I swore at the Queen. She was very kind

Times

8 hours ago

An invitation to meet the monarch might make anyone anxious. There's the dress code and the correct royal address, plus the bowing or curtsying to think about. So when John Davidson was asked to meet Queen Elizabeth in 2019 he could be forgiven his nerves. 'It was already daunting,' Davidson says. 'But for people like me, pressure and stress make you do your absolute worst.'His troubles began as his car entered Holyrood Palace in Edinburgh and police inspected the vehicle's underside with little mirrors on stalks. Donaldson opened the car window and began shouting: 'A bomb! I've got a f***ing bomb!' By the time he was in front of Her Majesty, all royal protocol was out the window, the voice in his head too hard to control. 'F*** the Queen!' he shouted.'Her Majesty was very kind. She was as calm and assured as my granny. She was very good about it,' Davidson says.
Welcome to the extraordinary world of Tourette syndrome. The Queen made allowances for Davidson (he'd already shouted 'I'm a paedo!' in the tapestry-lined hallway) because he was there to receive an MBE for his work raising awareness about the condition.
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According to NHS England, Tourette syndrome affects one in a hundred school-age children, but it's almost certainly not what you think it is. Coprolalia (swearing) affects about 10 per cent of those with the condition; echolalia (repeating others' words) and palilalia (repeating one's own words) are more common. Up to 85 per cent also have conditions including OCD, ADHD, anxiety and autism.
Physical 'ticcing', which might involve exaggerated blinking or twitching, is common too, although in Davidson's case it includes grander gestures such as shoving loved ones towards traffic or putting hands over a driver's eyes when they are at the wheel of a car. 'The tic urge often comes when I'm anxious, stressed or tired,' he explains, 'and then it's an exhausting mental battle telling myself, 'John, that's the absolute worst thing you could do in this moment,' and then trying not to do it.'
Davidson was a happy-go-lucky kid who grew up in Galashiels in the Scottish Borders. He loved playing football and riding his BMX. Aged ten he had his tonsils and appendix out in quick succession. 'I'll never know the trigger, but after that last operation I began to feel different,' he recalls. 'There is one theory that a streptococcus infection can trigger Tourette's, but who knows?'
He first noticed his exaggerated blinking on a family holiday on the Costa Brava in Spain. But it was when his mother accidentally stepped on a lizard and screamed that Davidson crossed a boundary. 'I called my mum a stupid cow,' he recalls. 'I didn't want to say it, and I didn't even mean it, but Tourette's is like someone else controlling my mind.'
This is the exquisite torture of the coprolalia component of Tourette syndrome: sufferers aren't mouthing off or delivering a few home truths. More often than not they want to do the right thing but realise with horror that rogue brain circuits will make them do the opposite.
It's a spectrum condition. Some people barely notice their tics; Davidson's quickly got him into trouble. He alienated school friends by skipping down the high street and licking the lampposts. When he began spitting food into the faces of his parents and siblings (he has a brother and two sisters) at the dinner table he was forced to eat with the family dog, Honey.
'My dad is a joiner, a very quiet, self-contained man,' Davidson says. 'There was no information about Tourette's, so I was just this alien child. He just couldn't cope.'
His father eventually left, and his mother struggled on alone. Meanwhile, by the time Davidson was 12 the local GP believed he was having a complete nervous breakdown and suggested psychiatric care. He was now barking at dogs and certainly in a bad place mentally. 'You'd be better off killing me,' he told his mother.
'And I did genuinely feel that,' Davidson says. 'People with Tourette's are four times as likely to commit suicide as the general population. I felt like someone else had control of me and, as a kid, that's just terrifying.'
It was while Davidson was in a psychiatric hospital, medicated with the powerful antipsychotic drug Haloperidol, that a neurologist finally identified the problem: full-blown 'Tourette's plus', the condition in its most severe form. Davidson presents copalalia, echolalia, OCD and ADHD.
Luckily his diagnosis seemed to coincide with the dawn of a wider understanding. In 1989 the BBC made a documentary about him called John's Not Mad. Bizarrely the moral campaigner Mary Whitehouse insisted the BBC show it after 11pm because it contained so much swearing. The corporation resisted and it attracted a huge audience at 9pm. One of the documentary's contributors was the acclaimed writer and neurologist Oliver Sacks, who offered invaluable advice.
'Oliver Sacks told me, 'Accept the condition or it will dominate you,' and that has stayed with me,' Davidson says. 'It's there, I have to work with it.'
That's harder than it sounds. Keeping his mind busy helps. Planning for stressful situations such as a visit to the cinema works too. But a new memoir about his life, I Swear, contains really heartbreaking stories, such as when Davidson is sent to stay with his strict God-fearing grandparents and asked to avoid the c-word. He calls his grandmother 'Granny c***'. We feel the visceral stress of him meeting Tommy Trotter, who gave him a job helping at a community centre. Trotter happens to have red hair, and Davidson's opening gambit is: 'F*** off, you fat ginger c***!' Incredibly they become lifelong friends.
After the BBC documentary people became nicer to him, though a few oddballs came out of the woodwork. One day Davidson was home alone, caring for his pet rabbit Snowy, when there was a knock at the door. An exorcist who'd seen the programme had tracked him down. Standing on the front step in a hooded robe and holding a crucifix, he announced: 'You're possessed by demons and we need to dispel them!' Usually Davidson swears because he can't help it, but for once his response — 'Look, I need to deal with my rabbit so will you just f*** off?' — was just regular anger.
Things really began to improve the day his school friend Murray invited him to play football and then to have tea at his house. Davidson initially declined because he'd heard that Murray's mother, Dottie, had liver cancer and only six months to live. Obviously horrible for Dottie, but a huge challenge for Davidson too. And yet he went, and despite his greeting ('Ha ha! You're gannae f***ing die!'), they became firm friends. In fact, Davidson moved in with Murray, Dottie and her husband, Chris. Equally extraordinarily, her liver cancer turned out to be a misdiagnosis (hemangioma, a benign liver tumour) and he now calls her his stepmother.
'That made my real mum feel guilty for a long time because she felt she had let me down,' Davidson says. 'But it's hard to explain just how hard it was for her dealing with me alone. Over the years I hope I've convinced her she did her best and she really needed a break.'
Davidson's new family gave him a new lease of life. He got that job at a local community centre, became a youth worker and was eventually recognised as the leading national campaigner for awareness of Tourette syndrome. 'The MBE was the proudest moment of my life,' he says. 'I never thought I'd even have a life, let alone be able to help people and get recognised for it.'
As well as the memoir, a film, also called I Swear, will be released in October, with an extraordinary turn by Robert Aramayo as Davidson. But we live in a post-Salt Path world, and questions about the authenticity of Raynor Winn's bestseller have made people sceptical of extreme life stories. Oddly, that means that when I meet Davidson I'm a bit disappointed about how gentle and articulate he is. Is this really the guy who, when he met Kirk Jones, the film's director, made him a cup of tea then told him, 'I used spunk for milk'? I ask around. Yes, that happened. But it still comes as almost a relief when halfway through our interview, apropos of nothing, Davidson barks, 'F*** off!'
We live in censorious times. Do some people envy his freedom to say extreme things? 'Oh yeah, I meet people who say: 'John, you get to speak your mind, I'd love some of that.' Believe me, though, you do not want Tourette's. I've been attacked in the street for saying things I didn't even want to say.'
Davidson may one day soon become an interesting medical footnote. Technology promises to make Tourette syndrome a thing of the past. The University of Nottingham has developed a wristband device called a Neupulse that acts on the median nerve at the wrist. Electrical pulses suppress the urge to tic, and trials show a 25 per cent reduction in symptoms. Davidson has tried it and the results were very encouraging. 'My tics were massively reduced,' he says, 'and my anxiety about ticcing was way down too.'
However, when the device becomes commercially available Davidson says he will use it sparingly. 'As a kid I would have given literally anything to get rid of Tourette's. Now I just want to be me. Tourette's has given me massive insight into and empathy for humanity. I honestly think it's integral to who I am.'
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One well-known figure with Tourette syndrome is the Brit award-winning Scottish singer Lewis Capaldi, who two years ago abandoned his world tour to deal with his symptoms. Davidson would like to meet him and offer some advice; he speculates that Capaldi might have tried the drug Haloperidol.
'I was on it for 30 years, and it basically makes you tired and hungry all the time. It doesn't cure Tourette's, it's just a way of doctors shutting you up, and to me that's not the right approach. We've come such a long way since the 1980s. I would like anyone reading the book or seeing the film to laugh with, not at. And everyone struggling with it to know there is hope.'I Swear by John Davidson (Transworld £18.99). To order a copy go to timesbookshop.co.uk. Free UK standard P&P on orders over £25. Special discount available for Times+ members