Russell T Davies is known for his optimistic outlook, even in the face of adversity. Reflecting on a past incident where he was assaulted by a group of bus conductors, he remarks, “Many have suffered far worse than I did; it was merely a minor incident.” Following the death of his husband, he found solace in writing, stating, “It was a welcome distraction.” Even when recounting a challenging moment with his father, who labeled him “yesterday’s man” after Davies stepped down as the showrunner of Doctor Who, he concludes with a bright affirmation: “I was well aware that I wasn’t.” It’s no surprise that he has gained a reputation as one of the most congenial figures in television. Yet, he now feels the need to keep a kitchen knife near his entrance, “ready to use.”
“Online, I’m labeled a paedophile and a groomer by individuals like Graham Linehan, the creator of Father Ted and an anti-trans activist,” he shares. “People are starting to accept these false narratives. Just as some believe in flat Earth theories, they believe this too.” His advocacy for transgender rights has led to years of receiving threats and derogatory labels, which he initially dismissed. “But the digital realm is increasingly blending with reality. Some have even tracked down my address, and one person came to my home. If someone is convinced a paedophile resides here, it’s not that far-fetched for them to act on it. I’ve long maintained that our rights are precariously fragile, and now we’re witnessing it firsthand. What frightens me is the apparent permanence of this situation. These tech moguls are unlikely to be dethroned without a significant upheaval. For the first time, hatred is being capitalized on through algorithms.”
At 63, Davies stands as a pivotal figure chronicling queer British experiences, having gained acclaim with his revolutionary series Queer As Folk, which premiered in 1999. The show, which explored the lives of three gay men in Manchester, became an unexpected success, though not without controversy. The Daily Mail even declared that a nation permitting such content was “doomed.” Among the contentious elements was a storyline featuring a one-night encounter between a 29-year-old and a 15-year-old. When asked if he would write a similar narrative today, he affirms, “Absolutely. However, the context has shifted. In 1999, Nathan was still in school under section 28, which prohibited the ‘promotion’ of homosexuality, meaning he lacked anyone to confide in. I aimed to portray a real situation—Nathan desires sexual experiences, yet has no one to guide him. Critics say, ‘He’s 15; that’s illegal.’ But it’s theater!”
Our conversation centers on his latest memoir, The Queerest of Folk, which chronicles his journey as one of Britain’s most esteemed showrunners. He has previously voiced his concerns regarding newer writers who prioritize positive representation over compelling narratives, emphasizing his interest in exploring complexities. His recent project, Tip Toe, depicts a heated conflict between politically divided neighbors escalating into violence. Some viewers were unsettled by the inclusion of a gender-critical character named Stephanie. When asked about her inspiration, he responds, “It’s vital to consider all viewpoints. Both Years and Years and It’s a Sin featured prominent gay characters who were Tory supporters—viewing most dramas, one might think such individuals don’t exist. I know people who hold gender-critical views. The discourse is so polarized that merely being gender-critical can equate to being labeled a criminal, which is absurd. Genuine concerns exist, and they deserve exploration. Where is the space for discussion?”
Another character, Melba, offers a poignant monologue addressing LGBTQ+ rights, alluding to “women who are understandably upset.” What did he intend with that statement? “Melba suggests he might align with a gender-critical viewpoint regarding women’s sports. We deliberately kept it ambiguous, but why assume that no flamboyant gay man would ever express such a thought? It’s surprising, but I could easily find a right-wing drag queen on Canal Street. Showcasing these complexities is fundamental to my work.”
Davies is a powerhouse in both television and life. Standing at 6 feet 6 inches, he fills the entrance of his home in Swansea, where he welcomes me warmly. Inside, I’m pleased to find that the television is on; he is known for never switching it off, even when leaving home—”My new model turns itself off automatically, which I resent.” The television hums in the background as we converse at his dining table, which features a ceramic Tardis and is adorned with an original Peanuts illustration—an indulgence he purchased for £2,000. His parents, both educators in classics, shared a similar habit of keeping the TV on even during gatherings.
Despite their admiration for television, Davies found it challenging to inform his father about his career choice. “My mother advised me to keep quiet about not having a conventional job, as he wouldn’t understand and would likely nag me about it. Until his passing, he remained unaware.” In 1991, when Davies left his role as a children’s television producer to focus on writing, he did not disclose this to his father, Vivian. “Whenever I had dramas aired that I had scripted, he would ask, ‘When did you do that?’ and I’d reply, ‘In my spare time.’” Vivian was blind for the last quarter-century of his life, which sometimes resulted in him displaying anger and rudeness that were out of character (hence the “yesterday’s man” remark). One of the repercussions of his blindness was that Davies’s mother had to narrate the content of Queer As Folk to him. Davies prefers not to dwell on this aspect, humorously pondering, “Can you imagine her describing rimming? I think I gifted them that on Christmas…”
