It was my first day at the National Institute of Dramatic Art (NIDA), in early February 1971. I’d come straight down to Sydney (with the emphasis on straight) from Townsville. It was hot so I wore board shorts, a T-shirt and a pair of thongs. Everyone else was dressed to the nines; one even wore a full fur. I’d never met a homosexual before, a couple of suspects but not out-and-out real ones.

I realised that, for the first time in my life, I was a minority. I was a heterosexual in what seemed to be a room full of sophisticated gays of both sexes.

At the end of the speeches we were asked if there were any questions. Alan Ingram, a guy with ringlets in his long red hair, said, ‘Yes. Where’sss the boysss’ tooty?’

What was the son of a coalminer doing in this room?