Mortified!

Mortified Live; London Saturday, 22nd July 2017 Leicester Square Theatre

https://getmortified.com/live/

Like most of us, my teenage years can be reddening to recount.

I started watching Sex and the City at age 13 and wanted to be Carrie Bradshaw so much that I spent most of my remaining teens casually slipping her pearls of wisdom into conversation, thinking it made me sound smart and worldly to tell my fellow classmates that "men are like cabs" or that "sometimes a woman really does need to be rescued"

And like many others, I kept diaries. Hilarious, pathetic, Carrie Bradshaw inspired capsules of my most cringe-worthy thoughts and feelings, chronicling the trauma of M.I.A classmates; "Josh hasn't been in school for three days...I hope he's not dead!", or the eternal support I had for my friends; "omg Lily dumped Matt and he's just wandering around crying... But luckily me and Abi are SO strong."

Luckily, I am yet to share those with an audience on a Saturday night in Leicester Square (watch this space) however props to the six hilarious women we witnessed do so as part of Mortified.

I'm not going to attempt to review this brilliant piece of theatre because it's just too funny to try to sell. Watch the documentary on Netflix (Mortified Nation) then imagine crying with laughter seeing it live on stage with a beer in hand; you'll get the jist.

At the interval, we were told the London "chapter" of Mortified were running a competition. Tell them your most embarrassing teenage anecdote and you can win tickets to their next show. And so I shared...

For once this isn't a lamentation on my "colourful" school days. This is, in lieu of standing on a stage, my catharsis. You know... behind a keyboard... the cowardly way.

Year 10 Sports day at Tunbridge Wells Grammar School for Boys.

Dreaded, dreaded sports day.

As it was the last mandatory year to take part, we all ended up getting assigned competitions. Never one for sports, or girls, or anything else that would equal conformity in an all-boys school, the whole day filled me with fear.

My assigned competition: the 400m. Just once around the track. Unfortunately I was stationed on the inside lane - thus at the back of the race - and though I knew the lanes were all the same length, I automatically felt paranoid that I would finish last! Worst.Outcome.Ever.

So off I sprinted, not caring where I ended up just determined not to be at the end so that I can avoid further torment! A little while into running as fast as I possibly could, I took the opportunity to make the fatal mistake of having a little glance around me...to see the rest of the race at least 150m behind! Spurred on by the crowds, that one blue Powerade I had for breakfast and my own tragic desperation for this to be the thing that finally made me cool, I upped the ante and full on legged it towards the finish line.

100m from the end, that beautiful white line in sight, teachers shouting "he's breaking the school record!" over the tannoy, that one friend I had feeling proud by association for once, thoughts of proudly going home to tell my family of my success... Then my vision started going a little funny. And by funny I mean black.

75m away and my legs started to turn nice and jellified. My eyes started prickling.

50m from the finish line I started to stumble. And then, like a tragic, desperate Bambi, my legs completely gave way and just short of the finish line, in front the entire boys school, I passed clean out.

Cue: being carried off the field by a teacher, hysterical laughter from the audience and another year of humiliation; including one charming teenager turning the lockers into a pop-up photo gallery that boasted only repetitions of the various stages of me on my way down to the ground as I fainted on the sports field.

Ah, to be young again.

Asking for it...?

Picture this: I'm standing in a field so vast, with storm clouds so heavy, that I look like I'm in the Deep South. I’m trying in vain to find somewhere to sit out of the rain whilst listening to a friend regale me with stories of her upcoming fashion show and watching a bat circle my head like a teeny tiny vulture. Never before have I felt such a contrast of old life vs new life. Country vs city. Which feels weird considering six years ago it was the other way around. With this new move to my home town (living with the parents, working in London) come the memories I have of living in it. That and the fact that my brother has now started at the same school where some of the strongest of memories were created in.

I’m often attributed with confidence by those closest to me - and quite often people I’ve just met – because regardless of any words being spoken in my direction, hell regardless of any eye contact, I'll get my way into any conversation I’m otherwise sat on the edge of, instead of feeling quietly awkward and starting to sweat at the thought of blank stares as responses. Why? Not just because of a childhood spent in dance classes but because I refuse to be stay silent again (I know, I'm so Angela Bassett in 'What's Love Got to Do With It?') For those closest to me I’m sure the idea of me being quiet is absolutely alien but in my school days I would often be crowded around by a group of boys, on the bus or in the playground, being asked simply to speak just so they could all laugh at my voice. It’s difficult to admit, because I hate the thought that those reading this will think I’m fishing for sympathy, but by Year 9 I was openly carrying a pair of scissor with me to school – not even so that I could self harm, just as an attempt for the bullies to think I was and maybe leave me alone! Sadly I don’t think this ever did actually work.

As more female celebrities are pictured topless and baring the slogan “still not asking for it” in an attempt to change minds about the rationalising of rape, I think about the many times I’ve told a story of my behaviour in school and been met with the same line. In no way am I comparing my experience to the horror of being raped but it's interesting that “well then you were just asking for it!” statement can be found as a blanket line to cover all strains of inexcusable human behaviour. “My friend and I used to run around the picnic benches playing Desperate Housewives” “Oh, no wonder you were bullied!”

Apparently, in primary school this time, I would come home complaining that I was stood in a playground surrounded by a group of boys taking it in turns to hit me. I have no recollection of this but it might explain why as an adult the idea of playing piggy in the middle is anything but scary although, of course, in an entirely different and less appropriate context. Jokes aside, exactly what at the age of ten was I supposed to have done to “deserve” that?

Having said this, I find myself remembering all the times I’ve uttered those words myself. Even whilst going through bullying I found I looked at all the school "losers" - after all, I wasn't a loser I was just camp. At least I was popular with some people and that's all that counts, right? - and thinking God why don't you just stop being weird and people will leave you alone? Why don't you just sit in silence and ignore them instead of going crazy and screaming at them, giving them what they want? Even I, at the height of being tormented for not fitting the mould, continually judged those who didn't know how to "control" the bullies. And I’ll admit that it still goes through my mind today; a classic example of the bullied turning to bullies (I’m sure a lot of people reading this will know how nasty I can sometimes be about those I, hands up, perceive to be weaker)

My favourite book to rabbit on about is The Chimp Paradox by Steve Peters because it talks with such depth about the darker sides of human nature that we’d rather pretend are reserved for sociopaths; like our DNA-led instinct to freeze out anyone who doesn’t fit into our pack. After all, we pack together for protection so anyone who doesn’t fit out pack is naturally a threat. Or, moreover,
the rest of the pack doesn’t want them around so we must weed out the weak in order to survive. All too often we can see this in the behaviour of young children who haven’t yet had social decencies embedded into them and so, to a degree, I forgive the morons who were nasty at a young age. But I don’t forgive the ones who grew up to know better and would still today peddle the same excuse; “well you were kind of asking for it”

Last month Gay Times featured an openly gay man named Riyadh who confronted his school bully on the phone (link here: http://ow.ly/SOyhD) and the bully's response was “I think If you’d pulled me aside I wouldn’t have kept going at you. I obviously couldn’t stop everyone else from doing it. It’s secondary school. You just have to take it on the chin.” Horrifyingly this is something I have told myself countless times, you have to take it on the chin, but something that I will no longer accept. One of my own worst bullies - once I had officially come out been outed - approached me one day to ask if I was "really gay"; fearing the worst I simply sighed and told him I was. To my surprise, and still puzzlement, he just said "oh okay. That's alright you know. I only took the piss out of you before because I thought you were a camp straight guy so you had it coming to you" Er…what?!
And so, two pages and a lot of rambling in,, you may be asking exactly what the tone of this post is. Me too. I’m still not sure but I do know that after the weeks it’s taken me to write this post, after the self-obsessed soul searching, the late night “wont everyone just think I’m whining to get sympathy? Hasn’t everyone gone through this?”, I find myself taking a vow to ban “they were asking for it” from my terminology. No matter how ugly their shoes are; no matter how many guys that girl went home with; doesn’t matter if that kid screams and pulls out his own hair just at the chant of his own name. They’re not asking for it. Nobody asks for that kind of torment at such a young age ever. Nobody asks for that judgement on their “poor choices”. Human nature is no excuse because, though I may have risen from the ashes like a feisty gay phoenix, sadly the 52% of young LGBTQ people who’ve sought help for self-harm may not have. Sadly the 44% of young LGBTQ who’ve contemplated suicide may not have either*. And tragically the many more young LGBTQ people who choose to end their lives never will. Contrary to popular belief it is not now “okay” for LGBTQ children in school these days; it’s a much happier place for many I’m sure. But we’re certainly a long way from home.

To conclude, 12 years on, along with my new vow I find myself asking what advice I would give to 13 year old me trying to lower his voice to sound more manly, trying desperately to resist the urge to chant "don't-make-me-click-in-a-z-formation" and waking up each day with one singular mission: today I must act like a boy. Well it’s “ Fuck 'em”. Don't keep quiet to stop them noticing you; don't stare furiously at your text book as a pikey twat has a fifteen minute argument with the science teacher because he refuses to sit next to you; don't hurry to your desk when you're faced with sick noises as you walk into a classroom; don’t stand for it when other boys dunk a foam football in a muddy puddle and then throw it square into your face. Put your ballet shoes on, whack out a triple pirouette and kick them in their ugly, chavvy gobs... And then click in a Z formation, ok?


*Figures according to LGBT charity Metro, based on a survey of 7000 16 to 24 year olds