WHY I STOPPED BEING A STAND-UP COMEDIAN

Chapter 2

Dr Rachel Pinney is a child psychiatrist and she hates bullying, too, I suspect. Dr. Rachel Pinney is also a very unusual woman. She not only cares about children. She also does something about it.

 Rachel Pinney wrote a book called Bobby. Bobby is the story of an American child who was diagnosed as autistic. When Rachel met him he was four and facing life-long institutionalisation. She worked with Bobby. When she left him he was six and perceived as "normal". He's now eighteen and about to enter university. So he's facing life-long institutionalisation after all.

 I met Rachel. We talked about Bobby. Rachel said, “Maybe I did the wrong thing. Instead of getting Bobby to fit into the world, maybe I should have got the world to fit round Bobby.”

 Here's a story about Rachel and her attitude to children, told by one of her American assistants, Mimi. 

            I was with Rachel in a bank – there was the almost inevitable policeman with a gun, standing around on the alert for trouble.

            Suddenly, the policeman ran. I had rarely, if ever, seen a bank policeman run. Was I about to witness a robbery?

            A small toddler of about two years of age was running in the bank. He had bumped into a metal stand – the metal stand swayed slightly – and the policeman ran.

            I watched the policeman pick up the metal stand and then go and talk loudly to the child and his mother. Someone muttered the usual remark, “He'll get hurt.” The child was integrated with his mother and the policeman was back with an amazing look of satisfaction on his face. “I have averted an accident.”

            Then the child started to cry. Rachel sprang into action. Rachel always springs into action if she hears a child cry. First she took a quick look at the policeman to see if he connected the child's crying with his actions; he clearly did not. He still had that look of satisfaction on his face. I doubt if he even heard the child cry; crying children, in his eyes, would be one of society's norms, requiring no concern or action on his part.

            Rachel walked over, looked straight at the child, and said, “Sads end. Sads really do end. You've got a sad. Yes, you've got a bad sad, you have. But sads really do end.”

            The child stopped crying. Fixed his eyes on Rachel. The child was ecstatic; gone were the tears and on his face was: “I'm being listened to. She understands.”

            The policeman had avoided the fall of the metal stand and its remote possibility of bruising the child. He was oblivious of the fact that he had created the crying. He had avoided physical injury and created mental injury.

            A child in prison is a deprived child; a deprived child is a sick child; a sick child grows into a sick adult; a sick adult needs a sick society and a sick society needs cops with guns in banks.

When I met Rachel I soon discovered that she is not the easiest person in the world to have a conversation with. She's highly dogmatic, highly opinionated, doesn't think much of anyone over the age of nine and has a very strong moral code – and if you don't match up to it – you’ve had it.

We talked for about an hour. Sometimes you can get a lot done in an hour. During the conversation, the topic of London came up. At the time I was writing a song about London. The first verse went:

            Living in London can be good

            But don't take it for granted.

            Going for a walk on Dogshit Heath

            You might tread in some Hampstead.

I remember saying, “If I had a hammer, Rachel… if I had a hammer I'd knock this town down and we'd have to build another one. And it couldn't be any worse than the one we've got now.”

And Dr. Rachel Pinney, who's deaf, lame and in her eighties said, “There's a hammer in the second drawer down. Go and get it.”

I went and got it. I gave her the hammer. She said, “Right. When do we start?”

And she meant it. Nervously, I replied, “Er… anytime you like.”

Brandishing the hammer, Rachel said, “How about if we get all our friends together and we go on a march with our hammers and shout, "We're going to knock this town down"?”

And I thought, “Yeah. How about it?”

 Rachel said, “What do you think the police would do?”

 I said, “If they thought we were joking – nothing. If they thought we were serious they'd take away our hammers. And then us.”

 Rachel said, “What if we had our hammers padded?”

I'm now seriously worried. She means it. And the last thing I feel like doing is marching round London with some eighty year old woman and her friends, waving padded hammers, and shouting, “We're going to knock this town down.” But rather than appear to be a Coward I decided to be Clever. I said, “I'll tell you what, Rachel – the police can't take away an imaginary hammer.”

 Rachel laughed. (Thank God.) Then she placed the hammer on the table and said, “Normally, I put everything away so I know where everything is. But today, I'll leave the hammer here. This will be a symbol for the day.”

 Which felt good.

 On the following Sunday, at about eight a.m., a man started drilling outside our house.

 At the time, I lived in London opposite a building that someone with money had decided to rebuild in order to make more money. And when they're rebuilding places in London for money they don't use hammers that are padded. No, they make as much noise as they possibly can. And then they get the drills out.

 Is there anyway that noise can be stopped? Not one that I could find. The council, the police, you name it – no one could turn off that noise. So, on Sunday morning at 8.30 a.m., after weeks of continuous noise, when the road drill started up outside my front door, I thought, “Right. I think I'll get my hammer out.”

 I got my hammer out. I went outside. I didn't hit a human being. I hit a machine. The compressor – the machine that drives the drill.

 Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! I went

 “Turn it off!” I said.

 Off it was turned.

 “What number do you live at, mate?” he said.

 “Number seventeen.”

 “Thank you.”

 I went inside. Put my hammer back in its drawer – and I felt great. I'd turned off a drill! I'd created silence! I felt wonderful! Wonderful! And what always happens when you're feeling wonderful? That's right. The police come along.

 Two of them. Police Constable Ricky – who was the nice one. And Police Constable Steve – who wasn't.

 Police Constable Ricky, I liked him a lot. He let me out of my cell. Anyone, who lets you out of a cell is a friend for life. True, he also locked me in the cell …

 Police Constable Ricky's number, on his epaulette, was 665 …

 I told him, “That was fucking close, Ricky.”

 Anyway, the two police boys came into my house, I told them my story, and Police Constable Steve said, “Could we see the hammer, please, John?”

 I thought, “What do you want to see the hammer for? Who do you think I am? Thor? It's an ordinary hammer. What are you expecting? A dirty great big thing covered in blood and hair?”

 I went to the drawer to get my hammer. I opened the drawer – and the hammer had gone. I mean, it had literally gone. It had become an imaginary hammer. And the police couldn't take it away