In 2003, I was asked if I could go to a BBC Sport conference on behalf of the whole East Midlands area. I felt flattered. I was only 24. I didn’t do that much sport apart from putting up local football reports on the local BBC website on Saturdays. Why me? I must be doing well, I thought. They must trust me.
“No-one else can go,” came the reply. I was the sixth choice, as far I could tell, but I agreed to go, regardless. Two nights in Glasgow, where I’d never been, everything paid for. What the hell. Yeah, I’ll go even if I was at the bottom of the list.
I arrived at the Arthouse Hotel in the evening. It was the most elegant hotel I’d ever been to. It was a former 19th century townhouse and had a birdcage lift, stained-glass windows, tiled walls and high ceilings. Swish. I dumped my bag in my plush white room with a colourful abstract painting on the wall, and went down to the bar and restaurant on the ground floor.
The restaurant had that paired back look, exposed brick walls and wooden floors with warm atmospheric lighting. Ken Stott, the actor, was at the corner of the bar reading the newspaper. He had a whisky and a cigarette on the go. He looked like he wanted to be left alone. There was a relaxed feel about the place. A dozen or so diners chatted quietly. I felt a little frisson of excitement about it all.
Six years before I’d been sharing a room with my dad and another electrician in a grotty hotel in Paddington. I’d been working as Dad’s labourer to earn some extra cash for uni. It’s fair to say it was not the life for me. Nor was it a life Dad wanted for me. But now I was staying in this beautiful building, and the next day I was due to meet some important people at the BBC. My career was taking off.
I sat down at a table and was greeted by a young waitress, who I presumed was part-time, perhaps she was doing her A-Levels. She handed me a menu and while I scanned it, she placed a small basket of bread in the centre of the table.
I couldn’t decide on what to eat. This was before I stopped eating meat so I was overwhelmed with the choices. The waitress returned and lit a candle, placing it near the basket. She then left to give me more time to decide what to eat. I finally settled on a burger and put the menu down. At this point I noticed the bread basket had caught fire. I was hypnotised briefly as it burned slowly.
“Oh,” I thought. “I’d better…” I looked round, but the waitress was busy taking another order, and the other customers were so wrapped up in their conversations I didn’t want to alarm them. I looked over to the bar which had a queue and the only staff member was rushed off his feet. Ken Stott had gone, and had left the newspaper, not that it was any use right now. I stood and calmly picked the basket up. The flames were small, but showing no signs of stopping. I walked to the bar and waited to be served.
I often wonder why my fight or flight didn’t kick in that day, after all, I was holding something that was on fire. Ultimately, and perhaps this is the most English thing I can say about the matter, I just didn’t want to cause a fuss.
There was one more person ahead of me in the queue. Half the basket was on fire. The bread was getting scorched. But still I waited. And then finally, “Hello sir,” said a young man with a warm Glaswegian accent. “How can I help?”
I paused, before presenting the flaming bread basket. “Erm… This is on fire.”
I did it in a way that someone would do if they were delivering a surprise. Ta-da! I mean, it was a surprise, but it wasn’t a bunch of flowers or a bottle of wine.
“Oh shit!” he said, taking it from me and shoving it under a gushing cold tap with the appropriate urgency needed when something is on fire.
Breathing fast, and with his cortisol levels up, he looked directly at me with an ambiguous expression. I couldn’t tell whether he wanted a high five or more likely an explanation.
“I’ll just go back to my table now,” I said, leaving everything up in the air.
I’ve been thinking a lot about my name. It’s Neil, in case that passed you by.
Does a name affect your destiny? Apparently it does. There’s a psychological theory of nominative determinism. It’s the idea that your name shapes your life.
Neil is a name of Irish origin, meaning ‘champion’ or ‘warrior’ and erm… ‘cloud’.
I was apparently named after Neil Armstrong, who was the first person to step on the Moon. You know that, of course.
As a kid, had I known this (along with its Irish meanings) according to the theory, it could have led me to be more driven, focused, and highly respected by the establishment.
I would have sought high-performance roles in engineering, the military, the civil service…
But then The Young Ones happened.
First broadcast in November 1982, it introduced a generation to Rik, Vivian, Mike and a downbeat, paranoid hippy named Neil Pye.
The Young Ones had a massive impact on Gen X. It’s often been said it was the teenagers of my generation who it ‘belonged to’. But us little kids watched it too. I was four at the time.
Why were we watching The Young Ones at that age?
Our parents didn’t know any better. Despite being loving and caring, they also had a Laissez-faire attitude when it came to bringing up their children.
In them, children drown, they get electrocuted, they get run over, they’re hit by trains, they fall through ice, they’re blinded, they catch rabies, they drive bulldozers into quarries… It goes on.
The makers of the Final Destination franchise must have picked up ideas from them.
None of this would have needed saying if we didn’t have so much freedom to do what the fuck what we liked. Including what we watched.
The things I saw at that age. I remember once waking from a bad dream and heading downstairs to see my dad, who was watching a video.
I sat next to him and he reassured me about the nightmare. But he didn’t stop the film.
It was Alien.
My timing was impeccable… just as the really fucking scary xenomorph revealed itself and made its first kill. I didn’t sleep for a week.
The stuff of a nightmare.
I remember taking what I thought was a recording of Ewoks the Battle for Endor to my friend’s house only for it to be a soft porn film.
We watched it anyway, and our parents all had a right old giggle about it.
The appropriateness of the Young Ones wouldn’t have even crossed their minds.
How did Neil the Hippy, the third best Young One, affect me?
In the primary school playground I had kids coming up to me flashing V signs, groaning “heavy, heavy,” and “Neil, Neil, orange peel.”
I didn’t mind so much. A character off TV had my name. I liked it.
I still knew nothing of Neil Armstrong. Had I done, and if I was living up to that image, the sudden arrival of Hippy Neil may have felt like a demotion.
How did Neil from the Young Ones subconsciously influence me?
Hippy Neil was an underdog navigating an anarchic world. He was also a vegetarian, which I adopted later in my life.
He was also guilt-ridden, a pacifist, a half-hearted activist. I remember being enraged by the Iraq War, but not enough to get on a bus and protest in London.
Hippy Neil and the rest of the Young Ones, normalised alternative culture, especially comedy, just at the right time for me.
I still watched Benny Hill and Freddie Starr with my grandparents, but I think the Young Ones planted a deep subconscious appreciation for non-conformity.
I’ve never wanted to be a CEO, or be in charge of anything. I don’t live to work. But doing a job that helps people is really important to me.
Being Hippy Neil created a sense of irony and a love for comedy. It led to me not trying to take myself too seriously. Which is hard in this world.
I always wanted to do comedy and create characters. At university, influenced by The Day Today and Brass Eye, I masqueraded as a fake reporter asking the public stupid questions like: “How they felt about their massive shopping mall being relocated down the road, brick by brick.”
Being a Hippy Neil the confidence wasn’t there to do anything in comedy. Perhaps I got downtrodden by the system too. Astronaut Neil would be satisfied here. Time to put the toys away and get a proper job.
I think Hippy Neil gets a bit forgotten in the late 90s and noughties. That goes for me too. While Hippy Neil has been an influence on how a Neil could be, other much cooler Neils emerged in the 1980s and 90s – Tennant (Pet Shop Boys), Finn (Crowded House), Hannon (Divine Comedy). There’s also revivals for Diamond and Young. There’s suddenly more respectability for being a Neil.
In the early noughties, I got a job working for the BBC. I wrote about Nottingham’s cultural scene – art, comedy, film, theatre and music. I was out for most of the week and being paid for it. I was doing something I wanted to do. I felt respected. I had a byline on everything I wrote. People on the local scene knew who I was.
Then The Inbetweeners happened…
Neil Sutherland arrives. My name is now associated with a lovable but simple-minded liability. His father’s exasperated “Ohhh, Neil…” became a national catchphrase for sympathetic, affectionate disappointment.
The image of ‘a Neil’ shifts again. There’s a perception that ‘a Neil’ is ‘a bit simple’. They’re underestimated and patronised. And while I like Inbetweener Neil, being a Neil feels like a licence to be exploited.
Don’t get me wrong, It is fun when someone uses the ‘Ohhh, Neil’ line – but only if I trust them. The truth is, I am bit Inbetweener Neil, I’ve done and said some very stupid things.
The choice of the name must have come from somewhere.
Iain Morris and Damon Beesley, the creators of The Inbetweeners, chose the names of the main characters based on real people from their own school days. They’re 53 and 54. They would have started secondary school when the Young Ones aired.
We’ve come full circle.
I am happier with Hippy Neil than Astronaut Neil.
My identity is built on authenticity, empathy, and a sense of humour over status and the pressure of being someone I was never going to be.
The opening night of the Robin Hood International Improv Festival (1 September 2026). I’m with my friends at the Malt Cross, in front of the world’s best improv performers and they’re loving what we’re doing. It’s so joyous. I can hear them laughing and it’s the biggest buzz. I feel like I belong here. I’m part of something. I’m accepted for who I am. It’s wonderful.
The festival has finished for this year, and won’t return until 2028. It’s been amazing and I feel bereft that it’s over. I’ve seen 14 astonishing shows and some incredible performances. I’ve also made new friends and learned so much. It has marked the beginning for me in so many ways.
To my shame, despite living in Nottingham, I had no idea about the festival, which began in 2022. I think there’s a few reasons for this. Firstly, since leaving the BBC, and my avoidance of news, I have little idea of what’s going on in my city. The festival would have certainly been something I would have jumped on as a journalist. Secondly, improv wasn’t really on my radar. I knew about it, and as a kid I faithfully watched Whose Line Is It Anyway every Friday night, but that was pretty much all I knew.
Despite everything I’ve learned in the classes I’ve taken this year, and the shows I’ve been in (a total of four now), the bit that was missing was seeing more performances. But not only the quantity, watching a diversity of shows was important too. It’s left me with a feeling of awe and appreciation for what can be created on stage. Out of nothing, pretty much, of course. Ideas have since been pinging off out of my brain like warm popcorn from a machine.
As a creative person nothing has been more exciting. I love art, I love writing, but with improv and performing, the possibilities feel endless. I don’t know who said it, but with improv you never ‘complete it’, you never master it, you’re never done. I think that’s why the art form is something that I’ll do for the rest of my life. And there’s never been a better time than here in Nottingham. While the festival, and its organisers, are taking a well earned break, there will be a focus next year on building on the work already taking place in the city. Developing performers, shows and teachers. It’s really exciting.
My biggest regret is that I didn’t start all this much sooner. I’m steaming towards 50. Not that it matters. Age isn’t an issue. It’s never too late. However, I do wonder where I’d be now. The sad thing is it’s always been there and for various reasons I’ve sat it out. I wonder what happened to the boy who performed on stage at the school Christmas show. The one who did all the Harry Enfield characters, without a shred of fear or what people would think. I was doing things like that all the time at home. Writing comedy, pretending to be Blackadder and Baldrick, making up plays… My sister and I used to improv being Radio DJs (although one particular show ended with us just farting down the mic – she was better at this than me and I so wish I still had the cassette tape).
In the 1990s, teenage working class boys didn’t do drama. They didn’t act. They didn’t perform. Especially in Hucknall. I wasn’t Billy Elliott or anything, but I would have benefitted from doing something in the performing arts sphere. If anything for my confidence and self-esteem. I survived at school because I liked football, playing and watching. An ‘acceptable’ hobby for a ‘lad’, but even then, I quit playing for school because I was fed up of being told I was shit. Largely during a match. We were on the same team, apparently.
I always chuckle when the ‘90s are held up as this golden age. Any little sign you were different, if you showed vulnerability, sensitivity, if you didn’t want to fight someone, or talk about girls in a derogatory way, you were not a lad or a ‘real man’ and was most probably gay. I didn’t fit the ‘mold’ of what a man apparently should be and there were times when I doubted my sexuality. There were also occasions when it was assumed I was a homosexual. (My best friend John, who is gay, would laugh here because he once said I’m the straightest person he knows). But I remember overhearing a conversation where someone confidently announced to those listening that I was gay. It shouldn’t have bothered me, but it did because it wasn’t true.
The desire to perform continued at university. Ultimately I wanted to work in radio and TV, and so I did a combined honours degree in Art and Media Studies. In the first year you had to take two other subjects. I chose English and Drama. Drama because there was nothing else I fancied. I remembered those rare drama classes at school – once a month if you were lucky. (The performing arts weren’t exactly a priority for the government or the school). I always enjoyed them. They were fun and clearly lit something up inside. However, the reality of a drama class at university hit me within minutes and I wanted to escape. I was seriously out of my depth. Even the warm up was too much. When it was my turn to mime what I liked to do, I told the tutor I couldn’t do it. The embarrassment was overwhelming. Someone tutted. Others were more encouraging. There was an activity where you had to choose an emotion and say your name repeatedly, and I just wanted to die. Quickly. I survived the hour and then immediately went to swap subjects. I did Business Studies instead which did nothing for me, apart from make a few new friends. I should have stuck with drama.
I did get to work in the media. But not as a presenter. I did bits on the radio and TV and they were fairly well received. But I decided that being an online journalist was best for me. When no-one was looking (late shifts usually) I was writing sketches, characters and stories. Material that no-one else would read or act out. The kid that loved being on stage and making people laugh was in there somewhere.
I’ve always suffered with low self-confidence. I’ve never felt comfortable in my own skin. What people have liked about me and found endearing, I have loathed at times. However, as I approach my sixth decade on the planet I’m feeling more like the person I want to be. Or, more importantly I accept who I am.
Quantum Leap was my favourite TV programme when I was a kid. It felt like it was made for me.
I loved the ideas of time travel and being someone else. Which probably said a lot about me and how I felt about myself. Escaping my time and my body.
The sci-fi series ran for five years from 1989 to 1993, and starred Scott Bakula as Dr. Sam Beckett, a physicist who has invented time travel. But unlike Marty McFly and his DeLorean, Sam doesn’t have a flux capacitor, he can’t go to a specific year, and returning isn’t as straightforward as driving 88 miles an hour or finding 1.21 gigawatts of energy.
Instead, Sam inhabits the bodies of people in history, within his own timeline, and with his own mind. He learns that in order to get home he has to change events in the past to make the final leap home. It was such a brilliant idea. Every episode he’d be somewhere different, as a different person, doing something he’d never done before.
Who, where, what.
Sam had to figure out who he was, with the help of Al (Dean Stockwell), a friend who only appears as a hologram and Ziggy, a super computer, and fix whatever had gone wrong in someone’s life. He never said, after leaping into a body:
‘I can’t do this! I know nothing about flying a plane, playing baseball, firing a machine gun, or even being a woman.’
He just had to work with what he knew and what he had. He even jumped into the body of Lee Harvey Oswald (an episode I missed!).
This was what was so fascinating about the programme… How would Sam get through this problem, inhabit the character and complete the mystery? And will it lead him to returning home? Invariably [SPOILER ALERT] it didn’t, until the 97th time, when he finally made it back. Sam would say ‘Oh Boy!’ each time he leapt and saw who he was. A family-friendly version of ‘Oh fuck!’
I was reading Will Hines’ book, How to be the Greatest Improviser on Earth, when he drew the comparison of Quantum Leap to improv. It was like a 100 lightbulbs going off in my head. Of course it is! It’s exactly the same, and just like Sam, you can’t say I don’t know how to ride a horse, fix a car, play guitar or be an old person. If someone tells you that’s who you are and what you do then to the best of your knowledge you inhabit that character and their skills. Obviously unless you truly know how to be or do those things, you do your best. And fucking that up is part of the fun and the comedy.
Denying what you’ve been told, rejecting that offer, and countering with a reply that you’re someone completely different, is of course wrong, and not much fun. I’ve seen it happen and it spoils the scene. You may well have a great idea, but if your partner starts with something then you build on that. That’s who you are and what you do. Don’t change it because it’s not what you wanted to do.
The consequence is you’ll both get confused and so will the audience. I’ve walked into scenes not fully knowing who I was and found out along the way. But like with Quantum Leap, you become that person, but instantly, and it doesn’t matter whether that’s in what you say, how you behave or in your body language.
There are exceptions and the possibility of a twist. For example, I was once told I was a phlebotomist (a person who takes blood) and I was retiring. My patient (scene partner) was the last. Except I thought it would be funny if in my 30 years in the job I’d managed to avoid extracting any blood at all and I didn’t know what I was doing. Totally preposterous, it would never happen, but it was a funny idea and it worked. There’s a distinction between that and an out right denial, e.g. ‘I’m not a phlebotomist, that’s not my name, I’m actually a cowboy named Tex and this is all a dream… etc.
So, take a deep breath. Say, ‘Oh boy’ (in your head), let go of that idea you had, and see where others and the scene takes you. And, enjoy, because unlike with Sam, the stakes aren’t as high.
You’re still going home at the end of the evening.
NEIL, white, late 40s, in a retro Nottingham Forest shirt and shorts, and DR Saine, white, early 40s, in blue scrubs, are a few minutes into discussing his recent diagnosis of work-related stress. GAVIN is NEIL’S inner voice and of course, DR SAINE cannot hear him.
DR SAINE
From what you’ve told me it sounds like it’s been tough at work for a while?
Neil nods slowly and gives him a little smile.
NEIL
I try and I hide it, but my wife says she knows when there’s a problem. I go quiet. Withdrawn. I’m not present or listening to her or my sons. I’m not the same person.
GAVIN
He’s absolutely fine. I don’t know why we’re here. Waste of time. Tell him to pull himself together like the old days.
NEIL
I worry about what people think. That, they won’t believe me. I know people have deeper struggles than I do.
DR SAINE
We’re all different and we all handle things differently. What matters is your own experience and what you need to get better.
Neil looks grateful.
Now, I see you spoke to DR H before? He provided a fit note?
NEIL
Well, no, he offered one but I turned it down. . .I guess I thought I was through the worst of it…He said to come back if I changed my mind.
GAVIN
He was fine. If he can get out of bed in the morning then he can do his job. I know he’s had a lot on and what he does never feels good enough etcetera etcetera, but he has to crack on like everyone else because that’s how life is. Time off is for people with real problems, not for those with ‘mental health issues’.
Neil is trying to ignore GAVIN and focus on what DR SAINE is saying.
DR SAINE
So, then what happened?
NEIL
I hit a point where I felt I couldn’t carry on. Well, actually, my wife told me to shut my laptop and explain to work I was sick. She was so worried. She said I was physically shaking. I felt my heart beating out of my chest. My blood pressure was really high too.
DR SAINE smiles empathetically, and then types a few notes.
GAVIN
Haha. You weren’t that bad.
DR SAINE
So, you listened to your wife and did what she said?
GAVIN
Of course he didn’t! He still doesn’t hang the washing on the line the right way.
NEIL
Well, no. I carried on. I didn’t want to let anyone down at work. It would only add to their workload.
GAVIN
I told him they’d probably think he was weak and being fake just to get time off. You can tell by their faces when he’s gone off on one before about his ‘mental health’. He doesn’t have it half as bad. He’s got a wonderful family and great friends.
Some people have nothing. We once saw a man asleep in a bin bag next to the canal for fucks sake. He needs to be grateful and get some perspective. Crack on, and man up, just like all the old white men on Facebook tell us to do.
NEIL
I decided to tell them I wasn’t well enough to work the next day.
(beat)
I thought maybe I just needed to step away for a day.
GAVIN
He was talking about it all night with his wife. She was probably fed up with listening. I told him to wait until everyone was asleep and the house was quiet. It would be just me and him in the darkness figuring everything out. I even threw in a few other things to think about too, from the past and some future scenarios for good measure.
I also put Kylie’s I should Be So Lucky on in the background. He hates that song. Haha.
DR SAINE
But you changed your mind about the fit note, which runs out soon?
NEIL
Yes. I thought it was for the best. Reluctantly.
GAVIN
You should have seen his anguish preparing the email to work. ‘They’re going to hate me. They’re not going to believe me. It’s going to cause so much trouble.’ Blah Blah Blah.
DR SAINE
I agree it was for the best.
Well, there’s a few things we can do as part of the whole treatment package. We can extend the fit note, firstly, if you don’t feel ready to go back. You also mentioned you have an appointment with a therapist, which is great.
NEIL
I also exercise often, I write, I make art…I’ve even been doing comedy improv which gives me a lot of joy.
GAVIN
The fact that he can still ‘be funny’ but not able to work says everything to me, doctor, and if his work colleagues knew that they would think it too.
DR SAINE
That’s all really helpful for your recovery. I would encourage you to continue to do those things. I could also offer anti-depressants.
NEIL
What?
GAVIN
Yes. What?
DR SAINE
It’s entirely up to you, but they may help you get through this bad patch. They could help with the anxiety when you eventually return to work.
GAVIN
Anti-depressants! Really. I’ve heard it all now.
NEIL
I’m not sure. Wouldn’t it affect the ADHD medication?
GAVIN
Oh, the ADHD. First it was that. Now this. I still don’t believe you have ADHD. You never threw chairs at teachers or legged it out the school gates like Forrest Gump.
(beat)
I still don’t believe it despite your own extensive research, your written chronology of life-impacted events and the formal diagnosis from a trained clinician.
I don’t believe it, despite the fact that its evident amphetamines calm your brain and don’t turn you into Bez from the Happy Mondays.
(beat)
You’re an imposter! But you’re my imposter and I will always protect you.
DR SAINE
No, they work alongside what you’re taking. I have no concerns over that. But it’s entirely up to you.
NEIL is in deep thought. DR SAINE makes some notes.
GAVIN
Anti-depressants, indeed. Remember how your grandparents just carried on without ‘happy pills?’ How they were so worried about what people thought about your grandfather’s mental health problems that they explained it away as simply being about his ‘nerves’. Remember when he explained his fears about being put in the ‘funny farm’?
(beat)
Remember how, despite their misery and anguish, they decided they would ‘be alright?’ Remember how they self-medicated with alcohol, after their only daughter, your mother, died? Remember when they’d always start the day with a whisky and get lost in their own thoughts for days and days?
(a few beats)
That’s how you get through a bad patch, Neil, you wallow in grief and self-pity with a bottle of Scotch…
(a beat)
And then you watch Coronation Street in your underpants.
NEIL
I’ve never taken them before. Feels like a big step. Can I think about it?
DR SAINE
Yes, of course! It’s entirely your decision. I can write a prescription and then if you decide you want to try them you can.
GAVIN
In the meantime, I’ll decide he doesn’t need them.
NEIL
Great. Thank you.
NEIL gets up to leave. DR SAINE returns to the computer.
DR SAINE
I’ll extend your fit note and sort the prescription, should all be with you in an hour.
GAVIN
That he won’t be needing.
NEIL
Just one thing on the anti-depressants… What’s the impact on something like your inner voice?
GAVIN
Wait. What? Where are you going with this?
DR SAINE
A common effect is the reduction in the volume or even presence of inner monologues.
NEIL
Interesting. Ready in an hour you say?
GAVIN
Bastard! I will not be silenced. I’m here to keep you safe. What will you do without me?
NEIL
Thanks Doctor. I feel like a weight has been lifted.
Show night. I’m feeling good. I feel confident. I feel excited. I feel lots of trust in my fellow performers. I’ve got a character I want to try and their voice, and if the suggestion comes up, I’d like the chance to play a dog. Of course, with improv, things don’t always go to plan. Well, you don’t plan full stop. I realised I’ve learned more about leadership in one night than I have in the whole of my working life.
During my second term I’d spent a lot of time playing walk-ons. I played a weird grumpy caretaker, a holiday camp mascot, a vampiric dentist, a downtrodden butler, a gnome that was basically a prop for 10 minutes before coming to life after its owner had taken LSD… I developed a slightly camp character named Nigel Boggins – a ufologist who worked for the council and lived with his mother. I’ve been living my dream. A chance to embody someone I’d created on paper, through a story or a drawing. I never thought I had the bottle to do it. It has been a joy.
I found it easier in class to let others lead and start a scene, and then when I was ready with something I would join in. This is a pattern throughout my life. Hang back, assess, make an offer, try and help improve things… This isn’t because I’m afraid of leading, it’s more about trusting what your team does and then seeing what you can add. Unless I have a really good idea I’m not going to just dive in and waffle until I figure it out, especially at the expense of someone else’s better ideas and plans. I’m not letting them do all the work, I’m there when they need me.
Improv indirectly teaches you about teamwork and leadership. I don’t believe leadership is about ignoring people and telling them what they should do, or castigating them for not doing something. Leadership is not about knowing all the answers or stomping around and shouting until everyone agrees with you and your actions. Or, get pissed off because someone has the audacity not to be able to read their mind. I believe leadership is about trusting people to do their jobs and being there for them, encouraging them and telling them why you think they’re awesome. Leadership is not about making people fearful due to a fixed idea of how things should be – this only shatters confidence and increases self-doubt. Second guessing what a ‘leader’ wants is draining – equally, so too is feeling scared you’re not doing what they want or would do themselves. If you feel intimidated it’s for a good reason. They want you to feel that way because it empowers them in a completely misguided way. It’s all very exhausting and doesn’t need to be this way.
Naomi, our brilliant teacher and leader, put us into teams before the show. I would have been happy with anyone, such is the trust and camaraderie we have built within the class. Our team was on first and we opened the show. As part of the form, in this case a sitcom, it has to be introduced and audience suggestions taken. It’s not something I’ve done before and if others want to do it, I kindly step aside. But no-one did and I respected that, it’s not easy and is quite scary in front of a full house. So, I volunteered. I believe this is what leaders do and I was happy to do it. A leader should never say, ‘well I guess I’ll do it, then!’ in a passive aggressive way, spreading guilt. Or point the finger at others and say, ‘you need to do this in order to grow’ or repeat another wanky meaningless statement uttered by a random unqualified influencer on Instagram. However, I was also conscious as the middle-aged guy, that it looked like I was denying my much younger Gen Z colleagues the limelight, and so I made a joke about them forcing me (the old guy) to do it. Which got laughs. Self-deprecation is attractive in a leader, I feel. It means you’re fallible, open and have a sense of humour.
I also had the responsibility of anchoring the sitcom. Beforehand I asked Naomi who the anchor was, and she said it was me, of course. Instead of freaking out, I thought, ok, cool. I had zero fear. Let’s see how this goes… This is because Naomi fosters a supportive, and inclusive atmosphere. You trust her. You’re free to try stuff. You’re free to fuck up. You value her feedback. It comes from a kind and genuine place. When she laughs at your choices, it means the world.
Anchoring is something I haven’t really done much of, and I’m happy to let others do if they want to. The anchor role is there to keep on top of what is happening, make sure the scene and story is making sense, while working with the team’s ideas and suggestions. The team relies on you for direction if things are going awry. I’m by no means great at it. But I do know at no point should it be about you and what you want to do, you have to work with what you get. So, no canine behaviour for me this evening. Another time, hopefully. Woof.
With improv you don’t know what’s coming. That’s the beauty and the terror. But again, fucking up is funny, right? The audience, your team, laughs with you because perfect doesn’t exist, you’re working at the speed of your internal processor, you don’t have a script. Scripts are boring. You marvel at the miracle of the mind and your own creativity. You think, ‘I wonder what’s coming out of my mouth next?’ The audience respects this, especially if you’re committing and being brave. They would be in your place if they had any desire to be, they’re not, because they would rather watch you and have fun.
In my short comedy improv career, I have found the audience to be hugely supportive. Hecklers, I thought, only exist in late night comedy clubs, but even there it’s frowned upon. You don’t pay money to hear some (not so)smart ass shout out something dumb. But we had a heckler. I’ve often imagined what I would do in the event of this. It happened so quickly. I remember feeling surprised by it. But after watching the video, it’s evident I simply decided not to draw attention to it. I carried on with what I was doing. Plus, the audience did my work for me, they put him in his place and he then apologised and quietened down, mostly*. Carrying on without calling him out was the right thing to do. If I had, there was a danger of throwing everyone in the team off their own game. Again, I think this shows leadership. We’re not going to stop, we’re not going to get angry, we’re here to have fun and make people happy.
As the anchor you’re directing a bit as well as acting. Without ever being dictatorial you instinctively know who needs to come in, or some in cases leave. You may be aware someone is hanging back, maybe because they’re not sure who they are in the scene and what to do. Then, you can help them: this is who you’re going to be (because you’ll be fantastic as that character) and this is where we’re going with the story. I’ve learned that from others in the class who have helped me massively when I’m stuck.
Nothing has made me prouder than watching a certain classmate improve each week. After his first week I didn’t think he’d come back. I knew he’d found it tough and I told him, through my own experience, that the hardest thing he’d done was to walk through the door on day one. Ten weeks later he did a show in front of an audience including his family and he was absolutely hilarious. It was so rewarding to witness this.
After we had finished our sitcom we returned to our seats. It had been a blur and I was shattered. A cold pint of lager would have been perfect at that moment. My brain inevitably started its critique. Let’s call him Gavin. Gavin pipes up when all is quiet.
‘You should have done this, that wasn’t very good, why didn’t you do this instead? People didn’t laugh enough. You’re not very good at this. Give up, you’re just embarrassing yourself.’
What a bastard, eh? And, indeed, why would you listen to such a heartless bastard? We assume that voice is who we are. But it’s not. They’re just thoughts. What I love about improv is that Gavin is mostly quiet. This is because I’m in the moment. I’m present. If I let Gavin in then I’m fucked. I’m overthinking. I’m planning. I’ve lost what is happening. Gavin has held me back over the years because I believed what he was saying. I’ve seen this happen to others in improv. Really funny people who doubt themselves because they’re listening to their Gavin. If that voice was silenced forever we’d all be happier.
What helped me was the support and reassurance of others. I think there’s a misconception that people who lead shouldn’t need feedback. Poor leaders may believe: ‘They don’t need validation and encouragement as they should believe in their own convictions and decide what’s right by themselves. The opinion of others is not necessary as it shows weakness.’ This is bollocks and goes against what it is to be human. We all need help. If you don’t think you do, then you’re an idiot. Also, if you can’t recognise when someone needs a lift, or if you’re denying them your support because you think it’ll make them stronger, then you’re also an idiot. If you create a culture of fear and are vague in your expectations, because you think that somehow inspires people to work harder, well, you’re simply a sociopath.
And so to get that support from my team, teacher and classmates was so important. I wasn’t feeding an ego, I was trying to reframe everything that happened on the night and correct Gavin’s negative story about me until he shut the fuck up. Kindness made me feel happier and more grateful. Life should work like this…
Be free to make mistakes. Don’t wallow in fear that others have generated, as hard as it is to navigate, they need to own it. Laugh at yourself, no one is perfect. Be warm and kind. Make people feel loved and supported. Have fun and don’t let anyone internally (Gavins etc) and externally, drag you down into their own self-inflicted misery. Above all do what comes naturally. Be human.
*It turned out, fairly innocently, he said he’d been told he could do this as part of audience participation. But, it didn’t stop him speaking out loud about the price of lager, and why he didn’t approve of oat milk, after I returned to my seat.
I can’t see the audience, but I can hear them laughing. I’m saying stuff and they’re actually LAUGHING. How is this happening? Maybe if I’d written what I was saying I’d have scribbled it out. But I’m not in the audience’s position. I’m not looking at me saying shit. I have no idea how this looks, how I’m coming across. I’d made a pledge to be myself to say what I feel. Don’t try to be funny. Just commit and act like a normal person would. I can’t see my wife and boys, I know they’re there and I know they’re enjoying it. I keep going. Encouraged, I do things that feel right. I make good moves. They keep laughing. It’s intoxicating. I’m getting the biggest hit of dopamine. Where have you been?
Two hours before the show at Nottingham Playhouse’s Neville Studio I was feeling out of my depth. I watched the others in my class and it felt like they were leaving me behind. They were so good. I was proud of them, but I couldn’t help thinking I wasn’t good enough. Maybe the show will be better without me? I tried too hard in rehearsal and missed things I should have done. I picked it up later and relaxed. The anxiety dropped and I started getting excited. The team I was put in felt right. We’d be fine. I could do my own bit without worrying about what they were doing or going to do.
A pep talk from Naomi. You’re funny and you’re really good. I believe in you. This felt massive. Just do your thing. We went second. The first team opened the show, which must have been hard. They grew into it and finished strongly. Then it was our turn. The audience suggestions included a pub, a sauna and a super villain’s lair. Dean suggested melding the lair with the sauna. Genius. We created the room and I made an icy bucket shower just outside the sauna. It made sense to me. Just making it got a laugh. Well, I gotta use that now, haven’t I?
I settled myself into the sauna. Cat, my scene partner becomes some masculine brute who wants to have it off with my wife. She decides I’m ‘Jim’ and I reply, ‘Super Jim, you mean?’ A guy in the audience says out loud, ‘ha, Super Jim’. I’m buoyed by that. I give Cat a name. Darren. An evil super villain called Darren. He wants my wife and I’m reacting, not with words, but with concerned expressions, and we’re getting laughs. Big laughs. Will Hines said the audience should be able to smell the bravery, and I think that’s what is going on. We’re confident and the audience is with us.
The next scene starts. Charlie is outside the sauna, at the water cooler. Yes, even super villains install water coolers in their lairs. He says something about the side of his face feeling hot and I get up and shut the sauna door. ‘Thanks, Super Jim,’ he says, and I acknowledge it. He then establishes his masterplan for world domination. He’ll make all water cooler conversations boring across the world. I know what to do. I leave the sauna, get a drink and say something really dull. ‘See, it’s working already,’ says Charlie. Mental fist bump.
I can’t remember the moment I decide to use the ice bucket shower, but I do. I react with ‘ahhh shit!’ and there’s more laughs. It’s like someone has taken over. I overthink so many things in my life. I plan so much of what I’m going to say and do, and here, in front of 40 people, I’m just doing it without thinking. No internal judgement. No voice saying, ‘stop, you look stupid and they’ll hate you’. I’m living in the moment. It’s liberating.
It ends. Applause. Bows. I can’t stop grinning as we return to our seats. Did that just happen? The love of my family. The pride. I pulled it off. I was brave and committed. I had fun.
This whole experience, including the classes, has changed my life. Seriously.
With Improv the most difficult thing you can be asked to do is be yourself. Which for me was the problem.
At the start of my first workshop, surrounded by strangers, I looked at the exit. Should I just leave? I wasn’t sure I could do it.
What if I opened up and they didn’t like me?
But surely it’s more embarrassing to go than stay, I surmised?
When did I accept I couldn’t be silly anymore? At school? It was cooler not to join in, apparently.
And yet, I used to take part in Christmas shows, doing Harry Enfield sketches. I did one-man Blackadder shows for my family.
I loved farting about.
At uni, I took drama as an elective subject behind Art and English, I didn’t know what else to do. I thought it would be like at school in year 9.
I felt out of my depth, and when I expressed that I felt uncomfortable, someone rolled his eyes and tutted. It was like a bullet to the heart.
I should have stayed and kicked his drama ass.
Those drama memories came back to me during my first Improv session.
But, while I was in a perpetual state of awkwardness, something happened…
Joy. I was having fun. Being silly.
The reason I looked into Improv was due to a suggestion that it helped with ADHD symptoms.
You have to listen for it to work. You have to hear what your fellow performer says and work with their offers.
I’m easily distracted and it’s shown over the weeks. I forget what’s happening and I lose track.
This has got everyone laughing, and one person actually thought I was doing it deliberately. I wasn’t. I’d just forgotten what we were doing.
I’ve got better at listening.
Also, in life it’s not natural to embrace mistakes. To embrace failure. To let go of control.
So often we deflect when we should be joining in because it matters what we have to say.
It’s also difficult to be present without worrying what comes next.
Improv helps with all of this.
Naomi, our awesome American teacher, has created a safe space to play. She’s fantastic to be around and I hope we’ve given her lots of laughter too.
No one is there to show off, be the best… we are there to learn and to have fun.
Accidentally, maybe on purpose, we’ve created a comedy ensemble and we’re getting better.
The curious thing I’ve learned about myself is I am not the voice in my head. That guy is a joyless prick. I don’t have to listen to him anymore.
The real me keeps showing up, laughs at himself, and has a go. It shuts that little fucker up.
I play. I am free. And, my face hurts from smiling.
It’s a great way of getting out of my head as I shift focus from me to my partner.
There’s nothing better than the buzz knowing what you’ve done together has been pure joy for you and those watching.
There have been moments when I’ve felt desperate to be funny. I know this is when the ego is in control. It feels the need for validation. The desire to be good at it.
But what I understood from Naomi is when your brain says, ‘this needs to be funny’, you stop reacting and you start writing, killing all the spontaneity.
It’s the quickest path to freezing. I did that one week in reply to a scene partner who asked a simple question. Instead of answering I tried to find a funny line.
The brain searches, it judges, it hits a dead end and… Blank.
The scene ends before it has even started.
The laughs come from the situation and the circumstances.
One week I was a vampire at a blood donor clinic. Hiding in plain sight. I didn’t have to try too hard for that to be funny.
Or, with another scene partner, figuring out we were divorced dads having forced fun in adult soft play. I’m trying to stop him from harming himself by drowning in a deep ball pool. Dark themes. But the absurdity of it got the laughs.
That’s the beauty of it all. You don’t know where it’s going to go.
I’ve always believed I wasn’t enough. I thought my physical clumsiness, my social discomfort, and my general twattery were weaknesses.
But, while my brain may sneer and try to stop me joining in, it turns out people actually like it. It’s my funny.
They like me.
And, to quote John Candy – in Planes, Trains and Automobiles – I’m starting to ‘like me’.
As a kid I would get mardy about football. I would be called mardy. I would be told not to get so mardy. When I was upset or/and crying, invariably I’d be told I was just being mardy or ‘having a mard on’. But being accused of being mardy would only make me more mardy and thus send me into a spiral of mardiness that lasted forever. (For those in the south, and for anyone who has never heard of the Arctic Monkeys, mardy is a Northern/East Midlands word meaning sulky or grumpy).
noun.Neil was told he was being mardy after he threw his slipper at the wall after Forest conceded a second goal against the run of play.
adjective.Neil was told he could ‘get all mardy about it’ but it wouldn’t change the fact that Forest lost 5-0.
I say ‘as a kid’ I would get mardy. I still am that kid. I never grew out of it. The simple, and obvious, reason is that I have the same brain. But my mardiness is likely a consequence of my neurodivergence. I can’t help being oversensitive and getting overly upset about a game and a football team, plus a myriad of other things in this life.
Two affecting football matches took place within the space of 12 months that I still return to even now after 35 years. In July 1990, England lost the World Cup semi-final to West Germany, with my idol Stuart Pearce having his penalty saved in the shootout. The following May, Forest lose to Spurs in the FA Cup final. Football, and particularly my hometown club Nottingham Forest, had taken its grip before these matches, but the emotional reaction was strong, and some might say over the top, in both.
Stuart Pearce after his penalty is saved in 1990
Firstly, what’s the appeal of football to a neurodivergent brain? Why did I ever get involved, and why, despite my best efforts to abandon it, have I stuck with it?
People with ADHD have lower overall dopamine levels compared to those with neurotypical brains. It means we have to get our kicks from somewhere else to maintain focus and motivation, and more importantly to feel happy. Watching football, and feeling part of a football club’s community, is great for dopamine due to the excitement that a goal, a win, a modicum of success, can bring. A goal can trigger the release of dopamine, boosting mood and happiness in the brain’s reward system. Winning is a powerful feel-good experience. I’ve never taken a drug like ecstasy, but I imagine it’s a similar feeling – you’re in love with everyone and everything. Nothing can stop you. It’s worth noting here that many ADHDers have addiction problems due to the quest for dopamine. And, perhaps that’s my problem with football.
The connection with others, complete strangers, celebrating success, also floods the brain with dopamine. I’ve built strong relationships and friendships due to Forest (another reason I’ll never escape it) but it’s also soothing being able to share the same experiences, good or bad. Plus, nothing beats the feeling when I’m away from Nottingham, perhaps abroad, and I hear a stranger say, ‘You Reds!’ after spotting a badge somewhere on me. It denotes friendship, a shared love, and validation for the choice of your club.
The opposite of all this during the good times is what happens when your team loses or goes through a bad patch. Negative feelings lead to the release of stress hormones like cortisol. However, the drive for stimulation and dopamine keeps you going and if anything, the stress makes the highs really fucking high.
Because of the connection I will often say we played well rather than they played well, or, we got spanked, and not they got spanked, which can be problematic for a neurodivergent brain. I take a Forest defeat personally. I shouldn’t, but I do.
I’ve defended Forest so hard over the years when at times they’ve scarcely deserved it. It’s because it feels like I’m defending myself. Therefore a negative comment from a pundit, a rival, a friend who supports another team, can cut deep. They’re hurting me, not mocking the team’s performance. I know I should keep the two distinct.
ADHDers have a heightened sensitivity to criticism, which is linked to Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD), leading to intense emotional pain at times. This sounds dramatic and while I joke about mardiness, I’ve learned that RSD is the reason I’ve struggled with my emotions throughout my life.
When the final whistle went in the 1991 cup final, I was devastated, and what followed was an hour of wild unregulated emotion. I was hysterical. I reacted angrily. I tried to hide the tears from my parents, and a friend who had come to watch the game, behind the arm of my chair, and a cushion. After collecting the cup and their medals, the Spurs players walked down from the Royal Box and in turn celebrated into the barrel of the camera, directly at me. (The one who sticks in my memory is Justin Edinburgh, who had been successfully winding Roy Keane up all game).
They were deriding me, their behavior demonstrated that I was a loser. They, and the result, confirmed all the negative self-beliefs I had about myself, and I reacted by swearing at the TV, sticking my fingers up at them, telling them to ‘fuck off’, in a tearful rage. In that moment, due to the RSD, the inability to not react to the perceived criticism and failings was impossible. I’ve beaten myself up for years for reacting like I did, but now I know I couldn’t help it.
Gazza’s ‘tackle’ on Gary Charles
There’s also the small matter of injustice about the match, something else which led to my initial reaction and had me ruminating in the weeks and months that followed.
Paul Gascoigne committed two wild brutal fouls on Gary Charles and Garry Parker, which in any other game, and if he was any other player, would have resulted in Spurs going down to 10 men. Gazza eventually left the pitch but on a stretcher – an injury sustained during one of the fouls. He was treated like a gallant hero, when he should have been the villain. Before he ‘bravely’ left the game, the resulting freekick, from one of his fouls, was dispatched into the top corner by Stuart Pearce. Justice served. A goal that deserved to win any cup final. Forest led 1-0 at half-time. Our goalkeeper Mark Crossley also saved a penalty from Gary Lineker. Everything was going right. However, the player who came on Gazza, Paul Stewart, had the best 45 minutes of his life, scoring the equaliser. The game went to extra-time and Forest defender Des Walker scored an own goal (further perceived humiliation) to hand Spurs the cup. It shouldn’t have been this way.
Roy Keane reacts to Justin Edinburgh
ADHDers suffer from ‘justice sensitivity’. We react quite intensely to unfairness while experiencing strong emotions like anger. We also have difficulty letting things go. There’s a strong need to restore justice. This manifests itself in all walks of life from politics to people not picking up their dog’s shit. Justice sensitivity explains my reaction to the 1991 cup final and why it still bothers me from time to time.
I’m now in my late forties. I still get upset, but I regulate my emotions better through a variety of methods – journaling, mindfulness, and good old fashioned talking (something I wouldn’t have done at 13). I can let things go during a match, but sometimes there’s a perfect storm that sends me into a spiral of negativity – thus flaring up my ADHD symptoms.
It’s Forest vs Bournemouth, 23 December 2023. The referee is Rob Jones, who with breathtaking incompetence sends off our defender Willy Boly after 23 minutes. Even at the distance I was sat, 70 metres away, I could see that Boly had won the ball. I even remember excitedly exclaiming ‘great tackle!’, only to see the inept Jones give Boly his second yellow. Replays will show not only did Boly win the ball, he was also fouled in the process – a possible red for the other player. Forest also had a penalty controversially turned down when the ball struck an outstretched arm. Despite the injustice we went a goal up. But then they scored twice in seven minutes. We equalised, only to lose the game late on.
I was so close to the Bournemouth fans I could see their gleeful, smug faces. The derision was all aimed at me. Like in ‘91, I was the loser. I was the one being mocked. Even the neurotypical Forest fans that day would have struggled following what happened. I don’t think I uttered a word to anyone until late in the evening. The justice sensitivity, the RSD, the struggle to control my emotions, the inability to snap out of it, all combined to make me feel terrible. I kept all these feelings inside when perhaps crying and raging would have been more therapeutic. However, displays of emotion as an adult are deemed inappropriate and unacceptable. Man the fuck up, etc etc…
Rob Jones displays his ineptitude yet again
How can I, or someone else with ADHD, or not, have a better experience?
Create distance and separate the football team from who you are. While supporters play their part we don’t make the decisions on the pitch. Not even the best teams win all the time. That would be boring. You need the bad times to feel the good times.
When people are taking the piss, they’re aiming it at the team, not you personally. You are not being criticised or attacked. Feel free to laugh it off. If they are attacking you personally then they’re not friends, and if you wouldn’t let them into your house, don’t let them into your head.
Be more objective than tribal. You can question players, coaches and the hierarchy. You’re not being paid to defend them.
Acceptance. No matter what happens you’ll always support the club and find some joy in that. Joy doesn’t always come from winning. It comes from the connections you make through supporting the club. Do not rely on the football team for your happiness.
We don’t control what happens when things go wrong. No amount of anxiety will change what happens. We can only control how we think about something.
Acknowledge that human beings, especially Rob Jones make mistakes (time and time again). He can’t help being incompetent. It’s something he has to live with. Feel good in the fact that when you wake up in the morning you’re not Rob Jones.
Finally, as ever, if the plight of a football club or the result of a match, is the only thing causing you anxiety then you don’t have anything serious to worry about in the present.
Working in a school as a teacher exposed my ADHD traits. I just didn’t know it at the time. It’s blindingly obvious now.
Following redundancy from the BBC, during lockdown, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. Teaching appealed. Schools had stayed open during the pandemic to an extent. I wouldn’t be stuck at home. I would always be with people. I would be able to move and travel somewhere.
I only wanted to be an art teacher. I wasn’t interested in anything else, the only other consideration was media due to my journalism background, but you can’t train solely as a media teacher. When I applied, and during my interview, the head of the course, Sally, and the woman who’d become my mentor, let’s call her Helga (six foot tall, blond, wouldn’t look out of place in a Bavarian village blowing an alphorn) were seduced by my former profession, and my age. The kids will love that you worked for the BBC.
(Did they bollocks).
My age, and life experience, apparently, would help with authority and relatability. I got the impression they thought I was an almost fully formed teacher. It would be easy to train me. I would breeze it. I was willing to go along with that. I got a lot of comments about my ‘calmness’… I present as calm… inside it’s like playing laser quest with drugged donkeys, set to a 1980s pop electro soundtrack – which sounds fun, but not when you’re trying to concentrate and stop kids punching each other. I did a good job of masking the chaos inside my head, mostly, until the real me showed up and they saw me for who I believed I was. A bit of a fraud.
ADHD and imposter syndrome are linked. Traits of ADHD, like disorganisation and executive function challenges, lead to feelings of being a fraud despite accomplishments.
The first day of my teaching practice I was given my timetable. They’d added DT (design technology). My heart sank. I had hated DT at school, or CDT as it was known. They didn’t discuss it with me until it was too late. The reasoning was it would give me a better chance of a job. More likely, as there was only one art teacher, and one classroom, there wasn’t enough to go round. I should have done my homework, my research. As an ADHDer, planning and organisation aren’t my strong points. (Unless I REALLY want to do it, like planning a holiday).
I realised I’d been set up. There was more great news – there were barely any art teacher roles to go to after the course had finished. Therefore I could make myself more employable by learning another subject. And, as there was a shortage of DT teachers, voila. We’ll turn you into one… by default.
‘DT and art aren’t that dissimilar…’
Totally different.
‘You’re a MAN, you must love making things with wood and plastic.’
Haha. Nope. You’re so wrong. Ask my dad.
Despite me paying for the course, I didn’t feel I had much choice to teach DT. As a people pleaser I went along with it. I tried my best to teach a subject I had no passion or interest in. God, I tried. But as far as I could tell it hadn’t changed since 1994. Kids were still sawing bits of coloured perspex with blunt hacksaws. The sounds and smells brought it all back. The clunk and slam of the vices, the scent of hot plastic. My old CDT teacher Mr Raynor, returned from the dead in his white jacket, giving off Nazi doctor vibes, to remind me how shit I was, smacking me over the head repeatedly with the crap ladle I’d made.
I fucking hated it.
ADHDers are driven by what they are interested in, not what’s important or necessary. With the art side, what I wanted to do, I was absolutely fine. More than fine. This was my passion. I was buzzing. I spent ages planning a series of lessons about portraiture for a year 10 group. It didn’t feel like a chore. It was fun. Exciting.
I would dread the DT lessons. Before I had to start planning and teaching them, I would observe the teacher. I’ll call her Mrs P. She was quite stern, abrupt at times, there was a touch of Trunchball about her. She even scared me sometimes. She once told me how grateful I should be for Helga’s time. (I should say here, Helga volunteered to be a mentor, she wasn’t forced at gunpoint). This made me feel guilty and a burden. Classic ADHD.
I nearly killed Mrs P twice. Once by eating nuts in the office… I knew she had an allergy, but I didn’t know how much the nut dust would make her throat constrict. She left once, dramatically clutching her neck, until I’d hoovered all the nutty particles up.
The second time I thought nothing of liberally using white spirit as oil paint thinner during the year 10 class. The vapors engulfed my room and hers, as well as the ground floor… and the whole school. Of course, white spirit is highly flammable, but I’d used it loads of times before without incident. Mrs P predicted the school would be engulfed in flames, and began opening windows and evacuating classrooms. I was left feeling the shame of potentially causing a major incident, but more the poor planning around this. I felt stupid, and all the other teachers thought I was a knob. They’d all be talking about that art teacher who nearly killed everyone.
I couldn’t help thinking that Mrs P didn’t think I was up to it. ‘You’re very brave to do this at your age,’ she commented once. It was a statement I’d heard a few times. Swap brave for stupid, and you get their true feelings. During an observation, Mrs P was showing a year 7 group how to change a hacksaw blade, and I zoned out. My attention was taken by what was happening outside, the posters on the walls, the graffiti on the tables. Everything but what I was supposed to be listening to. I was bored as fuck.
‘Sir, can you show us how to do it?’ said Mrs P, after noticing my inattentiveness. ‘Oh fuck,’I thought, but I didn’t have enough time to freak out. Somehow, through intuition and blind luck, I figured it out. ADHDers tend to pull it out the bag under pressure.
It never got any better. I was bored out of my mind. I couldn’t muster any enthusiasm. I worried over the whole of one weekend about teaching DT. The anxiety made me feel sick. I told Helga I didn’t want to do it anymore, and she took it badly, calling in the course leader for a meeting. I felt like a burden, I’d let them down. They explained teaching DT would help me get a job. They offered me the opportunity to create my own project, something that appealed to me. I accepted this when I shouldn’t have. Impulsively I’d said yes, when it meant more work, extra planning, when I had enough piling up already. I had no idea where to start. I’d only created more chaos, rather than reducing it.
ADHD can lead to a fear of letting people down due to difficulties with time management and impulsivity, often resulting in a pattern of overpromising or making mistakes.
To make matters worse, in art, Helga decided she wouldn’t let me have her own planning for years 7, 8, 9. She told me the topic, the artists the kids would study, but that was it. I’d have to do it all from scratch. This felt grossly unfair. This wasn’t happening elsewhere among my new friends in other schools. But somehow, I was proving I wasn’t the fraud I thought I was, I was doing it. Pulling it all off. Along with my university work, and the work from class days. The weekly massive list of things to do would be completed by Sunday, and quickly filled back up again by Monday. It was exhausting. But I kept going.
I loved the uni days. Being with the other trainees, building friendships, having fun. It was a huge part of me wanting to carry on. I felt popular. I made people laugh. I was a good friend. I was someone to turn to. I enjoyed people thinking I was well adjusted and coping well with it all. Breezing it. They say ADHDers are great actors due to the years of masking. I couldn’t agree more.
Dopamine levels are lower in ADHDers. This can lead to a craving for experiences that provide a reward. The novelty and thrill of pursuing new connections, friendships, can provide this hit.
As part of the course I had to have two weeks at a different school ahead of a longer placement there. I had two brilliant weeks. Hayley, the head of art, was brilliant. We were the same age. She was supportive and approachable. She was also a mother so understood family commitments. I didn’t feel the pressure I’d felt with Helga. Hayley knew it was a job, it was important, but it wasn’t everything. It was a breath of fresh air in comparison to Helga. I lost count of the amount of times Helga had said to me: ‘You’ve got to really want it.’ I did want it, but I didn’t want it to come at the cost of everything else. Helga liked to brag about how dedicated she was, staying until 8pm at night sometimes. Good for you, but fuck that.
I cracked when Helga asked me to attend a year 11 parents’ evening. I didn’t even teach year 11. The same date was my son’s birthday. We had plans, and I’d only been given two weeks notice. It was unfair to ask me to do it. After saying no, Helga didn’t give in. Again, she got the backing of the course leader. I could attend half of the parents’ evening and then go home. I reluctantly agreed but I was livid about it. I seethed. Helga could tell, and she asked me what was wrong. It all poured out… She told me the date had been in the diary since the start of term. (I had never seen this). I should have known. It was my fault. I grabbed my coat and I walked out of the room. I never returned to the school. I was called into a meeting with the course leader the next day, and was told if I’d done that as a teacher I’d have been facing a disciplinary. I took the blame, but I still felt I was right. I was being exploited.
ADHD is linked to a heightened sensitivity to injustice, which can manifest as intense emotional reactions like anger or frustration over perceived unfairness.
Following my dressing down, I was asked whether I wanted to continue. I wasn’t sure. I felt so low. I didn’t want to let anyone down. It was an intense feeling and I was really hard on myself. This didn’t stop me feeling like shit while doing a lot of soul searching.
Reflecting on this experience I realised I was likely suffering from Rejection Dysphoria Syndrome. RDS is an intense emotional reaction to perceived or actual rejection or criticism. RDS can lead to low self-esteem due to the internalisation of past criticism. Over time, this cycle can negatively impact self-worth. I think taking the blame and backing down was probably me thinking I’d caused a lot of pain to lots of people.
Looking back I struggled with a lot of the work. I wasn’t always sure I understood the educational theories as part of the PGCE. I didn’t ask, I slipped back into an old way of thinking, ‘I’ll figure it out later’ – except I didn’t. Most of the time I’d forget what I’d learned that day.
We also had to do English and maths GSCE papers as part of the course. This was no longer required by the government, but the course leaders thought it was important. I had zero time to prepare, although those working at the school where the course was based, were able to access past papers. I struggled with both exams. I just passed the English paper, but failed the maths. I would have to resit it. I felt embarrassed and ashamed. I cried on my way home. As a teenager it had taken me three attempts to pass maths. I’d always struggled with the subject.
I remember feeling confused and panicked by the maths questions, and in some cases, thinking I understood only to answer in a completely different and wrong way. I know when I’m following instructions that I don’t always follow them carefully. I’m terrible at IKEA manuals, or instructions for games. My eyes dart around randomly like I’m trying to find a cheat code.
ADHD can make following instructions difficult because of impacts on attention, working memory, and executive function.
In the end, I left the course. I spent the whole of Christmas 2021 brooding over what I was going to do. Lost in my own world. Not paying much attention to my family. I tried to keep going, but after we had to do online lessons due to another Covid spike, I quit. I was devastated. I remember going for a walk and breaking down. I’d left journalism, to start another one in education, thinking this is what I would do for the rest of my life. I was at the very bottom again. No job, and nothing to show for the three months I’d spent on the course. I’d wasted time. Wasted money. Got people’s hopes up, and now I’d fucked everything up.
Thankfully, I had the love and support of my wife, who herself was struggling in the profession as a neurotypical teacher. What hope did I have? I also had the support of my family and best friend, John. I do wonder where I’d have been without them. Depressed, certainly. Suicidal? Possibly. Adults with ADHD are 5 times more likely to attempt suicide.
In my journal, on 5th January 2022, I wrote how much I’d enjoyed working with the pupils and students. It’s true, the memories of those connections remain. However, I wrote about what turned me off – ‘the admin, the data, questioning, assessment’. All things I would always struggle with if I carried on.
I didn’t know I was neurodivergent at this time. But here’s the interesting thing. My favourite times were working with the ‘quirky kids’. The class that needed the most help. The kids with ADHD, dyslexia, autism and other needs. I connected with them and those who it was deemed were not capable of remaining in class due to behaviour issues.
Apparently, there’s such a thing as a “ADHD radar” due to shared experiences and communication styles. This recognition comes from feeling a similar sense of being different, relating to each other’s struggles, and understanding each other’s communication patterns in a way that neurotypicals may not.
If this is true, how fascinating.
Picture: Me on the teaching away day missing the bar (target) and really hurting my bollocks (pride). This rather sums up my short teaching career.
