The words in Tovey’s interview that haunt me, and should concern all, are these: “If I’d been able to relax…”

If only he had been able to. Yet he imagines the life of being what some call a sissy – my life, the life of, say, Quentin Crisp or Julian Clary, all us proud Marys – and sighs with relief. But it seems Tovey and others bulking and butching up see only the damage inflicted externally on the camp, the extra oppression and abuse we receive. Such wounds do indeed scar. But I can relax. I do not have to act. Perhaps they never stop. I see the damage inflicted internally on those who feel compelled to play it straight: the inner voice that never shuts up, the one that snarls and hisses, on loop, all day, “Sissy boy. Toughen up.” To be free is to have no such voice.

There is much I thank my mother and father for, but most of all I am grateful for this: They did everything to protect us from the horror of gender demands imposed outside the walls of our house. They could not stop the fists that found me, or the threats; they could not prevent my teeth splitting through my cheek, the blood, the post-traumatic stress. Their gift – the ultimate – was a foundation on which all such blows could be withstood, the knowledge from deep within that I am OK, that it is the world that is sick, with most within it doomed to play a part.

Most see men’s clothes and women’s clothes. I see only drag, people performing, conforming. From fist-bumping to air kissing, the dance of gender greets us everywhere. I wish we could bid it farewell and be free.

Meanwhile, Tovey, deluged with criticism for his comments, apologised on Twitter:

“I surrender. You got me. I’m sat baffled and saddened that a misfired inarticulate quote of mine, has branded me worst gay ever … If you feel I have personally let you down, I’m sorry, that was never my intention.”

But it is not Tovey that should say sorry – did he construct gender roles and expectations? Someone else built the prison. Blaming Tovey is like blaming a weather forecaster for the rain. I cannot blame anyone who looks at my life, that of a strutting, twirling gay man, and feels, “Rather him than me.” I blame only the forces that make the compromise – the trade of inner for outward acceptance – seem worth it.