Much like the rest of you I was thrust into the world from between my mother’s legs and have been thoroughly confused about this whole thing ever since.
Unlike a lot of you, that happened to me on the 16th of January 1989 in a bed in Northwick Park. Apparently I didn’t cry much.
For the following four years I was grown in Greece and that was pretty cool, I imagine. I’m not sure. I have just one hazy memory from this time of darting around a dark carpark playing catch with my cousins. I cherish this memory a lot.
I spent the next bit of time wondering why I was now in Harrow and not by the sea anymore. Harrow is terrible. But my grandparents were nice and they were nice to me.
That’s where I had chickenpox and tonsillitis and almost died. I stopped breathing and had to have surgery so that I could start again. Afterwards they made me eat crisps to strengthen my throat. I’ve never quite forgiven my family for that, but I’ve forgiven crisps and you can see me eating a packet of Taytos most Sundays in a local boozer.
Thereafter I spent time with my mum and sister and brother in a house in Elstree. That I quite liked, at first, until my body decided to flood itself with chemicals that made me angry and upset with things. Then I didn’t like it, or anything.
That carried on for a while whilst I learnt that I had to do something with my life, which at the time was catastrophic news and only sought to compound my anger. I learnt to cope with this revelation by writing things and experimenting with alcohol and drugs. All of which have persevered as crutches for me ever since.
Following school, which was a mixed bag, I went to work in the kitchens for booze money and to rent a flat so that I had somewhere to take women. This was good, except for the work, which was bad. Though I did develop a love for food and a deep admiration for those who work in the catering industry, I was suffocated by the heat and the smell and the torture of it all.
University, then, was on the agenda. People told me it was something I should do, so I did and then I didn’t. While I was necking pints in New Cross, I longed to be coughing up phlegm with the kitchen porter round the back and by the drains again.
Soon I found myself on the dole instead, and experienced a hunger such that I’ve never felt again since. I did start writing a lot more here, which was the only good thing to come from this period.
The next few years of my life were spent falling in and out of love and trying to carve a purpose for myself.
I’m still working on both of these things today.