life

Not now, Gavin

INT. GP SURGERY – AFTERNOON

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 Withdrawn.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.

GAVIN

Noooooo!

The Reluctant Anchorman

Pictures by Chris ‘Sasha’ Devey

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.

Acting like a normal person

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.

Improv-ing My Life

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’.

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!

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.

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.