VERBATIM: The Fun of Making Theatre Seriously

Chapter 1: Expertise? Ha ha ha!

When I introduce myself to groups of young people I often say:

‘I am a playwright who has had some success but I am actually a failed rock star. I wanted to be Ziggy Stardust.’

I’ve realised in writing this book, it’s actually wider than that.

I’m a failed celebrity. An astronaut, a footballer and then a rock star. I failed but my determined quest to become successful inadvertently led me to become a playwright, despite having rarely seen any plays!

My creative and artistic background was in music.

Inspiration

I cite my main inspirations as my dad, David Bowie, Tony Key and Roy Nevitt. I imagine you may only know of one of them. Sorry to Brecht and all those others who probably should be a playwright’s influences (I only heard about them as I progressed through my career) though I know they would have been an influence on Roy.

My dad was a choirmaster, organist and music teacher. I was a choirboy (in his choir) and classical music was all around me as a child.

At the age of nine I was packed off to boarding school to become a chorister at Lincoln Cathedral (more on this later). We sang every day (and three times on a Sunday) in services and practiced every morning for an hour, apart from Wednesday.

Discipline

The discipline of being in a professional choir with responsibilities to produce quality every time we performed has left its mark (with a small m).

I have always been driven by passion. My passion at Lincoln was football.

I was good.

I thought I was the best!

I wanted Lincoln City to see me and thought, if they did, they would have no hesitation in signing me.

One day, we played a match in a school next to Sincil Bank (the Lincoln City Stadium). I was convinced there’d be a scout there. I was in goal. We lost 12-2. No one approached me at the end of the match but…

… I did get the man of the match award. Yes I’m serious, I was told, if it wasn’t for my goalkeeping skills we would have lost 24-2!

Me with my prized Footballer of the Year award from the Cathedral School 1971.

Motivating Passion

I lived for break times where I organised a termly league between two teams. It gave our break and lunch-time matches meaning. I always like to create a motivation… a reason for doing things better and with more enthusiasm.

Everyone shared my passion. My league mattered. The context I created made it matter to us… much more than the cathedral choir!

Entertaining Myself

As an only child at home in the school holidays, in a neighbourhood where, because I was at boarding school and my parents had moved, I knew no one. I remember conducting interviews with myself playing both interviewer and interviewee.

Initially, the 10-year-old interviewee me was in my back garden, pretending to be a (famous) footballer, proudly reviewing goals I’d scored in a grandiose FA Cup Final at Wembley. Ha ha, even I didn’t imagine myself as a World Cup Finalist!

I played Subbuteo football (google it if you’re not of a certain age) on my bedroom floor and created extensive leagues which I kept up to date religiously. I commentated on all my matches (with me being both teams) and recorded some on our reel-to-reel tape recorder.

As I approached my teens I started to two-time football and eventually embarked on a serious and lasting affair with pop music. Football was relegated.

When my parents bought a stereo radiogram cabinet for our front room they passed their smaller Dansette-style record player on to me.

Suddenly, I had independence in my music choices.

At first I played brightly coloured singles by Pinky and Perky but, these soon became black 45rpm singles with MUCH more interesting music such as Middle of the Road, Slade, Sweet, T Rex and then… David Bowie.

This new passion inspired me to write my own songs.

I had been having piano lessons and, although I hated any form of practice for my long-suffering teacher Mrs Heaney, the piano became my companion at home. I spent long hours in my dad’s office at his piano writing hundreds of songs obsessively.

I am aware of this obsession becoming a pattern in my life. I am still comfortable being upstairs in my study working on a play (or something) rather than engaging in what others might call ‘real life’. I’m fortunate in having a family who have accepted this and allowed me to continue to have this other life. This was also true of my youth theatre rehearsals which offered me another supremely comfortable environment… well… they did when everyone conformed to my expectations!

I continued to interview myself in my teens as a much loved songwriter, talking about my early songs that in reality no one had heard. Playing them in this fictional interview setting, and recording them on the trusty reel-to-reel tape recorder gave them a purpose for me… albeit a make-believe one.¹

Sadly (for me) these tapes (and the commentaries) were binned by my parents, unaware of what a treasure trove of my early voice this would have been.

I remember doing these commentaries and interviews privately and was embarrassed if my parents caught me at it. I could have been up to far worse things!

Introducing - The Magic Of Theatre

In the 4th year (Year 10) June 1973 I experienced what I refer to as the ‘magic of theatre’ for the first time as David Bowie/Ziggy Stardust appeared on stage before my eyes. People of my age were all around me screaming and fainting. I realise now this was hysteria but at the time it seemed like a mystical spell.

I needed no encouragement to suspend my disbelief and, without understanding the process, Bowie became ‘Ziggy.’ Something blatantly not true became ‘real’. I wanted to conjure this magic.

Bowie had created a consciously faked rock star. He generated Ziggy’s importance by hyping him. Before he (or Ziggy) was famous he employed bodyguards to escort him (or was it Ziggy?) to and from concerts, interviews etc.

Making something seem more important than it actually was, in the light of this, offered even more exciting possibilities.

The theatricality of Bowie’s presentation was extraordinary and utterly absorbed my teenage incredulity. I was determined to see a flaw in this mirage, just as I’d always enjoyed trying to see the strings on the Bill and Ben puppets, or the wrist of Sooty’s hidden puppeteer. I wanted to see a speck of humanity through Bowie’s painted idol. I was obsessed by the possibility of seeing behind the image… seeing the real David Jones. I never could, and so the spell was cast.

Attributing the magic incorrectly to the music, rather than to the words, image or theatre that contextualised it, I decided I would become a tunesmith. It was a long time before I understood how important the words, images and context were to my being drawn into the spell.

The theatre I have been involved with throughout my adult life mirrors what Bowie did with Ziggy. There is limited trickery. My plays make no pretence at being real; they are clearly plays. The mind of the audience, I have realised, is better at achieving an illusion than any flash effects I might find to employ.

That is not to say my (or Bowie’s) work is not theatrical… it is.

In my early teens, at around the same time as David Bowie came into my orbit, I became involved in the Thornbury Amateur Operatic Society. I did this to please my dad who was the Musical Director but I soon discovered I LOVED it and it introduced me to a theatrical world I could step into in a very real sense.

I started off as a call boy… (not what you’re thinking), whose role was to run between the dressing rooms and the stage to check people arrived on stage in time. I took it very seriously and loved the variety of characters who filled the dressing rooms with their sometimes eccentric personalities.

That role lasted for one production, after which I became a singer, actor and dancer (in that order) for the next four years! It became the part of my week I most looked forward to and offered me some limited knowledge of (musical) theatre.

I was now quite happy to become Andrew Lloyd Webber (or Lionel Bart) if Ziggy Stardust didn’t work out. I had a Plan B!

Collaborations - For Serious Fun

In the 5th year (Year 11) at school I befriended a new boy, Simon Guppy, who had moved from Basingstoke and seemed equally enthused by all things music. Somehow I talked him into becoming my lyricist.

This served two purposes.

It saved me from having to do the hard work of writing lyrics…

… and…

… suddenly I had an audience… a motivation to impress someone… and keep him on board.

Writing songs became even more of an addiction.

We moved fast (after only two collaborations) from individual songs to rock operas.

Two things on this:

•Our version of 1984 had 27 songs in it… quite a mammoth effort in three months. I also added a booklet of notes on performance.

•Simon refers to Eed Sud. This needs some explanation.

David Bowie was Ziggy Stardust.

Mark Wheeller was Eed Sud.

Initially my (fictional) backing band were to be called The Eclipse but later I rebranded them as The Luminous Earwigs, a name I’m still very proud of, despite appropriating it from the fabled Spiders From Mars.³

There was a band at school (Stonewall, a pun on ‘rock’, long before it referenced something more political) who needed a vocalist. I could sing so, we struck a deal. I would sing, as Eed Sud, if they played two of my songs in their set.

The arrangement lasted for only 2 gigs as it became abundantly clear: no one wanted to hear my (and Simon’s) songs. (My impression was that the audiance was no more interested in Stonewall’s cover choices either.)

Simon and I had, by this time, written another rock opera about a monk who got a nun pregnant (two of these songs were performed by Stonewall) and then Simon suddenly stopped providing lyrics. I can’t think why!⁴

I befriended Kevin Rimell (pseudonym Dave Kent). At my instigation we atempted to write a rock opera called:

The High Road To Stardom of Eed Sud.

I can see that after 2 months of work and 11 songs, we gave up. It says ‘Project cancelled’.

I continued to write songs with Kevin and occasionally my then girlfriend, Jane Falconer.

I progressed into the sixth form and assembled a group of students from our ‘House’ (Harwood) to organise something to bid farewell to Mr Cooke, a favourite teacher and our head of house who, back in the 4th year when he was promoted to this role, had shown belief in me. He had to see all the naughty pupils under his pastoral care. I was one. I anticipated a standard rollicking. Instead, he simply said:

‘I don’t believe this is the real you.’

I wanted to rise to his expectations of the real me so I changed… just like that! It was basically pretty much that simple with a little added nuance!

Mmm… perhaps now is the moment to delve into the murky world of my own schooldays and offer the context for this ‘naughty boy’ that Mr Cooke had been asked to talk to. Somehow, going into this detail felt wrong on the opening page of the book, when I initially mentioned boarding school. My schoolboy experiences proved to become the foundations of how my philosophy as a teacher developed and also, arguably, sheds some light on the main themes and content of so many of my plays…

If I were doing this as a drama presentation in school I would ask everyone to do a wobbly-bodies thing⁵ to denote a flashback. If you are able to see these words as a film in your mind, this next section should be shown in black and white.

Cue narrator…

My life has been blessed and I have had little to trouble what I consider to have been a charmed life. If creativity derives from difficult experiences, I’ve had little to inspire me aside from what follows. I’m going to write about that in detail as it explains how some aspects of my education became a barrier which I would have to overcome. It may also explain why I have chosen to tell people’s real life stories in my work.

I was forced to live apart from my parents from the age of nine (1967), when I was packed off to boarding school. My parents did this for my benefit, although my dad’s background of being denied (by his parents) the opportunity to pursue a musical education when he left school also came into it.

I was touted around various cathedrals doing voice trials to become a cathedral chorister. I remember this as an exciting experience which led to enjoyable overnight hotel stays with my mum and dad in various beautiful English cities. I failed to get into the first few choirs but was never made to feel any sense of failure by my parents.

At Lincoln however, I was awarded a vocal scholarship. This meant my school fees would be partially paid by the cathedral.

Nevertheless, my parents would still make financial sacrifices for me to benefit from the private education they valued, alongside what they imagined would be a solid musical education.

I remember them being very happy but I was non-plussed. I was content at (my state Junior) school but I made the most of the fuss around the scholarship with congratulations coming my way from everywhere. Friends and relatives seemed incredibly impressed. It particularly pleased my parents and that felt wonderful.

I didn’t understand the implications AT ALL!

My trunk (to take all my stuff to school) was bought (also exciting) and the following September I didn’t go back to my Junior School with my friends. Instead, I had a few extra days’ holiday… amazing!

Soon we were in Lincoln and I was abandoned. That’s how it felt. The separation from my parents played on my mind: what if they died? I would be left alone forever. I was beside myself with confusion and upset.

My first two years at Lincoln Cathedral School were blighted by two people who left me with a deep mistrust of formal relationships and ‘authority’.

One was a matron who lacked all empathy and seemed to me hostile and cruel, so different from my loving and protective mother. I was so scared of her that I wet the bed and she berated me front of everyone else in my dormitory.

The other was Roy Griffiths, the deputy Headmaster and our Housemaster. He was ‘Mr’ Griffiths to me of course but I use his first name now to defuse his authority, for reasons that follow. He was exactly the kind of teacher I would not wish to become.

Bare bottom caning was standard practice in schools back then but Roy literally ruled by the rod: we were caned so frequently it became the norm. Again, how different from my humane father. Imagine this adding to the feelings of isolation I was plunged into.

It’s interesting to see my bland acceptance of the caning in this (very demanding) weekly letter home. What must my parents have thought?

It’s galling now to think that Roy may have got some private pleasure out of our punishments, for he was also a paedophile… and I was one of his victims, although far less so than some.

One of the privileges he granted to his favourites was to watch TV in his room.

One night all the seats were taken and he invited me to sit on his lap.

I felt proud to be ‘chosen’ by this man who was normally so scary.

At some point I became aware he was stroking my groin through my pyjamas. I thought he was just tickling me, but my body reacted in a way that to an innocent ten-year-old meant only one thing.

‘I need to go to the toilet,’ I said.

When I returned I sat on the floor, ashamed that I had let us both down. He was being so nice to me! He undoubtedly realised that his boys wanted his approval so much, and he exploited it to abuse not only us but his position of authority.

Later, when other boys reported him, the penny dropped and I spoke up too. And we were listened to, which for the late 1960s was impressive.

But, appallingly, the cathedral authorities covered it up and Roy kept his position until the end of term.

Had I reported the abuse to my parents they simply wouldn’t have believed me. Roy was a senior teacher in the school, a Christian and sang in the cathedral choir. The perfect cover. As a three-year-old I had told my parents I could see pixies in our garden: they would have thought the existence of pixies substantially more likely than him doing any of this.

So I didn’t tell them. I felt guilty about the financial sacrifices they had made for me and they were so proud of me. I couldn’t smash the illusion. They, as much as me, had been deeply let down.

I have included this photo because the barrister acting on my behalf in the 2018 court case against Roy Griffiths (historical abuse) said she wanted the judge to see me as a little boy, rather than the man who was to appear in the witness stand. It is important to show how little and innocent I was at the time Roy Griffiths was abusing children at our school. This photo was taken by my mum when I first tried on my new uniform. For my parents it represented pride in what I had achieved in getting a singing scholarship. For me looking back, it represents a dark secret that has finally been brought to the surface. The court case and sentencing of Roy Griffiths brought some closure for me but I still feel my parents had their efforts to improve my life thwarted by people in authority who they would have trusted above almost anyone else in society.

However, in 2015 I was given a good reason to tell them the whole truth.

The Lincolnshire police contacted me. I said immediately: ‘I know exactly why you are calling me. You want me to talk about Roy Griffiths.’

There was media coverage of the case in the wake of the Jimmy Savile revelations. It was tough for my parents to face what had really happened. They found it difficult to accept that I’d never talked about it but they understood why. It’s sad they became so disillusioned with those they had put so much faith in.

Nearly 40 years after these events, Roy was jailed. I was not a victim to the same extent I now know others were and I would have appreciated a ‘sorry’ from him more than anything else. That said, the timing of his ‘guilty’ plea (only an hour before the trial was due to start) fails to suggest much regret for, or understanding of, the severity of the situation he had trapped us in.

I recently watched a programme about the unravelling of the historical abuse scandal in the F.A. and one of the victims commented: ‘Doing something you find deeply meaningful in your life is good for you.’

In this respect I believe my theatre work has helped me to acquire strong feelings of self-worth as well as helping others. The relationship between parents and children is a key feature of many of my plays, though always in a more extreme and dire situation than my own. Have I been dealing with my own story by living out their experiences second hand? It’s an interesting thought.

The feeling of inferiority and inability to achieve academically lived with me for many years after Lincoln and I still have few formal qualifications. My approach to teaching is undoubtedly influenced by my own experiences as a student.

My unhappiness in those first two years had halted my progress. I was made to repeat a year, which did my confidence and motivation no good at all - why hadn’t they just moved me back earlier? I found solace in football and making people laugh. I became the class clown - and I certainly achieved top grades at that!

Tony Defries (David Bowie’s former manager) said Bowie used his music to create a way for people to love him following his loveless childhood. My boarding school life in those years was somewhat comparable and I wonder whether the accolades I receive from my theatre work are my own opportunity to gain others’ love and/or approval. I might be similar to Bowie after all!

But back to the ‘70s. At thirteen, when most of my peers went off to the next stage of their private education, I was moved to the local state school which was about to become a new-fangled ‘comprehensive school’.