Guest Blog: 2019 Papatango New Writing Prize Winner Samuel Bailey On SHOOK

When I was asked to write a blog about why I wrote Shook, a play about three young offenders trying to break the cycle, I thought about pulling some quotes of people talking about socio-economic class and sharing some statistics about reoffending. Maybe referencing articles on punishment vs. rehabilitation in the justice system, and trying to link the play to a wider societal failing. Which I could do. But when I sat down to write that, an old school friend, J, popped into my head.

J was the funniest kid in my year, hands down. If anybody dared to take the piss out of him he'd respond with something so cutting, so withering - honing in on that person's biggest insecurity - that even the most confident of lads wouldn't try him again until, at least, next term.

He was clever, too. Definitely smarter than me. He was one of those boys who could appear not to be listening all the way through class and then when the teacher tried to catch him out with a question, he'd coolly summarise what they'd said before turning back to whatever conversation was holding the greater part of his attention. The teacher inevitably turned back to the whiteboard, a mixture of impressed and exasperated.

He had a perfect school attendance record, and I mean perfect - he got a certificate at the end of year eleven, which was no mean feat seeing as nearly a third of my year had been permanently expelled by that point. Most of those were the lads who grew up on the streets surrounding ours, making walking to school every morning a gauntlet of temptation.

In particular, J's imagination was... boundless. I spent innumerable days of our summer holidays with him making plans, imagining our way out of the estate we grew up on. We fantasised about what we'd do and where we'd go when we were adults, J always coming up with the most outlandish and adventurous ideas that I'd then tag along with.

J also had malnutrition, though neither of us would have been able to tell you that at the time. And I found out later that his perfect attendance record was because his mum made him go to school even when he was ill, so he didn't anger his step-dad, who worked nights and had a temper.

When we were 16 and I was weighing up college, J, who wanted to study engineering, was kicked out of his house by his mum. Partly because of an argument and partly because his child tax credits were ending and she simply couldn't afford to have him in the house, not when she had his younger brother and sister to take care of. He went to work in the local factory like many of the lads from my school did - nothing wrong with it, and it was fine, until they made him redundant, by which time he had two kids under the age of four and another on the way.

I was lucky - when I'd exhausted the limited opportunities of where we grew up, and was getting in a bit of trouble, I called my dad. He lived in Bristol, and I asked if I could come and live there for a bit. That's where he suggested I get involved with the local theatre, Bristol Old Vic, and a couple of years after that I wrote my first play. Last I heard, J was doing 14 months for burglary.

I wrote Shook because I grew up with boys like him. Clever, funny, generous boys who didn't realise that their childhoods were exceptional in all the wrong ways. Talented, promising, brilliant boys who, through things they had no power over, policy decisions or where they were born, had very little chance of breaking the cycle. I would love for J to come and watch Shook and see a little bit of himself on stage, but that's not going to happen. Odds on he'd tell me theatre is for wankers and there's no money in it anyway - or, maybe, he'd love it.

Shook at Southwark Playhouse 30 October-23 November, then on tour

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