There was a morning in high summer, I think in 1957, when I was on my way to mass at the Carmelite church in Kensington Church Street. And feeling really miserable about sex. And also feeling strongly that I was not in a state of grace, and therefore should not take communion. And I got almost to the door of the church, and then crossed the road and walked into the park, Kensington Gardens, the little alleyway through York Place. And really did, I think, challenge God. I... to say, you’ve had ten years of my life. I have been abstinent. I’ve had sex with nobody but myself for ten years. I can’t go on like this. I can’t. I have to do something. I have to fall in love with somebody, somehow. And you’ve had this sacrifice, and I want a sign. I want something to happen to tell me that my ten years of not having sex with anybody has been enough.

And there was no sign. And there hasn’t been a sign since, so… and desperately out of practice, I just went out that night and picked somebody up and went home to bed with him. And having broken my duck, as it were, my life changed. I’m not to say it changed for the better, but it certainly changed.

And I… you know, I think, in terms of living comfortably in our society, homosexuality is a bit of an affliction. It’s a bit of a nuisance. It gets in the way. People are patronising or indulgent or try to – even at my age – try to find, you know, somebody for you. And that never works. You have to find for yourself.