Born in Willesden, north-west London, in 1964, Paterson Joseph is an actor and writer. A graduate of Lamda, he worked with the Royal Shakespeare Company before moving into TV and film, with roles including Alan Johnson in Peep Show and Keaty in The Beach. He published his award-winning debut novel, The Secret Diaries of Charles Ignatius Sancho, in 2022. His children’s book, Ten Children Who Changed the World, is out now. Joseph is a judge for the debut fiction category of the 2025 Nero Book Awards. The winners will be announced on 13 January.
This was taken by my sister Glenda, who had decided she wanted to get into hair and makeup. She was pulling together a portfolio and used me as a guinea pig, something my sisters had done since I was small. I was going for that slightly curmudgeonly old man expression, but it came out more like a smirk.
At 17, I was shy, imaginative and not particularly ambitious. I was working as a chef at the Royal Free hospital. I was not in any way a showman, but I was interested in storytelling. I was always writing, but didn’t dare share my words with the world.
My childhood was spent in a bog-standard flat above a shop in Kensal Rise. My memories of that time are of a happy, communal living space. It had three bedrooms and there were seven of us for the first 10 years of my life. I had energetic siblings, and I had to avoid getting into any major disputes with the older ones so I wouldn’t get smacked around. As we lived above the High Road, we couldn’t play outside easily, so had to be self-contained and creative. Mum worked in the McVitie’s factory, so there were always a lot of biscuits – though they were rationed to three each per night.
I was four-and-a-half when I realised the school system wasn’t fair. I went to a predominantly white school, so I already stood out. But on my first day, my teacher sat me down in front of the class and pointed at a picture of a tiger. She asked: “What’s that?” I knew it was a tiger, but I panicked. I thought it was a trick question, so I said: “A lion.” She shut the book. After that, I was completely dismissed. I was a small boy, but very much awake to the irrationality of the world.
I got lucky later on, when I had a teacher from Goa called Mrs Bird. Although I was a shit pupil, she took a shine to me. I was cheeky and she quite liked that. We always kept in touch, and when I was in my 40s she told me: “Every time I wanted to try something new with the kids, the headteacher would say, ‘Don’t worry with the Irish or the Caribbean kids – they’re never going to amount to anything.’” Essentially the poor, working-class kids and sons and daughters of immigrants were overlooked, unless they were exceptional.
My sanctuary became Willesden Green library. I liked all types of books: by the time I was 15, I was reading Guy de Maupassant in translation, Oscar Wilde short stories and the whole awful Forsyte Saga. Plus, lots of Mills & Boon, because my sisters loved them. Harold Robbins was also a favourite, because I was a teenage boy and it was filled with descriptions of sex.
I auditioned for the National Youth Theatre (NYT) when I was 14. It was the first time I’d come across Shakespeare. When I read The Merchant of Venice, I realised I loved the articulation of his words in my mouth. Sadly, I didn’t get in because of terrible shyness. I was asked: “What drew you to the immersion of youth theatre?” by a very nice middle-class person interviewing me. I looked at the ground for about 30 seconds and said, “Because I like meeting people.” I didn’t really mean that, I just didn’t have the confidence to say anything else. Eventually, Glenda taught me how to play the game, to look someone in the eye and have self-belief, even if it’s just pretending.
When I failed to get into the NYT, I auditioned for a place called The Cockpit, in Marylebone. It was the first time I saw people younger than me who were super-confident and at ease with themselves. I thought: “Whatever that is, I’d like some of that.” When I started, I was still mumbling, quiet and reticent. But that place was transformative.
The through-line in every character I play is the outward show of control versus the inward panic and scrambling. I suspect all people in authority to be flailing underneath, even if they appear to have Donald Trump-levels of confidence. Their inner soul is in a terrible flap, because of the fear they’re going to get caught out. This was definitely the case for Peep Show’s Johnson. The creators were after a character who could be an absolute arse and quite sociopathic – someone who thinks they’re great but is actually an alcoholic, a failure and a fool. He is a horrible person who I wouldn’t want to spend five minutes with, but I love him.
Maybe it’s a lack of self-esteem, but when I got my role in The Beach, I didn’t think: “This is the start of my Hollywood career.” I knew it was a one-off – which it kind of was, aside from Wonka. I had to be topless, but I was militantly against the idea that as a black actor I had to get ripped and look like a muscle guy, as I considered myself to be an intellectual artist. In the end, it was so hot there was not an ounce of fat left on anybody. Leo [DiCaprio] was really put through it – he had to work hard to look thin because he was a podgy Italian boy. But he was lovely to hang out with, a proper artist who didn’t want to be a Hollywood pretty boy. Tilda Swinton was similarly inspiring. We used to play cards together and have deep conversations. One day, she asked: “If you were dying, what would you want to be remembered for?” What Tilda was really asking was – “So you’re just going to be an actor? What about the storytelling obsession you have?”
I thought for a while and replied: “Someone who wrote a book or theatre show about black people in Britain before the Windrush.” That chat was the catalyst for everything that came next. I wrote a one-person show about Charles Ignatius Sancho, which became the nonfiction book Sancho: An Act of Remembrance. Then, in lockdown I wrote my novel. I put myself in a pressure cooker – this was the one thing I had to complete before I died.
Because of my experiences of being written off at school, there was a sense of validation when I got published, but not in a vengeful, two-fingers-up-at-the-teachers kind of way. Instead, it felt full circle. When I was eight, I had a notepad and would write a load of motivational statements in it, like: “I am a great writer. I am a really good friend.” I would read it again and again, as if I was doing my lines.
The 17-year-old version of me would be amazed that any of those things came true. Back then, the world wasn’t offering me anything. “Be quiet, sit down” – that’s what I expected my life to look like. If that teenager in the photo could see what I became, he would be shocked, confused and mostly pleased. In spite of everything, I went and did it anyway.
