Instrumental. James Rhodes

it represents so much more than the ‘look at me, I’m on TV’ venereal disease that I’m a Celebrity . . ., Big Brother and Piers Morgan have infected us all with by continually fucking us in the ass via all media everywhere.

      It is almost exactly six years since I was discharged from a secure mental institution.

      I got out of my last mental hospital in 2007, off my face on meds, with no career, no manager, no albums, concerts, money or dignity. And now I am about to appear in front of an expected million-plus viewers in a prime-time Channel 4 documentary with my name in the title. So yes, even with the obligatory indignant, self-righteous, victim pout, it is a big deal.

      All the more so because it could so easily have been a Channel 5 documentary entitled ‘I ate my own penis to stop the aliens taking me. Again’. It could equally have been a CCTV excerpt from an episode of Crimewatch. But it isn’t. It’s something brilliant and honest and awkward and uncomfortable. Like a first date where you over-share (a lot) but don’t care because she’s hot and lovely and you want to crawl inside her and die from the moment you meet her.

      The premise behind the film we made is that music heals. It offers a shot at redemption. It is one of the few things (non-chemical) that can burrow into our hearts and minds and do genuine good. And so I take a giant Steinway model D (the best there is, all £120,000 and 1300lbs of it) into a locked psychiatric ward, meet four schizophrenic patients and, after chatting to them, I play to them individually. They feel better, I look wistful, we all go on a journey of self-discovery and reach a better place.

      So far, so TV exec wet dream, so vom.

      But it is a powerful film. Pick of the day in every newspaper, and tear-inducing but not in a manipulative, ITV kind of way. The whole USP with the press is that I’m not just presenting and performing in it, but that it’s especially poignant (their word) because I, too, was institutionalised and spent several months in secure psychiatric wards. They lap that victim-turned-success shit up. And, for my part, I love it. I’ll do all the publicity I can get. Get in as many radio and TV interviews, double-page spreads and magazine shoots as I can.

      As things build over time, I will use my backstory and minimal talent to flog albums, help charities, tour, do more TV and try to make a difference to those who don’t have a voice. Those who are dealing with the darkest, most desperate symptoms and circumstances and have no one to hear them – the ignored, belittled, lonely, lost, isolated. The ones you see shuffling along in their own little worlds, heads down, eyes switched off, unheard and backed into a terrible, silent corner.

      But I will also use it to try to make a difference to me personally. I will use it to make money and buy shit I don’t need. Upgrade everything. Become visible and soaked through with attention. My head tells me I need this. That I hunger for it. Because at some level I believe that there is a slim chance that (commercial) success, coupled with attention, will finally fix what is wrong with me.

      And if it doesn’t then I will go to Vegas, spend an aggressive amount of money in an even more aggressively short period of time and then blow my brains out.

      We all watch the show. And I feel uncomfortable and exposed. Like listening to your voice on an answerphone for an hour in front of a room full of people. Naked. There’s nothing quite like seeing your own name trending at the number one spot on Twitter while having literally thousands of comments, messages, tweets, Facebook updates all about you, to make you hunger for the isolation and security of a padded cell. It’s the flip side of being an attention-seeking asshole – we shout ‘look at me’ for long enough and then when people do, we get confused and startled and moan about it. Shine a light on anything involving dodgy motives and it generally wants to crawl away in shame.

      It goes down well in my messy little living room. Of course it does. We eat. They all say nice things because that’s what you do if you’re not socially retarded, and I get everyone except Hattie out the house, and go to bed.

      All I’m thinking about is what a dick I look like on screen, all ill-fitting jeans, stupid hair, dodgy piano skills and ingratiating voice. How I should have prepared more for it and whether or not I’ll get to feel important by being recognised on the Tube tomorrow. And then I get bored and angry at myself and force myself to think about the six concerts I have that are coming up in the next ten days. I do my usual night-time routine and, in my head, start going through each piece I’ll be playing bar by bar. I check all the key ingredients that go into a concert – memory (in my head can I watch myself playing and see my hands hitting all the right notes?); structure (how does each section relate to the others, where are the important shifts and changes, how is the whole thing unified and related); dialogue (what’s the story being told and how does that best get expressed); voicing (in a passage which contains several different melodies hidden among the notes, do I choose the obvious one or find inner voices that say something new); and on and on. It’s like having a fucked record player living in my brain with an inbuilt music critic providing commentary; I start at the beginning of each piece and every time I make a mistake or my memory falters slightly I have to start again from the beginning. Which, with a seventy-five minute concert programme, can take a while. But it serves its purpose and stops me thinking about other things which, if I’m not careful, will take me down a road that leads to nothing but trouble.

      I manage three hours’ sleep. And the minute I wake up, it’s on me. This thing that is more often than not my near-constant companion.

      There is an addiction that is more destructive and dangerous than any drug, and it is rarely even acknowledged, let alone talked about. It is insidious, pervasive and at epidemic levels. It is the primary cause of the culture of entitlement, laziness and depression that surrounds us. It is an art form, an identity, a way of life and has a bottomless, infinite capacity for pain.

      It is Victimhood.

      Victimhood becomes, in a remarkably short period of time, a self-fulfilling prophecy. And having spent so long indulging it, it has its grip on me in ways that serve simply to anchor me further in the self-constructed hell that is The Victim.

      When I was a child, there were things that happened to me, were done to me, that led to me operating my life from the position that I, and only I, am to blame for the things inside me that I despise. Clearly someone could only do those things to me if I were already inherently bad at a cellular level. And all the knowledge and understanding and kindness in the world will never, ever change the fact that this is my truth. Always has been. Always will be.

      Ask anyone who’s been raped. If they say differently they’re lying.

      Victims only get their happy endings in run-down massage parlours in Camden. We don’t get to make it out the other side. We are ashamed, angry, appalled and to blame.

      I sat there on that Wednesday evening in my pokey fucking living room, looked at myself on the TV screen being a massive, odious cunt, and realised that nothing has really changed. Deep down, like most of us, still now at the age of thirty-eight, I have this empty, black hole inside of me that nothing and no one seems capable of filling. I say like most of us because, well, look around you. Our society, our businesses, our social constructs, habits, pastimes, addictions and distractions are predicated on vast, endemic levels of emptiness and dissatisfaction. I call it self-hatred.

      I hate who I was, am and have become and, as we are taught to, I constantly chastise myself for the things I do and say. And such are the global levels of intolerance, greed, entitlement and dysfunction it is evidently not just confined to a small, wounded section of society. We are all in a world of pain. If it was ever any different way back in the past, it has, by now, most certainly become normalised. And I am as angry about that as I am about my own past.

      There is an anger that runs underneath everything, that fuels my life and feeds the animal inside me. And it is an anger that always, always prevents me, despite my best efforts, from becoming a better version of myself. My goddamn head seems to have a life of its own, quite beyond my control, incapable of reason, compassion or bargaining. It shouts at me from deep inside. As a kid the words didn’t make sense. As an adult it’s waiting at the end of my bed and starts talking an hour or two before I wake up so that when my eyes open it is in full-on rage mode,