From Fear of Shopkeepers to the House of Commons — My 60-Year Journey With a Stammer
This is my stammering story — something that has shaped almost every decade of my life.
From childhood embarrassment and schoolyard cruelty… to avoiding shops, changing words, dodging phone calls, and pretending I was “fine”.
But also from that journey came resilience, humour, surprising achievements, and a sense of pride I never expected — including being invited to the House of Commons.
This isn’t a medical guide. It’s an honest, personal account of what it’s really like to live with a stammer in your 60s and look back over the path that brought you here.
Prefer to watch? Here’s the doodle-video version of this story:
Growing Up With a Stammer
I’ve had a stammer for as long as I can remember. Some of my earliest memories are of:
- the register
- reading aloud
- teachers pausing at my name
- children giggling
- my stomach dropping
Kids notice everything. They noticed my blocks, my pauses, my fear. It didn’t make me angry. It made me smaller. Looking back now, this moment sits right at the heart of my stammering story.
School in the 60s and 70s Was Brutal
School in the late 60s and early 70s wasn’t gentle. There was no awareness, no support, no training — and certainly no compassion for a child who couldn’t get his words out.
Once, I finished a word after the school bell rang… and I was caned for it. Caned, for stammering.
Another teacher — the woodwork teacher — used to mock me in front of the whole class. He’d make jokes, imitate my blocks, turn me red with embarrassment while the room laughed.
I think about my twin boys now, around the same age I was then, and I can’t even imagine the horror of them coming home and telling me that had happened. It wouldn’t be tolerated today. Back then, it was normal. Those were different times, but the marks stay with you — they’re all woven through my stammering story.
Finding Strange Solutions in My Teens and Twenties
Fear makes you inventive, especially when you’re a teenager.
On lads’ holidays to Spain, I used to pretend to be Hans from Hamburg. Being blond back then helped. “Hans” only spoke a little English, which meant I didn’t have to speak much at all.
It actually worked. Unless, of course, the girl was German.
Looking back, it was ridiculous. At the time, it was survival.
Avoidance Becomes a Lifestyle
When you stammer, you learn to avoid danger before it even arrives.
I avoided speaking to shopkeepers. Avoided certain words. Avoided ordering food. Avoided saying my own name sometimes.
Phones were a nightmare. If I was alone in the office and the phone rang, I’d hide in the corner and hope it stopped.
Work meetings were worse. Not because I didn’t have ideas — but because I couldn’t get them out. People thought I wasn’t interested. Inside, I was screaming the answers.
Ordering drinks was another ordeal. People thought I was tight because I never wanted to get a round in. The truth? Words like “pint”, “lager”, “vodka”, “bottle” were all landmines.
My workaround was to pretend I needed the toilet, hand someone money, and ask them to get my drink. It looked generous. It was actually fear.
There was also the infamous Watermelon Bacardi Breezer incident at a work Christmas party — a cocktail of all my feared words.
I used to smoke, and I’d stammer while exhaling. People called me Thomas the Tank Engine. Years later, I named my son Thomas. Life has a sense of humour.
But the worst part wasn’t the moment itself. It was the afterwards — the shame. The sitting-in-the-car moment where you say, “Why can’t I just talk like everyone else?” That shame is heavy. Heavier than any stammer.
1996 — The Turning Point
Two weeks before my wedding, I joined the McGuire Programme. Terrible timing… or perfect timing. At this point in my stammering story, things finally began to change.
My Wedding Day
I still remember saying my vows. The big breath. The deliberate technique. People assumed I’d sprinted to the church. But that was just me speaking with purpose — maybe for the first time.
And Elaine? She never cared about the stammer. She never even heard it. She just heard me.
Becoming a Coach
I became a coach on the programme. I helped people who were where I used to be. I watched others say their names confidently for the first time.
Speakers’ Corner — The Last Place I Expected to Be
On the way there, part of the training was to deliberately stammer in public. I approached a policeman and asked for directions to Hyde Park, intentionally stammering.
He laughed and said: “Are you going to Speakers’ Corner?”
The irony? Yes. I was on my way to stand on a soapbox and give a speech — something I’d spent decades avoiding. It was the first time in my stammering story that I felt powerful rather than ashamed.
Invited to the House of Commons
Twice, I was invited to the House of Commons for events about stammering.
I met MPs — including Ed Balls. I stood next to a Scotland rugby player who was twice my size. It turns out even the strongest need help breathing sometimes.
The Shame I Carried
I’ve spent decades beating myself up — after meetings, after phone calls, after social events, after drinks I couldn’t order, after times I stayed silent when I had something to say.
The shame didn’t come from the words I couldn’t say. It came from the person I thought I should have been.
Today — Stammering Without Punishing Myself
Here’s the honest truth: I still stammer. Sometimes badly. People at work see it. My family sees it.
But now, I don’t sit in the car afterwards punishing myself. I don’t hate myself for it. I don’t feel broken.
And I don’t let shame control the narrative anymore. I’m proud of my stammering story now — not ashamed of it.
A Final Thought
If you stammer — or your child does — please know this:
- You are not weak.
- You are not stupid.
- You are not broken.
- And you are not alone.
You’re braver than you think. Every day. Every sentence. Every sound. At any age. Even at sixty.
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