One evening in November 2021, I saw a BBC2 documentary entitled ‘What’s the Matter with Tony Slattery?’

Despite enjoying a successful career as a stand-up comedian in the late Eighties/early Nineties, Tony suddenly seemed to vanish from our screens. As the documentary unravelled, we learn that he’s endured severe problems with both alcohol and substance abuse, coupled with mental illness and PTSD.

Talented, creative people are so often burdened with such pernicious demons. Yup. We certainly are.

Later in the programme, Tony attends a session with a noted psychiatrist, who delves a little deeper into his patient’s subconscious. During a previous discussion, Tony revealed several incidents where a priest sexually abused him while he attended a Roman Catholic school.. I found this shocking and terribly moving, but not all that surprising. From my limited knowledge of people with substance abuse issues, there’s often something lurking in the past that may explain why they chose to self-medicate.

Once the programme had finished, and for no apparent reason, I began to tremble. I hugged my knees close to my chest, rocking back and forth with tears streaming down my face as a distant, hazy memory emerged from my time at prep school, from the age of five up until thirteen.

Between lessons during a late afternoon, a friend and I were play-fighting with another, smaller child and things soon got out of hand. As is often the case, the smaller kid endured a litany of jabs and slaps; so much so that later that day, he grassed us up to the headteacher. Well, he grassed me up and never mentioned my friend’s involvement. An hour later, I’m frogmarched into the staff room by another teacher and told the headteacher would beat me with the dreaded ‘slipper’ first thing the next morning.

On my birthday.

This was Great Britain in the late seventies, so corporeal punishment was still in practice. When I got home that night I was in fits of anxiety and an overwhelming sense of dread. My Mum knew something was up, so I told her. She did her best to console me. However, neither of us knew what was to transpire.

Shortly after arriving at school the following morning, I’m all over the place; a bag of jangled, sharpened nerves. I’m called into the staff room but, as I closed the door behind me, the ambiance felt significantly distorted. Mrs C (the headteacher), Mrs P, Mrs S, and a mysterious Mr or Mrs X waited in the dark, surrounded by red-clothed art déco lamps, creating an eerie ambiance. Mrs P, Mrs S and ‘X’ remained seated in anticipation of my punishment. Mrs C spoke boldly:

“You know why you’re here?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“You picked on that small boy. WHY?”

They condemned me for picking on a weaker child, even though that’s not how it was. We were play fighting and got into it a little too much. Anyway, I realised I’d sealed my fate and there was no going back.. Best get it over with.

The teachers at this private school would administer either a caning or ‘the slipper’ whenever the pupils were caught seriously misbehaving.. In each instance, they administered the beating on the buttocks through our trousers or shorts (where the younger children were concerned).

Mrs P ordered me to turn around, face the door and drop my shorts. Next, she furthered my humiliation by instructing me to remove my underpants. I did as I was told. At this moment, I was trembling with fear and trying to hold back my tears but I peered over my shoulder and notice the other two teachers leaning forward with what appeared to be fevered interest.

Why?

Was this a shared, sordid perversion? A carefully and meticulously prearranged ritual amongst this triumvirate of teachers?

Why the fuck were they watching me?

Thinking about it today, I can’t recall what happened next. Today, as I think about it, I can’t remember what happened next.

Something’s missing.

I’ve blacked out whatever it was. Buried it. Perhaps we have an in-built neurological firewall. I feel stupid because for all these years I’ve known something wasn’t quite right with me psychologically and that somewhere in my mind, there was a reason behind it. I get this horrible feeling that something else happened in the staff room that day. But I can’t ‘see’ it. It could’ve involved the third teacher, whether they be male or female.

I don’t know.

I’d never told anyone about any of this. Not a single soul. Until the documentary. The next day, I had a heart to heart with my mother and ever since then; I feel as if I’ve shamed and humiliated myself for not saying something sooner. Also, I blame myself for it happening. It’s incredibly difficult to explain to people the exact nature of mental health issues. I told Mum in the hope she’d have a better understanding of why I can’t help being the way I am.

But I won’t let it define me.

That’s not the end. Not by a damn sight.

It was with the best of intentions that my parents paid for me to attend this prep school. At the age of 10 and every single day for two years, I was verbally and emotionally abused by a sadistic mathematics teacher named Mr Beech. To this day, I can recall standing next to him at the front of the class and the sheer terror I felt inside as he shouted, screamed and threatened me.

Even now, if I close my eyes, I can picture him shaking his fists in my face. The pure, frenzied rage soaring from beneath the skin of his knuckles only millimetres from my face. This was just one of the numerous methods of intimidation utilised by Mr Beech in his bitter, determined campaign of harassment and degradation.

It went something like this:

For each lesson, Mr Beech would set the class a maths exercise and allow us twenty minutes or so to complete it. Then, one after the other and in no particular order, he’d call each of us to stand next to him at his desk as he marked the results in front of the rest of the class. Mr Beech was the arithmetical equivalent of a ticking time bomb with an extremely short fuse. For some unknown and illogical reason, Mr Beech had taken an instant dislike to me from day one.

I was 10 years old.

WHAT THE FUCK had I done wrong?

Every day, this malevolent cunt of a teacher was using me as his verbal punchbag. When he’d found a mistake in my sums, Mr Beech would slowly and deliberately place his red pen at the top of his desk, which signalled the beginning of my ritual humiliation. I’d begin to cry. He would mutter something about my ineptitude before exploding in a terrifying display of animalistic fury and vituperative ridicule. Within seconds, he’d be ranting and raving, often threatening me with genuine physical violence such as breaking my neck or punching my “thick skull”. Eventually, sobbing with tears, I would be ordered to return to my desk and the next pupil would be called up. I was singled out by Mr Beech’s; an inoffensive outlet for all his anger and frustrations. The rest of the class got off relatively lightly compared to my daily torment.

This degrading ritual humiliation lasted anywhere from ten to thirty minutes, five days a week and for 18 months. Suffice to say, I never grasped anything to do with Mathematics for several years.

Despite showing a natural flair for English and Art at school, Maths remained a frustrating enigma. I believe children take to certain subjects genetically; there’s a secret mechanism hidden deep within our DNA from past generations that automatically switches itself on whenever a familiar topic appears – whether that be mathematics, chemical warfare or changing a plug.

Mr Beech went at me for what seemed like an eternity before I eventually broke down and told my parents, who immediately phoned the headmaster to arrange a meeting. I wish I’d told them sooner but I’ll put it down to shame. I was too embarrassed to say anything to my parents because I felt like I’d let them down in some way.

Guilt.

Shame.

Mum completely lost it with the headmaster and threatened to take me out of school unless Mr Beech was suitably admonished. Within a few weeks, he’d handed in his notice and landed a job at another school down south. His replacement, Mr Ashton, was the complete opposite to his predecessor: kind, patient and even-tempered.

I believe my experiences at the hands of the three teachers in the staff room and Mr Beech’s bullying and intimidation explain why, aged 13 and after transferred from a fee-paying private school to a comprehensive, I completely lost all interest in academia. I was tired of the school dynamic. Being the ‘posh kid’ at a mixed high school made me a target for further bullying by some of the older children. That wasn’t much fun either so, eventually, I simply tuned out. I maintained a routinely small circle of friends but within a few months, I was skipping practically every lesson, so I rarely spent much time in their company. I’d nip uptown, wasting hour after hour window shopping or sitting in the park eating chips, smoking cigarettes and watching the world go by. It was only when I left high school with just one ‘O’ Level to my name (English Language) that I realised just how limited my options were. Dad came to the rescue and paid for me to attend a crammer college near the centre of Birmingham and, 18 months later, I emerged with four more ‘O’ Levels (including Maths). Within a few months and just before turning 18, I started my first job at Rackhams in Birmingham. Yep, that’s right. House of Fraser.

It was all downhill from then on.

OK, that’s not strictly true. I enjoyed having a few quid in my pocket. I’ve had some of the best and worse days of my life at work. I’ve made some truly exceptional friends – several of whom I remain in contact with to this day. But I knew all too well I was wasting my potential; stuck in a series of dead-end jobs with few prospects and – with a couple of notable exceptions – I hated bosses with a passion.

Anxiety and depression started in my late teens.

I can recall my first anxiety attack as if it happened ten minutes ago. I was 17, travelling by train to Birmingham town centre with my best chum from school. I’m headed for a pre-arranged date with a female friend of a friend. Roughly halfway through the journey, I became aware of this strange knotting sensation in my stomach, immediately followed by intense nausea and sweat pouring down my back. My breathing quickened as I thought I was having a heart attack. This came from nowhere. I paced up and down the train carriage to remain calm. I soon realised this was ‘first date nerves’ times one hundred. Somehow, I managed to keep it together and by the time I’d met up with my date, the anxiety had all but disappeared. This was my first encounter with a mental illness that – along with depression – would continue to blight my existence for the next thirty years, right up to (and including) the present day.

It’s often difficult to explain how anxiety feels. There’s the physical symptoms, e.g. sweating, palpitations, hands trembling etc. but your mind is firing in about eight different directions, all at the same time. I liken it to drowning. Drowning in a sea of fear and confusion. Just the other day, I genuinely believed an unseen entity had cursed or possessed me.

Perhaps that’s the true nature of modern day anxiety? A malignant curse updated for the Facebook generation. A mandatory app downloaded as penance for the luxuries of modern life.

After recalling the incidents of historic abuse I was diagnosed with PTSD which helped me understand my mental health difficulties. The incident explains – but doesn’t excuse – much of my unacceptable behaviour over the last thirty-odd years. I recognise the motivations behind numerous instances of unsavoury conduct on my part. It explains the ‘angry young man’ attitude I knowingly cultivated (which emerges from time to time) and why I maintained a largely hostile attitude toward my late father. I know I’m not suited to relationships. I fear I’ll not make it much past the age of 60.

Hope matters. It matters so, so much. I’ve lost all hope.

Why? Because of ‘the system’. The so-called NHS mental health program which has let me down at every turn. I don’t feel safe or supported. I fear myself and what I might do.

I don’t want money, sympathy or any of that shit. I want peace of mind.

Why?

Because … life.

Life hurts and mine was effectively over on the morning of my ninth birthday.

Do I forgive them? Do I fuck.

I’m not giving up. At least, not today.

I have to try.