Anne Hegerty, known from The Chase, shared that her biggest fear about dating is having a man invade her personal space.
The quizzer, who was diagnosed with autism at 45, opened up about her challenges, mentioning a time when she unplugged her phone to stop a boyfriend from contacting her.
At The Paul Strank Roofing Charity Gala in Kensington, London, she honestly said that she thinks she would make a terrible partner.
Anne, 66, said, “I really struggle with being close to others and having anyone else in the house.
“I think a lot of autistic people don’t get married or settle down.”
Anne explained, “I don’t even have pets because of this, and my ability to live with other people is getting smaller. I need a lot of alone time.
“I always feel like I need more space than anyone can give me. If I wanted a relationship, I could find one, but honestly, I don’t.”
She also mentioned that her longest relationship only lasted four months. Reflecting on that time, she said, “It only worked for those few months because I was in Manchester. I kind of set it up so it wouldn’t last.”
In the end, she wrote to him to end things. “I remember crying with relief and then crying with guilt,” she shared.
Anne felt overwhelmed during that relationship. “Sometimes, I unplugged the phone because he tried to call me every day. I just wanted it to be over.
“I’d sit there waiting for the phone to ring, thinking, ‘Don’t phone, don’t phone, don’t phone!’ Other times, to get over the waiting, I’d call him, but that made him think I wanted to talk. I really just wanted to end it. I didn’t want to talk to him or anyone!”
Anne joked that she hasn’t lacked offers from admirers who seem to like her “Mrs. Trunchbull” Governess outfit.
She said, “I’m sure some people are attracted to the whole look of The Governess. I think there are some who might be interested if they let me.”
Anne said, “I do meet attractive men, but I know it won’t work out. I feel like it’s not fair to them because I won’t treat them well.”
She added, “I always want more space than they can give me. If I wanted a relationship, I could find someone, but I don’t.”
She thinks it’s better not to date at all and enjoys having men as friends more than women. She recalled a quiz she attended in June, where a woman pointed out they were the only two women in the room, but Anne hadn’t even noticed because she was talking to her male friends.
Anne also shared that this is part of why she never had children, even though she is great with kids. “I did want children, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to handle it very well.”
About 20 years ago, two kids from her neighborhood used to come over. “We limited their visits to just one hour a day, but they always wanted to stay longer. They were wonderful kids, and we’re now friends on Facebook, but I couldn’t handle that for more than an hour.”
Anne takes her role as godmother to Mark “Beast” Labbett’s eight-year-old son, Lawrence, very seriously.
She said, “Lawrence’s birthday is at the end of November, so I usually send a birthday and Christmas present at the same time—but they are not the same gift. My parents had winter birthdays, and I knew they hated getting just one present for two celebrations.”
Anne joked that one of the gifts she gave Lawrence was a bit inappropriate—a toy crossbow. “So, weaponry,” she laughed. “But lately, I’ve been giving him Minecraft vouchers since he really loves that.”
She also mentioned that she has spent Christmas alone for the past 40 years. That’s why she’s especially happy to be playing the Fairy Godmother in this year’s panto, Cinderella, in Scarborough.
Anne, who was on I’m A Celebrity… Get Me Out Of Here in 2018, said, “Now that I’m in panto, I can say, ‘Sorry, I’m in Scarborough!’ and that’s my only day off.”
She sees it as a great day off. Even though many people invite her to spend Christmas with them, she prefers not to. “I don’t do Christmas dinner or a tree. When I was a kid, I just remember all the pine needles everywhere!”
Earlier this year, Anne took on another acting role, making a cameo as a neighbor in a film called Exorcising Barry, which is about a man obsessed with a demon.
Anne said that any chance of going to Hollywood is out of the question.
She explained, “America wouldn’t want me because I’m fat. I have a friend who went there for work, and even though she looks amazing, they told her she needed to lose weight. I’m fine with how I am, but they don’t like fat British actresses.”
Despite this, she has had great success in Britain. Talking about The Chase’s recent National Television Award win, she said, “I’m so happy. Bradley Walsh is amazing. It’s been 14 years, and I love it.”
She added, “Other kids used to sing in front of the mirror with a hairbrush. When I was younger, I practiced being interviewed for when I became famous. I don’t know why, but it’s always been my dream.”
I DIDN’T GET WHY MY BEST STUDENT REFUSED TO PERFORM IN THE SCHOOL CONCERT — UNTIL I SAW WHO HIS DAD WAS
The auditorium buzzed with the expectant energy of parents and students, a sea of faces eager for the school’s annual concert. I stood backstage, a knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach. Jay, my prodigy, my star pupil, was nowhere to be found.
When I first met Jay, I was a fresh-faced music teacher, barely a week into my new role. The reality of wrangling a classroom of energetic children had quickly shattered my romanticized notions of teaching. I’d begun to question my career choice, wondering if I’d made a terrible mistake.
Then Jay sat at the piano. His small hands, seemingly too delicate for the instrument, moved with a surprising confidence. The music that flowed from him was breathtaking, a complex symphony that belied his age and lack of formal training. He was a natural, a raw talent that shone like a diamond in the rough.
I offered him private lessons, eager to nurture his gift. He hesitated, his eyes darting away, and eventually declined. I noticed his solitary nature, his avoidance of the other children, and a sense of unease settled within me. I suspected there was more to Jay’s quiet demeanor than met the eye.
Determined to help him, I offered to teach him without charge. Over the following weeks, we spent hours together, exploring the world of music. Jay absorbed knowledge like a sponge, mastering complex pieces with an almost uncanny speed. He was ready, more than ready, for his debut performance.
But on the day of the concert, he vanished. I searched frantically, my anxiety escalating with each passing minute. Finally, I found him huddled backstage, his small frame trembling, his eyes wide with fear.
“Jay, what’s wrong?” I asked, my voice gentle.
He whispered, his voice choked with terror, “I have to go on… before my father sees me!”
“Why?” I asked, confused. “Why wouldn’t your father want to see you play?”
His eyes widened, and he looked over my shoulder. I turned, and the breath hitched in my throat.
Standing at the entrance to the backstage area was a man I recognized all too well: Richard Thorne, the renowned concert pianist, a man whose name was synonymous with musical genius. He was also Jay’s father.
Richard Thorne was a legend, a figure I had admired from afar for years. His performances were legendary, his technique flawless. But his reputation was also marred by whispers of a cold, demanding perfectionism, a relentless pursuit of excellence that left little room for human frailty.
Suddenly, Jay’s fear, his reluctance to perform, his solitary nature, all made sense. He wasn’t just a talented child; he was the son of a musical titan, a man who likely held his son to impossibly high standards.
Richard’s gaze landed on Jay, and his expression was unreadable. He strode towards us, his presence filling the small backstage area.
“Jay,” he said, his voice low and commanding, “what are you doing here?”
Jay shrank back, his eyes filled with terror. “I… I was going to play,” he stammered.
Richard’s eyes narrowed. “You were going to play? Without my permission?”
“I… I wanted to,” Jay whispered.
Richard’s expression hardened. “You are not ready,” he said, his voice laced with disdain. “You are not even close.”
Jay’s shoulders slumped, his face crumpling with disappointment. I felt a surge of anger, a protective instinct rising within me.
“Richard,” I said, my voice firm, “Jay is incredibly talented. He’s been working hard, and he’s ready to share his gift.”
Richard turned to me, his eyes cold. “You presume to know my son better than I do?”
“I know he loves music,” I said, my voice unwavering. “And I know he deserves a chance to express himself.”
A tense silence filled the air. Richard’s gaze shifted back to Jay, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of something in his eyes, a hint of vulnerability.
“Jay,” he said, his voice softer, “if you truly want to play, then play. But you must understand, you will be judged. You will be compared. And you must be prepared for that.”
Jay looked at his father, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and determination. He nodded, his small frame straightening.
“I’m ready,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, but filled with a quiet strength.
Richard stepped aside, allowing Jay to pass. Jay walked onto the stage, his footsteps echoing in the hushed auditorium. He sat at the piano, his hands trembling slightly.
Then, he began to play.
The music that filled the auditorium was breathtaking. It was Jay’s music, his interpretation, his soul poured into every note. It was not a perfect performance, not a flawless rendition of a master’s work. But it was beautiful, raw, and filled with a passion that resonated with every soul in the room.
When he finished, the auditorium erupted in applause. Richard Thorne stood at the back of the room, his face unreadable. But as Jay walked off the stage, Richard reached out and placed a hand on his son’s shoulder.
“You played well,” he said, his voice low. “But you can do better.”
Jay looked up at his father, his eyes filled with a quiet understanding. He nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. He knew that his journey had just begun, and he knew that he had the strength to face whatever challenges lay ahead. He had found his voice, and he would not be silenced.
Leave a Reply