and practically every man) wants to relieve Barry of this burden. The closest Mark can get, however, is a drunken fumble at a crass disco.

As Barry explores his newfound sexual prowess, he embarks on a dangerous affair with his French teacher, Mrs. Mumford. Once the affair is exposed (by the teacher herself in a brilliantly comedic and sensuous monologue from Heather Wright) the couple move in together, fuelling Mark’s jealousy - an emotion which goes into overdrive when Barry, close to the play’s conclusion, embarks on another affair even closer to home.

Throughout, Neil Henry’s Mark is a fabulous concoction of adolescent angst. Whilst his narrative monologues are occasionally gratingly overwritten, Henry’s delivery and acute sense of comic timing make the show. The audience is completely drawn in by him and, like his character, becomes tantalised by the best friend that he sees. Sadly, unlike the fictional Mark, we can see Barry/Leon Parris’ faults all too plainly: of the otherwise impressive cast of five, his is the weakest performance by far.

The relationship between these two young men is the driving force behind the book and the play. A shame, then, that it is not as fulfilling or convincing as it should be. This is due, in part, to inherent weaknesses in the source material, but responsibility lies also in Labey’s adaptation. In the play’s closing stages Mark is berated by his friends for being blind to the situation unfolding around him. However, the subtle clues in Sutcliffe’s book have been omitted, leaving the audience as much in the dark as Mark. While on the page we can recognise a young man whose introspection renders him blind and deserving of the name-calling he receives, on stage we are as confused as he is when new relationships surface out of nowhere.

Despite this criticism, the cast generally engages the audience well, with able support from Josh Neale and Clare Buckfield. In the main, the script varies from the witty to the hilarious, albeit with a convincing undercurrent of pathos. Quite why it was deemed necessary to shoehorn in so many late 80’s disco numbers to unsuccessfully create a sense of period remains a mystery. The character observations and the comments on schoolroom attitudes towards sex and homosexuality, surely, are as relevant in a truly contemporary setting, if not more so.

In short, Mr. and Mrs. Labey, your son Russell has produced a competent and not unenjoyable comic drama that fails to achieve the predicted grade. B-: could do better.

• Originally written for Gay.com UK (no longer online)

As a nation, we’ve come to expect impersonation of former singing stars to be accompanied by dry ice, sliding doors and Matthew Kelly. No matter how many Stars In Their Eyes she may have, though, Deirdre the housewife will, after her three-and-a-half minutes of fame, still be a housewife.

When Kate Dimbleby dons the peroxide wig to become Miss Peggy Lee, however, she assumes the mantle of star that deserves to stay with her.

Dimbleby relates the tale of the singer, who was born Norma Deloris Egstrom, through a variety of songs from all eras of her long-running career. The monologues that intersperse the singing similarly jump about, from Norma’s discovery by jazz legend Benny Goodman, to the failure of her marriage to the alcohol-soaked David Barbour, back to the abuse she suffered at the hands of her stepmother.

Despite the potentially heavy material though, both Dimbleby’s charisma and writer Lucy Powell’s script keep the darker side of Miss Lee’s life, as the woman herself did, backstage, letting the voice, the presence and the wonderful songs speak for themselves.

In itself, this is another blessing: Dimbleby is quite obviously far more comfortable imitating Peggy Lee the singer rather than in spoken form.

The cabaret-style setting is an undoubted advantage, with the enforced intimacy of the King’s Head allowing Dimbleby to connect with her audience far more easily than a larger venue would permit. Even here though, the modern world creeps through. Somehow one imagines that These Foolish Things, I’m a Woman and He’s a Tramp deserve to be viewed through clouds of cigarette smoke and with the scent of bourbon mash in the air. A no-smoking policy and a hint of diners’ roast chicken don’t seem quite right.

After the interval, Dimbleby seems to drop the narrative monologues altogether, opting for a raucous and fully enjoyable romp through some of the highlights of her heroine’s back catalogue.

And it is here, where the reluctant actress fades away and the singer emerges, that you begin to care less and less whether or not you’re watching Kate Dimbleby or Peggy Lee. If the seats weren’t packed so tightly together, everyone would be dancing.

Fever has been dubbed a one-woman show, but that only gives credit to one quarter of the cast. The youthful backing trio of Julian Hinton on piano, Jonty Fisher on bass and an impossibly fresh-faced Ben Reynolds on drums play their entire set with great smiles on their faces: when the band is having this much fun you can’t help but join in.

One almost misses the fact that, come the leading lady’s first bow, she hasn’t even sung the title number. That little problem is not overlooked for long, and is definitely worth the wait: as Kate Dimbleby encourages the audience to provide the finger-clicking accompaniment, she launched into Fever with a sultriness that even Miss Lee, in her prime, could hardly manage.

With a sassiness and sense of humour that cannot fail to please, Dimbleby proves that she is indeed one hell of a woman - W-O-M-A-N…

• This article was originally written for Gay.com UK

Scott: The American-made version of Queer As Folk starts this Sunday, December 3.

Russell: It does, doesn’t it? Bloody hell. Apparently there are billboards all over New York, and things like that happening. Marvellous! And what am I doing in Manchester, I ask myself?

So what has it been like handing the series over to a complete group of strangers?

Well, a piece of piss really, to be honest. It’s so remote and distant. It’s lovely, a massive compliment, but if you told me five years ago – or even two years ago – that something I’d written would be a twenty-two hour American series – a $22million series! – I would have been leaping about in the garden, thinking, “that’s the best news in the world! ” And the strange thing is that when these things happen in real life, you’re much more interested in getting your kitchen decorated and paying your bills on time. Real life has a tremendous talent for keeping life very ordinary. So I’m not swanning about in a limousine or anything.

Is that because you feel you’ve moved on from Queer As Folk to other things?

No, I think about Queer As Folk all the time. I think about every show I’ve ever written all the time. I don’t know if this is true of every writer, but I never quite get rid of them, they sort of tick away in the background. I think it’s because it is a cousin, you know, it’s not the original Queer As Folk, it’s a different show. The moment they said it was going to be 22 hours it became a different show.

When you first heard it was going to be that length, were you worried they might not have enough content to fill the time?

No, not for a second, because there’s so little story anyway in the series. It’s not like we sold them a murder mystery where the murder’s solved in episode six, and then it’s over. In some senses, very little happens in Queer As Folk. It’s everyday life. It’s work, it’s school, it’s friends, and family, and clubbing, and sex, and relationships. That can run for 22 years! I don’t think they were sitting there with cold feet saying, “Oh my God, are we going to run out of material?” because that’s life. I do think it would be hard to sustain unrequited love for 22 hours, and I don’t know what their plans are for that. I suspect that will change as it goes on. You know, like all American stuff they’re hoping for season two, season three, season four. If it’s in season four and the Vince character [called Michael in the new series] is still in love with the Stuart character [Brian] and still hasn’t said a word then they’re in trouble. It’s bound to change as it goes on. But that’s natural, that’s good, that’s what stories should do. There’s nothing worse than a story that’s set in stone and never, ever changes. That would be dreadful.

What sort of involvement have you had in the series?

Minimal. The nice thing is the two blokes in charge, writer/producers Ron Cowen and Dan Lipman, are gay men, it’s like a gay man’s network. I got on tremendously well with them, we had such a laugh when I met them. It was quite weird, because we’d both spent huge chunks of our lives working on the same thing, just separately. When we met we got on instantly, because we’d all been doing the same shit!

So, the odd little word here and there. I gave some notes on the first two scripts – some of which they took, some they didn’t, which is what you should do with notes – and that’s it really. I’ve read up to episode ten, but they’re filming episode 17 now. I’ve got no idea what happens in the middle, and I’ve got no idea what happens at the end, actually, so it’s quite minimal but that’s all I wanted.

How would you say your treatment by Showtime has differed from that by Channel 4?

I haven’t been treated by Showtime at all, really. I mean, they flew me out once for a visit, but actually it was a hell of a lot of publicity for them. They had a big press launch in New York. And they’re not daft; you know, every single gay magazine and every gay writer is waiting to write that article that says “Queer As Folk Creator Slags Off American Series”! Well, not every gay writer, because a lot of people have got better things to write about! But those who want to churn out a quick two thousand words will be dying for that, so it’s very much in Showtime’s interest to fly me out there and get me saying that I like it and stuff like that. And that’s publicity, that’s television, that’s good business sense.

I have to say I was treated like a bloody king! It was the best hotel I’d ever seen in my life, astonishing, and cars everywhere and they were all “stay on if you want and go shopping in New York!” In this country it’s like, “there’s your sausage roll, now go and work like a slave!” So that sense of it was weird, but I’m sure they don’t treat everyone like that all the time. It was a big press launch and with a big transatlantic deal going on, I suppose they had to do that.

And poor old Nicola Shindler [UK Queer As Folk producer] has not been asked out there once, bless her! It’s a gay man’s network, I don’t think they know she exists, which makes me laugh!

You get on really well with Nicola, don’t you?

She’s a marvel.

In your sleeve notes for the Queer As Folk 2 CD, you called her “my wife in a parallel universe”.

Which made her run! She’s not one for sentiment, that woman. She’d slap you in the face if you said anything sloppy like that! She’s marvellous, the best producer in the world. I actually believe you could have taken those Queer As Folk scripts and made them into the worst drama in the world, really, using exactly the same lines, same characters and same scenes and it could have been absolutely fucking dreadful! And she made it a classy piece of work. And you watch her other stuff, like Clocking Off on BBC One, I think is such a classy piece of telly. She knows what she’s doing, that woman! And she’ll make sure she does it, even if she has to tread on a few toes along the way. I bet she’s not easy to work for sometimes, but she’s absolutely brilliant with writers.

The series you’re currently writing for ITV, Bob And Rose, is based around a gay man’s relationship with a straight woman. Is there any foundation in that from your own life?

In me? Ha ha, no, not remotely! Not remotely at all, never, ever slept with a woman. Snogged one when I was fourteen. Although the whole point of the story is that anyone can fall in love with anyone. It did actually happen to a friend of mine, who was the gayest man you’ll ever meet in the world. He just met a woman, and he says to my face, “I will go to the grave a gay man,” but it’s beyond labels, it’s beyond stereotypes, it’s just he loves this woman. They have sex together regularly, and now they’ve got children and they’re very happy. Which just goes to show that anyone can fall in love with anyone. Most times it doesn’t happen. Most times life is just normal and we all miss the person we should be with and just carry on making do with someone else, but just once in a while… I’m not a romantic person, but I do believe that. So that’s what this is about, nothing remotely based on my own experience! No way!

And that’s what was brilliant, what was absolutely fantastic about the man it actually happened to. The prejudice he faced from gay men, from his friends, was astonishing. They all treated him like dirt and laughed behind his back – because it scared them to the very foundations of what they are, you know – out, happy, gay men. It absolutely shook them. It did me. When he first started going out with this woman, I was just laughing, saying, “isn’t this ridiculous, isn’t he stupid,” and then, I’m ashamed to say, I did everything except sit down and talk to him. Then eventually, I did – we got very drunk – and I realized that I was taking the piss out of something very real. It’s so easy to take the piss, you know, prejudice takes many forms. It’s real, and that’s something to be written about.

What’s it like working for ITV again?

Fantastic. I love ITV. You see, the thing is, I’m an ITV viewer. You know Wednesday’s schedule? Coronation Street, an hour of David Beckham (thank you very much), half an hour of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? and then The Full Monty. Am I watching, or what? I am that viewer.

I love them. They’re so honest and straightforward to deal with. And all the stuff you might imagine happening – we were interviewing directors today, and the directors were asking us, “are you having any problems getting gay stuff past ITV?” And it’s the absolute opposite. They want us to work for them. They want the scripts, they want me to write whatever I want. People forget that ITV made The Naked Civil Servant and Cracker and Prime Suspect. They’ve always been an adventurous channel. The reason why there’s a lot of shit on that channel is that they get sent a lot of shit.

So would you ever go back to Channel 4?

Not at the moment, no, wouldn’t touch them with a barge pole! Until I get an idea that will only work on Channel 4, at which point I’ll swallow all my principles and go and do it. But no, actually, have they ever sorted out what slots their drama is in? They don’t know what they’re doing with drama. Everyone else has got built-in slots. You haven’t got a clue with Channel 4 when the drama is going to be on. Ironically, they only shows they do that for, the only fixed slots, are for their American imports, which is astonishing! Friends will be on a Friday at 9, ER will be on a Wednesday at 9… and they advertise, you know, “Wednesday night is ER night”. You think, “why can’t you do that for your own stuff?” They’re a very, very schizophrenic channel in that sense. It’s not because I’m cross with them, I’ve always thought that. I used to say that when I was in the building working for them. Very, very strange approach to their own material, it’s weird.

You devoted a lot of time into developing the QAF spin-off Misfits and The Second Coming for Channel 4, both of which have been cancelled.

Yes, I did. I mean, it happens, it has to be said. Things fall through. It’s not so much the things falling through I object to: we were genuinely led to believe, first with Misfits that it would be commissioned, and then with The Second Coming that it was a definite commission. It was said, “you have got a green light.” And so the amount of time and – I don’t want to go on about money, but the principles of the thing are best described in money. Roughly, you get 30 per cent when you accept the contract, 30 per cent when you deliver the script, 30 per cent when they accept the script, and then you get 100 per cent of that all over again when they start filming. So when they say it’s a definite commission… I don’t spend much money, but I went and got my entire house redecorated thinking, I’ve got money for next year, and then they take away a definite commission which is like – oh God, it’s going to sound like this is all about money – all that money’s completely missing. So they actually rob you of a living. I’m not poor but, you know, there are hacks bashing away at Casualty who are earning ten times what I’m earning. And it’s your life; it’s what you’re doing for the whole of next year.

They actually asked me to turn down other stuff, that was the astonishing thing with The Second Coming. They said, “will you turn down this project, will you turn down that one, because we want you to work on this. This is a green light, this is commissioned.” Yes, I said, marvellous – then they took it away. If I could be bothered, then I could get lawyers and sue them. Except then I’d never work again, so fuck ‘em. Can I say “fuck ‘em” on Gay.com? Oh go on!

You said you got your house completely redecorated. You actually moved to Canal Street for a while, didn’t you?

A little flat just off Canal Street, which meant I never went out to Canal Street, because I could see it out my window and couldn’t be bothered!

So you weren’t trying to capture the Stuart Jones lifestyle?

No way! It was too close, way too close to Canal Street. It was bizarre – I almost literally never went out. I became a hermit! I went out for chips of a night, very handy for fast food, that was all. I did realise – I knew, otherwise I’d have been living there anyway – that city centre loft lifestyle was not for me.

There are three main series that people associate with Manchester: Queer As Folk itself, Cold Feet and, of course, Coronation Street.

Cold Feet is disappointing this year, don’t you think? I can’t bear Helen Baxendale, actually. But anyway…

Coronation Street is celebrating its 40th anniversary at the moment, and that’s another show you’ve worked on.

Oh, very briefly, storylining it. And I wrote the most dreadful Christmas video special where Jack and Vera visit Las Vegas. In my own defence, it was written in three days and wasn’t, frankly, a highlight! Strangely, it was never shown on television! It’s a laugh, it’s like a Carry On film, as camp as Christmas!

So would you say Corrie is the opposite end of the spectrum to Queer As Folk in its portrayal of Manchester lifestyle these days?

Not particularly. It’s said by everyone, even writers who should know better, that Coronation Street is in a little world of its own, an eccentric, maybe nostalgic little world, and doesn’t represent the real world at all. I think it’s absolutely the opposite. It might not have the gritty reality of urban life, but a lot of people mistake reality for realism, which is a very different thing. And what the Street does absolutely perfectly is its tiny little moments between people who’ve known each other for forty years now.

I don’t mean the big divorces and the people in prison and the burning down of the pub sort of stuff – the tiny, tiny everyday relationships between people it gets exactly right. In fact, that is urban life more than Queer As Folk, more than Cold Feet. It’s closer in its tiny detail. And I love it. It’s full of huge, larger than life characters like Vera Duckworth and so is life. That’s what people are very afraid to admit. I can point to half my aunties who are like that in different ways, but who are mad. Life is full of larger-than-life characters. They exist. And yet, when you put them on screen people say that’s not real. And they look at EastEnders and say, “that’s realism, that’s true, because everyone’s miserable and they’re all having trouble, and it’s quite dark, gritty and real.” It’s a very great mistake that people make in thinking that television realism is therefore like real life. And do you know what? In Coronation Street, they have a laugh. And I think people in real life do. Not all the time, but actually a lot of my friends have got a cracking sense of humour and we have a good laugh. They do that on the Street and that is closer to real life than anything else. And so it’s head and shoulders above anything.

So what else have you got in the pipeline?

Ooh, I don’t know. I don’t tend to plan that far in advance. In the New Year, I’ll have a couple of conversations with people about two ideas that are floating around, but actually I’m just writing Bob And Rose. I can’t bear other writers who work on three things at once because it always reduces the quality of it. And we are paid enough to work on only one thing at once. Despite my earlier moan about money, my sisters would die if they knew how much I earned! Bob And Rose starts filming in March, so round about then I’ll start looking around for the next thing.

You were in talks at one stage about doing something for Channel 4’s proposed gay website.

Yes, Queer As Folk short stories, but I pulled out of that the second they pulled out of my stuff! It was lovely, and they were half written in my head, actually, bits on the computer, stuff like that. But it was the sort of job I would have had to use my spare time on, like Saturdays and Sundays. And when they pull out of major commitments to you and fuck up your year and your budget, you think “why am I going to give up my spare time for the sake of Channel 4?” Lovely website people, very nice people, not their fault, but tough shit, someone’s got to take the flak, and they were the only people in the firing line, so those were ditched permanently.

And that site’s been put on hold indefinitely now anyway.

It has, hasn’t it? When I got in touch with them – well, I got my agent to do it, but then I got in touch because they were very nice people and I felt a bit guilty about my childish strop. I wasn’t about to change my mind, but I got in touch with them myself, and that’s when they said, “Oh, actually, we might not be going ahead anyway.” For all they knew I’d spent the past fucking nine months writing those things and I had them all ready! And actually, in my head, a lot of it was ready. So, “thank you!” Chimps, they’re all a bunch of fucking chimps!

So could you reuse them?

Oh, you’d get caught up in copyright stuff. That’s the problem, Channel 4 own it outright.

With Misfits they said it’ll be returned to you to take to other channels after two years. Which is daft, really, no-one’s going to take an offshoot of a long dead show from another channel. And actually, even if that was the case, even if BBC Two said they were interested, then it would have been very interesting to see if the Channel 4 lawyers stood up and said, “oh look, Hazel Tyler, we own her,” things like that. So even then I think there would have many causes for making it impossible. It wasn’t worth the bother. You’d just end up paying lawyers, which we don’t want to do.

The other project your name’s been associated with on and off for the past couple of years is Doctor Who.

Yes, but that was Peter Salmon wanting that, bless him, and now he’s no longer Controller of BBC One I expect that’s dead. I haven’t heard anything for about six months. Apparently, there’s a film deal still ticking away, which would stop any television versions, so I think it just had the support of Peter Salmon and I don’t know who to talk to now. Lorraine Heggessey [the new Controller] I don’t know at all, wouldn’t know her to look at her, so I think that’s dead.

Well, we’d better let you get on with Bob and Rose. By the way, are you having a housewarming for your newly renovated home?

Let people in here spilling red wine all over my lovely new house? Am I bollocks!

• Originally published on Gay.com UK

She strolled down towards Via Fossa. Three hours to get ready tonight, more than she spent for her first date with Michael Chambers in Year 12.

The door swung open, knocking the gift from her hand. Picking it up, she realized who was passing her.

“Nathan!” she called. “Happy seventeenth!”

He looked at her like she was nothing. “Oh,” he said eventually. “Hi, Donna.”

“I…” got you a present, she started to say. “See ya later,” he called back, already walking away.

See ya later: the last words her mum said to Gary. Words she said when she meant goodbye.

He had skin of gold. In all Stuart’s nights of searching for the perfect man, he’d never found flesh of such perfection.

The boy stared all around, taking in the sights of the cobbled street. Every so often their eyes locked, and a gentle smile emerged. All too soon, his gaze started wandering again, desperately consuming each passing figure. A wide grin broke out as a familiar face approached.

Vince sat down next to Stuart, causing Alfie to gurgle with joy. Stuart cursed. Just his luck - to fall for someone who only has eyes for his best friend…

Every part of Hazel that wasn’t supported by an underwire sagged visibly as she sat down at the kitchen table.

‘Well, that’s that,’ she said to the toaster in the corner, there being no one else in the house. ‘It’s just you, me and half a loaf of Mother’s Pride from now on. D’you think they’ll send me a postcard?’ She dragged on her cigarette. ‘Will they fuck.’

The toaster said nothing, which she took as being agreement. She liked talking to electrical goods; they never spoke back and interrupted a good bitching session.

Sticking the remains of her last Benson and Hedges in her mouth, she got up and flicked on the kettle. There were no mugs in the cupboard, which was no surprise to her. Vince was the only one who had ever done any washing up around here, even after he’d moved out. Bernie was forever up to his armpits in motor oil, and Alexander - well, there just weren’t enough hours in the day to wash his hair and the crockery, bless him. She picked what looked like the least dirty mug out of the sink (there was a dash of lippy on the rim, but it looked like her colour rather than Alice Band’s, so that was alright) and dropped in a tea bag.

It was as she was pouring in the hot water that she first felt she was being watched.

She turned to face the hallway. ‘Bernie? Is that you?’ That man could hear an automatic kettle come to the boil from the other side of Withington. There was no sign of him, though. Or Alexander, for that matter. Oh well, she thought, they can get their own bloody tea.

Hazel sat down again and instinctively reached for the fag packet as she stubbed out the now-dead cigarette. She’d known it was empty before she’d even picked it up, but at least it allowed her to slam it back down onto the table in a highly theatrical manner, even if nobody else was there to see her.

Except that there was. She could really feel it now. Some bastard was watching her.

She span round towards the back door. That’s when she saw him - it. Its blank, scarlet eye panel gazing in her direction.

It was Vince’s bloody robot dog.

She stared at it with The Hazel Glare. It didn’t move. She stared some more. Its impassive gaze returned hers, look for unblinking look.

‘Okay, you win,’ she said eventually. ‘But one false move and I’ll go back to your friend, the flaming toaster.’

‘Correction, mistress. Toasting device is not currently ablaze and has not been for eighty seven hours thirty two minutes eighteen sec…’

Hazel’s scream of shock dissolved into a shriek of disbelieving laughter. ‘Fuck me, it talks back.’

‘Clarification, mistress: this unit prefers designation “K9” to “it”.’

‘Yeah, well this unit prefers “Hazel” to “mistress”, thank you very much. It was a very long time ago, I needed the money and I don’t want to be reminded of it.’

‘Mistress?’

She poked a finger threateningly in his direction. ‘I’m warning you…’

‘Mistress Hazel?’

She paused for a while. ‘Well, I suppose if that’s the best you can do… what do you want?’

K9 trundled forward, ticker tape spewing from where its mouth ought to be. Hazel ripped it off, and read it.

+++ HELLO HAZEL +++ HOPE YOU LIKE K9 MARK IV +++ A LITTLE SURPRISE TO KEEP YOU COMPANY +++ LOVE V AND S +++

Hazel looked at her new companion. ‘Mark IV, eh? What happened to the first three, I wonder?’

‘K9 Mark I remained on Gallifrey with the Mistress. K9 Mark II remained in Exo Space with the Mistress. K9 Mark III resides in East London with…’

‘…the Mistress,’ concluded Hazel for him. ‘I’m beginning to get the picture. Tell you what, you can stay - only on a trial basis, mind. But the first patch of sump oil on the carpet that’s not from Bernie and you’re on your way to the robot dog psychologist to discuss your dominatrix fixation, understood?’

K9’s ears waggled in response.

Hazel turned back to the toaster. ‘Sorry mate,’ she said, patting it consolingly. ‘It looks like you’ve been usurped. Still, I know where you are when I need a quiet bit of crumpet.’

Vince took a deep breath and burst through the door. It wasn’t what he had been expecting. No long scarves, no silver foil Cyberman costumes - some of them even had decent haircuts.

It was nice to feel like he wasn’t alone. There were other Doctor Who fans out there.

He bought a Budweiser (declining the Beck’s out of protest), looked round and spotted a friendly-looking crowd nearby. As he approached, he heard a dumpy looking chap with wandering hands say, “Of course, everybody knows that Russell based the character of Vince on me…”

He turned on his heels and ran.