How John Davidson Bafta controversy has united Scots against ignorant online bullies
Amidst the bile directed at John Davidson because of his disability, genuine humanity has been on show in the form of people rallying to defend him
The very first scene of the multi-Bafta nominated film I Swear, based on the true story of John Davidson, shows him about to receive his MBE from Queen Elizabeth II. He is a nervous wreck due to his Tourette Syndrome, and no sooner has he entered the palace hall when the words “f*** the Queen!” explode from his mouth.
This is not a fabricated incident. Very few are, including when John meets Dottie, a retired mental health nurse who becomes his adoptive mother figure. “You’re gonna die of cancer! Ha ha!” he blurts out, before apologising in mortification.
Davidson’s real-life tics include coprolalia, the involuntary verbalising of taboo words including swearing and slurs. Despite being the most sensationalised aspect of the condition, only a small minority of Tourette’s sufferers are afflicted.
The power of words
The neuroscience behind it is complex but the key thing is that it’s utterly uncontrollable. Its effect can be shocking, however, such as at the Baftas on Sunday, where the real Davidson was in attendance. Two black actors, Michael B Jordan and Delroy Lindo, were presenting an award when the N-word suddenly echoed through the auditorium. The furore of discourse that followed is still raging.
As a white-skinned person, I have no experience nor ancestral connection to that vile racial slur. My family being Polish however, means they (and I) have had brushes with racist language. Imagining how I’d feel at hearing “Polack” or “Polish vermin” broadcast loudly out of nowhere, I can feel a visceral sting of humiliation and hurt. Such is the power of words. We have instinctive emotional responses to those that offend and degrade.
We can, however, rationalise context. For those who subscribe to the fraught and frequently contradictory politics of intersectionality, the respective backlash around the incident has left certain progressives hand-wringing over which button to press: the “racism” one or the “ableism” one.
Cutting through the nonsense, regardless of how unfamiliar one is with Tourette Syndrome, anyone pushing the narrative that Davidson was being purposefully racist, including Hollywood superstar Jamie Foxx, needs to educate themselves about the condition (as it happens, I have a fantastic film recommendation).
‘John’s Not Mad’
The BBC has much to answer for in how big this controversy has gotten. The ceremony aired two hours after being filmed and why the broadcaster did not edit out this moment is anyone’s guess. The incident was bound to make the press regardless and generate offence but had it not been so explicitly audible, the volume of this online cacophony of misplaced outrage could have been spared.
Instead, Davidson is undeservedly reaping the consequences for this failure. His turmoil living with his conditioned has been well-documented, starting with the 1988 BBC documentary John’s Not Mad (another viewing recommendation for Mr Foxx et al) and by his own admission, he attempted suicide as a young man.
Indeed, according to the UK charity Tourette’s Action, those with the condition are tragically at four times the risk of dying by suicide. Davidson mercifully chose life and dedicated his to being a Tourette’s ambassador, bringing hope to countless people living with the condition through his youth work, hence the MBE. I’m not a fan of the epithet “national treasure”, but I’m tempted to make an exception here.
Saying that, Davidson’s astounding accomplishments are secondary to the crux of what this incident has exposed: the absence of meaningful empathy in a culture that purports to be obsessed with it.
An understated yet beautiful moment in the film is when Dottie (played by Maxine Peake) says gently but firmly to John, as he says sorry yet again after a vulgar outburst: “You never have to apologise for it in this house. We know you can't help it. We know you don't mean it.”
Real empathy
The film is set in the 80s and the early 90s, in a time before the internet, trial by social media, imported Americanised racial politics etc etc. It’s a moment of unshowy, rational decency – real empathy – that feels quite novel watching in the mid-2020s, when intent is so often disregarded if it gets in the way of piling on a human being’s mistake (or, in this case, innocent verbal tic) and riding the viral-via-outrage wave.
Arguably, the absolute worst hounders of Davidson are those adopting the smarmy, faux-centrist, posturing position of “yes, we know he can’t help it, but he should still stay sorry”.
Davidson has released a statement saying he is “deeply mortified” if anyone believes what his tics cause him to say are in any way meant. It is a dignified and diplomatic statement but, crucially, not an apology. And rightly so. Apology insinuates an action, big or small, in which there was an element of control. Davidson has none over his coprolalia.
This goes beyond being a case study in intersectionality eating itself to a lesson in how politicised empathy for historically oppressed groups ends up justifying sociopathic bullying of vulnerable individuals. At the centre of this firestorm is a working-class man from Galashiels who left an award ceremony he had every right to be at early, out of consideration for those uncomfortable with his disability.
But this is a social media storm with a silver lining: amidst the bile, genuine humanity has been on show in the form of people rallying to defend Davidson – especially Scots. Not since before 2014 have my countryfolk, regardless of political or constitutional affiliation been so united.
Perhaps Davidson should have his MBE upgraded to a knighthood for finally getting us to agree resolutely on something: keyboard warrior bullies can get tae.
Nina Welsch is a freelance writer
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