Cinnamon Twigs: The Life and Pseudocide of a Celebrity

CHAPTER ONE: Childhood Games

CHAPTER ONE

Childhood Games

I can’t remember a time when I didn’t expect to be famous. Fame was all I ever wanted. All kids, at some point in their childhoods, say they will be rich and famous. And then they grow up into cynical adults and face so-called reality. I wanted to make the most of my life, and saw fame as the only real way to achieve that. Celebrity is the religion of our time, and I’d always felt sure and certain hope that the name Daniel Mace would be universally known one day.

     I’ve made mistakes, but I can’t afford to have regrets. I wanted to be remembered for my accomplishments; that was more important than anything else. I’ve struggled with the knowledge that even when you’re at the top of the ladder, you can still fall down, forgotten. Some days, having a kid run up to you and ask for an autograph is the most heartwarming act there is. Other days, when you want some alone time, having the paparazzi all over you is about as pleasant as a burning rash on your genitals. You have to accept that many members of the public believe that because they pay to see your movies, or buy your books, they have a right to peer into your private affairs. But I know I’ve had a very rewarding career, even if it has conflicted with other aspects of my life.

     According to my mother, I was born at a bloody inconvenient hour, on a cold November morning. I grew up in an urban area known as Canton, near central Cardiff, in Wales. My father had walked out on us not long after I came into the world. He just packed his bags and told my mother not to look for him. I resented him throughout my childhood, without knowing his reasons for leaving. But I still cherished the only link I had to my dad: a fat brown teddy bear with one eye he’d bought for me.

As a nipper, I cuddled the bear, and kept it on a shelf in my bedroom as a teenager. My mother never got over my dad’s departure, and it definitely contributed to her bouts of depression. It didn’t help that she had to care for the toddler from hell either. I was, as unfortunate parents say, ‘clingy’. I cried for her when she first dropped me off at nursery. But after some encouragement from other kids, I stopped being shy. It wasn’t long until I was running around, pretending to be a jabberwocky or some other kind of monster. And it wasn’t long until someone suggested I might have to go to a ‘special school.’ The nursery assigned a personal carer to me, who retired after a few weeks without handing in her notice. My mother often wondered if I had the number 666 imprinted on my body somewhere, but she didn’t help matters by letting me watch horror films. Those viewings were meant to be punishments for my misbehavior, a way of scaring me into being good. But I must have been the only child in the world who cried when Freddy Krueger died - as he frequently did, only to return for yet another sequel.

     As I grew older, my games became more diverse. I didn’t pretend to be a monster anymore. In my garden, I’d shoot imaginary aliens and robots, playing varied roles such as dashing space heroes, evil villains or secret agents, like the ones I’d seen on the telly. I relied on my imagination, because most kids didn’t want to hang out with me.

     The time soon came for me to lace up my little black shoes and attend St Mary’s Catholic Primary School, in Canton. As I wandered through the school corridors on my first day, noticing a sacred heart in every corner, anxiety and curiosity mingled into one juvenile emotion. The main hall resembled a church as light streamed through its colored glass windows, painting the dusty floor with a kaleidoscopic sea. A proscenium stage protruded from the left side of the hall. I was told off during one of my first days in school for running around on it. The dilapidated props and lighting equipment, used only for the annual Christmas plays, really appealed to me. The stage presented another world, a place for actors to roam free among artificial lights and drapery. I also loved the playground, a great desert of concrete where I could doodle images from my imagination across the crayoned sky. I spent most of my first year playing by myself, pretending to be an ego ideal character: someone everyone wanted to be.