One Hell Wasn’t Enough For This TV Bitch

I decided to become an actress when I was 11 years old. I worked consistently in TV, film and theatre from then on, enjoying many high-profile roles including Tina Dingle in Emmerdale and then Linda Baldwin in Coronation Street (stayed tuned for all the gory details of my disappointing departures from those shows).

Going into the entertainment industry was a decision my 11-year-old self made and though I love her (yes, I've done my inner-child work) she knew fuck all about that business, about fame, about objectification and sexuality and she had no idea about the life-altering ramifications of vaulting from an impoverished childhood to new wealth.

In addition to all that, it turned out that the grown version of me wasn't half as confident as that kid. The grown version of me was shy, intensely private and positively allergic to being controlled. As a child, my way of dealing with conflict was to fight - literally, physical fighting, punches, kicks, I fought feral! Once I found myself in the public eye and conflict came in the form of producers treating me like shit and the press printing kiss-and-tell stories by any twat I made the mistake of having sex with, I was woefully underequipped to deal with it, it was a whole new playing field. 

Now, I was strong, I withstood a lot, I weathered humiliation and betrayal and insults and sexual assaults. I'm confident that anyone I've worked with, whether they liked me or not, would agree that I always stood my ground and yes, that cost me my career but it wasn't ever the right career for me anyway. I loved acting, I loved playing a character but I just wasn't prepared to dilute myself, to compromise my morals and scruples and make myself small for it. Fuck that.

Brave words, huh? Well, I walked straight into a 22-year toxic, abusive situation that finished the work the entertainment industry had tried and failed to complete so I soon got knocked off my high horse. Perhaps it was my destiny, maybe there was no getting away from it, maybe that suppression and control had to find me at some point regardless of my resistance to it. 

Or maybe this is just what the world tries to do to all women. When I think about those characters I played, they were so similar - and before you think it, no, not because my abilities as an actress are limited - these characters were a type. I suspect they are a male fantasy: the working-class, poor, uneducated, 'slutty' 'bitch' that has a penchant for old, rich men who manipulate her naiveté and are entertained by her crass communication style. Both of the male characters that I shared storylines with in these roles (Frank Tate in Emmerdale and Mike Baldwin in Coronation Street) had recently left age-appropriate partners who were strong, intelligent and didn't fall for their bullshit. 

I'm a writer and although I don't write for soaps, I know that writers are deliberate and meticulous, I know that every word has been considered and part of a clear character study and overall arc. The key difference between writers like me and writers for a soap is that they are bound and restricted by the requirements of the studios, the producers, the powers that determine what will appeal to the audience. Therefore, I have no idea how much of what appeared in the script for my characters was the choice of the writers themselves. Regardless of who designed Tina and Linda, they both seemed to tick some sort of box and I worry that it was all designed to turn on older men, married men, misogynistic men, men that want to control and manipulate their young plaything, an escape from the 'nagging', 'frigid' wife of their reality, someone that reignites that long-lost spark of horniness and power they feel has disappeared from their life.

During my time playing those characters, I never once met a woman who admired Tina or Linda but I did meet plenty of men who loved them. I would receive all sorts of creepy letters from men (many from prisoners) who walked a fine line between loving the characters and wanting to kill them. Some of these men even crossed the terrifying line of believing I was those characters and it wasn't unusual for me to get letters that threatened my life in detail (one 'fan' described my house and how he was going to hammer my brains out on my doorstep because I have 'a cunt like a bucket').

And the impact on my real-life personal relationships was undeniable. My history with men is nothing short of atrocious, a real horror story. I mean, how the fuck would it ever have been anything but that given my background and the dynamics I observed as a child (none of it positive) and the fact that I was navigating a strange world in which I did not belong where everyone spoke a different language. It was humiliation after humiliation existing in a world of privilege because I had such a limited frame of reference, I was poor as fuck with no support network, hell, I only discovered avocados when I was 18 on the set of Chasing The Deer and once had to beg a producer at SkyTV to pay me on a pay-as-you-go basis during a shoot otherwise I'd have to sleep rough. 

Imagine the ego massage that it was for men attracted to this barely post-puberty, naive actress with enough fame to be a titillating talking point with their middle-class friends, making them interesting for the first time in their vapid lives. So, having being toyed with and then discarded by the odd toff, I would retreat to my world and then I'd get myself into a whole lot of bother by going out with 'regular' men who were so skint that by the time the inevitable split happened, they'd be approached by tabloids offering them the kind of money they'd otherwise only have access to through some criminal pursuit. Why take a sawed-off into a post office when you can just fuck Jackie from Yardley Wood?

Add to that the fake clues they've been fed about me through my work or articles in magazines and newspapers and there I was, seemingly on top of the world, living a life my school friends were envious of and yet I was vulnerable and completely out of my depth. I didn't stand a chance and so, by the time I was 21 my mental health was in the toilet, I had already attempted suicide once (not the last time - more later). 

I woke up in hospital and waited for my parents to drive to Leeds because I had to be released into their care. Why? Well, it's obvious, isn't it? I wasn't safe, I wasn't capable of making good decisions, I'd suffered a significant breakdown and I needed to recover in a place of safety. My parents drove me home to Birmingham and then explained how it was bad timing because they'd just arranged for me to be the celebrity at the re-opening of a local pub and they didn't want to let the new owner down because he was this notorious gangster, the sort of person you don't want to disappoint. 

That person was Chrissy Stone, a career criminal and archetypal conman who fathered my first child (the fabulous Alexandra Pirie!). The press had a field day, stories were almost sold and damage limitation stories had to be put out in the press to prevent them from making it to print. It was a terrifying time. I was thrilled to be pregnant but not thrilled by the circumstances. My bosses (who knew about the recent suicide attempt) quickly wrote me out of the show I'd been in for years. Of course, they promised me that the role would be open for me if I ever wanted to return and, less than a year later, when I was skint, living with my parents and unable to claim benefits because I refused to name the father of my child (remember, he was the sort of person you really don't want to piss off) I did call that producer to arrange the return I'd been promised and was swiftly fobbed off. I'm no lawyer but I'm pretty sure a breach of something was committed there but hey-ho, it's all in the past. Add insult to injury, a short time later, when Coronation Street were doing their due diligence, a director in the know told me that that same boss warned them that I was trouble with a capital T. He was almost right, I was in trouble with a capital T. 

My little girl was a year old, I was a single mother with no education and as poor as I'd ever been when I auditioned for the role of Linda and, despite efforts to derail me further, I got the job. I already knew (in my trusty, often-ignored gut) that it was a mistake. It was an industry I despised filled with predators and pitfalls but I had little choice, I had to do it, I had to provide for my child. I worked hard for years and finally saved enough money to buy a house. The nasty fan mail from men increased, the kiss-and-tells happened every time I dared to date anyone. I had one co-star advise me: "only fuck someone who has more to lose than you if the story gets out". Holy shit, what would that limit me to? Married men/women, bosses and actors - no thank you!

Then a story hit the front pages: "Corrie's Linda bags record-breaking deal". I'd secured a new 3-year contract and it was record-breaking (for Corrie). You know what happens when a headline like that hits? You become simultaneously more popular with potential partners and hated by co-workers. It was a slippery slide from then on, wow, that green room changed for me. The established dynamics changed from the bottom to the top. It was brutal. One particular actress in the show took it upon herself to blatantly release stories about me until I finally sought legal action to stop her which made me all the more unpopular. A real low point for me was entering 2001. I felt like shit, my mental health was the worst it had been since those dark days of Emmerdale and I was slipping, my mind kept tempting me with the ultimate escape and each day brought new justifications for it.

But I needn't have worried, love was just around the corner. True love. The sort of love that blows your mind, the sort of love that everyone dreams of. That sweep-you-off-your-feet, we are so similar, we're soul-mates type of love. Yep. I fell for it. I bought into the crap, I didn't just ignore red flags, I embraced them and they became the banners of our love. Three months in, I was married and pregnant (with my adorable son, Jamie Pirie!). Now, my placenta attached in the wrong place, it was a high-risk pregnancy and it was unlikely to ever reach full term. My doctor advised me of the steps I should take to ensure that I get as far into the pregnancy as possible before the inevitable early labour (or worse) happened. Those steps included reducing my stress levels and remaining off my feet as much as possible. Hahahahahah!!! Like either of those things were possible. Five months into my pregnancy the doctor put it another way: "It's work or your baby." This wasn't just a suggestion, this was as serious as I've seen a doctor be. He provided me with a sick note and that was that. I couldn't work. 

Now, I haven't worked in the industry for 24 years so hopefully it's a little different now but back then, the pressure was on. I was called and called and called and had to endure mounting pressure as storylines 'had to be wrapped up', 'the schedule had to be maintained' etc. I went to my doctor and he refused to sign me fit for work, he reiterated his warnings. My bosses decided to ignore this, they persuaded me to return to wrap up a storyline, they promised that my scenes would be completed early in the days and that I could then go home to rest. On the first day of my return to set, I was worked like nothing had ever happened. Nothing they had promised materialized and it was very clear that there was no respect for me or the health of my unborn son in that workplace. I made a phone call (great story about that particular call that I’ll save for another day) and then I phoned my new husband to come and pick me up. And I never returned. 

Oh, did that stir up some shit. If I thought things were hostile before, I had no idea what was ahead. I received a nasty call from one colleague who told me to "get back to fucking work, do your fucking job then fuck off and have your baby". People in the cast who had been friends dropped me like a tonne of soggy shit. Obviously, I was threatened with being sued for breach of contract but that never came to anything once I reminded them that I'd been called back to set despite them having a current sick note signed by my doctor regarding my pregnancy. I started having contractions soon after and I was admitted to hospital for the remainder of my pregnancy where I was kept in bed and pumped full of meds to prevent labour and steroids to develop my son's lungs. It was a race against the clock and my son was born six weeks early following a brutal and near-fatal abruption. A few weeks later, I was invited to return to work to wrap-up the Linda:Mike storyline. Via my agent at the time, they offered me the world - real name-your-price stuff. I said no. My agent warned me in a very matter-of-fact way that if I didn't agree, I'd never work in the industry again. Career over. But the real nightmare was only just beginning because now I isolated, (my family were no more - another blog, another time), I had no options or career prospects and by then, true love's mask had already slipped. One ginormous tax bill later, I was poor again. Guess what's worse than being famous? Being poor and famous.

How the fuck I got through all of that and what was to follow, I'll never know. But here I am. I'm finally free and happy and independent. I'm up to something huge that will help women who are in their version of the shit I've experienced. I'm on it, I'm determined and, thankfully, I've evolved. I don't let myself be objectified anymore. I don't tolerate anyone trying to make me small. I'm back to that fighting, warrior youngster I was before shit got messy in a different way. I fucking dare anyone to take me on now. They wouldn't stand a chance. 

Interestingly, it was going through the hell of abuse after my original hell of the entertainment industry that triggered that evolution, that forced me to get to the bones of it all. Now, it's all so clear and obvious, the ripples, the ramifications, the impact of being told what I am, who I am, what my place is and what I'm allowed to say or do. I had been shrunk and bracketed, objectified and used until there was no Jackie in there anymore. Well, I found her again. She was in there the whole time, just waiting, percolating and gathering strength, licking her wounds. That 11-year-old's dreams may have been ruined but the 51-year-old version of her fights feral on her behalf.