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!

Fact not fiction, Fiction, Mania, manic depression, Mental Health, Music, Political commentary, Section 2 Mental Health Act, Uncategorized

right down to the bottom (3 of 4)

Posted on July 4, 2026 by David Clifford Stent

I woke in the middle of the night. Whatever liquid was in the needle certainly did the trick, great for a post music festival coach trip home. I had been out and missed the evening meal, dodged a bullet. Shivering on a blue plastic mat, I looked up. A psychiatric nurse was sat at her post, eyes glazed (she might have had one as well?) watching another slow night pass through the looking glass. My movement rescued her from the boredom. It was the most peace and quiet I had experienced for a long time, same for her I bet. Groggy, my mind turned over slowly, cognitive function lowered, I was still a long way from normal. I was kept in the panic room after waking for a few more hours, until the sun showed his face through the larger windows up high on the cleaner, whiter walls.

When I exited the holding bay, I walked into what most would expect a psychiatric unit to look like. There was space. It was friendlier, calmer and the windows seemed designed to allow more natural light to cascade across the shiny, laminate floors. More importantly the nurse-to-patient ratio was nearly one nurse for every two patients. I relaxed; it wasn’t going to be as stressful in here. I knew it.

In the Psychiatric Intensive Care unit, Skelbrooke Ward, I met other patients; some acute, some in it for the long haul. This was now the knockout stage of the Champions League. I’m as competitive as the next person, but I was slowly realising this wasn’t a competition I wanted to see through. Fuck knows what you would win; a lifetime supply of Prozac, Zopiclone and a signed Straight Jacket by the patients and staff. After my performance the day before I had made it through to the Semis after demolishing the opposition.

The self-harming young girl who had swallowed the batteries earlier in the week was present and correct, as was another lad called David, and an older, very rude patient. He remained nameless, a mute from what I could gather. I am not writing about myself in the third person, with my reference to psychosis previously. David was in the hospital after an incident in prison where he was serving another sentence for a violent burglary. He was tall, wiry, and refreshingly friendly and articulate. I instantly warmed to him. He wanted to know more about what happened in the Cusworth Ward. I happily provided cigarettes and we spent a lot of time in the smoking area chatting. You’ve got to love fresh air. In the first few days I missed listening to music, but my family provided an old iPod, and this helped. When I find myself not able to enjoy music, I am seriously in the shit. I shared earphones with David and spent hours introducing him to what I had been listening to recently.

There was a gym, granted nothing to write home about, but it was something to keep my mind occupied. The rowing machine helped; I was keen to use it when one of the nurses was free to accompany me. They sat on a few occasions and watched me row 2500m over 250m intervals, 20 seconds rest, another notch of resistance up / down. 10 to 1, 1 to 10. I used to do this religiously after each gym session with an old pal when we lived in Manchester, a great time of my life. I had slowly dismantled the friendship since then which still upsets me, but I have done everything in my armoury to atone for my mistakes. Exercising helps improve my mental health massively especially when I push myself. Something extremely cathartic in it. Maybe the pause from pain nullifies the thinking, still haven’t put my finger quite on it but it still helps immensely.

I wrote a lot to my responsible clinician, most days in fact. I would request a pen and some blank paper and list the reasons why I shouldn’t be held in captivity. Often losing my train of thought, I would grab a blank sheet and propose new ways the hospital could save money, improve the health care, and reduce the risks to patients. Like the black rhino knows too well, all this fell on deaf ears but helped me pass the time. You’re staying in the zoo pal.

There were a lot of seriously ill people on the ward as you would expect, I hadn’t yet noticed myself staring back in the reflection of the porthole windows. Some patients I didn’t get to know. Some were unable to leave their rooms. I used to walk the ward and wander past a young lad, he was catatonic, held in an unresponsive stupor. I had never seen this before. It was extremely hard and frightening to witness. He would lie still, eyes fixed on the wall like a statue, beyond help, the nursing staff would try and feed him and give him fluids. Again, made me realise what a powerful bit of kit the mind is. Lost in his own mind. As I write this I am learning about Kanye West and his current plight, reluctant like I was to listen to the professionals, that can help manage bipolar disorder. Another person dismantling his life, piece by piece, impulsive act by impulsive act. I empathise and hope he has people he loves fighting with him. He’ll need them when the parasites have had their fill and there is no more money to be made. Jesus walks indeed.

Visiting time was always welcome, breaking up the monotony of the day. The first visit in the new ward was from my mum and my older brother. I was still heartbroken that my mum had done the right thing, the only thing she could do; giving her permission for me to be detained in the psychiatric unit. In the visiting room I waited, and they walked in. They had brought me some fresh orange juice, worried I wasn’t getting my vitamin C, always caring, and always thinking of me. I was pleased to see them, but I was also angry. I lost my temper. I erupted. Again. Screaming at my mum and our Phil,

“HOW COULD YOU DO THIS!!! A fucking psychiatric hospital!!! I’m fucked now!!!”

One of the nurses quickly came to the room to make sure everything was okay. Crying and sobbing, I was inconsolable. So were my family. I had strained so hard screaming; my nose had started bleeding from the pressure exerted, blood and tears dripped slowly onto the floor. I felt betrayed. They persisted to appease me. After a while, I calmed down and the nurse left us to talk to one another. This was the first time, realising from the look of concern and worry facing me. I had to start listening to the people who loved me and the medical professionals around me.

From this point, I realised I wasn’t getting out of here in my current state of mind. That evening when my family left, I enjoyed a cigarette and mentioned to David that I would start taking my medication. He explained how lucky I was that I had people that cared who would come and visit me in hospital. His mum had never visited him since he had been sectioned at her discretion. He had a brother who was also doing porridge, so he never saw him either.

He went on to tell me about helping a friend of his when he was in prison. How he had been in and out of prison since he was a teenager. I remember him saying sometimes doing the right thing isn’t always the easiest option. When he was in prison his friend was late down to lunch, he panicked and raised the alarm with the prison guards. It turned out his friend had overdosed and was lifeless in his cell. Fortunately, on this occasion he was saved thanks to David noticing his empty chair in the lunch hall. Later in the day one of his other friends would stick a blunt object through David’s neck. David had received all the plaudits for saving his life and this lad did not like that one bit.

David showed me the scar at base of his skull, just inside in his hairline. I in turn showed David the scar on my arm where I had placed with force, a heated knife and branded myself whilst travelling in Thailand in 2008 to commemorate the trip. Hypermania and alcohol, a toxic mix.

I had battled mania and depression for years and only now was it being correctly treated. I thanked him for sharing his story with me and thought about my family, all raising the alarm and doing the hardest thing so I could get the help that I so sorely needed. I slept that night; it was the first time I had slept through in a very long time aside from the post Glasto cocktail. The fasten seatbelts sign was flashing, we were coming into land. It wouldn’t be exactly one from the flight manual.

Over the following days I took my medication from the little paper cup and noticed a change. I was calmer. My short temper and my obsession with escaping waned. I managed to hold my focus a lot more. I kept up my exercise routine, body weight circuits and the punishing session on the rower. I worked on my relationship with the caring psychiatric nurses who I would spend my days with as well as the other patients. I didn’t call them by their first name, instead I learned their favourite musician and called them by the him or her they loved. I insisted that they referred to me as Alex. It amused them a little and I thought helped me recover some of the ground lost when I was selfishly serving my own interests in the other ward. I can’t remember too many nurses by name, but there were a couple who made a lasting impression. Years later I bumped into Tom and Jarvis, as they sat outside The Salutation Pub in Doncaster. It was great to see them, and they were together which was a great result. A romantic relationship created in the Forge of St Cath’s; I suspected this one would last. I thanked them with a beer for treating me like a person, treating my illness and helping me to help myself.

Following my behaviour, the responsible clinician, Dr Alikhan pushed for keeping me in the hospital under Section 3 of the Mental Health Act, for a period of “treatment”. If you think Section 2 sounds harrowing, I can assure you Section 3 is a lot worse. It would have had ramifications for work, travel and could have seen me being kept in hospital for a period of up to 6 months. Everyone pulled together to avoid this, the nurses, the social worker, and my family. My Uncle Séa, one of my mum’s younger brothers was unbelievable through this period. He had direct contact with the social worker fighting my corner. He would travel across from Leeds after work each day and with the social worker would push buttons and pull levers. The night before my Mental Health Tribunal, the team stayed up through the night, preparing and ensuring the evidence was compelling to fight the psychiatrist’s recommendation. The odds were against us, but again with love and support we got the result my family, friends and I wanted. I was kept in for further assessment under Section 2 of the Mental Health Act. I remember my Uncle Pad and my Uncle Tom coming to visit me when my mum and brother couldn’t. I also spared a thought for my younger brother as he was away travelling in Australia. Having the lead up to this play out regrettably on social media, I now know that I was the main reason he cut his trip short to support me and my family. Some boy. Both of my brothers are incredible people.

What is astonishing looking back is the cost of treatment. If you factor in the cost of a bed in a psychiatric unit for the best part of four weeks, nurses, psychiatrists, the support of a social worker, a solicitor, support staff, the help of the police, paramedics, doctors on numerous occasions. This has me thinking of the cost of the number of prisoners not correctly diagnosed for an illness, they are often in the wrong place. The cost of their crimes. The emphasis of early detection of mental health symptoms and how important correct treatment is. I would like to say in the past decade since my correct diagnosis we have come a long way.

Truth is, whilst society is now discussing mental health, it has become more normalised, less stigmatised and I have noticed more people at both work and in my personal life talking about their mental health. In this same period since I was in hospital more funding has been allocated to mental health spending by our NHS. Whilst this is admirable of the government and welcome, waiting times for children and young people in need of assessment and treatment has increased. Young people with life threatening conditions can wait more than 100 days before receiving any form of treatment. I know there isn’t a magic money tree and 14.9% of all funding allocated to Clinical Commissioning Groups for health services is for mental health, learning disability and dementia. Again great but when you think of the billions wasted, for instance on bogus PPE contracts by the Tories. Money that would have gone a long way in helping prevent more young people going through the mill. Getting the help they need before they are desperate. In some cases it is too late compounding the situation more for grieving families.

My parachute didn’t open first time and I relied on my reserve chute for the next ten days in hospital. I slowly descended to earth once it had successfully deployed. There were a couple of hairy moments. I remember the old bloke who didn’t say anything, never engaged or acknowledged anyone, the nurses or patients who tried to help him. I couldn’t stand this. He only ever ate Weetabix with warm milk for breakfast and dinner. I had been told by David to steer clear and memorably that he hated spitting.

One morning whilst smoking outside watching the sun come up over the grey hospital buildings, the old boy was patrolling. I coughed, cleared my throat, and spat the phlegm to the floor at his feet. He snapped, HE’S ALIVE!!! Charging at me, disgusted and ready to knock my head clean off my shoulders, he grabbed me by the throat, shouting incoherent bollocks. I held him at arm’s length despite him having had his Weetabix. I dropped my cigarette, banging my fist on the window of the nurses office, where they were sat enjoying an early morning coffee. Tom responded quickly and ran outside diffusing the situation, restraining old man river. A few hours on the blue mat for you young man. I blew him a kiss as he was escorted back inside.

I learned later prior to his visit to St Cath’s he had consumed two bottles of Domestos’ finest vintage to take his own life and it wasn’t on his hair. This hadn’t worked out well and had sadly left him with serious complications, consequently the only food he was able to digest had to be soft, which explained the Weetabix. I never got to the bottom of the spitting, I didn’t press that button again. Manners cost nothing.

The medication I was prescribed were not the magic pill we all hope for, my mood was still elevated. I wasn’t the easiest patient to treat looking back writing this, I demanded a lot of time from the nurses. I spoke to the psychiatrist only three times in my whole stay and one was when the bastard was trying to keep me for another six months; this was only for approximately 45 minutes at each meeting. That’s less than an hour a week with a psychiatrist. Hardly intensive care. I know this is the manifestation of a lack of skilled staff, resources, and time. We can and must do better.

The hospital manager relied heavily on the overworked psychiatric nurses and support staff who always cared for the patients as best they could. They reported back from what I could gather to the responsible clinicians. She also relied heavily on their goodwill, asking them to stay late, start early, cancelling their plans to work that extra bank shift. I didn’t doubt they would sit vacant at their dinner table, exhausted when with their family and friends. Lying awake, thinking of what had happened or what was going to happen next time they were on shift.

Don’t forget though Tom and Jarvis, we clapped for you on our doorsteps during Covid, what more do you want?

Better pay and conditions please. This might prevent the brain drain to private healthcare.

You ungrateful bastards! No chance. If you don’t like it go do something else. Amazon Warehouse is hiring down the road. Honestly the people these days, want it on a plate.

One evening I set my room up and set a prank on one of the nurses. I had got to know Tom well, not well enough. I positioned my jeans and shoes coming from the shower with the curtain drawn and stuffed my jeans with toilet tissue so that it appeared that my legs were in them. I then left a pillow in view of the porthole window, with a note on it. I can’t remember exactly what I wrote in blood on the pillow (no pens allowed), but it can’t have been pleasant for him to read when he did his rounds and peered through to see if I was safely asleep in my bed. I had crawled from my room and hidden behind one of the sofas in the main living area, waiting for the nurse’s office door to click.

Tom was remarkably calm when he returned to the living space having walked into my exhibition of poor taste. I laughed and he begrudgingly did too, ‘Very funny, I’m glad I found that and not one of the other nurses, come on get to bed’.

The next day I learned that one of the patients had taken their life in their room two weeks prior to my arrival. Very poor form from me. This looking back explains how my mood was levelling, but it was far from what one would call normal, and my behaviour was still erratic and impulsive. I was being given 15mg of Olanzapine, an antipsychotic and whilst this helped me sleep it didn’t relieve me of my mania completely and I still needed to be under observation.

For the rest of the time, I played the X Box, listened to music, completed jigsaws with David and chatted to the nurses. Deploying the waiting tactic meant finally, after three and a half weeks skydiving, I was discharged.

I promised David I would come back to visit when I got the chance. In the week after leaving, I kept my word and returned buying David a tall caramel latte and a retro Leeds United shirt. This is / was his team. His face told me it made his day.

Sadly, the next time I returned; it wouldn’t be to treat mania. I had hit the ground hard, and I didn’t stop there.