That dream began to feel possible when I met Ernest Hopner, a brilliant drama teacher at Blue Coat Chambers in Liverpool.
Ernest saw something in me when others didn’t. He helped me refine my voice and taught me how to approach both Shakespeare and modern monologues with confidence and clarity. Because of him, I was eventually accepted into Richmond Drama School, where I graduated with an Oxford Diploma in Acting. I also took evening classes at RADA, continuing to sharpen my skills.
Another pivotal figure in my journey was Ron Gittins, my mentor and friend. Ron introduced me to the greats—Patrick Stewart, Ian McKellen, Brian Blessed. We’d sit together and watch their performances on VHS. I remember saying to him, “One day, I want to play those characters.” Ron encouraged me to aim high, to believe I belonged in that world.
And eventually, I did. I played characters like Macbeth, Oberon, Polixenes, and Mark Antony. These weren’t just roles—they were breakthroughs. Proof that a working-class lad from Rock Ferry could stand shoulder to shoulder with actors from more privileged backgrounds. Over the years, I’ve been fortunate to appear in films such as For Love's Sake and The Hunt for Michael Myers (and its sequel), as well as in productions for BBC, ITV, and Channel 4.
Finding My Voice
But as I grew as an actor, I encountered a new form of discrimination—one I didn’t expect. Ironically, as my voice improved, as I worked on diction and tone, some people said I no longer “sounded working class.” I was mocked and questioned. People from my own community would ask, “Who do you think you are now?” because I didn’t speak the way I used to.
A television director once told me that if I had walked into his office years ago with the voice I have now, he would have dismissed me. That statement hit hard. It made me realise that for some, changing or growing can be seen as turning your back on your roots.
But I wasn’t betraying where I came from—I was evolving. I was learning what I needed to survive in this industry and to thrive. It wasn’t about rejecting my background—it was about honouring it by making something of myself.
A Working-Class Upbringing
I was born in Rock Ferry, on the Wirral, and raised in a small flat above a taxi office. We had no bathroom, and our toilet was outside. There were two bedrooms: one for my mum and dad, and another shared by me, my brother, and my two sisters. My dad was a painter and decorator, and my mum worked as a cleaner. They both loved to sing in the pubs, and those moments brought them joy—but financially, we struggled.
I remember my mum giving me handwritten notes to take to neighbours, asking to borrow a few pounds so we could eat until payday. Some days, all we had were a few potatoes, some beans, and a loaf of bread.
Eventually, we moved into a council house, which gave us a bit more stability—but the challenges didn’t stop. At school, I had to use dinner tokens provided by Wirral Borough Council, and we received a grant each year to help buy a school uniform. It was a life of hand-me-downs and making do.
I was diagnosed with hyperactivity and had significant speech problems. I didn’t leave school with any qualifications. But drama gave me what school never could—confidence, purpose, and the belief that I had something to offer.
The Call for Opportunity
There is extraordinary talent in the Northwest—real, raw talent that deserves to be nurtured. I’ve worked with passionate actors who are more than ready for big roles, but they’re too often overlooked. Not because of a lack of skill, but because of their postcode, their accent, or their connections—or lack thereof.
Despite my own credits and years of experience, I was once overlooked by a local Shakespeare company in the Northwest, only to later learn they were bringing in actors from outside the region. That’s not just disappointing—it’s disheartening. And unfortunately, it’s not uncommon.
This isn’t just about me. It’s about a system that frequently overlooks working-class artists. It’s about casting directors, producers, and institutions who need to take a real look at the voices they’re ignoring—and ask why.
The Working-Class Voice
This article isn’t just my story—it’s a call to action. The creative industry needs to widen its lens and embrace the full range of voices across the UK. We need to make space for working-class stories, characters, and performers. We deserve to be seen. We deserve to be heard.
To any young actor reading this who comes from a background like mine, let me say this: Your voice matters. Your story matters. Whether you have a strong regional accent or a more neutral tone, don’t let anyone define you based on how you speak. Identity isn’t static—it grows, evolves, and expands with experience.
And as a community, we need to stop turning on one another. We must stop judging each other for changing or improving. Speaking differently doesn’t make you any less working class—it just means you’ve had to adapt. You’ve found new ways to tell your story. That’s a strength, not a weakness.
Working-class identity isn’t about how you sound. It’s about resilience. It’s about truth. It’s about pushing through the barriers and daring to stand in places that once felt off-limits.
Because sometimes, the most powerful performances—the ones that leave a lasting mark—come from those who’ve had to fight the hardest just to be seen.