Starting something.

(bird shit and how to deal with it)

I was just in a bookshop. Have you seen how many books there are in a mid-sized Waterstones? Walls and walls of them. Enough books to occupy a hundred lifetimes. The arrogance of leaving a place like that and thinking what the world is looking for is something to read. But here we are. My own Substack. Don’t know what it is but I’m doing it. Is it a blog? Think so.

A bird shat on my head today. I dropped my son off at school and headed to my first work appointment of 2023. Professionally, and by extension personally, financially, 2022 was a tough year. The rule is that we don’t admit things like that. Public figures such as myself are under an obligation to present an image of unalloyed success. Our annual summaries are supposed to be a list of achievements - 365 days seized, used and abused, we did it guys! High fives all round.

The headlines for my 2022 were good - a nicely reviewed BBC2 pilot, my second published novel hit number one in the Apple audiobook fiction charts, I became the most successful head coach in Leyton Orient’s history on Football Manager. But the truth was tricky. After the pilot was turned down, for whatever reason, I went on my worst ever losing streak. Since 2005 I’ve pieced together a good living by spreading myself thinly across the landscape of British entertainment and scooping up work where I can get it - I’ve written for myself and others, I’ve acted on TV, on the stage, done stand up, appeared in no less than four European insurance commercials. 

2022, as much as I attempted to seize it, grab it by the balls, just wouldn’t yield to my ambitions. Every show I auditioned for seemed to result in a call back, some nice feedback, but ultimately, no job. “We’ve decided to go in a different direction and cast a 70 year-old Chinese woman”. Every writing project dragged on through draft after draft, email after email, lovely feedback after lovely feedback but no commission. No validation. No cash. Some things worked out but not enough to live.

Cash. 

I’m fond of it. You? I grew up with very little of it around. My parents didn’t have it and so, because I didn’t have the get-up-and-go to get myself a recording contract like Billie Piper, neither did I. I knew that I didn’t want to be an adult without cash. Didn’t have a nose for it though. My skills lay in this, so I fell into this - writing, performing, pissing about.

Somehow, I’ve made it work. There have been good years and bad but the annual ledger has always been respectable, it’s always warranted carrying on. And so there’s never been a back up. My CV is impressive, in its own way, but it does not contain anything one could confidently term a ‘job’. Nothing that would ease the concerned faces of my extended family. 

I did not see 2022 coming. The signs were so good. I felt focussed, funny, opportunities were rolling in, I was building an audience. All those things remain true but the bank balance is telling me it’s time to finally press the button labelled ‘back up’. But I do not have a back up. This is it. I have to keep doing what I’m doing because I have no alternative. And so I will. Good. I don’t want to give up.

I’m depressed. Not chemically, but by circumstance. Perhaps ‘sad’ is a better word. Sad, disheartened, deeply, deeply anxious. Something has to turn around soon because it always does. Just doesn’t usually take this long. 

And so I travelled into town for my first meeting of 2023. New year, new start. Chin up, shoulders back - you can do this. 

I walked into the coffee shop, shook the man’s hand, took off my cap and spotted the handsome dollop of bird shit right on the front. A blessing? I hope so. Let’s look at it like that. A blessing.

My mental health has never been worth remarking on. No drama. No diagnoses. Just a low, steady hum of anxiety, almost entirely self inflicted. It seems to me that certainty and security bring a level of comfort. The career I’ve chosen mean both are often absent. Never more than now. 

Control the controllables. That’s the advice isn’t it? I can’t magic up a TV series but I can do things that help. In the past I’ve reached for what I hilariously call “the three w’s”, the three things that I know are good for me - writing, walking/w-running and w-reading. This substack is a part of my w-return to those three disciplines. 

Is this a good way of getting you to subscribe? Recruiting you to my own personal care regime? This opening post is not indicative of how I intend to carry on. I think I’ll mainly write funny stuff. More joking, less moping. If you ever read my old blog you’ll get the idea but this will be bigger, bolder, better. Blacker?

As well as general pithy commentary on whatever’s on my mind I’d like to post some short funny stories, some new Roger LeCarre stuff. Maybe if I manage to get a few of you on board I’ll start posting videos here too. I’d be interested to know what you’d like to read. Perhaps, with me not in the best fiscal health and Andrew Tate currently incarcerated, I should make a move into his territory? Or go the Russell Brand route and David Icke my way to financial security. There are so many ways of making an income on the internet. My goal is to find the one that doesn’t involve being a cunt.

You can subscribe without paying. But if you do choose to pay you’ll see more, exclusive posts and you’ll have access to the archive as it builds up. You’ll also have the warm and fuzzy feeling of supporting a young artist (not young, not an artist) as he attempts to avoid the pull of becoming an internet charlatan who rants out conspiracy theories for cash.

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