Author: Neil Heath

The Distracted, Mardy Kid with the Busy Brain

As part of any neurodivergence assessment they ask you about the school years. It tests the memory, but it all gradually comes back. Primary school was harder to recall with it being about 40 years ago. But I did remember the frequent trouble I got into with one teacher when I was 8/9. I didn’t think I could do anything to please him. I frequently got into trouble, not for anything serious, but for impulsively calling out, not following instructions properly, trying too hard to please, getting distracted too easily. 

Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD) is a big part of ADHD. It’s extreme emotional pain from perceived or actual rejection, criticism, or failure, causing deep sadness and mood swings. I cried a lot and got called ‘mardy’ frequently at school in the 1980s, which I now attribute to RSD.

With Mr Howitt, the feeling that I was always pissing him off was off the scale. This had an adverse effect on me where not saying anything at all in class became the norm. The teacher I had in year 5 commented that he’d forget I was there half the time. I was that quiet. (Masking who I really was started early). The same teacher, incidentally, had previously shouted at me for kicking stones in the playground when he was trying to give a speech. I was clearly bored by what he was saying, and the stimulation of kicking stones was preferable.

Thankfully I still have my secondary school reports from 1990 to 1993. The word that pops up a lot in my 1990 report is ‘conscientious’ – wishing to do one’s work or duty well and thoroughly. Which is fair. I wanted to do well. I wanted to please. (ADHDers are generally people pleasers). I tried hard. I also get a lot of comments about being ‘pleasant’, ‘nice’, ‘polite’, and ‘bright’.

Mr Gudgeon, maths, said ‘I was very quiet’. I never asked for help. People with ADHD tend to not ask for help because they fear appearing incompetent. A misguided perfectionism makes you believe you should be able to do it all yourself. 

I came 7th in the exams, which meant I missed out on Set 1. A knock to my confidence, but it was probably for the best. I remember being distracted a lot in his class, he didn’t have the authority he should have. We had some big personalities there. When it was kicking off I’d look out the window and watch the gulls feasting on discarded chip cobs.

I needed to ‘show greater determination’ in music, according to a teacher whose name rhymed with raper. Well, sir, if you took your eyes and hands off the girls for a second, you’d see we only had battered old xylophones to work with. I can’t remember a smidgeon of what he taught us about music. I knew the opening to ‘Oh When the Saints’, but so did everyone else.

In 1991, my maths teacher said the ‘presentation of my work required attention’ – it needed to be in a ‘sensible and logical form’. In science, I had ‘little confidence in my own abilities’. In humanities, I apparently lost my enthusiasm and determination. My written work had become ‘shallow’ and lacking in detail. I needed to show more effort. Mr Raynor, in CDT, slates me. I need to make more effort and concentrate on my own work. (Your lessons were shit, sir, and so was your beard). 

Raper goes after me again. A lack of planning in the early stages shows up in my final performances. What final performances? 

In 1992, my form tutor commented on the need for ‘more detailed revision’. In maths, I’ve had ‘disappointing’ test results and I need to develop a more efficient method of revision. 

In Chemistry, I need to put more care and thought into my homework. In contrast to subjects I was engaged with like RE, bizarrely, the teacher was impressed with my thoroughness and research. But, in Physics, I was capable of doing better. In geography, excellent marks, but occasionally work isn’t such a ‘high standard’ and I need to show more care. Ms Hallsworth seems to suggest I get it, but I can’t be bothered. In French, the first two tests were decent, and the last one ‘rather disappointing’. My oral was acceptable, apparently… (Stop it. She was about 70).

In 1993, lovely Ms Briggs said I’m pleasant and have a ‘serious attitude’ when it comes to English. I remember her enjoying my stories and creative work. But she says I get distracted by other members of the class. In maths, my test results were ‘erratic’. In science, my results are ‘reasonable’. In geography, my written answers would benefit from ‘more careful planning and editing.’ In PE, I’m considered ‘pleasant but reserved’, but I’ve got a ‘good physique’ – erm, thanks sir, kind of you to notice… insert awkward emoji.

In 1994, they stopped handwriting reports, and instead chose statements from a computer programme that matched the pupil’s personality and ability. Except, many of us would end up with very similar reports.

In conclusion, wherever there’s a whiff of planning, strategy, organisation, revision, there is a problem. I recoil at all of those words. There’s also often a lack of care and attention to detail. I make simple mistakes. I forget what I’m asked to do. For example, we’d be told to write our homework out in our diaries. I wouldn’t bother. ‘I’ll remember later…’ But I didn’t because of poor executive function. I got away with it, thanks to friends reminding me on the day it was due. I’d often be doing homework on the bus, even art work in my sketch book. If I didn’t do the homework, I’d plead that I didn’t understand the task, and ask for help. I never got a single detention. If I wasn’t interested in the subject I would zone out, but I wonder, as I was well-behaved, if this was why I wasn’t considered having an issue. 

There wasn’t half as much assessment in the nineties as there is now. There were no records showing patterns of performance, and as a result no intervention could be made. However, there were far more extreme cases who needed help. I was capable, they knew that, but it was virtually impossible for me to summon up any sort of interest and enthusiasm for maths, science, music, CDT…

Even on the morning of an exam I’d be made aware of details I should have revised. I hadn’t remembered. I try to cram it in in the short space of time I have. I hadn’t clocked or understood what I needed to plan for. Ahead of some exams I thought nothing of staying up into the early hours to watch a World Cup football match (USA 1994).

I never publicly asked for help. I feared looking stupid and being laughed at. I couldn’t bear the humiliation – even a simple plea for clarity over a task. Perhaps I didn’t want to be exposed as a fraud. I wasn’t as clever as I believed. The disorganisation was never addressed. I thought it was just who I was, and somehow things would work out. The teachers didn’t pick me up on it. And, yet, the signs were there. As difficult as they were to spot.

My GCSE results were not what was expected. Just one A, two Bs, four Cs. D in English language was hard to take, the paper confused me (and I’m sure it would have been explained in class). I also left the exam early because I’d got so anxious I developed a migraine. The science results were a disaster, not that I had tried. 

I felt I was just as intelligent as my peers, who had got straight As, but they got to grips with what had to be done when it disappeared from mind instantly.

I had to resit maths, and eventually I got a C, after I finally bothered trying to understand the equations. I learned my lesson with English, at A-Level. I was much better prepared. As it was largely literature based I engaged with it more. History, however, I completely flunked, getting ‘ungraded’. Again, I hadn’t tried. I was so bored with it. I put in zero effort even though it meant failing. I left with two Bs, the other in art. I could have done much better.

But then again, beating yourself up is classic ADHD. Feelings of shame and guilt are common. And still are 40 years later!

Misadventures of the Headless Professor

ADHD causes forgetfulness due to impairments in working memory. Holding and processing information is problematic. This leads to difficulties in recalling details and following through on shit you need to do. Losing things is also a core trait of ADHD. Frequently misplacing everyday items due to a moment of distraction is frustratingly common. The stupid shit I’ve done, forgotten to do, and lost over the years!

This does not compute

In my short, ill fated teaching career I was given a laptop to do my planning. It contained the art department’s resources, and sensitive files about the children I was due to teach. I got on a bus that I thought would take me close to home. However, it didn’t stop where I’d been told it would. I got arsey with the driver, and I angrily left the bus, calling him ignorant along the way. I then phoned my wife to see if she could pick me. We agreed on a meeting place. I was halfway there when I realised I’d left the laptop on the bus. I was devastated. I felt so stupid. After a frantic call to the bus company I was told the laptop had been found. However, I’d have to wait a couple of hours before the bus returned to where I had been dropped. The SAME DRIVER. I would have to grovel. But it didn’t matter, I was reunited with the laptop. The relief! All that needless stress could have been prevented by simply looking back.

Patching things up

I was walking my mum’s dog, Patch, when I popped to the local shop. I tied him up outside, and explained, in that way you do with an animal, that I’d be back in a second. While in the shop, I wondered whether my friend John was home. I decided to pay him a visit. I left the shop, walking past Patch, who must have been thinking, ‘Where are you going?’ and strolled up to John’s house a few streets away. Thankfully he wasn’t home because at that point I remembered I’d left Patch at the shop. Panicked, I ran the whole way back. Thank fuck he was still there, and not been dognapped.

Bus-t up

To get to Hucknall to see my friends I got on a bus just outside the village where I lived. I jumped on the first red double decker I saw. As we reached Hucknall I worried it wasn’t going to the right part of the town. I needed to go to the estates, not the marketplace. I couldn’t remember the number, and I didn’t want to bother the driver. As we crawled in the traffic I decided to get off to walk, and find another bus. I reached another bus stop near the cinema, and looked at the timetable to find the bus I needed. It was due, and a minute later I boarded, paid the driver and sat down. Except, it was the same bus I had left minutes earlier. I only knew this when a friend of a friend witnessed what I had done. When I was told I couldn’t quite believe it. How was this possible?

That’s pants

Commuting to work by bicycle presents all sorts of opportunities for forgetting things. You have to take a whole change of clothes for a start. I’d frequently forget my underwear, and spend the day commando. This in turn caused me anxiety. What if for some unfathomable reason my trousers fell down in front of everyone? And I get accused of flashing. I was also haunted by a story I’d been told about my uncle catching his willy in his zip, and my grandma taking the shears to his shorts.

The Wrong Trousers

On another occasion I forgot my trousers, but remembered my pants! I only had my cycling bib shorts to wear at my desk, so I sent an email to the whole office appealing for a spare pair of trousers. Of course it caused a lot of mirth and pisstaking. I get a kick out of amusing people, at the same time I don’t want people to think I’m stupid, a clown. Maybe I should accept I’m a prat, but one who simply can’t help it. The weatherman provided me with a pair of trousers. Black, right waist, wrong length. White socks on show, like a terrible Michael Jackson impersonator.

Captain Underpants

I also left my BBC pass, the key to the building, in my trousers AT WORK. They were hanging in the shower room. I only remembered when I got to work for the early shift. Previous security guards would recognise me and just let me through. But one, who I nicknamed Captain Underpants, as he looked like the Dav Pilkey creation, seemed to have amnesia when it came to faces. He’d make you sign in, and then get a fellow staff member to vouch for you working there. As a repeat offender I’d experienced this before. I didn’t have time for that this particular morning, and so I called a colleague who dropped his pass out of the window for me. After parking my bike, I used the card to open the door. Captain Underpants was waiting on the other side. I explained to him what had happened, and that I would show him MY pass as soon as I got to the shower room. He chased me upstairs, well, he walked slowly, panting like a St Bernard, as I sprinted off. When he finally reached me I presented my pass an inch from his face, and he finally left me alone and fucked off. 

Who’s there?

The BBC landline phones did not display what their number was which was a problem when you needed to give it out for a story. It made it more difficult due to various desk changes, and as you never knew where you were going to be sitting on arrival. One particular time I had a hunch what the landline number was. To check, I dialled it from my smart phone. But annoyingly the phone next to me rang at the same time! I abandoned what I was doing to answer the phone. But there was no-one there. How annoying. I went back to the task and called the number again. Rudely, someone was trying to ring me again, disrupting my task. I hung up my phone and answered the landline. Again, no-one there! Was someone pissing me about? I tried for a final time, and realised the nuisance caller was in-fact me.  

Has anyone seen my Dad?

My most heartbreaking moment of forgetting was when I failed to turn up to meet my youngest son. I was in the flow of making a piece of art. I lost track of time. I snapped out of it when my phone rang. ‘Hello, Mr Heath,’ the voice said. ‘I’ve got Toby here, he said you’re supposed to be picking him up?’ Before she finished I was out the door. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten him. I was so ashamed. He had just turned 11, but it was a long way from home, it was also winter and dark. I got to the school and apologised to the teachers who waited with him, and of course, Toby. Toby is a very forgiving kid, and probably got bored of my apologies. He told me as all the other kids were leaving and being collected, he walked up and down trying to find me. He asked around if anyone had seen me, and one horrible girl told him no-one cared about his dad. I remembered all the times my dad was late picking me up. The stress it caused me, and here I was, doing the same thing. I think I partly assumed my wife was picking him up, but it’s likely I wasn’t paying attention when she explained the plan.

I used all these stories in preparation for ADHD assessment meetings. Case closed.

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Totally Wired

‘I’m totally wired. And I’m always worried.’

A porous memory, losing things, listening to people, and realising I’m not listening, switching tasks, worrying endlessly, walking away from conversations thinking, ‘why did you say that?’ 

Trying to do everything, everywhere, all at once, and not always well. Equally, being so deeply involved in a task, that I lose track of time (and forget important things like picking my son up).

Wondering if I’ve upset someone because they haven’t replied to a message. Agonising for days about something someone said, replaying conversations, overanalysing… All the time I have someone in my head telling me why I’m an idiot, why I’m not good enough, and why everything is shit, while playing S Club 7. 

Turns out it’s the way I’m wired. I can’t help it. At 47, I’ve been diagnosed with ADHD. This has come as a huge discovery.

I shared this with someone and she said, ‘What do you think you’ll get out of this… now?’

(Meaning: You’re old. What’s the point? 😂)

Well, it matters to me. It’s like finally being given my brain’s handbook. And now I can help manage things I’ve always struggled with. Others are surprised when I’ve told them – ‘really???’.

I don’t fit what they understand about ADHD, especially in boys and men. Clearly I’ve masked it well, even from myself. Having a neurodivergent brain explains why some things at work, at home, and in the world in general, are harder. 

Everything is set up for neurotypical brains. Instruction manuals, application forms, questionnaires, exams, meetings, timetables, supermarkets… I would be described as ‘high functioning’ – and luckily so, many ADHD males seem to end up in prison, or comedy…

At my worst I’m like a mad professor, à la Dr Emmet Brown, going from task to task in a fit of panic, causing chaos in the process. Maybe I’m more like a headless chicken, starting something only to be distracted by something else. Poulet sans tête. I should combine the two. Ultimately, I’m the Headless Professor. (Which also explains the clumsiness).

The Off Switch

The comedian and writer Robin Ince described having an “angry heckler” in his head. I thought ‘hmm.. that sounds familiar’.

I’ve always struggled with that internal voice. It starts talking the moment I’m off guard, usually when I go for a piss in the night. 

Also, when I’m trying to relax, when I’m not moving, when I’m not engaged by something.

‘Hiya paaaaaal,’ he says, like Harry from Home Alone, as soon as I stumble from bed. ‘I’ve got a few things to tell you… 

‘Remember what you said earlier to that person, that was stupid… They must think you’re a dick.

‘Oh, and what about that thing that’s happening that you can do nothing about? Let’s let that swirl around for days, yeah?

‘You’ve got work tomorrow? How long until you get found out?’

All the while, there’s a record in the background – maybe The Village Green Preservation Society by The Kinks.

A song you normally appreciate, but not at 2am played endlessly by a lunatic.

Before you know it, all the tabs are open, the radio is detuned, many images emerge between the static.

And, it takes an hour to quieten it down to fall asleep again.

I know I’d be happier without the critic, the commentator, the chatterer, and I wish I could rip it out of my skull.

I don’t need it. 

Neuroscientist Jill Bolte Taylor lost her inner voice following a stroke.

She described it as a ‘dramatic silence’ – which sounds like bliss. 

I don’t want to have a stroke. I just need the off switch.

Agadoo and All That

Pop songs conjure up a place and time. Even if they’re a bit crap. The kind of tunes your brain tortures you with when you’re lying in bed squirming about something stupid you probably said in 1997. Agadoo by Black Lace is a track as good as a time machine. Always has been, always will be. For good, for worse.

I was watching an episode of Top of the Pops from 1984, and there they were, with their mullet-lite peroxide blonde trims looking like the Scandinavian Chuckle Brothers. Alan Barton is wearing a knitted jumper with circular patterns, and light coloured jeans. Guitarist Colin Gibb is in a white denim jacket cut off at the arms, with sunglasses, and black jeans. They’re both walking from side to side and flicking a foot out, the same way your great aunt would dance to, well, pretty much any song at all.

The lovely beach and the sky…

The Eastgate Bar, in Ingoldmells, near Skegness, was as big as a school hall, and had a bar down all one side. It had a high wooden partition to encourage a queue rather than have the chaos of a six-deep free for all. Kids weren’t allowed at the bar, unless you were ordering a milkshake in the daytime. Dads would queue in silence, holding the glass they’d keep all night – it made the lager taste better, apparently. One hand in their pocket, shaking their change, fondling their car key. The look on their faces told a tale, they’d rather be anywhere else than here. ‘We could have been in Bendidorm…’ doing exactly the same thing.

The back of the Eastgate was mainly windowed, and in front of them were a row of arcade machines including Space Invaders. It disappointed me when I was finally tall enough to see the screen, after hearing such exotic sci-fi sounds coming from the box. That, and the artwork on the side, promised so much more than the crappy green pixels on display. But still, lads from Nottingham, Derby, Leicester and Sheffield, united over this game, it would be in play all night. Records broken. The joystick, and buttons, sticky with sweat and crisps.

The Eastgate Bar was referred to as Mr Tutts’ in our family. Named after, I believe, the magician who returned every summer. Real name unknown. Thinking back, Mr Tutts had these dead eyes, the enthusiasm long gone. The same look on his promotional photographs – posing with a dove on his arm – that he signed as a prize. There’s only so many times you can hand a magic wand to a kid, and act surprised when it goes floppy when your back’s turned. 

The smile of his assistant (his wife) revealed her disdain at entering a cupboard only to ‘disappear’ (she wishes she could have). Or, folding herself up in that box to be sawn in half… again.  I’m sure there was a happier time when they packed in their jobs in teaching, or in a bank, and decided to pursue their love of magic and entertainment. Maybe there was a part of them that thought they’d end up on New Faces with Marti Caine, and then the Des O’Connor Show, or Wogan. Spending their winters in the Canaries, or even the Bahamas. As it was, they spent the holiday season on England’s east coast, doing the same act night after night after night. Perhaps they made just enough to get through the lean months, before starting all over again.

Once Mr Tutts finished his act, he’d start up the disco, get the lights going, and mumble something into the microphone. The air would be thick with cigarette smoke, and the windows dripping with condensation. ‘Burning up and sopping wet’, faces blue, red, and sticky from sugary drinks, a hundred kids would pile on to the dance floor, and Mr Tutts would slap on Agadoo, and then disappear for a few minutes while he sank a pint and thought about his life choices.

Agadoo plonks me in a metaphoric DeLorean (or more relevant to eighties Nottingham, a Ford Cortina, a Flux Capacitor in the glove box), and transports me to the Eastgate Bar. Six years old, and messing up the moves our grandma had shown us in the caravan, mouthing something vaguely similar to the actual words… ‘Agadoo doo doo, push my apples up a tree, Agadoo doo doo push my apples, I need a wee.’

He’s Leaving Home…

It’s crept up on me… well, I say crept. It’s more like a grizzly bear gaining on me, and I’m legging it, heart going like the clappers, but it’s about to trip me up with a swipe of its giant paw.

What am I on about? 

My eldest is nearing adulthood, and probably leaving home in about a year’s time. 

Despite the late night ‘let’s-shit-dad-up’ shenanigans (jumping out of my wardrobe or standing in the dark in the corner of a room) I’m really going to miss him. That doesn’t sound strong enough. I’ll be devastated. Things are never going to be the same again. I don’t want to think about it, but I’m going to have to. 

I’m already in grief that George and his brother Toby, are not little lads anymore. I had a dream where they said goodbye, and I woke up crying. I’m welling up as I write. 

George arrived following the tragedy of our first son dying at birth. I never thought we’d recover. Thanks to the bravery and strength of my wife, we kept trying. When the blue line appeared it was met with deep breaths… we can do this. 

I suffered with the daily anxiety of what if it happens to us again? To cope, I took up ‘Emotional Freedom Techniques’ – this involves tapping parts of your body to restore energy flow. Sounds like utter bollocks. Probably is. But it did distract from the little voice telling me another catastrophe was around the corner. Maybe that’s the point.

Any headache, discomfort, swelling, and sickness my wife suffered, or if the baby hadn’t moved for like five minutes, I’d freak out.

During the difficult times, before George was born, I wrote in my journal, ‘I just want to be a dad’. That’s all that mattered. I didn’t care about money, wealth, or my career. To be a dad was all I cared about. 

The pregnancy was smooth. Despite my future predictions, it couldn’t have gone better. The due date came, and George arrived in the early hours of the next day. 

I don’t remember him crying, just looking around the room, blinking, dazzled and confused, before settling into the comfort and safety of his mother’s arms, and then, later, mine. The joy of seeing him, safe, healthy, alive, was pure joy. 

He was quite an anxious baby. Once you left him to sleep, as hard as you tried to creep out, he’d wake up and cry. There were various pieces of advice about leaving them to ‘self soothe’, but bollocks to that. I remember watching the whole of the 3hr film, The Lives of Others, while George slept on my chest. 

I saw a comedian recently and he made a quip about the Titanic submersible. Whatever you feel about that, he made a good point, the father who took his son on that trip had one job, when he entered this world, to keep him alive. And despite his massive wealth he couldn’t do that. He put him in a stupidly dangerous situation. 

This is the job. Keep them alive. But also, of course, make sure you don’t let them become an asshole. I’m pleased to say he’s a great lad, and plenty have said so.

He’s looked after me too. We had season tickets for Forest, and during one match I was ill with tonsilitis. Not that I knew it. I thought it was a cold. The poor kid thought I was going to die as I shivered, pale, in the winter weather as we saw out a 1-0 win against Wigan.

They said it’d go fast. It has. There’s a bottle of wine for him when he turns 18. I thought I’d present it to him in the distant future when I’m old and gray. Well, I’ll admit the latter. 

I couldn’t wait to leave for university. To my shame I didn’t think of anyone else’s feelings. Least of all my mum’s. I was due to go on Saturday, but it was Mum’s busiest day in her shop. She asked if I could go a day later so she could help me settle in. I’m sure it would have been fine, but I refused to wait a day more. Dad took me on his own. I didn’t want any fuss. He told me he was proud of me, a punch on the arm, and £20 to buy some beer. I later learned Mum went to Matlock Bath, one of her favourite places, and cried, and cried, for her little boy who’d left home. 

I get it now. 

George mentioned Falmouth University. I put it on the map, and it showed an 11 hour journey by public transport. Maybe not, mate. He’s looking at sensible places now, within a few hours at least.

The last thing I’d want for my boys is to feel they have to stay. Just for us. Home will be home. Always. But I also understand the depressing thought of remaining in the same place. I can’t imagine living where my secondary school is still in daily view. 

I needed to leave home, and I don’t regret coming back, it’s what has to happen in so many ways. It’ll just feel like our hearts have been slapped about. 

Maybe when that bear catches up it’ll just give me a lick and I’ll give it a salmon, if that makes sense. It might not be that bad in other words.

We’ll see.

Danny Rat and Rock City

Danny and I had a difficult friendship. I’m not sure most of the time we even were friends. We were in the same form and the same sets. We spent a lot of time together. He was one of those kids who was always there, and he probably thought the same about me.

Danny never combed his hair, or it would appear washed it, and his protruding teeth were not always clean. He was gloomy at times. He talked about the end of the world. Oddly, he kept a spider in a matchbox. He was small and scuttled about, his head down. His physiognomy and manner earned him the gangster-style moniker of Danny Rat. Kids can be cruel.

Danny and I had a fight in the changing rooms before PE. It was over something stupid, and we suddenly found ourselves going full Lord of the Flies, punching each other wildly, while the other boys savagely bayed for blood. There was a moment when the human side of my brain said, ‘What are you doing? This isn’t you!’ The ape side cackled  – ‘Make him bleeeeed.’

The mob got their blood. Danny, who did taekwondo, had the perfect guard and, from nowhere, punched me twice in the nose. Like a boxer with high cheekbones, it was my weakness. Not that it was ever that hard to cause my nose to bleed. Blowing it and even sniffing in dry weather has the same effect. The fight was stopped, and I was taken away to be patched up. Danny was deemed the winner. He drew blood. It was not something I ever wanted to do again.

Things changed in the sixth form, and we started getting on better. Danny was taking more care of his personal appearance. He grew his hair and kept it washed. He looked like he was modelling himself on Dave Grohl, who had just released Foo Fighters’ debut album.

Danny did two important things for me, which I’m grateful for. Firstly, he introduced me to alternative music. He lent me a compilation CD that included Radiohead. It was the first time I heard Creep, and like many other teenage boys at the time, I instantly related to it. I imagine Danny felt that way, too.

Secondly, most importantly, he invited me to go to Rock City with him, with a few others. A bidding that changed my life.

Life before Rock City involved going out in Hucknall every Friday night. My whole sixth form did. We were mostly underage, and this wasn’t something the pubs and bars seemed to care about. They were raking it in. Unless the cops felt arsed to do a patrol, the bar staff hardly ever requested to see our NUS ID cards, with, of course, doctored date of birth details.

Hucknall had no nightclubs. What it did have was The Byron. The pub had an upstairs room half the size of a tennis court, where a DJ played the latest Euro cheese dance music and remixed chart hits. For some reason, it was the place everyone wanted to be. You would have to queue for ages to get in, and there was no guarantee you would. The bouncers were strict. You weren’t always told why they weren’t letting you in. If you did, it was deemed an achievement. I remember celebrating at the top of the stairs whenever I did. That was the good bit, being chosen. Getting what you want is another story. Too loud. Too packed. Too many pricks. The lager, expensive and pissy. You couldn’t talk to anyone because you’d just be shouting and spitting in their ear. I spent some of the time in my own head, the words to Creep and How Soon is Now, on repeat, while watching my school friends having a great time, laughing, dancing, flirting, kissing… maybe something else later.

What the hell am I doing here?

I tried nightclubs in Nottingham. The music wasn’t right. I hated the dress code – shirt, trousers, shoes. Anything reminding you of school surely should be avoided. You had to pay for the pleasure back then too. I enjoyed being with friends, getting drunk and farting around, but I spent most of the time hypervigilant. I worried about spilling someone’s pint and getting glassed in return. I witnessed violence inside and out. Bouncers pressing heads against the pavement until the police arrived.

They were often sleazy places. I would watch from the side, or balcony, as men prowled, creeping up to women on the dance floor. Grabbing and then gyrating themselves, uninvited, against an unsuspecting victim. Was this something that was ever encouraged? I’d seen women get off with men just so they left them alone.

I don’t belong here.

‘Come with us to Rock City,’ said Danny.

Mum had warned me about Rock City. It was full of Hell’s Angels, apparently. She made it sound rough and unsafe. I wasn’t sure it was right for me. I imagined long haired oily rockers with big beards who would delight in humiliating me by putting me in a headlock. I don’t know why. I think I’d watched too many old Clint Eastwood films, the ones with the orangutan who liked sticking his middle finger up at people.

‘It’s nothing like that,’ said Danny, laughing. ‘It’s student night.’

‘And, no dress code?’

‘Wear what you want.’

The student night was named Jeudi and was on every week from 8.30pm to 2.30am.

I laid out my jeans, random band t-shirt, and cheesecloth shirt (to be tied around the waist due to inevitable temperature increase as the night wore on). My blue Adidas Gazelles waited by the door.


It’s hard to explain the first time, but you know when it’s significant. You know you’ll remember the moment forever – like your first day at school, or seeing your football team for the first time. At Rock City it was when I walked the stairs from the lobby, and opened the double doors to hear music I loved, sounding better than ever.

There was black everywhere. The walls, the ceiling, the furniture, the bars, the lino, apart from the wooden sticky dance floor. (I made the mistake once of wearing white jeans and I woke up the next day to see them covered in black streaks like a miniature car had driven over them).

A Rock City mural on the back wall of the stage, made with different tones of glow-in-the-dark-paint, had a thousand different names scratched into it.

As innocent as I was, and after what Mum told me about Rock City, I couldn’t help thinking it was all a bit illicit. Something shouldn’t be this much fun. Should I even be here? This was highlighted when someone offered me a sip of their can of Two Dogs. Not an E, or anything illegal like that, but alcoholic lemonade. I hesitated. I thought he’d smuggled It in. Alcoholic pop? Alcopop. Oh, you can buy it here? Wow.


‘You’ll never pull a girl at Rock City,’ Danny told me as we sipped from cans of Red Stripe. We were chatting, enjoying the music, watching people dance, and building up the courage to join them.

Some girls had the Mod look, others modelled themselves on Louise Wener from Sleeper. Some had an androgyny similar to Justine Frischmann, the lead singer of Elastica. They mostly wore tees, jeans and trainers. No-one was bothering them which was great to see. I never saw any trouble. ‘Safe space’ wasn’t a thing in the 1990s, but if it was, Rock City was for us all.

Danny wasn’t being mean. It was just his experience. This wasn’t the main reason for going, and it wasn’t like he or the others had much luck anywhere else. I was, however, desperate to meet girls, like those on the dancefloor – girls who didn’t know me. Who didn’t know my character or the reputation I had. Nice, funny, smart, but just a friend… I could start afresh. It never felt like I could be with any girl in my sixth form. Many of them were already in relationships, but also, why would I? I couldn’t think of anything more awkward. The biggest reason of all, perhaps, was that none of them appeared to be into what I liked, and that mattered.

At Rock City, I felt I could be myself. I felt safe. I felt I was among people who cared about what I loved. Feeling that I wouldn’t be mocked for wanting to dance like a twat to Blur’s Sunday Sunday, or Black Grape’s In the Name of the Father, was liberating.


The knock-on effect of feeling free and having fun, was that it was actually quite attractive. I suddenly found I was getting attention and despite what Danny said, it turned out you could pull a girl at Rock City. In my case, every week (until I got a girlfriend). Maybe they pulled me. This sounds like a massive brag. Hear me out. When you’re in a safe environment, when you love the place, when you feel free to dance, sing and twat about, with a big smile on your face… Well, funnily enough you’re much more fanciable than if you’re standing at the side looking like the world is on your shoulders and wondering why no-one wants to snog you (I refer you to the bit about The Byron).

I recall catching the eye of a pretty redhead, as we sang along to Pulp on the dancefloor. We met at the bar and I bought her a JD and coke. We sat down. We talked. We kissed. She finished her drink, said thanks and walked off. I’d been used, but hey ho. I chuckled to myself.

The Thursday night Rock City routine, along with the gigs I went to, continued until I went to university in summer 1997. I didn’t visit again until the following year, and sadly, it had all changed. I went during Freshers week before I was due to return to my uni. It was all wrong. There was an Ali G impersonator on stage. I was never a big fan of the character, but an impersonator? Nah. The DJ played hits by the boy band Five and Robbie Williams. It was crushing. I left early.

I’m a late GenXer, born in 1978, so perhaps this new crowd were the first Millennials to experience Rock City. A fresh crowd, new tastes, music and fashion. It had changed in a short space of time. I felt sad, but nothing lasts forever. Who’s to say what I experienced in those two years wasn’t to the expectations of others previous to me?

I have plenty of contentment in my middle age, but whenever I go back to Rock City I feel homesick for those times in my teens – a version of myself that’s long gone. Gleeful, carefree and happy.

Thanks for the invite, Danny. Wherever you are.

Someone you really love…

‘Alexa, play Parklife,’ says my young nephew, quite a lot.
‘Alexa, don’t you fucking dare,’ I would love to say, but don’t.

Overplayed. Overhyped. Boring. I’m not sure I ever liked it. And it was bloody everywhere. Still is. It doesn’t evoke anything in me because I’ve heard it too much.

The only good thing about it is for a punchline. You know when people go on a breathless social media rant, forgetting to use any clauses in a 50-word sentence, and then suddenly stop… and someone replies – ‘Parklife!’

It’s a shame as it’s the worst track on an otherwise decent album. The first I ever bought.

Blur came into my orbit after my sister gave me a copy of Select magazine. They were on the cover in black and white, with Damon Albarn, annoyingly good looking, at the front. I thought they were another boy band. 

At 16, I wasn’t great at music. I didn’t know what I liked in a contemporary sense. I bought albums by Chaka Demus and Pliers, and the dance group The Grid. I know. I needed help.

I bought Parklife on cassette tape from the Virgin Megastore in Nottingham. I remember sitting and waiting for the 141 at the old Victoria Bus Station, and taking it out of the bag, chewing at the cellophane, before slipping the tape into my Walkman. 

Girls and Boys took me away from the slabs and concrete, the fluorescent lighting, the smell of diesel and fags, the leering weirdos, the claustrophobia of the station, to somewhere sunny and full of young people… and young people… well, doing it.

Streets like a jungle…

The song made me want to go on an 18-30s holiday. I wanted some of that. I was 16 at the time. There was time to plan. I announced my attention to my dad. 

‘All that happens is,’ he said, speaking from experience. 

‘You’ll get off the plane, on to the coach, and you’ll realise it’s full of pissed blokes.

‘The only woman is the poor rep who, before she even says a word, gets told to get her tits out.’

My interest waned after that. 

Call the police…

The closest I ever got to an 18-30s holiday was Maguluf, in 1995… but with my grandma and sister. I was now 17. One evening I remember sitting in a downstairs British bar run by a Scot named Jimmy. He ran games of bingo, which in the UK is obviously perfectly normal. An acceptable, sedate, pastime. 

In Spain, hosting rounds of bingo was like running a crack den with an adjoining brothel. I was astonished that the game of my mothers, the purple rinsed masses, can cost someone their livelihood and even prison in Spain. Jimmy didn’t have a licence for gambling. He was risking it all for two fat ladies and legs eleven. 

It was stiflingly hot down there, there was no air conditioning and the pensioners wafted themselves pathetically with paper fans with badly drawn flamenco dancers. They’d do anything for bingo. Like crack addicts they’ll suffer for the hit. Jimmy was the dealer and they found him as soon as they landed.

Jimmy had a young lad on the door who would call down if he spotted a cop. If Jimmy got the signal, he’d bark at the bingo players, they’d down tools (dobbers and daubers) and groan…

‘Bloody hell. I only needed one for a line… typical…’

Shushed by Jimmy they’d change the subject, hurriedly conversing.

‘Ooh, hasn’t it been hot… I’ve burnt me sen.’ 

‘It’s too hot for me.’

‘Have you tried that paella?’

‘Seafood gives me diarrhea. I’ve been eating fish and chips all week…’

The officer walked slowly down the stairs, his baton slapping against his thigh, ready to brain an over-60 if he got a whiff of felt tip pen. Rod Stewart sang Maggie Mae quietly through the speakers. A tartan-clad, redheaded mascot held its awkward stare from its position on the bar. Jimmy started nervously buffing pint glasses like he was in a saloon in the wild west. 

The mustached cop continued his patrol passing each table menacingly. He ignored all the underaged drinkers, including me and my 15-year-old sister. 

Someone farted and he swung round. Sorry, she mouthed. Another woman, beads of sweat forming across her brow, pushed her bingo card further under a Tenants beer mat. Just in time. Phew. 

He knew he was too late. There’s nothing to see here.

Despite the drama, I was bored. My grandma tried to take a picture of me with my sister. I wouldn’t look at the camera. I looked depressed. I didn’t come here for bingo. Where were all the young people? To her credit she let me explore the town with a friend I’d made. We headed to where all the music was coming from. 

Looking for…

We’d walk into places and walk out again. We even stopped to watch an episode of Only and Fools and Horses. Del boy and Rodney were on every screen outside every bar…  Eventually we found a place with decent music and a nice outside area with lit up trees and plants. I don’t remember how, but I started talking to a woman who was on holiday with her friend. She was 29 and from Wolverhampton. We ended up kissing. Her breath tasted like cigarettes, but it didn’t bother me too much. I liked her, our conversation was easy. She told me about her abusive ex who was paranoid that other men were looking at her. ‘Well, they will look won’t they!’ She’d told him.

She told me it gave her a boost snogging a 17-year-old. How did I feel? Older women equalled ‘experience’ and that meant being ‘shown the way’. We agreed to meet the next evening.

(Now, if I shared this story with my son, he’d say this was all a ‘bit noncey’, and I think he may have a point. I was 17, but only just. Can you imagine if it was the other way round?)

The same night, I discovered my grandma and sister had moved from Jimmy’s and were now in a rowdy packed bar. The music was too loud and there was barely any space to move. There was lager and glass all over the dance floor. My grandma was sitting by the side having the time of her life. She was clapping along to ‘Alice, Alice (Who the Fuck Is Alice?) by Chubby Brown. 

Love in the nineties…

Shit. Shit. Shit. This woman, a year off 30, will be expecting me to, well… get it on, wasn’t she? This was it. Oh Jesus. 

I bought some condoms from a machine and locked myself in the apartment bathroom. While my grandma and sister napped in the afternoon I studied what to do. What else did I know? I’d watched Margie Clark’s Good Sex Guide – the closest thing I’d seen to soft porn, dressed up as advice – so I had a bit of an idea. Sort of. But where would it happen? Her apartment, the beach, behind a bar? 

This was stressful. And…

My generation remembers where they were when the AIDS advert dropped, even as small children. It started a fear that never left and while it may have saved lives, it made you, well, suspicious.  

It’s paranoid... 

Previous generations only had to worry about pregnancy and treatable STIs. But for mine, the GenXers, we grew up knowing a shag could mean death. Not the sexiest feeling going into a potential sexy situation.

I dropped a few hints… but nothing happened. We kissed, we talked. We later exchanged home addresses (this was the 90s, no email and no mobile phones. Plus, I don’t think this was my idea and I was reluctant). Did I want a relationship with someone 12 years older? Did I want to go to Wolverhampton? Not really. We arranged to meet the next day at the beach. She didn’t show up. I shrugged and left after an hour of waiting. That night there was karaoke in the hotel bar. I tried to get off with someone my age without any success.

A few weeks after returning home I got a pink letter in the post. In bubble handwriting, that busily filled the lines of the page, she explained why she hadn’t met me. She’d overslept and wasn’t feeling well, or something like that. She went on to say she’d had a good time meeting me… But explained why it wouldn’t work (the age gap) and sorry to break my heart. She hadn’t. I think I was both a bit disappointed and relieved. I wouldn’t have to go to Wolverhampton. To her credit she didn’t allow anything to happen in Maguluf. I’m not sure how I would feel now if it had. A bit grubby, I think. Regretful, definitely. There’s no bones about it, you’re still very much a child at 17. And being the father of a 17-year-old, I’d be furious at the possibility of him being groomed by someone who should know better. 

She did the right thing and did me a favour too. I expect she saved herself a lot of guilt and anguish for years to come.

Always should be someone you really love.

Punk Nan

I’m Madeline and this story is about my two nans.

Normal Nan is always busy and together we like to bake,

In the afternoons she’ll attack the garden with her metal rake.

Normal Nan likes to share some stories, she has plenty in her locker,

But my other nan is different… She’s a punk rocker!

Punk Nan has a pink mohawk and wears an old leather jacket,

She said it’s pointless buying new clothes, the ones that cost a packet.

Punk Nan love animals and has two cats and a doggy called Iggy, 

They say he’s dangerous, but really, he’s just a greedy little piggy.

Punk Nan likes holding hands with her girlfriend Barbara and people tend to snigger,

‘They can laugh all they like,’ said Punk Nan, ‘because being in love makes me feel bigger!’

They both like punk music and listen to bands like Buzzcocks and The Clash,

And when we all feel like rocking out Barbara lets me give her drums a bash.

Kids at school call Punk Nan names and say she smells of wee,

But she wears fruity perfume and only drinks mint tea.

One day it all got too much and I ran away from school,

I was found by Punk Nan near the town’s swimming pool.

‘Why can’t you be like Normal Nan?’ I told her and began to cry.

She told me not to worry and that one day I’d understand why,

‘It’s ok to be different and be who you want to be.

‘Because being honest and true is what’s key,

‘Punk is about standing up for yourself and sticking it to the man,

‘I’m happy being who I am and I’m proud to be your nan.

‘You know, Normal Nan isn’t as ordinary as you think,’

She said, grinning, while giving me a wink,

‘I know she likes baking cakes and is a fan of Mary Berry,

‘But back in the seventies she had blue hair and a boyfriend named Terry!’

‘It’s true!’ said Normal Nan, grinning from ear to ear,

‘I remember those days so fondly they make me shed a tear.

‘I left it all behind because I thought it was all a bit silly,

‘Then I became pregnant with your mum after meeting Grandad Billy.’

I gave her a hug and told her maybe those days don’t belong in the past,

And why didn’t she come and see Punk Nan, we’d all have such a blast!

Kids still call us names and this can be a test,

But now I have two Punk Nans and life is simply the best!

Neil Heath (c) 2025

Sorry Jarvis…

There’s a line in Spike Island, Pulp’s new song – ‘The universe shrugged, shrugged then moved on.’ It’s been taken as a comment on Jarvis Cocker’s and Pulp’s own popularity – after reaching the very top in 1995 / 96, they were swiftly heading back down without anyone really noticing. I can’t help feeling I let Jarvis down, ditching him for the ‘cool’ kids.

Pulp was the first band I ever related to. The songs were about the stuff I knew, I saw, I lived. A working class life. Jarvis would have loved the gossip in Hair by Melanie, my mum’s little corner shop hairdressers. She never knew I was listening, but I banked all the stories I shouldn’t have heard. Sex on pool tables after last orders, 30-year-old virgins being ‘shown the way’, customers discussing illicit affairs and inappropriate crushes. 

When I first heard Babies, I thought, yep, I would have definitely hid inside that wardrobe. Talking of which, this reminds me in a roundabout way of being invited into a friend’s bedroom while she and two other girls got changed for a night out. They didn’t see me like the other lads. I was like some benign asexual being deemed to have no interest in tits whatsoever. Well, I did, and I was so shocked at seeing the much discussed breasts of Emily Craven (not real name) reflected in the wardrobe mirror, that I didn’t even tell any of my mates. I kept it to myself. Maybe it didn’t really happen. 

Disco 2000. Fully experienced that. Watching the girls I had fallen for, the ones I had entertained, made laugh, supported and listened to, go off with someone with one brain cell and the personality of a sea slug. But he looks like Ryan Giggs, while I looked like Jonny Briggs, so, you know… can’t compete there. 

I always felt like an outsider. I was in the Misshapes gang, for sure. I remember reading the manifesto on the insert inside the CD single and thinking, ‘I’m on your side Jarvis’ and I couldn’t be prouder. I certainly got picked on at school and outside. I wasn’t afraid to tell people that I loved art, comics and a bit of Beethoven. The only reason I probably didn’t get beaten up was because I played football. Not that I was particularly good at it. Being a nerd and into football don’t usually go together. I stopped short of ever feeling the need to properly stand out. When my dad’s Colombian girlfriend bought me a knitted rucksack, with Aztec patterns, I politely declined the gift and gave it to my sister. ‘But all the boys in Paris have them.’ Can you imagine turning up for school, in Hucknall, with that on my back? During my university years, I once went back into Hucknall wearing a long Matrix-style leather jacket. I thought I looked magnificent and fucking cool. As soon as I stepped off the bus I got called ‘gay’.

Sorted for Es and Whizz. I never had the guts to do drugs. The Leah Betts story absolutely killed that for me. (Clearly all the stories about the alcohol related deaths did not). Despite the tabloid froth it was never a celebration about drugs, hence the last line of the song. I never had any desire to go to a rave either. Being given a map and location of the said rave would only lead to me being kidnapped and my kidneys cut out and sold. I’ve never wanted to be lost. A healthy mindset, perhaps. During an overnight outdoors ‘fun’ exercise for youth groups, I, the map reader, managed to get our team lost in the dark of Sherwood Forest. We arrived at a road, no sign of the hundreds of people taking part, and I remember thinking, ‘we’re dead, we’re absolutely fucked.’ So, a rave. No thanks. What the song does remind me of is the feeling that it wasn’t long before I could escape, before life would happen for me. Listening to Sorted in the car with a mate, dark fields around us, post-industrial, post-mining, post-anything Hucknall in the distance. It would soon all be left behind for a new life.

So much has been written about Common People, rightly so. I recognised a lot in the song, but it wasn’t as poignant as when I started university. Suddenly there were proper middle-class kids who had their own cars, paid-for gym memberships, not having to work because Daddy paid for it all. No full student grant? No bother. Why do Safeway when you can go to Waitrose? I remember having to put my mum’s income into my grant forms and feeling embarrassed for her.

I wanted to be Jarvis. At Rock City’s student nights I would pretend to be him and I didn’t care what anyone thought. I saw him and Pulp at the same venue and it still remains one of my favourite gigs, just because it was him and them. It should have carried on like that, but ahem, something changed (sorry). Regrettably I fell in with the group who, at school, would have shot darts at me from the back of the class. The sort who kicks your ball over the fence. ‘Fetch that y’ twat’. We’re talking Oasis here, of course. I fell for the lure of the troublemakers. I didn’t want to miss out. It felt like the cool kids had welcomed you in. A bit like when I was invited to red base, at school, during a wet break. But like red base you never really felt like you belonged. Knebworth was a fantastic experience, but largely for reasons that weren’t Oasis. I was with my best mate John for a start, the last time we spent time together before he went to university. The last adventure. I assumed this was it for us (We’re still mates 30 years on). I also saw for the first time, the Manics and The Charlatans, two bands who still mean so much more to me than Oasis ever did. 

That evening, I remember looking around as the front pen got more crowded and seeing Dennis Wise. Proof if ever than I didn’t belong with this lot.  It should have finished there really. After that day. But they limped on and on. And yes, I bought Be Here Now. 

Pulp released This is Hardcore during my first year at uni. I had a poster of Different Class Jarvis flicking the Vs on my wall. I bought the album as soon as it was released. It wasn’t His ‘n’ Hers or Different Class. Much darker. It reflected my mood at the time. Sad, lonely, pretty miserable. I liked it, but it wasn’t the same. I still have trouble getting through it. My interest dwindled. I didn’t bother with We Love Life. I only bought the Greatest Hits when it was on offer at HMV for a fiver. I didn’t go to the Sherwood Pines gig which looking back would have been amazing. The solo albums were ok. I loved Jarvis’ shows on Six Music or any interview he does. I even named my dog after him. His book Good Pop, Bad Pop is brilliant. An ingenious way of telling his life story through objects he’s taken from house to house in plastic bags, stored away in the attic. I’ll have to do my own version. Why I’ve kept the A-Team sticker album is a mystery.

In one of the many recent articles about Pulp’s new album (which is superb by the way) it said history has been kind to them. I think that’s true. They’re the only ones who have survived ‘Britpop’ with any real credibility. 

I never thought I’d get the chance to see Jarvis and Pulp perform again. You know when you get a sweat-on trying to purchase tickets, the fear that it’s all going to crash before you hit pay? That. Take my money. I’ll look at the price later. 

So swivel.