This Much Is True

I hope this isn’t the first chapter you turn to, but I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I realised while writing this book that I haven’t directly tackled the thing that has brought me the most notoriety late in my career: dirty talk. I am now better known for my naughty stories than almost anything else.

It’s not out of character. As you may have picked up from this book, I’ve always enjoyed talking about sex. In Newnham Old Hall dining room at breakfast, I could be relied on to spill the beans on whomever I had sucked off the night before. While no penis has ever been inside me, I have always been amused by them. Even now, I find myself looking at where the penis bulges in men’s trousers. It’s such an odd dangler to have — something hanging outside yourself. Our naughty areas are contained, for the most part, within our bodies, but men have to deal with this extra stalk. It’s a fascinating subject that people simply don’t discuss enough.

When I had my first proper lesbian relationship with Marion, she was mortified to find out that I was discussing everything (all our ins and outs!) with the rest of the cast. She thought that a private life should remain just that. But it was such a gobsmacking revelation to me that I wanted to share everything I’d learned. Sex isn’t so much part of my life now, but I like remembering it and talking about the things I used to do when I had it.

From the very beginning, I always wanted to connect with people using language and humour and sometimes naughtiness. I hope people will like me, but if they don’t, I want them to notice me. I’ve always asked, ‘How old were you when you had your first fuck?’ It’s a good way of getting a reaction: because sometimes, if you prick people, they respond genuinely, and that’s what I seek: a genuine response.

I delight in the whole physical aspect of life, and find sex and penises, vaginas and knickers, and lavatories and farting, hugely funny. And breasts. I love talking about breasts. They make me laugh. In general, when I’m at a loss for conversational gambits, I fall back on a subject I know people enjoy hearing about, which is SEX, even when it is slightly dirty — which it almost always is with me. I know I’m capable of being outrageous, but I don’t do it all the time; at home I’m quiet and boring, preferring to subside into a book or into the computer. I do not have a public persona. I don’t assume sweetness for the camera; I’m the same person no matter where I go or what company I’m in. But, like everyone else, I judge which facet of my personality will suit a particular situation and present it. To that extent, I am calculating — but never to conceal, only to reveal.

My friends, of course, knew exactly what I was like, but it only dawned on the wider world when I started appearing regularly on chat shows. The first time I was invited on The Graham Norton Show was in 2012. Beside me on the sofa was a charming young man called will.i.am. I didn’t know who he was, but he was a lovely fellow and I was pleased to meet him. When will.i.am started using the word ‘like’ in the way that Americans do — unfortunately everybody’s doing it now — I gently pointed out that the continual repetition of the word was a waste of time and proceeded to give him a short grammar lesson on the subject. Thankfully, will.i.am took it well. I didn’t set out to be funny, though. I just wanted to explain why that word should not be used in that way. It still grates when I hear it misused so often. I’ve lost the battle to stop people saying it, but I won’t stop fighting. (I joined the Apostrophe Protection Society, as that little mark is also rapidly becoming another lost cause. It’s a war I’m still fighting but on my own now as, sadly, the society has closed down.)