What happened to the eleven-year-old me?

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When I look back on my pre-teen self, I think – who were you, where did you go and could you come back, please?

As a child, my parents encouraged me to do lots of drama, very possibly as an outlet for my histrionic and attention-seeking behaviour. It was not unusual for me to enter the living room and pretend to die. And then have to get up and leave when no comment was made on my terrible and very dramatic demise.

From my first production of Sleeping Beauty, I was hooked. And I wasn’t going to sit around waiting for the drama group to do another. That would be a whole year away. So I wrote my own play. Fairly ambitious for an eleven-year-old, although I didn’t waste time inventing a whole new plot and characters. I wrote what I called ‘The Modern Version of Cinderella.’

Admittedly, the only thing that made it modern was that Cinderella wore trainers instead of satin slippers and it was a disco, not a ball. It still had Cinderella slaving away for her evil stepsisters until she gets to marry a rich man, with no other options open to her.

I wasn’t just content with writing it. This wasn’t enough. I now wanted to put the play on. So with some chutzpah that has long since entirely left me without leaving even the slightest trace, I did. I arranged for it to be performed at my primary school with my fellow pupils. I cast it, gave them all scripts and then every lunchtime for a few weeks I directed the rehearsals.

This feels such a mammoth task now. Getting everyone together, telling them what to do, sorting out costumes and props and scenery. I was basically the primary school Trevor Nunn.

So when it came to the end-of-year school tradition for the oldest class, 4^th year juniors, to create their own assembly, everyone looked to me to take charge. Along with Susie Hurley, as she was the cleverest girl in the class and so could do anything.

Usually these pupil assemblies tackled themes like helping the elderly and stranger danger. But at the time, there was a huge storyline in the children’s TV drama, Grange Hill. Zammo had become a heroin addict (this feels weirdly gritty now) and the whole cast had recorded an anti-drugs single called ‘Just Say No’, which got to number five in the charts.

It was at the forefront of our minds. When we closed our eyes, all we could see was Zammo’s girlfriend Jackie finding his secret stash hidden in his calculator battery compartment and throwing it on the floor. Then him trying to lick it up. It was massive.

So we decided to do our assembly on the dangers of drugs. Even though we didn’t really know anything about drugs. This was evident throughout, but especially in a song we wrote and performed with the lyrics, “My name’s drugs, I’m drugs the pill, I can kill, I’m drugs the pill.”

It was also around the time that it had been in the news that Boy George was addicted to heroin, so we also made this announcement to a school full of Culture Club fans:

“It’s recently been announced that Boy George is addicted to drugs. Sadly, he has just another two weeks to live.”

Where did we get that from? He’s still alive 40 years later. We were like sensationalist tabloid news editors.

The only other person we could think of who was affected by drugs was Elvis Presley and this was my starring role. I came on in my school uniform, sang the opening line to Blue Suede Shoes while doing some Elvis-style dancing. Then I stopped, stood very still, looked down sadly, then looked up and said to an audience of stunned five-to ten-year-olds, “I was the king of Rock and Rock. Not after I took drugs; I was just another ordinary loser.”

Which was also not true. He was still Elvis. As far from an ordinary loser as you can get, really.

But it was all a big hit with the kids. And also my big peak. My theatrical career plummeted downhill after that. What happened to all that get-up-and-go?

Give me these challenges now and I’d panic and then delegate. I’d never have the confidence for any of it. I miss the complete absence of fear, doubt and imposter syndrome.

But that gutsy eleven-year-old did do me a big favour, though. As I never ended up getting addicted to heroin, so that assembly really worked.

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