The Thrill of it All

After months of rehearsals, the curtain finally came up on the opening night of Franky Panky. And what a night it was. Fears of slow ticket sales proved unfounded and it was a near full Horfield Parish Hall that greeted the first note of Topsy Turvy. And what a bum note it was! We couldn't have made a worse start! But after that it all went really well. We belted out the songs with real passion and no small amount of talent - lyrics remembered, harmonies correctly executed - we performed the dance moves better than we ever have in rehearsals, and mostly we got our words right, more often than not in the right order and at the right time. Even the corniest gags, which came "thick and thin" as it says in the script, were lapped up by a hugely appreciative audience.

What a difference a few weeks makes. I have to admit there have been times in the last three months when I was ready to quit and thought the whole cast should pack up and go home. But, through a combination of hard work, dedication and sheer bloody-mindedness, it has all come together. I can only reiterate what I said in my previous post, that it's only been possible because we've all
worked together as a team: directors, cast, crew, tech team, musicians, partners, family and friends have all pulled together and supported each other. Certainly the more experienced actors that I share scenes with (and let's face it, nobody could be less experienced than me) have really helped me get through those scenes and, in a matter of weeks, turn it round from stuttering through with half remembered lines, to confidently projecting those lines, using the whole stage, getting the timing right and, yes, getting real belly laughs from the crowd. But it's also the little things. Geeing each other up backstage, helping out with the costume changes, keeping the morale ticking over, swapping little tips and sharing experiences, knowing when to offer help and when to leave people a bit of space. At the risk of sounding gushy, it's been a truly humbling experience to work with such a wonderful group of people.

 

And what has it all been for? The absolute buzz of getting up on stage last night and doing what we've all been working towards over the past three months, in front of an appreciative and responsive audience of family, friends and complete strangers. The thrill of getting laughs from the crowd (OK, maybe it was the purple velvet flares, rather than any actual talent), seeing them dancing in the aisles to Time Warp and hearing the applause during the final bows. And most of all the sense of what we, as a group, have achieved.

Let's hope there isn't a sense of anti-climax around the second show tonight and that the rest of the week is just as rewarding. I'm definitely looking forward to the end of run party on Saturday night!

 

 

Horfield Theatre Company presents Franky Panky, a pantomime by Graham Barraclough
Horfield Parish Hall, Wellington Hill, Bristol BS7 8ST
Weds 26th to Sat 29th Oct. 7.30 each night and 2.30 Sat matinee
£8 adults/£6.50 conc/£25 family (2+2)

Tickets from www.horfieldtheatre.co.uk/tickets.htm or 07597 085934

We're All in This Together

Back in July I did something totally out of character. I went for an audition for a part in a pantomime. Quite ironic really, since one of the things to come out of my counselling sessions is that I have spent my whole life playing various characters and never being myself. However, because it's in the context of a panto, it's deemed to be "a good thing".

I didn't get either of the parts I auditioned for. But I did get a speaking part in addition to dancing and being in the chorus. And so now, some three months later, I sit here on the eve of Franky Panky opening, wondering what the hell I've let myself in for!

It's been hard work. We've been rehearsing twice a week for three months and on top of that we've all spent time at home, at the office, learning lines and songs, watching You Tube videos of dance routines and putting together costumes. I find it not only physically demanding, but mentally it's been such hard work too. At least two rehearsals have triggered bouts of depression where I've beaten myself up for not being able to do the dances and songs, and there have been a number of other diva hissy fits along the way.

But it's been fun. There hasn't been a single rehearsal where we haven't all fallen about laughing at the dame's latest bit of improvisation or the evil baron stumbling over his words. Sometimes we've even laughed at the script. We've really bonded as a company, we've worked together and played together and we've all helped each other get through the tough weeks.

And it's been rewarding. It's such a buzz when you actually manage to get a scene right or get to the end of a dance routine wihout falling over, and makes all the hard work worthwhile. From a personal point of view, it's been great working with my young son, who actually got me into all this in the first place and has a part in the panto. He probably knows his lines and dances better than anyone - his young brain is still unaffected by the ravages of time - and has been a real star helping me with my lines.

So, one last push over the next couple of days before the curtain comes up. Whatever happens when I'm on that stage, under the glare of the lights, I will look back on the last couple of months with pleasure and pride.

And I will be thankful that I won't ever have to listen to this again!

Horfield Theatre Company presents Franky Panky, a pantomime by Graham Barraclough
Horfield Parish Hall, Wellington Hill, Bristol BS7 8ST
Weds 26th to Sat 29th Oct. 7.30 each night and 2.30 Sat matinee
£8 adults/£6.50 conc/£25 family (2+2)

Tickets from www.horfieldtheatre.co.uk/tickets.htm or 07597 085934

The Sun - Sickening Since 1982

Don't buy it

Law and Disorder

I’ve just read with dismay an article concerning the policing arrangements for a forthcoming football match between local rivals Portsmouth and Southampton. Just read that again. It’s a football match. Nothing more significant than that. Yet you would think the police were planning a peace keeping mission in downtown Tripoli.

Obviously it is a bit more significant than just a football match, especially to the supporters of both teams. Apart from south coast bragging rights being at stake, there is a long and, at times, unsavoury history between followers of the two clubs separated by 20 miles of the M27.

The last time the two teams met in Portsmouth in 2005, there was violent disorder and five, yes FIVE, people were arrested. Five out of 20,210 at the match. That’s 0.02% of the attendance.

This, it seems, is justification for the Hampshire Constabulary to designate December’s encounter a so-called “bubble match”. This means if you are unfortunate enough to follow the red and white striped lot, you will only be able to attend the match if you board a coach at one of three designated stops in the wrong half of Hampshire and travel to Fratton Park in convoy, under police escort, being allowed off the coach only to go straight into the stadium. You will not be at liberty to visit any of the local hostelries or food outlets, or indeed do anything other than watch the match. If you don’t live in Southampton, you’ll still have to go there first to catch the coach. So, for example, if you live east of Portsmouth, you’d have to travel 20 miles past the ground and then come back again. And if this restriction of your civil liberties isn’t bad enough, the traffic conditions in and around Portsmouth will ensure that the convoy of coaches become sitting ducks for the unsavoury elements which unfortunately do exist in our island paradise.

Road closures and restrictions on pub opening will also impact the home fans. And don’t forget the inconvenience already imposed by moving the game to 1pm on a Sunday.

And all this to prevent the possibility of a repeat of the violence that led to FIVE arrests last time out.

"Superintendent Rick Burrows is leading the planning for the policing operation on December 18. He said: ‘The most important objective of the day is to ensure that it is a safe environment for everybody coming to the football.’"

Surely the most important objective of the day is to provide an appropriate response to the level of threat perceived to be presented by a small minority, whilst preserving the basic human rights of the vast majority of law abiding citizens planning to attend the match?

Still, football fans are an easy target. We always have been. That is why, for as long as I can remember, we have been assumed to be guilty until proven innocent. Treated like cattle. Treated as a mob, so that the police can assume all of us are guilty and just arrest the nearest person in any disorder, even if they’re an innocent bystander, because it’s easier.  In the week the release of papers relating to the Hillsborough disaster was debated in parliament, it would be nice to think that police (and society’s) attitudes had altered in the last 22 years.  The police’s contempt for the Liverpool supporters on that fateful day in April 1989 contributed significantly to the deaths of 96 of them.

Sadly, in 2011, nothing much seems to have changed.

Just Saying

Today I've heard a lot of people who drive cars bleating about congestion. What causes congestion? People who drive cars. Just saying.

The Generation Game

I took my son to Fratton Park on Saturday as a treat for his tenth birthday. Now many would say that Barnsley at home on a chilly October evening is less a treat than a mandate to call Childline. But there are many reasons why I'm proud that he chose a trip to the south coast and donned the famous blue and white on Saturday.

My family tree has roots in Portsmouth (that I know of) dating back to the birth of my great-grandfather Henry Joseph Duke in Rudmore in 1867. They almost certainly go back further. My grandfather was at Wembley when Pompey beat Wolves 4-1 in the last Cup Final before the outbreak of World War Two. My mother was a Fratton regular during the post war years when they were back-to-back champions of England. My father used to take me to matches in the eary 70s, before hooliganism drove him away, and I still have happy memories of rattles and rosettes, the waft of Bovril and trying to match the scores to the alphabetical placeholders on the half-time scoreboard.

Nowadays, when football is all about Sky TV money, overpaid international superstars and ubiquitous merchandising, it's really important that football stays in touch with its roots.

Football gives a town or city its identity. No disrespect to the burghers of the Metropolitan Borough of Walsall, but who outside the West Midlands would even know where Walsall was were it not for the appearance of the team from the Bescott Stadium on the Pools coupon? For a city of 200,000 inhabitants (smaller, in fact than Walsall) Portsmouth is disproportionately well known around the world. The football club - and its association with being the Navy's team - has to take some credit for
this.

But so what? Is civic pride important? Yes and no. One the one hand, it certainly contributed to the tribalism that was at the root of the worst of the "football" violence of the 70s and 80s. And extreme or inappropriate civic pride leads at worst to jingoism, nationalism and xenophobia. But on the other hand civic pride, often manifested as pride in a local football team, can give citizens a reason for getting out of bed in the morning and getting them through the day in a gloomy climate of economic downturn, social inequality and political corruption.

It's important, to me at least, that we resist the marketeers' globalisation and commercialisation of football. Not just from the point of view of it being generally a good idea to resist big business, but it's also important in football that we retain the diversity that is still on offer, from Manchester United right down the pyramid to Mangotsfield United. It's at the grass roots clubs that kids still have a realistic chance of becoming involved in the game, not only on the playing side but also on the supporting and social side. My son lives in a small village some 75 miles from his nearest Premiership team, and even that's only Swansea, but the Man Utd and Chelsea (and, even worse, Barcelona) shirts are everywhere. I'm so proud when he trots out onto the village pitch in his Pompey shirt. But why are there no Hereford or Bristol City/Rovers shirts on display?

Hello, Childline?

On a personal level, it's important to me that he supports Pompey. He was born in Bristol. He has never been forced to support Pompey. OK, apart from being enrolled as a Junior Blue at birth and being dragged along to matches in a papoose. But since he has been old enough to make the choice, it's been his own decision to be a Pompey fan. It gives us something to bond over. Every time I see him now, he asks me for the latest news, almost before he asks me how I am. It keeps a family tradition alive. It gives him something in common with generations of Hardys before him, none of whom he ever met, but whom he may one day decide to take an interest in. And it marks him as an individual, refusing to follow the Premiership sheep in the playground. He'll get stick for it from his mates, of course, but if he stands up to them over this issue, it will hold him in good stead when the playground bullies inevitably come calling over more serious matters.

The only downside is that, until he gets a bit older at least, I too will have to spend chilly October evenings watching Pompey take on the likes of Barnsley.

Blogging as Therapy

I'm a 48 year old male, so it might surprise people that I am a Netmum. But Netmum I am, and I have always found their website invaluable for finding days out, places to go, child-friendly pubs, etc. But I didn't realise until the other day that there was a Netmums Blog. I've been particularly inspired this week by the Blogging as Therapy series they are currently running, which features some great bloggers writing about their ordeals with conditions such as post-natal depression, OCD and infertility.

Readers of my blog will know that I've been using it, amongst other things, to write about my depression. I find it's a great way of unburdening. I can put my thoughts "out there" and they are then parked for anyone to come along and read them, and interact with them if they wish. Sometimes that's a lot easier for the sufferer than to try and engage in conversation with real people.

The very process of ordering my random and chaotic thoughts in a (hopefully) coherent manner brings a degree of clarity and understanding to them. In my professional life, in systems engineering and systems thinking, we call this "action research" (e.g., Checkland and Scholes, "Soft Systems Methodology in Action", Wiley 1990), where the point of analysing a problem situation is not necessarily to find a solution, but to better understand the problem, and that understanding is gained from the journey we undertake in doing the analysis.

Outside work, I belong to two creative writing groups. I sometimes struggle to find inspiration for material to contribute to the groups. My counsellor is encouraging me to write. She understands how therapuetic it can be for me. I'm hoping I can combine the two and write about my depression in a more creative rather than factual way. Hopefully that will help me unlock some of the reasons why I am the way I am. With luck I can make it entertaining rather than self-indulgent. And if people can relate to it and it helps them and their loved ones, in some small way, to understand their suffering, then that will be a bonus.

Watch this space then, but in the meantime, here's a short story I wrote back in January 2011. It's fiction, but of course there's a slice of autobiography in there. OK it's most of the cake rather than just a slice! The photos are from my own childhood and provided the inspiration for the story.

THE MONOCHROME BOY 

“Right. Who wants an ice cream?”
 

“Me! Me!”, came the reply from the back of the Corsa in ear piercing stereo.

It was a warm, late summer’s day and Peter and the boys had parked up on the sea front, with the Common behind them. He could just make out the War Memorial in his rear view mirror and beyond that the faded splendour of the Queens Hotel. He hadn’t been here for years, but the previous night’s school reunion had made him nostalgic for the smell of fish and chips carried on the tangy sea air; for the sound of waves crashing on the stony beach then fizzing their way back down the steep shingle bank. He wanted to hear the ships’ horns sound as they passed through the narrow harbour mouth, the jangling and clanging of the penny arcades and the laughing sailor, which had scared the living daylights out of him as a boy, cackling at the entrance to Clarence Pier. He wanted candy floss. No, he wanted ice cream and he wanted Verrecchia’s ice cream.

Peter turned round to hand a fiver to his eldest son and dispatch him for the ice creams. He prided himself on having raised two children who were so vibrant and alive. They were brimming with that kind of unbounded excitement that boys their age have. The excitement that comes from every hour of every day being something new, an adventure, an undiscovered world that demands exploration. They had the confidence that being loved and being the centre of attention gives you. They enjoyed life, in exactly the naïve, innocent, trusting way that children should.

And they were close as a family, despite the obvious absence of a mother. They did father and son things together. The boys told him everything, delighted in sharing their excitement with him. He, in turn, treated them as his mates; more like little adults than children. He couldn’t have conceived of not taking them with him to the reunion the night before. That would have been as unnatural as not playing football with them, or not flying their kites on the common earlier. Peter’s old school friends had remarked on what a good job he’d done bringing them up, even if many of them had expressed themselves in rather surprised tones.

Just as Peter turned round, he was shocked to catch a glimpse of a third child in the back of the vehicle. This child couldn’t have been more different to his own two sons. This third boy was pudgy and languid, and staring forlornly into space. He wasn’t in a warm and sunny September day. He was peering, mole-like, to make out the Isle of Wight coastline throughthe steamed up windows and the clumps of chill February mist rolling in off the Solent. This child wasn’t off on an adventure to the magical kingdom of Verrecchia’s Ice Cream Parlour. Instead this child clutched a bottle of flat Coke, listlessly sucking the end of the straw into a soggy nub, disdainfully ignoring the unwanted bag of cheese and onion in his other hand. The third child didn’t have the latest Batman or Super Mario Bros cartoon exploding colourfully out of his T-shirt. He sat imprisoned and impoverished by the thin polyester shirt and a hand knitted tank top that had been such a boon for his classroom tormentors; bullies who had shaped, if not created, this solitary, withdrawn boy. He sported the ubiquitous cold sore – why did he always have a bloody cold sore? – that was so often mistaken for a glob of unwiped chocolate on his lip and which ruined many a school photo. This child was devoid of self-belief and vitality. He oozed sadness.

The third boy was in black and white, sitting in the back of a Ford Zephyr, only feet away from Peter, but trapped behind an impenetrable wall of deafening silence, separated by forty years of sorrow.
 

All he’d wanted to do was to get a bit closer to the hovercraft. He’d never even seen a hovercraft before, let alone been so close to one. All that separated him from this magnificent beached sea monster was a flimsy metal railing that surely could not contain the snorting beast. He screamed to his father to hold his hand and take him nearer, but he couldn’t be heard above the incredible roar of the engines, the air blasting sea water onto the coarse pebble beach and the cacophonous screeching of displaced seagulls. He wanted to get as close as he could; to feel the salty spray on his face, hear the pebbles ricochet off the barriers with the sound that the bullets made in the black and white westerns he watched on TV; to wave to the people trapped in the glass belly of this man made leviathan. But he wanted to do it with his hand clasped firmly in his father’s; to be able to hide in the folds of his father’s coat if the monster spat its lethal venom at him; to blanket himself in the security of his father, yet still experience the thrill of being so close up to danger.

How could his father have missed the point so badly when he’d shouted above the din: “Come on, let’s get you away from all this noise. The football results will be on the radio in a minute.” Why did his father not know what he wanted? Why did he always miss the point? Other kids’ dads got it. Why not his?

And to compound everything, his father bestowed on him the so-called treat that came the way of all seventies’ kids at the end of a family trip to the pub or the seaside: a bottle of Coke and a packet of crisps in the back of the car, to be enjoyed in silence, face trying desperately not to slump in disappointment.

Back in the warmth of the vehicle, away from the deadly pebbles and ferocious sea creatures, his mother’s ever present cigarette smoke billowed up a thick fog of fug between the boy and his parents. His mother and father, as was most often the case, sat in stony silence, with nothing to say to each other and no parental wisdom to impart to him. Just smoking and staring into space; a lifetime of smoking and staring.

The hovercraft’s noise had abated enough for the child to hear James Alexander Gordon intone, “Portsmouth one, Carlisle United” (and you could always tell from his inflexion that an away win was coming) “…four.”

“Bloody rubbish”, the boy’s father said for the umpteenth Saturday, and started the car. As the Zephyr jerked away, the Coke bottle banged sharply against the child’s front teeth, spilling the flat, brown liquid down his tank top, and another crushing childhood episode drew to a close.
 

Peter took the fiver back and opened his door. “Come on boys,” he said, “let’s do this together.”
 

As the three of them climbed out of the car and ran hungrily, hand in hand, towards the ice cream parlour, a modern, sleek looking hovercraft glided in near silence up the slipway, barely raising the noise level above that of the general promenade hubbub, almost hidden from sight by the recently installed safety screens.

At the same time, and yet forty years earlier, a monochrome boy in a black and white tank top looked out of a car window, cracked a cold sore smile in the knowledge that history wasn’t repeating itself, and split open a bag of crisps.

Not So Broken Britain

Mr Cameron has adopted the phrase "Broken Britain" (and it comes to something when the Prime Minister has to steal his soundbites from The Sun) presumably so that he can blame the previous government for breaking it and then take the credit when (if) he fixes it.

Engaged Cubs

On Saturday I was priveliged to take a Cub Pack to the excellent RAF museum at RAF Cosford. It was a day I approached with some trepidation, as the Pack has been a little boisterous for my delicate constitution lately, but they were as good as gold on the day. The boys were enthusiastic, yes. Energetic, most definitely. But they were also keen, interested, engaged, polite and respectful. They made the day easy for their two leaders, both of whom are fairly new to the job, and you can't ask for more than that really.

I didn't see a lot "broken" on Saturday and it occurred to me that organisations like the Cubs and Scouts have a major role to play in shaping the future of British society and saving it from the apocalyptic meltdown that the media tells us is just around the corner. I was a Cub and a Scout myself, many moons ago. The organisation taught me many valuable life skills and I've taken a lot of its values and principals into my adult life. It's a shame that it's only recently I've decided to give something back and become a Leader.

Yes, society is very different today to how it was 30-40 years ago, children have different needs and are subject to greater pressures. Scouting faces stiffer competition from TV, DVD, video games and the internet, as well as the vast array of activities that schools and clubs now offer. But surely the fundamental principals that Scouting encourages are just as valid today as they were then, probably even more so. Cubs, and especially Scouts, are prime recruiting material for the gangs that are supposedly bringing our society to its knees.

And yet, all Scout units are set up as charities and rely on donations, subscriptions and hours and hours of volunteers' efforts to keep going. A forward thinking government might just be smart enough to recognise the link between keeping kids occupied and interested in wholesome activities, and improved behaviour and values. It might be sufficiently wise to consider providing funding to these organisations, instead of forever cutting away at services provided to the young, the elderly and the disadvantaged. Just a thought.

The only downside of Saturday is that I now have to sew two newly earned Air Activities badges on to my sons' uniforms. A small price to pay.

The Voice of Reason

Great to see Billy Bragg on Question Time tonight.
He certainly showed up the odious Baroness Warsi and the legion of Little Englanders in the audience for what they are.
Nice one Bill.

In Memoriam

We’ve lost a few good men this week.

I’ll do Bert Jansch first. A great guitarist and a huge influence on bands as diverse as Led Zeppelin and the Smiths. Bert sadly passed away on Wednesday after a long illness, aged 67.

Then there was Graham Dilley who also died yesterday at the tragically young age of 52. No cricket fan of my generation will ever forget Headingley in the summer of 81 when Dilley and Botham flayed the Aussie attack to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat, or the sight of his shock of golden hair as he steamed in to the wicket to send down delivery after delivery. He will also always be fondly remembered for his part in Lillee c Willey b Dilley.

And finally, today, the world lost Steve Jobs. Now I don’t know an awful lot about him, but he is generally considered to have been one of the good guys. Pioneering personal computing, entertainment and communication devices that we now take for granted, he was also a visionary businessman.

Of course any death is a very sad event. But it’s the way celebrities are regarded in death and the way that obituary column inches are allocated that slightly irritates me.

Inevitably the word “legend” is bandied about following the death of any top sportsman. Dilley was a great cricketer – who could fail to enjoy an Ashes victory – but legend? Yes he gave pleasure to a lot of people, but ultimately it’s only sport. Wouldn’t it be better to remember him for the work he did coaching kids after his playing career was over?

The phrase I’ve heard the most about Steve Jobs today was that “he made a difference”. Don’t get me wrong, I love my iPod, but is the iPhone going to bring about world peace, is the iPad making a difference to the unemployed of Peckham or the starving of Africa? Lots of people make a difference every day. Let’s celebrate them too.

Consider the outpouring of grief when Amy Winehouse died recently. Yes, a tragic waste of a young life. But really worth the amount of newspaper real estate and radio airplay it was given? We’ll now always remember Amy for her battle against addiction, rather than her undeniable talent.  And don’t get me started on Princess Diana. Again, desperately sad that a young mother should have died in such a horrific way, but did that really justify the national and worldwide hysteria that followed? The virtual deification of Diana created a fairy tale persona, a victim of the establishment, trapped in a loveless marriage. The creation of the Diana legend obscured the charity work she did for sick children and landmine victims. It overlooked her role as a mother, a wife, a lover.

Yes let’s remember the dead. But let’s do it rationally and respectfully, with a sense of perspective. And let’s also celebrate the millions of people who are genuinely making a difference to those whose lives they improve on a daily basis.

Dumb and Dumber

They've been saying for a while that society is being dumbed down. It hasn't really affected me up until now. I don't really have a lot to do with modern society, if I can help it.

However, I went to the weekly pop quiz at the Prom last night. This quiz, quite rightly, has legendary status in Bristol. But I haven't been for a while and I got quite a shock last night. It's now billed as a "pop and showbiz" quiz and the room was full of "youngsters" instead of the usual clutch of middle aged men with bald patches, Mott the Hoople T-shirts and pints of real ale.

I'm now expected to know about JLS and their own brand of condoms, rather than Van Halen and their infamous brown M&Ms rider clause; about Pixie Lott not the Pixies; about X Factor instead of Generation X.

OK, maybe I should have known that the photo in the picture round was Paula Radcliffe, not Madonna! (But, to be fair, what's she got to do with showbiz?)

Separated at Birth?

Don't get me wrong, it's great to see the Prom busy on a Tuesday night and people out enjoying themselves instead of being sat in front of the TV. The Prom is a Gloucester Road institution and rightly so. It's just that part of me is sad to see the passing of one my life's last bastions of middle aged curmudgeonliness.

The Albanian Connection

I’m an avid follower of BBC4’s devilishly difficult quiz show, Only Connect. I even tried to get a team together for this series, but to no avail.

Colin tackles the Wall

Imagine my surprise then, when Victoria Coren was introducing the teams in this week’s show, to see my old mate Colin on the Trade Unionists team! 

Colin and myself in Permet, back left and centre

I met Colin on a trekking holiday in Albania in 1996. We shared a keen interest in football, beer and irritating our lovely tour guide Matilda with our annoying questions, which were mostly about left handedness, beards and homosexuality under Enver Hoxher. 

I didn’t share Colin’s love of Sherlock Holmes and therefore didn’t get quite as enthusiastic as he did when he found a copy of Arthur Conan Doyle’s finest works in Albanian. But then again he probably felt the same about the Michel Platini biography (in Albanian) that I discovered in Sarander market. Sadly, when Geocities shut down, my website detailing my year of round the world travels was lost, but I’ve managed to retrieve most of the Albania section, which can now be found here.

 

 I haven’t seen Colin for years, but, as a result of his TV appearance, I’ve now managed to track him down on email and, hopefully, we’ll keep in touch a bit better this time.

.

Hurrah for Victoria Coren.

Turning the Corner

In my previous blog I mentioned that I was undergoing counselling for endogenous depression. One of the main reasons for starting this blog was to give me an outlet for the way I feel as one of the many sufferers of this often debilitating condition. Hopefully it won’t be all doom and gloom, and I’m sure by doing so it will help me, and with any luck, help other sufferers too.

This is my third series of counselling sessions. The first was mainly me doing all the talking, with the counsellor mostly listening. It had the effect of getting a lot of issues out in the open. And, really helpfully, leaving them there like a festering wound until I got my next series of counselling some six months later.

The second batch of counselling sessions was more interactive. I still did most of the talking, but the counsellor did more steering, asked more questions. This time there were answers as well as issues, but the answers came from me, not from the counsellor. So now we were getting somewhere, even if we were only developing coping mechanisms for the symptoms of the depression and not resolving its underlying causes. And then that’s where we left it for another year. It was enough for a while, then the depression returned and something more was needed.

Now I’m doing psychodynamic therapy. I don’t pretend to understand the science behind it, but it seems to revolve around recalling incidents from the past, replaying them, talking about how I felt at the time and how I feel now and then relating them to problem situations that I face in my present-day life. And somehow the occasional “eureka” moment happens when I work out how I should deal with my current issues, based on an understanding of the underlying root cause rather than the sticking plaster approach I had before. 

It’s a very difficult but extremely rewarding process. There have been tears. It has actually triggered bouts of depression and made life awful for those around me during those times. But it’s also helped me hugely to begin to understand myself and how I relate to the people and situations in my life. And it’s only now that I’m beginning to realise the power of this technique and there are signs emerging that I’m starting to turn the corner.

My eating is back under control. I’ve been doing Slimming World all year, with a lot of success over the first six months. Then I lost my way for a while, losing weight some weeks more by luck than design, only to put it back on again the following week, never achieving consistent week on week losses. This week, for the first time in ages, I’ve been able to stick to the plan all week and have had a good, genuine weight loss as a result. There have been times this week when my natural instinct would have been to binge eat for comfort, but I’ve been in control enough this week to resist those destructive urges and keep on plan. I haven’t had a drink for over a week either. And, more importantly, I feel really good as a result, and really want to do it again this week.

I’m running again most days. Running, along with music, is really my thing for shaking off depression. It’s my time; just me, a pair of trainers and the open road. It’s my thinking time, when I can switch off the world and luxuriate in whatever thoughts come into my head. I haven’t run much lately, initially because of a genuine injury, but latterly because of my state of mind causing that injury to persist longer in my head than in my ankle. Now I’m running again, the sweat and endorphins are flowing and it feels good.

I’m also managing damage limitation a lot better. When I’m at my lowest, even the most stupid of incidents can set me back days. My fragile confidence can be shattered by the most trivial criticism, failure or frustration and the depression soon avalanches out of control. This week I’ve had a number of incidents that could potentially have snowballed. But I’ve found the strength somewhere within me to say “it’s only an argument with my son”, “it’s only a hall full of noisy Cubs not doing as they’re told”, or “it doesn’t matter if I can’t do that stupid dance for the panto!” Although, at the time, I’ve genuinely been deeply frustrated or upset by each incident, I’ve been able to limit the impact of each incident to that particular moment in time rather than let it spiral out of control and negatively influence my judgement of subsequent situations.

And although I can’t put my finger on exactly why, I think it’s down to the counselling and to the understanding I’ve gained of why I’m like I am. It’s not a tangible understanding that I could explain in words to anyone else, but it’s an understanding nonetheless and it’s really helping.

It’s a difficult and painful journey and of course I understand there will undoubtedly be further setbacks round the corner, but it’s just so good to feel like I’m making some progress at last.

And my advice to anyone out there reading this and thinking this all sounds a bit familiar? Bite the bullet. Get some help. It’s out there, but it won’t come to you. Don’t suffer in silence. Talk to someone - a friend, a colleague, your GP.  There’s no shame in it, it’s just an illness, no different to the flu or diarrhoea. I was amazed how many fellow sufferers I met just by talking to people. And then get some professional help. I was lucky enough to get referred by my GP onto a series of workshops run by the local Community Mental Health Team. The workshops covered depression, self-esteem, assertiveness and CBT and taught me some really good coping mechanisms to tide me over until I got into counselling. And I’m lucky enough to have an understanding employer, a very patient girlfriend and a great network of supportive friends – when I let them!

Next blog will be a much cheerier affair. Promise.

Like Father Like Son

They say we turn into our parents. As galling a thought as this might seem, it is probably true. Many a time recently I have found myself cringing with embarrassment after repeating to my boys one of my own parents’ admonishments, something I vowed I would never do. The embarrassment is even greater when I realise the things I’m telling them off for aren’t even important, or the advice I’m trying to convey is patently rubbish. Does it really matter if they get sandwich crumbs on the carpet? I have a vacuum cleaner. Does my air conditioning become that much less effective if they open the car windows? And so what if it does? Will all their teeth really fall out if they miss a brushing?

Some of you will know that I’m undergoing counselling for endogenous depression. It’s a battle I’ve been fighting for a long time. I have good days, I have bad days. When the bad days outweigh the good days either in number or intensity, I go for help. This time round I’m trying psychodynamic therapy. It digs deep into the past, uncovering things that have been buried in my subconscious for most of my life. And most of my issues can be traced back to childhood and, therefore, to my relationship with my parents.

My parents weren’t particularly horrible to me. They weren’t abusive. They didn’t deliberately go out of their way to make my life a misery. But it’s fair to say we didn’t have much of a relationship. My mum was, and still is, naturally quiet and retiring. My dad worked in the dockyard for 42 years. What did he have in common with the schoolboy swot who sat alone in the kitchen doing homework night after night before leaving home to explore the mysteries of theoretical physics? Perfectly natural that he should have a closer relationship with my mechanic brother.

Don’t get me wrong, we have a great relationship now, and I’m not blaming my parents in any way, shape or form, but that absence of a strong parental bond has clearly shaped my adult life, leaving me lacking in confidence, unable to form significant, lasting relationships, not having a framework or consistent set of rules in my life and ultimately leading to depression. 

Which is why I’m acutely aware when I repeat the phrases of my parents to my own children. On one level I can laugh them off with a “can’t believe I really just said that”. But on a deeper level I want to be a better parent to my boys.  As much as I love my parents, I don’t want to become them. I don’t want to make the mistakes, however innocently and inadvertently, they made with me. We only get one childhood and it completely colours our adult life. My boys deserve a better childhood and a fairer crack at the adulthood whip.

Looks like I’d better not give up the counselling just yet…