I wrote a play about grief and working class men. Now I want blokes from the pub to come and see it

“The pressure of today’s society.” Sentences like that have always cringed me out. Speaking about class always sent me under as well to be fair, because until I went to an acting school at 24 I didn’t really understand that I was working class.

I had a trade that my dad and his dad had, but I wouldn’t say I was struggling within the constraints of my class, you know? I didn’t get Lacoste tracksuits for my birthday but then if you’re getting Lacoste tracksuits for your birthday, I’d argue you’re still closer to ‘us’ than ‘them’, at least when I was at high school.

When I went to London to train, I became acutely aware of a few things: how “soft” all the lads were, how they complained and how uncomfortable they could make me feel. I remember speaking to my boys back home and laughing at these thespians who were complaining about half 8 or even 9 o’clock starts but also about how openly they would speak about past hurts or future worries, which again was something I wasn’t at all used to. 

Enduring difficulties was part and parcel of being in the building trade, it’s hard work. It was also what normality looked like to them, the holidays they went on, different cultures they’d experienced, what their parents did for work and how old they were when they fell in love with creativity and expression, here I felt I was at a disadvantage.

In lockdown, one of my dearest friends took his own life. Dillon was a core part of my youth and formative years. Even though I knew at that point of his life he was dealing with stress and uncertainty, I never thought in a million years I’d lose him because of it. I’d been with him only a week before, having a laugh and a drink, doing the same shit we always have, so when I got the news, while plastering a little media wall in my mum’s living room, I called my friend Ben a liar. I sat on the floor and called the person telling me a liar.

That’s why I started to write RUM. To understand. I had to find out why, I wanted to know if he’d tried to tell me, why he didn’t tell me, if I could have stopped it… a rabbit hole that will really fuck your head up.

Dillon grew up on Offy estate, about five minutes from my house, then was fostered by my best mate who lived a couple streets down. Which is when he became one of us. Dillon had grown up around drugs and violence and I think he found comfort in knowing that some of my stories were similar to his.

But once we knew we had that certain similarity I don’t know that we spoke about it again sober, in fact we didn’t, but we did share similar traits that others in our friendship group didn’t.

When I started to develop my writing, I realised anything that happened to my closest friends and I in our childhood, things we should probably call traumatic, were swept under the carpet. In fact, sweeping it under the carpet was a bond, a sign of our friendship. And if we got into trouble, violent or otherwise, it was our job to laugh.

Today I hear all the time that ‘men should speak up’ and ‘boys cry too’, which of course, I think is ace. My play is more about why we don’t, and what I realised in constantly asking myself: “why don’t lads from our backgrounds talk about their mental health?”

I thought the place itself, society, the men and women who you look up to and surround yourself with are key. Obviously that’s the problem, but growing up you don’t get a choice about that, do you? We can never have that choice, which is why I think this play is important.

Luckily I’m not the only one reaching out, there’s a whole movement of support. Andy’s Man Club was a charity we reached out to straight away. Their message is my message. I went to a meeting last year and it broke my heart. Not because it was sad but because I think it could have saved Dillon. They were the men you’d see in the pubs, or at footy games, but they were just talking, listening to each other, about how hard life was at the moment, about work, about relationships and their past. It felt like a step in the right direction. 

Read more:

• Our approach to mental health isn’t working – here’s what needs to change
• Britain’s mental health crisis is a leadership crisis, too
• More than half of people with mental health problems regularly run out of money

I’m praying RUM will get picked up by one of the production companies who seem to be taking note of the show (a number of TV production companies showed strong interest following the show’s short run at the Edinburgh Fringe). That’s my goal now, I’m fully aware of the audience and the limited reach of an English theatre, which is why I am banging on for people to bring men that “aren’t into theatre” to come and watch, because ultimately that’s my audience.

When I’m on tour and I get to perform the show every night, I pretend I’m doing it in front of a pub full of the men and the lads I went to school with. I hope they watch it, and laugh at the similarities, see the holes in our truth, and think about what they’re teaching their children.

Joe Mallalieu is performing RUM is at Camden People’s Theatre, London from 22-25 April then touring across the UK. Full details of the tour can be found here.

ANDYSMANCLUB run peer-to-peer support groups for men over 18 going through storms in their lives, every Monday at 7pm excluding bank holidays. Groups are free to attend with no registration required. To find out more, email info@andysmanclub.co.uk or head to ANDYSMANCLUB’s website.

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