I found my first stage, aged three, at my aunt Sybil’s wedding. There was a stage at the reception, and I clambered up to explore. I found a wig, opened the curtains, and started to sing Your Baby Has Gone Down The Plug-Hole. The more they laughed, the more I performed. I’ve been at it ever since.
Mum never forgave herself for having me out of wedlock. She didn’t know my father was already married. She always felt guilty, ridiculed by some friends and family. At times, she tried to hide me. Still, she loved me so much – I never felt I lacked another parent.
The Royal Ballet School was heaven. Back home, life was exhausting. It was a culture shock, yes, trading Hartlepool Tech for Richmond Park’s royal hunting lodge. And I loved every second of it.
I should learn to keep my mouth shut. I speak up when treated poorly. My mother said never complain or ask a second opinion, us being lower working class. Not me. To make up for all the times she felt she couldn’t, I kick up a fuss all the time.
I regret not growing. I’m seven inches too short to be in a ballet company; eight to be in a West End chorus line. Give up, Wayne, I was so often told. You’ll never make it. I looked at taking hormones. The science wasn’t developed. Instead, I resolved to spin twice as fast and jump twice as high as everyone else.
My height has proved a godsend. Not tall enough to be in every Royal Ballet production, I had time to explore other things in my downtime. I’ve done three Shakespeares, a film with Sean Connery and choreographed Mia Farrow and Bette Davis. My taller peers had no time.
I don’t cry when friends die. Not a tear at Mum’s funeral. But the Olympics? They make me weep every time. When Kelly Holmes won her gold, my sobbing was heard halfway down the street.
Everyone knew I was gay before I came out in my 40s. Just before homosexuality was made legal, a string of well-known faces spoke out. I couldn’t. It would have upset Mother. Once she’d gone, it was a relief to be myself.
The dark terrifies me. Home alone, if I come down in the night, I have to search every room for intruders before returning to bed. I give in to my paranoia now, however stupid.
I’m paying the price of dancing day in day out: torn ligaments, four screws in my shoulder, a messed-up rotator cuff and a complete hip replacement. Most ballet dancers do one or two performances a week in rep; different shows use different muscles. I toured my own show, performing day in and day out. Now, I’m paying the price.
Freddie Mercury was a dear friend. He’d come to the ballet, then we’d talk over a long dinner. Sometimes, we’d go back to his until the early hours. He’d play the piano. We’d watch videos of great sopranos. Freddie called me Miss Sleep. I miss him deeply.
Before meeting my [husband] José, I’d given up on relationships. I was 40-something, and reconciled myself to being forever alone. Then 30-odd years ago, he came along, and made me the happiest man alive.
I never ever accept loved ones have left me. I keep their pictures up on the wall. And I still talk to them, as if they’re still here.
When dancing, I felt nobody could get me. The bigger the stage, the better I became. In front of a crowd is where I felt most at home – audiences kept me going longer than I should have. I still tap dance up a storm today.
Awake in the Afternoon will be at Pleasance Courtyard Cabaret Bar, Edinburgh, from 19 to 25 August, pleasance.co.uk
