Russell T Davies, writer

Queer as Folk’s original name was Queer as Fuck. That title was on the front page of the very first script, and it lasted well into rehearsals. In the end we went with the softer version, not because it was less confrontational – though I still don’t know what we’d have done if we had to talk about it on Richard and Judy – but because it felt like it suited the project. The line comes from the film The Full Monty: there’s a scene between Robert Carlyle and Mark Addy, who are looking at a gay couple, and Mark’s character says: “Well, there’s nowt so queer as folk.” It stuck.

The subject matter – what it felt like to grow up as a gay man – had been bubbling up in nearly everything I wrote, but it took someone else to point out the obvious. A producer, Catriona MacKenzie, said: “Why don’t you put that experience at the heart of the script?” She was about to move to Channel 4, so it was remarkably simple. My storyline about three men on the gay scene in late 1990s Manchester was accepted. I wrote the rest of the series, and bang – it was being filmed.

It felt like I’d been dying to write these men for years. They’re very different: Stuart is the cocky, sexually confident one; Vince a bit less sure of himself; and Nathan, who’s 15, is just starting out. But they’re also three versions of the same man. All of us have been those people at one time or another. We’ve all been young and stupid, or young and confident; we’ve definitely all been young. That’s what the series was about.

It was also about putting gay characters centre-stage, not in a “let’s-be-representative” way, but because I thought there were stories that hadn’t been told. One of my favourite moments was when Nathan’s mum discovers porn in his bedroom, and puts it back with a smile. It wasn’t an issue – she’d always known he was gay. I didn’t want it to be a lecture.

‘Stories that hadn’t been told’ … Russell T Davies. Photograph: Graham Turner/Guardian

Ironically enough, the programme itself did become an issue. After the first episode went out, we got flak in the press. Then Beck’s beer, the sponsor, pulled out. Frankly, the publicity only helped. The House of Lords was debating the age of consent at the time, which was eventually equalised to 16 for gay couples. I don’t for a second think that Queer as Folk was responsible, but it was part of a cultural moment. Sometimes you’re there at the right time.

Aidan Gillen, actor

I got sent the script for this new show called Queer as Fuck. I read it, immediately put it down, and didn’t look at it again for a week. I was taken aback by how explosive it was. It wasn’t the sexual content: I was just impressed by its in-your-faceness. I’d never read a TV script that was so bold. I flew over to Manchester and auditioned, and before I knew it we were filming.

When I took the part of Stuart, my girlfriend and I had just had our first child, so it couldn’t have been more different. I didn’t know Manchester, and I didn’t know Canal Street. But I was attracted to the character: Stuart is an ad executive, and his sheer brashness and arrogance appealed. In the script, he was described as an “A-gay” – the best-looking, most confident guy in the room. That isn’t me at all, but I felt I could get under his skin and show that there was more going on. Whatever his morals, I wanted to make him likable. Plus there was a great scene where he got to drive a car through a showroom window. From memory, that came in the second bundle of scripts – if I’d read it earlier, I would have been on the plane even faster.

For a programme filmed in the late 1990s it was pretty full-on, sexually. There was a famous scene where I showed Charlie Hunnam, who played Nathan, what rimming was all about. Filming that took a lot of trust. But the sex was an essential part of the character and the drama, and I always saw it as a story of empowerment. In the past 15 years I’ve met a lot of people – men and women – who said Queer as Folk helped them get their confidence. I’m pretty proud of that.