Author: David Clifford Stent

Since a young age I have enjoyed writing.  I remember 4th period English with Mrs Lee on a Thursday afternoon. My most inspirational Teacher from Secondary School. Most of the lads in the class, including myself would turn up late after playing football over lunch, sandwiches and crisps stuffed in our pockets. Sweating through the blazers we had to wear when walking to class, we would arrive. Bloody Nazis.  The book we were studying at the time was Roll of Thunder Hear My Cry. Mrs Lee's enthusiasm and passion for the story inspired me, not to mention the writing itself. I was amazed at how the writing could take me to a different place and time. Help me to understand the struggle of race relations for the black community in the deep South, back in the 1930's. A place and time a world away from the industrial town where I grew up in South Yorkshire. She would read the book in her impressive southern drawl and the story of Cassie Logan, from Mississippi, came to life. I wrote an essay over the weekend as homework and she encouraged me to write and read more.  Foolishly as I got older, I wandered a little from the right path. Mrs Lee was the last passionate English teacher I would take lessons from. As I strayed from literature, I went on to study Economics at Newcastle University, it should have been journalism or creative writing. I reasoned Economics was what I should do as this was the subject, I received the best marks for. The foolish trappings of youth. For any youngsters reading, don't do this. Don't always listen to your ambitious parents, your career advisor and what your friends say. Follow your passion listen to yourself.  I continued to write for my friends and family. Unusually long emails to friends at work. Stupid short stories and in the end, I decided to set up this site 10 years ago when I was in the midst of a manic episode.  Thankfully this was one of the better outcomes from that period. I kept the site and I have replaced the incoherent ramblings with, I hope more measured accounts and experiences. When feeling overly creative I indulge in composing the odd poem. I try.  Not blessed with the best imagination, most of what I write is observational, accounts of personal experiences and opinion. I find it gives me light relief from the monotony of corporate life.  The creative process helps lift my mood and when I have something to say I often find it easiest to write.  I hope you find something you enjoy both on here and in the rat race. Over qualified Mental Health advocate | Part time runner | Part time writer | Part time cyclist | Full time Champagne Socialist | Music nut | ANGER IS A GIFT!!!

Music

You sexy little swine…

Posted on September 24, 2026 by David Clifford Stent

Whilst I was in London in 2010 I worked with a fantastic group of people. Sadly we were mismanaged by a selfish, chauvinistic, egotistical gobbler. Here was a man of 50, perving and passing comments on my friends, wearing Lyle and Scott polos, humming Rhi Rhi (his reference not mine) with the nerve to placate others on their appearance! Oh won’t someone think of the children.

The irony defaming someone on a blog is not lost on me. Especially since I sincerely believe his behaviour was the dividend from a rich portfolio of insecurities. As I have joined the ranks of the “keyboard warriors” I will satisfy my appetite and indulge, don’t like it? As you were.

I enjoy razzing. Like most I enjoy the cut and thrust of getting a rise out of someone – simply for kicks…my mum used to say when I was a kid:

‘you give it you have to be able to take it.’ This was generally her retort when someone had trumped me in a tussle of the tongues or United had been beaten, thankfully when I was growing up this wasn’t very often.

Back in the office I remember saying to Clive;

“You taking that inflatable FA Cup down seen as though you were the FA Cup holders in 2010 Clive?” “No” “Only as good as your last game, good manager Moyes”

Chelski had just been beaten 1-0 at Goodison in 2011. This predates Moyes at the helm of the Titanic, Christ that would have been a bloodbath had I still worked with him.

I know, you couldn’t write it could you. A Chelsea fan, give him his dues he was far from plastic. Once reminiscing over lunch, he had my ears bleeding with a story of him as a runner back in the 70s with his Uncle.

For those of you unfamiliar with a ‘runner’. A runner is the bait at pre-arranged fights between ‘firms’. Present tense you will notice, this still happens sadly, thankfully less so these days. A firm consists of impressionable attention seeking dickheads that tarnish the beautiful game through promoting and engaging in violence. I nearly wrote the ‘H’ word . I refuse to award them their coveted badge of honour, mugs.

Clive was the lead of our team at Lloyds and we were made well aware we worked for him . We took our medicine a lot; nothing says bend over and touch your toes like the corporate world does it. Not being arsed I remember thinking. I’ll pay lip service that is all Christophe.

Chris my Manager was writing one of my performance objectives “create and expand relationship with Clive”. The fucking bastard. I would not tolerate him anywhere but the office, okay at a push on a work night out, for one pint nothing more. I would pretend as needs must but did not have the appetite or bottle at this point to do the right thing and call him out. Every day was like selling Lucifer another slither.

One hazy Tuesday I walked into the office late as per, having spent the weekend in Germany with some pals, we had been to the Hurricane Festival. The Arctic Monkeys were headlining so it was nailed on my mate was working in Hamburg at the time. As our friends in Trumpland say, no brainer.

As I approached my desk half wondering if it was the onset of tinnitus and jaundice, I overheard Clive peacocking – this time on the subject of music. “Now, my favourite of all time…it’s tough but I would have to say U2” Makes sense I thought to myself. He supports a plastic football team listens to a plastic front man. What U2 did for Sarajevo I will always respect but favourite of all time, you pulling my plonker Clive? Come on at least try you prick.

I opened my laptop and started to line up my glasses of water for the day, I had more important things to think about here like lunch. He went on…

“You know what I never got, all the hype with the Arctic Monkeys, who the fuck were they anyway?” Touche Clive, touche old boy. I looked up at Chris, he widened his eyes instantly conveying ‘Oi you little shit, you hold your tongue he pays for us.’ Lucifer this thick slice is on the house.

Neck recoiled eyes down. Chris interjected sensing the golden opportunity to cast the line out, “I think David might have something to say about that Clive…”, smiling like a cat with all the cream. “Oh David are you are a fan? Well maybe you could educate me one day, I doubt it though…”, he smiled deliberately, don’t bite… “I will send you some songs one time Clive no problem and a few explanations if you want, I grew up listening to them”, I smiled back, my hangover retreating as my adrenaline levels charged.

I sat at my laptop for the next few days on his time and wrote my explanation complete with a very extensive rather boring account of stories from my not so fluorescent adolescence, to give him some context. It was for no other reason when I look back than to make myself feel better. As we came to the end of our contract I asked Clive for his personal email to keep in touch for football purposes. If he was ever at Old Trafford for a game obviously. I would rather chop my cock off. I wanted to send him what I had written and it was not really a great idea to send it to his work email as my beer money was at risk. I sent it to his personal email address on my last day. As I walked past him fantasising about smashing his head through the Chelsea team on his wall. I relaxed and wrapped myself in the warm fuzzy cloak of one up-man-ship.

Similar to the one you get when you see some dickhead undertake you on the motorway at 120. Only to pass him OR HER parked 2 miles down the road on the hard shoulder. Not in their car now but the back of an unmarked Volvo V70 as you sail past pipping your horn putting your foot down. Below is the email I sent to Clive.

‘About 13 years ago a group of young lads in Sheffield decided to get their hands on some musical instruments. Typical items for a group of young men with creative flare and interest in music. At the same time in a different part of South Yorkshire I was starting to take an interest in the dancing dots myself.

You may or may not have ever felt the desire for an instrument Clive. Chances are though at some point in your youth you wanted something to express your personality or to pass the time. You may have considered yourself a budding sportsman, maybe you still do? You may have asked your parents for a violin, a pair of footy boots, the latest edition of vogue or some dancing shoes you sexy little swine. My first request was a dishevelled box of wood that barely held a note, a gift that made my Christmas back in 1997.

I practiced my piano enough when football and the Holy Grail weren’t on the agenda. At points I used to consider myself half decent but in all honesty my heart was never really in it. What I didn’t like about the Piano was in order to learn in my small town; I had to take direction from an out of hour’s music teacher. She was as inspirational as a cloudy day. In it for all the wrong reasons. One lesson with my piano teacher I did manage to take away some wisdom. I learned to be a good musician above all else you needed to discover and develop a unique style and sound. Once you have this you could then compliment it by an infinite range of scales, in my case simplified versions of Beethoven’s Concertos if you wanted or vice versa. Finally as I left my last lesson the penny dropped, don’t get taught teach yourself. People don’t do psychology for kicks do they?

Learn the instrument, yours and its capabilities, the nuts and bolts to the theory then progress. I never did. What I was never able to do was produce anything that I could call my own. I eventually tired of imitation and found a good substitute for my musical interest – heading out and listening to bands touring the North. Off I’d trot with my merry men to The Lead Mill in Sheffield, The Cock Pit in Leeds, occasionally frequenting the Apollo in Manchester and very rarely paying a visit to Nottingham’s Rock City. This overshadowed regurgitating the Moonlight Sonata seventeen times a week. I listened to anything and everything my Mini Disc would serve up to me on the school bus, slowly the piano became a graveyard for family photos and my ambition faded as the dust thickened.

The Vines, Hot Hot Heat, The Strokes, The White Stripes all favourites of ours. At a time when others my age were listening to the morsels being produced by the recording studios of the rich and famous. My mates and I were hot on the heels of anything our generation was producing that wasn’t mainstream echo. I was 17 and the bands I was interested in were that little bit older but I enjoyed their offerings and I knew at least in part, where they were coming from.

I fell in love with the Libertines. The Man Who Would Be King is a corker. I can still jump myself into frenzy, sing my heart out and be 17 again for 4 minutes . This song was the song that connected the tall lad I’d seen on telly wearing a trilby and myself. The guy stood on stage bleeding charisma, singing lyrics that I thought possibly I understood?

Jack drinks and smokes his cares away

His heart is in a lonely way

Living in the ruins

Of a castle built on sand

I didn’t understand. For all I knew Pete Doherty if the tabloids were to be believed was a crack addict with a mere drinking problem, his logic and mine probably differed somewhat…what did I care? He could sing and play with his mate Carl and write songs for a generation.

For me ‘The Man Would Be King’ is a song about the actions of a ‘Jack the Lad’. A drinker, a smoker, a charmer, a self-pleaser in life preferred to the alternative. Eventually unchallenged Jack will pay the consequences but the risky house on sand has always been more fun than the predictable one built on rock. He will live with his decision. Don’t toe the line snort it.

From my friend introducing me to the Libertines, they have always been a band I have listened to and followed. I met Pete Doherty in the street one time when I was studying at Newcastle and he was a friendly unassuming guy, willing to have a photo with me (which I subsequently lost). This was at a time when revelations on his private life were painting the front pages of the tabloids. Other bands who I called my own were Queens of The Stone Age, The Cribs and The Stills.

Music I grew up with, music that means a lot to me, music that provided a soundtrack to my youth. The Libertines were four top lads, pouring their heart and soul into every song, every performance and every line. They would sing about their shortcomings, their experiences, their opinions, their girls, their mates. Doing what they wanted following their heart – sometimes this was not always obvious however, it was the music.

At the time the Libertines started making bigger waves I had turned 18, I had just finished school and I had one aim in the summer to watch them play live for the first time. I remember jumping the train to London four beers in tow with one of my closest friends John. A friend of ours once overheard his dad rechristen John ‘The Prince of Fools’ at an early age, to this day he still lives up to his noble title somehow managing to have a respectable and so far successful career.

On the way to the Libertine’s gig in London back in 2003, John and I sat between the carriages in first class, I was without ticket and fortunately managed to get to London with the fare still in my pocket. ‘Forgive me you wouldn’t believe me if I told you I can’t find my ticket’ you’ve heard it all before; the usual persistent patter.

Our motivation for the journey was earlier in the week we had heard on the grape vine that there was a secret Libertines gig being played somewhere in the sprawling concrete jungle that is London. Wow. Our arrival into the capital only came about thanks to a frightening Glaswegian Train Guard who took pity on us; I think he knew we were in for a shock once we alighted. I hope he took pleasure in forgetting to explain to us that Doncaster was simply a small mining town in South Yorkshire. A rather amusing show was performed by John once we had negotiated the fare. Having only recently returned from Thailand he had a screwed up pair of Thai Boxing Shorts in his bag. He handed me his can “off for a piss”. A few moments later as I looked down the train from between two carriages, there he was in all his glory shadow boxing down the aisle in just the shorts.

Later in the day we found the venue after sampling a few watering holes en route. With a few quid between us in loose change secure in our spray on jeans, it was time for operation doorman. Like the recurring monotony of Countryfile on a Sunday evening the thick set cockney threw 6 darts in our direction, collectively they made up a sentence we had been getting familiar with in recent months.

“Your names not down, fuck off.”

Shit. We very quickly used every weapon in our limited armoury convincing bouncers in Donny we were 18; sadly this was not enough of an education to talk our way in. We were out of our depth. If we were treading water back home surviving we were tied to a boulder the size of our over inflated egos in The Smoke – the Glaswegian’s pity was not misplaced. Stood surrounded by the impending nightfall we were slowly sinking to the sea bed. That’s it? That’s a night out in London? That’s what they all go on about? Bollocks.

Saner heads prevail. We decided to assess our options and climb aboard the safety raft, the battle was definitely lost but there was a war being fought. Luckily my brother had a mate who was down in London getting a Visa for the States – don’t buy a ticket you aint winning the raffle kid. We made a fist of it between the 3 of us, stayed in his B&B, met a couple of local girls and had a night we couldn’t remember before making our way back North the next day. It was a distant first loser to missing the Boys in the Band play a set to 200 fans but, you get can only play the hand you are dealt.

Shortly before starting university in 2004, I travelled to the states too coaching ‘Soccer’ for a few months. Meanwhile back in God’s own County there was a storm in a teacup brewing; four lads I in High Green had stuck to their task with and were realising their potential as I was touring California. The summer and remaining months of 2004 which saw me start university were over and I was left with the taste of diesel in my mouth, and the emptiness only a maxed out Over Draft could provide £1497.60 DR. Avail £0. Shame.

Whilst I was brushing up on my economics and drinking prowess Alex David Turner the lead singer and guitarist of the newly founded Arctic Monkeys was working at the Boardwalk in Sheffield.

A venue popular with local musicians, music lovers and scenesters since before my birth, under its former name ‘The Black Swan’ or ‘Mucky Duck’ had been visited by The Sex Pistols and The Clash in another lifetime – not to be sniffed at.

Taking every opportunity to promote the band back then Alex, Matt, Andy and Jamie were burning CDs, handing them out free after gigs, waxing lyrical wherever there was an unsuspecting ear. They encouraged file sharing! Heaven forbid. MySpace and Limewire became their vehicles and it was their unique music, initiative and an unwavering work ethic that would break the mould.

By now it was too late for me; I was already settling into my impression and getting comfy. Slowly but surely the quiet hum surrounding the Arctic Monkeys was becoming a noticeable buzz. The mark was beginning to be made by the band and the news of their impending success was spreading faster than the latest STI across the North East

On starting university still 19; The Libertines were sadly on their way down following their much anticipated second album, which I thought was sensational. Sample bias. This album though wasn’t enough to prevent their big red button being pressed, in my opinion their unprofessionalism was the pin that eventually unpicked their success. The Killers, Maximo Park and Razorlight were now filling the space on the air waves. Jo Wiley was being her usual predictable beige self. How this woman made a career without disliking anything is beyond me.

By early 2005 the monotony of the University DJs had set in like dry rot. Even after a pitcher of Voddie Red Bull ‘Mr Brightside’ was somehow getting worse, compounded by each overplay. This continued and First Year was over in an explosion of friendships, emotion and boredom. The best result looking back was my introduction to the musical giant sleeping 100 miles down the A1.

In the lonely summer that followed first year I worked off my overdraft back home as a post boy in a lighting factory; I would do 8:30 – 4:30 Monday to Friday, it was the epitome of Groundhog Day. The Brucie though was being able to earn enough money to purchase a ticket for Leeds Festival in August.

Having enjoyed listening to the Arctic Monkeys that summer I was anticipating a strong debut. In the build-up I recall Noel Gallagher’s typically arrogant summary whilst being a guest on Wiley’s show ‘any band with a name like that won’t win any Brits or Grammys?’ I remember thinking that is fighting talk Mr Gallagher, considering your creativity reached its zenith in the mid-90s, his opinion was neither respected nor accurate.

Having visited the fields of Leeds since 2001 the line-up for 2005 was as impressive as the previous years. Despite the annual riots, tent torching and overpriced crap lager it was always worth the 130 quid to go. With a line up boasting headline acts Iron Maiden and the Foo Fighters, you had to try especially hard not to overlook the local act pencilled in on the Carling Stage after the Mystery Jets.

Don’t believe the hype…

Fortunately my brother and I didn’t miss their slot. Unfortunately half of Bramham Park were on it too. I thought as we arrived at the edge of the tent I might as well have been watching from the beer tent. I couldn’t see fuck all and although they sounded decent I was too far back to really get involved. Even pissed up, brimming with excitement we tried in vain to make an in road into the wall of leathered pogo sticks. Everyone in the crowd as determined as us and no ground would be surrendered.

I remember casualties being carried out of the tent every 2 minutes; one guy suffering from heat exhaustion, a few others had lost a shoe in the mayhem, shirts had been ripped and lives changed. Everyone close enough to witness the set were beaming having been there for the coming of age of the biggest band the Steel City had produced since Jarvis Cocker gave birth to Pulp. The torch paper had been well and truly lit.

If nothing else, you have to thank The Arctic Monkeys on successive occasions for stemming the tide of manufactured talentless shit relentlessly staining the bowl. As much as you flush you only find it to be replaced by JLS, Westlife, One Direction, Bieber or whoever the next faceless puppets are waiting in line to pick up the cheques from the parents of our impressionable kids. Music to Hoover to.

With bare minimum marketing and advertising, here we had back in 2003 / 2004 / 2005 a quartet of musicians rewriting the rule book in the face of the money machine. Back then at Leeds they were lighting up a rock festival whilst the greats sat in their trailers sipping on mineral water and practising their lines. They have undoubtedly earnt a few quid themselves in their time and good luck to them. They deserve it.

I admire them Clive because they made it on their own terms and put their music as the catalyst to their success, not the reverse. I salute them because they sing and play how they see it and I can relate having emerged from a similar time and place.

Finally I adore the lyrics of Alex Turner, my age or thereabouts. Here was a lad at 17 who refused to go quietly into the night following discussions with his 6th form career counsellors and parents. A lad, who can write, who understands language, is in touch with the experience of his mates and clever enough to articulate it all in a way that is accessible to all and sundry. Combine that with someone who can write a good tune to match with his mates, a high level of technical ability, ambition and wait for it love of what he does and you are onto a winner.

There are no flowers in his love songs, no utopias in his relationships. Raw emotion dominates. I cannot help but be moved by his song writing and melodies. The whole band took a chance to follow their hearts, with the talent of a thousand writers and musicians my world is a better place for this gamble.

That’s what I’m not was the fastest selling debut album in UK chart history before Miss Boyle emerged. Outselling 2nd to 20th combined in the first week it was released. So that was September 2006. What have they done since? Well between breaking America, filling their dustbin with a whole host of recognised awards they have managed to stay true to their ideals, their fans and their selves. Opinion or not that deserves respect does it not Clive?

They have produced single after single, EP after EP and Album after Album in an effortless display of character and poise. Songs that make me stand up and shout, smile, frown, laugh and contemplate to. Songs that have made countless people question my sanity and the sanity of my mates on a night out.

One of my favourites is Suck it and See. The album not the porno.

Have a listen. You will live longer. You will lose weight. None of this is of this is of course true. You might however appreciate the feelings he has for the protagonist. You may even be tricked into believing the hype of 2005 if you listen carefully enough because what was exceptional then still applies Clive.

Yes you can be forgiven for disregarding The Arctic Monkeys because your mate told you they’re crap. The simple truth might be you haven’t earned an opinion because instead of listening and making your own judgement. You like so many others have sat back and had the opinion of others shoved down your throat like a Foie Gras Goose at Christmas.

If you don’t like them I tip my hat bid you good day and thank my lucky stars I am not you. Obviously my opinion is worth less than zero at best like yours is and sadly even sheep are entitled to one. If I’m making a statement though here it is – Oscar Wilde bless his soul has nothing on this boys tongue and combined with their music they are simply untouchable.

The way every poignant gut wrenching point of break up in Do Me a Favour is described is frighteningly accurate. If you have ever been there and let’s be honest we all have. How do you resist being transported back for a split second, having to relive the moment, the moment when you crossed the thin line between love and hate and you couldn’t bear the thought of her doing the unthinkable. ‘Perhaps F*** off might be too kind’.

Overplayed but underrated I BetYou Look Good On The Danceflooris the perfect reference point for anyone that has played Russian Roulette with the pretty girl in a club clinging to sobriety and pride with one hand whilst reaching for her on the dance floor with the other.

BiggerBoys with Stolen Sweethearts – maybe this was just me growing up with my mates but this is a snapshot in time and I for one can remember quite clearly the older lads rolling up in their new minis and turning the heads of our girls.

The cows will quite simply will be home if I go down the route of analysing all songs line by line however forgive me for indulging in one more before you nod off.

2006 became 2011 very quickly and now we are in 2016. Good music has remained not a fad or a fashion but a valuable commodity always at risk of being forgotten or going unheard in the face of the latest targeted campaign being served up to us all on the advertising space we pass every day. In a 5 year period, 4 albums were produced, there has been a change in personnel amongst other developments but I have to go back to a song included on the EP released shortly after the first album to demonstrate the pure brilliance of the Monkeys.

In recent weeks I have had to defend my honour and that of the Arctic Monkeys in the face of some others and of course you Clive;

Whatever happened to them?

I couldn’t name you one song.

I didn’t get it what were they all about?

Not forgetting my own personal favourite challenge from yourself…

‘Who the F**k Are Arctic Monkeys?’ The irony bleeds me dry. Have a listen.

Ignorance should be distinguished from stupidity, although both can lead to unwise actions such as voicing an uninformed opinion on something not explored. I think the lyrics in Who the F**k Are Arctic Monkeys say something my 3000 words could never explain, but to be on the safe side air on the side of caution, even if means not having an opinion especially when it’s not the right one Clive.

It’s not you, it’s them that are wrong

Tell ’em to take out their tongues

It’s not you, it’s them that are wrong

Tell ’em to take out their tongues

And bring on the backlash

You caught a whopper!

Depression, Fact not fiction, Mania, manic depression, Mental Health, Uncategorized

down to where all hope is lost (4 of 4)

Posted on July 4, 2026 by David Clifford Stent

It took me a while to adjust to the reality of being back in the real world where I was not being constantly monitored by nursing staff. I could lie in. Eat what I wanted, not what was given to me. Small mercies. My mum had drawn the short straw and kindly gave me a place to stay on my way down from a long period of mania. The nursing staff had forewarned that it was very likely, almost inevitable, that I would crash through the floor and depression would replace my elevated mood.

This wasn’t immediate. I stayed with my mum for a short while and I insisted that I return to work. I was feeling more like my old self. It was premature, but we could be forgiven for our approach as there was no manual for this. My thinking was becoming more rational, and I was more reflective. Since my mood had been high, I hadn’t cared or considered how my behaviour throughout this period of my life had impacted others. I thought a lot about my previous relationships, friends and family I had hurt, and I dwelled on the embarrassing things I had done. I had shown little or no regard for those closest to me for years, sharing things that were extremely personal and private online without consent, and without consideration. Saying and doing things I now regret. Some still occasionally haunt me in my darker moments.

I hired a car and one night decided to drive to Oxford for a walk around the university. For no rational reason. I wasn’t through the woods just yet. When I returned, the police got in touch once again. I had filled up the hire car and not paid for petrol before driving off. It was an honest mistake, highlighting the state of mind I was in. I returned to the petrol station and made the payment. I craved my old life and normality, as did those around me, this whole experience had been extremely traumatic. Sadly, the worst was still to come.

Once the insurance company had paid out the claim for my car which I had written off in Kent prior to my hospital visit, I was keen to use the money to buy a replacement. I am forever indebted to the policeman that attended the accident on the M2 and kindly wrote on the crime report, ‘swerved a fox’ instead of the actual reason for the car crash.

I bought a new car quickly and foolishly paid too much; I was still impulsive. I returned to my mum’s house, and she was shocked to see a new BMW on the drive. She was noticeably apprehensive about my desire to return to work so quickly. I was asked to meet a Senior Manager, to work on a new proposal for a new contract with a public sector client. My uncle offered me a room in his house in Shipley, West Yorkshire for a short stay. I can still remember the exact moment when I walked across the divide and the depression started to slowly set in like the inevitability of an encroaching tide. It had turned. I was in my Uncle Séa’s house, sat on his stairs. I suddenly had an overwhelming feeling of sadness and dread. I had felt something similar before when I was travelling in 2008 and prior to that when I was at university in 2006, but this was more pronounced. Deeper. Darker.

The feeling of dread coursed through my body and my mind flooded with sadness. I couldn’t function. I called my family and spoke to my mum and younger brother. I was meant to be heading down South the following morning for work. My younger brother had returned from his trip to Australia, cutting his trip short to help out. He offered to drive me to meet my colleagues first thing as I gathered my thoughts and prepared for the meeting. He returned home by train across the country so I could at least try and put on a brave face on for my colleagues.

It didn’t play out as we had all hoped. I attended the meeting at a hotel in Berkshire, but I was useless. Making up the numbers. I found it hard to concentrate, work was suddenly no longer important. The dip in my mood cut to the very core of me. I started catastrophising everything. The plan before my mood had changed was to travel down South, to Reading and then onto London to visit an old friend for the night. I continued to Twickenham to see Adam, but I wasn’t myself. He let me have his bed and he slept on the sofa. I hardly spoke. I made my excuses the next day and left returning to my mum’s house. I managed the drive back to Doncaster which was, looking back equally as dangerous as driving when manic. I called HR and said I would be taking more time off.

Over the next couple of weeks, I deteriorated. It was mid-February, cold, dark and I became more and more insular. I lost the ability to enjoy time with my family, speaking to friends, listening to music, watching United, food, a cup of tea. I couldn’t find solace in anything. I was constantly thinking of the ruin and devastation I had caused people over the past few years. The darkness became self-loathing and self-hatred, and it was a vicious cycle where I would play out horrendous scenes over and over, cast in the lead role on an endless film reel. I was embarrassed by the culmination of years of stupid mistakes, stupid actions and complete disregard for the people I loved. The only way to describe it would be to imagine the fear and dread you feel when you wake up with a thick head after the work’s Christmas party knowing you’ve done something foolish after too many drinks, having said or disclosed the wrong thing. It was like this but magnified a hundred-fold; colleagues replaced by people you cared about the most in the world, and the party a catalogue of real events over years.

My family recognised I was getting worse as I distanced myself from everyone and everything. Over the next couple of months, I was only able to answer my phone on a handful of occasions when it vibrated into life during the short window when it was switched on. When it did and I answered, I couldn’t hold a conversation. I wanted to be left alone and I thought about the spitting incident from my time in hospital. Again, a shiver of shame made its way down my spine. Join the queue. My phone would remain switched off for weeks at a time. I was off the grid and my friends tried in vain to contact me. Depression can be an extremely selfish illness.

The Mental Health Team started visiting every couple of days once my family had updated them on my decline. The visits were short. I would be asked questions about my mood, and I had to provide a score out of 10. This must have been painful for the nurses and my family. I found it excruciating. Having people, strangers, see me in this state, a shadow of the person I was, was in short, impossible. Monosyllabic, I had to work hard to muster up my response of “two” for each question. I reasoned “one” would be catatonic and I wasn’t quite there yet.

The Mental Health Team persevered with different combinations of meds over this period, like a team of psychiatric mixologists. Initially, I continued on the highest dose of 15mg of Olanzapine, an anti-psychotic that I had been prescribed in hospital which helped me to sleep through the night, it had successfully slowed my mind to the point now where I was struggling to keep my eyes open in the morning. Without the noradrenaline running amok when manic, I was now slower, walking deeper into the fog of depression each day, lost. They had mentioned amongst other side effects, that the Olanzapine would likely result in weight gain as it increased appetite. They also forewarned the chance of higher cholesterol and potential kidney damage. I couldn’t give a fuck. I’d have eaten glass in that minute if it would have loosened the stranglehold depression now had on my mind.

Prior to all this, I had been taken off Citalopram when I was sectioned at the beginning of January. It was prescribed as part of the misdiagnosis of depression back in 2008. Taking only Citalopram for the best part of four and a half years had been exacerbating my heightened mood. Pouring petrol on the fire. Looking back, it had contributed along with my mind’s own agenda, to produce extended periods of hypomania, impulsivity and chaos. I would have given anything in that moment to be manic again. Instead, I laid on the bed staring at the wall motionless in my mum’s spare bedroom. Curtains drawn and the darkness swallowing me.

The next medication I was prescribed was lithium, a mood stabiliser highly effective at treating bipolar disorder. The Mental Health Team explained that it would take time for this to be effective. I would have to have my lithium levels monitored by blood tests every three months. Not a problem. I wasn’t sure how much time I had left to fight this. I was having to battle to get through every minute. I hoped the lithium would finally help.

They assured me it would get better, but I had to ride it out and fight. Sadly by this point I had no fight left in me. I couldn’t face waking up each day because as soon as I did, the dread in my chest would set in within seconds. The emptiness was killing me. I couldn’t feel anything. I would try and force myself back to sleep each morning for a reprieve, but it was no good. I would lie in bed until one of my family walked me to the bathroom, where I would be asked to shower and brush my teeth. This took an enormous amount of effort and after some encouragement I would comply. Returning to my bed or the sofa downstairs, the daytime TV providing the backing soundtrack for a very sad boring drama. I would lie there all day everyday, my life on pause, unable to focus on the programming. My mum would make me a cup of tea and a sandwich when she returned home at lunch, which I forced down, simply so I could be left to face my demons in self-imposed solitary confinement. February slowly became March, and the days began getting longer. Unfortunately for me the brightness of the evenings was still failing to make any impression on my mind. My mum would take me out into the cold winter afternoon on walks on the odd occasion in an attempt to break the cycle. She would hold my hand trying to comfort me, it wasn’t reciprocated, I had nothing to give.

I was meant to be going to the Cheltenham Festival for the Gold Cup in mid-March with the lads. I had organised tickets in November which had arrived at my mum’s address a couple of weeks before the event. I couldn’t go. Not a chance. Writing this now it is remarkable that I made it over to one of the lads’ houses on the other side of Doncaster. I handed him the tickets as he opened his front door, mumbling something inaudible, I remember him looking puzzled before I retreated to the safety of the car and my brother drove me back to my mum’s. He didn’t have to say it as I could clearly see it from the expression on his face, “Who are you and what the hell have you done with Stenty?”

When I had turned on my phone to get his address before the drive, the messages came through along with countless emails and voicemails. I couldn’t face it; how could I speak to my anyone in this state? Who would want to spend time with me? I was beyond miserable. Embarrassed and ashamed. My family were obligated, but they were as desperate as I was, and they helped me out of love.

I came to the conclusion after weeks of willing my mind to get better that this was the new me. My brain was completely fucked after years of driving with the needle on the rev counter permanently in the red. It wasn’t going to get any better. When the Mental Health Team visited, I didn’t fake a smile anymore. I didn’t sit up. I just laid staring into space as they spoke quietly to my mum. It was apparent to everyone I was getting worse, not better. There wasn’t much further to fall. In a final throw of the dice, they decided after consulting the psychiatrist to prescribe Fluoxetine (Prozac). This is typically something psychiatrists aim to avoid with bipolar patients because of the risk of mania, but they were out of ideas and both me and my family were facing a brick wall, our foreheads bleeding.

Another risk with Selective Serotonin Reuptake inhibitors (SSRIs), is if they are effective and the patient is considering taking their own life, they can enable the patient to act. Studies have shown a slightly improved mood provides the motivation to mobilise and execute the end game. I had lost all hope. Up until now there was part of me deep down at the back of the room quietly mouthing, ‘this could work, hang in there’. Not anymore. This voice had fallen silent. All hope was lost.

In the following days my mum continued to head to work, leaving me in the house alone. I had visitors but I no longer put a brave face on it. My ex-girlfriend arrived at the front door one evening and my mum politely turned her away as she knew I wouldn’t have wanted her to see my sad sunken eyes and the shell of a man laid on the sofa. A shadow of my former self. I would have been ashamed, and this would have made the situation worse. She is an incredible person. After what I had put her through, she still cared and tried to help, forgiving my catalogue of failures.

There was only one way out of this scenario and whilst it would be the worst outcome for the people who loved me, love wasn’t enough to keep me here any longer. I couldn’t face waking up and having to endure hell for another day. Depression is an extremely selfish illness.

My mum headed back to work for the afternoon after coming home for lunch and I got dressed. It had been a good while since I’d been outside, and I felt a little calmer walking along the road beside the canal. I remember it was wet underfoot and there was a cool breeze, a typical quiet weekday afternoon in a market town just outside of Doncaster. I made my way to the A614, there was no pavement, I walked on the side of the road with the ditches and fields either side of me. I walked purposefully up to Tudworth Roundabout, up onto the fly over that crossed the M180. I climbed over the railings and slowly positioned myself overhanging the motorway, looking down at the blurred vehicles passing quickly underneath. I had to find the courage to drop from the concrete ledge and time it so an articulated lorry would put me out of my misery. I didn’t spare a thought for the driver. Depression is an extremely selfish illness.

I hesitated. I tried a couple of times, counting down in my mind but as I willed myself to push off the edge, I caught myself and held on.

“You alright mate?” A voice from behind me asked, just audible above the humm of the traffic passing beneath us.

I turned around and looked at the roadside. Two cars had pulled up in a lay by with their hazards flashing. One guy was sat in his car on the phone and the other stranger in his shirt and tie speaking to me.

“No” I replied, dejected.

“Do us a favour pal come away from there and we can have a chat. Yeah?”

A minute passed as tears ran down my face. The first emotion I’d felt in too long. The stranger continued:

“What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry mate, I’m really sad and I can’t stop it”

“Don’t be sorry. What’s your name?”

“David”

The police arrived. I can’t remember exactly what they said, they were great with me. It wasn’t their first time. I knew my destination; I was being returned to sender. I cannot thank the two strangers who pulled off the motorway cancelling their plans when they saw me on the bridge on that wet March afternoon back in 2013. They saved my life. I never got their details; I didn’t have the presence of mind at the time to ask. The kindness of strangers is never wasted on me.

I was on my way back to St Cath’s three months after I had first set foot into the Cusworth ward. I was the same person by name and appearance only. My older brother left work immediately when called and drove across to Doncaster from his office in Scunthorpe to sit with me, as I waited for my assessment. I narrowly avoided being sectioned. The nurse (Jarvis) spoke at length to my brother and got the assurance she needed. In the weeks that followed my mum arranged for someone to be in the house every minute of the day. Mostly it was her and my brothers. But my cousins, my uncles, my aunties all put in a shift to keep me safe when they needed to. My mum was determined to prevent what happened to my Uncle Cliff all those years ago, happening to me. Knowing all too well the devastation losing someone to suicide, does to a family. She hid the keys, she hid the bottles of bleach, the painkillers, the knives and got rid of anything else she didn’t immediately need that posed a risk. If she had to go out, she would take me up the street to my Uncle Keith and Aunty Lynne, they would watch over me.

I missed our Phil’s 30^th birthday in Edinburgh at the end of March, which was a shame as it would have been great to spend it with him after what he and all my family had done for me throughout this period of my life, but I was still struggling.

Then, a couple of weeks later, I remember it like it was yesterday; a Friday afternoon, mid-April, I walked into the living room and asked my mum and our Tom who were sat chatting,

“Shall we go out for a curry? We haven’t had one in ages.”

They both looked at me startled and couldn’t believe it; it was the first positive thing I’d said in three months. My mum’s prayers had been answered, she had been living this nightmare with me for too long. Since my dad died back in 2002 my mum at 39, had always been the constant for the three of us being Worlds Greatest Mum and Worlds Greatest Dad. Sacrificing herself for her children, the rock we all needed as we set out on adulthood. This whole episode of our lives had required every ounce of resilience she had. I stood in front of her, and it was clear I had turned a corner. The relief was palpable. We had turned a corner. That night we went for a curry together, it was bloody awful, but it didn’t matter, my family were there and for the first time in too long, I was in the room, present.

I recovered slowly from this point and come the end of the summer; I was stable.

Mental health treatment isn’t a perfect science. I am lucky that the psychiatric team found a combination of drugs that keep my mood within a healthy range. I still have periods of depression and periods when my mood is elevated, they are difficult, but they are manageable. It was explained to me that if my normal range without medication is from the floor to the ceiling, the floor being taking my own life and the ceiling full blown mania, so reckless, misadventure would probably kill me. Taking the medication ensures the range is curtailed. The lows and highs are not as extreme. I know some people prefer to live through the highs and the lows without medication. They don’t numb their emotions or their creativity, I honestly don’t think I could ever live through this whole experience again. I certainly wouldn’t want to put my family and friends through it again.

Recently a friend asked me if I worry that I will have another episode as bad as the mania and depression I experienced in the years leading up to and including 2013. I said without any hesitation, no. With the medication, therapy, correct lifestyle choices and the love and support of my family and friends, I am confident I will never be back walking that road. I am very lucky.

It is definitely a case of the ‘the first cut is the deepest’ this was my first real experience of depression. Many men don’t make it through to the other side to share their experience. Death by suicide is still the biggest killer for men under 50, seventy six percent of all suicides are male.

Bipolar is not miraculously cured by medication. Sadly, no mental health conditions are. Mood stabilisers, anti-psychotics and anti-depressants help me; however, everyone is different. Some people don’t respond to treatment. These drugs aren’t what penicillin is to a chest infection. They of course do a lot of good, but bipolar is a lifelong illness that must be constantly managed. Being bipolar doesn’t define me but it is certainly part of who I am, and despite how hard this has been to write, I wouldn’t change it. I’m a better person for it and I hope it goes someway to helping others.

If someone you know hasn’t been their self lately, reach out to them ask them how they are.

Thanks for taking the time to read my story.