Why I Wrote The Hate Game

Some stories fight to stay buried. Others demand to be told.

For years, The Hate Game: Screaming in the Darkness was one of those stories that sat just behind my eyes, lingering in the shadows of old school corridors and the salt air of 1970s Hove. I didn’t write it to dwell on pain—I wrote it to understand it. To give voice to the boy who learned far too early that survival wasn’t just about fitting in—it was about not drowning in a toilet bowl before lunch.

I wrote it because sometimes, remembering is the only way we break the cycle.

Knoll Boys wasn’t just a school. For me, it was a battlefield of identity, resilience, and the twisted games that cruelty can take. What started as minor taunts evolved into something darker—ritualised bullying, humiliation, and the kind of systemic silence that makes kids believe they deserve it.

But this isn’t just a story of pain; it’s also a story of joy, laughter, and a family that somehow held together despite the loss and chaos. My mother, in her mismatched pyjamas, could make me laugh even when the world didn’t. My father’s quiet presence was a lighthouse when everything else was dark, or so I thought.

Writing The Hate Game became a kind of liberation. I realised that what had once silenced me could now be my loudest truth. And if even one person reads it and feels a little less alone, a little more seen—then the screaming was worth it.