(3) Freedom

"Sometimes the clothes do not make the man" : George Michael.

If you told me twenty years on from that day on platform 4 I would be working in the world of TV, I would have assumed that the World of TV to which you were referring was a back-street dressing service for transvestites.

In fact, things had turned out much better.

I was a regional television news reader. A dashing chap who wore sharp suits and dodgy ties. I also had a lady called Margaret who did my make-up every day. Major perk for someone like me.

Wink, wink.

My life must have looked pretty good from the outside. Only it wasn’t.

The worst recession in modern history had begun to bite, and Britain was searching for a new identity.

Unbeknown to those watching on their TV screen, so was I.

The country was becoming hard and brutal, while I was becoming soft and gentle. Slowly and gradually in front of thousands of viewers. Day by day. Little by little.

Hair getting longer. Trimmed eyebrows. Filed nails. All clues to what was happening.

A touch of powder and concealer from Margaret.

Red light on. LIVE.

Smile: “Good morning, welcome to the news.”

Despite the confident exterior, my soul was ebbing away. The barrel of the camera a death ray, capturing me forever on tape and hard drive as someone I never was.

Then fate stepped in and flipped my auto-cue on its head.

Showbiz impresario Michael Grade had been given the job of pulling the network out of a potentially lethal nose dive, triggered by the continuing growth of social media and the internet.

However, our particular station was bucking the trend. Bizarre really, considering faulty traffic lights in Hawick could potentially be our top story of the day. Perhaps everyone was high on sheep dip fumes in our remote and rural part of the country, The facts didn't lie though. Viewing figures were up, and local advertisers had stayed loyal.

Metropolitan Michael arrived unannounced on a flying visit, wearing a chalk-stripe suit and his trademark red braces. Puffing a cigar the size of a baby's arm.

“You are all no doubt wondering why (puff puff) I have come up to see you today. Well, it’s because I've got some good news. You have the biggest audience share of any other franchise.”

The newsroom nodded and smiled.

“And while we are living in uncertain times, I wanted to come here and reassure you all – personally - about the future.

“Some of you may know that my old man made his name in the entertainment business. And I’ll never forget one piece of advice he gave me.

“He said: ‘Michael, if you ever have a hit record, don't change the lyrics.’ And you guys...(puff,puff)...have a hit record.”

Naturally, we were all delighted. The assembled hacks, cameramen and production staff roared with delight at the announcement. Such a massive vote of confidence with the economy creaking at the seams.

The rumours about Michael being a complete and utter bastard were clearly untrue.

Michael disappeared back down the M6 in his chauffer-driven Mercedes our hero.

Six weeks later, he sent us all a personal letter.

He’d had a re-think. The station would be closing. While we were still a hit record, we were more Mr Blobby rather than The Beatles. 

A handful of people would be given jobs elsewhere around the country. Probably manning premium rate phone lines. Regional news for Cumbria, South West Scotland and the Isle of man would now come from Gateshead. The money saved through scrapping the station ploughed into entertainment programmes, all of which would be fronted by Ant and Dec and Simon Cowell.

We felt betrayed. So I decided to take Michael and his old dad at their word.

As we were no longer a classic hit record, I changed the lyrics to the greatest one of them all.

Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody.

A mixture of staff from the newsroom squeezed into a recording booth, and invoking the spirit and anger of Bob Geldof and Band Aid, we let rip.

Is this the real life?

Is this redundancy?

Caught in a landslide, of Michael’s great fantasy.

Open your eyes, and see through the lies

Look out for the Tyne and Tees

I'm just a news boy, broadcasting casualty

Because I'm easy come, easy go,

Used to make a TV show

Anyway the signal goes doesn't really matter to me.

Michael, just killed a man

Pulled a socket from the wall

Sent a letter to us all

Michael, where's your promise gone?

You lied and now you've thrown us all away

Michael ooooo

Didn't want to say goodbye

I won't be back again this time tomorrow.

Cary on, carry on, as if nothing really matters.

Michael really had killed a man. Me. I sent the finished tape to ITV''s head office in London. I'm not sure if Michael ever got to watch it. If he did, he probably thought it was an audition for Britain's Got Talent.

I went back to the letter. 'Redundancy package'.

How much I wonder?

Google: “Formula in UK for working out the minimum due, based on salary and time served.”

“Enter salary.” Done.

“Time served.” Done.

“Your redundancy package is…£21,000.“

£21,000.

Not enough to retire on, but a reasonable sum none-the-less. Enough, if used wisely, to start a new life. That sort of money could buy a lot of shoes, handbags and Botox.

My male side told me not to be silly. The female side told me to go for it.

Decisions, decisions.

What if I could run two lives at once? As a man and woman. Without anyone knowing.

That way, no-one would get hurt. I could finally allow the real me to breathe, without risking losing my son.

Was it possible?

There was only one way to find out.

I ticked the box marked 'voluntary redundancy.'

Becoming two people at once would be tough. It would require effort. Dedication. High-heeled boot camp.

It sounded preposterous, but the mere possibility of pulling it off intrigued me.

Up until then, pitch has been what I had played five-a-side football on with the lads every Wednesday night. Now, it would be the tone of my voice.

Identification.

Nobody could get a job without official identification. I needed documents to prove the new me was real. A passport or a driving licence. Could they be that hard to get? The Daily Mail claimed illegal immigrants were doing it every day, so it must be possible.

I made a note: Rent a copy of Day of the Jackal.

I began religiously practising my movements, voice and style. Drinking in everything I could about women. Studying little nuances in speech, gestures and expressions while in the office or in the pub.

The dangling of shoes on feet. The tendency to move bodyweight to one hip-side when standing still, accompanied by one leg bent at the knee. Smile more. Never have your money ready to pay for something at a till. 

Little things like that.

I started watching Eastenders, Coronation Street and Emmerdale for tips.

Building on what I had known in my head since I was small child.

That check-list makes it sounds as if I was “acting.” But it had never felt like I was faking anything. In fact, it felt completely naturally.

My brain has always been quite insistent that I am female. At that time, I felt I was on the inside looking out. Peering through a bloke-shaped post box. A man burqa.

Looking and acting female was about as forced to me as blinking or breathing. It was pretending to be laddish that was the con.

Growing up in an identity you don’t really fit is a bit like wearing shoes one size too big.

A transsexual can do it for a while, but you do feel like a clown. And eventually you trip up.

As a child the pressure is on to conform. You learn to display expected characteristics and behaviours.

Some transsexuals resist all attempts to force them to be the gender of their physical body from their earliest moments of free expression. They flip off their clown shoes. They detest the person other people want to see.

I went along with being a boy because it made my mum happy, and I was reasonably good at it to.

I can still do more than 100 keepy-ups with a football - and I also look fantastic in a killer pair of heels. Though I can’t do the keepy-ups in my heels.

That would be ridiculous.

Basically, I’m a cross between David Beckham and Angelina Jolie.