Theo Walcott is not my child. But I’m telling you, Mr and Mrs Walcott – you are there in my heart when I go to watch Arsenal. You see, my very own precociously talented teenager has been thrown into the cruelly exposing spotlight – and I recognise why the agonies I go through when the Gunners winger has the ball at his feet feel so familiar; and why the trials of the parent are so different from those of the fan – maybe it’s because we are the biggest fans.
As soon as a pass flies in his direction, I can feel the anger building in me like a pitbull pulling on its chain. I beg him: please control the ball (phew, it hasn’t cannoned off his ankle!); leave the defender sprawling in your wake (yes, he has!); bear down on goal like the ball-playing gazelle we all know you can be (the crowd are on their feet!); and then, in the midst of all this frenzy, summon the clinical coolness of the natural goalscorer and ... oh no, he’s summoned up his inner wet lettuce. The pitbulls are off the leash.
And my mind turns to his poor parents. How can they bear to watch their son being torn to shreds? What’s it like living with this anguish?
Well, now I have a much better idea. Because in my home we have our very own Theo. All right, there are a few differences. For a start this Theo is a she; and she is a musician and songwriter. By the age of 13 she was already an internet princess, and now, at 16, she is an Atlantic Records artist – and tipped for the top. Jasmine Thompson, her fans agree, should soar effortlessly to the toppermost of the poppermost.
It’s very easy to get swept up in the excitement. Check out the vital statistics: 2.7m (YouTube followers); 1bn (streams); 7m (Spotify monthly listeners); 640,000 (Instagram subscribers). Two years ago, a remix of her Ain’t Nobody cover reached No 2 in the UK charts, and the top spot in Germany. Her releases have peppered hit parades all over Europe. Awards and platinum discs jostle for space on the walls at Thompson Towers. She’s huge in Kazakhstan. Immense in Indonesia. Bigger than Beyoncé (if only by a few places – according to the latest Spotify total-play chart). And would Love Island’s Kem and Amber have got it together without being serenaded by Jasmine’s tracks, four of which have been used in the reality show’s soundtrack?
And to think it was only six years ago that she started posting her first fun cover videos, filmed on her mother’s phone. Only six years ago that, for her version of Bruno Mars’ Lazy Song, the raunchy lyrics of the original were deemed inappropriate for a sweet 10-year-old girl – so instead of Bruno’s desire to “throw my hand in my pants”, Jasmine sang about getting “a nice snack”. Planet Jasmine’s come a long way since then: for her current single Old Friends, co-written by Meghan Trainor, Jasmine’s bedroom and her mum’s battered smartphone have been usurped by a full-scale video crew and multiple locations.
From the outside it looks like Jasmine takes it all in her fun-loving, teenage stride. But in the family home we can see how it takes its toll: the expectations, the touring, the disruption of a child’s simple dreams. I just want to reach out and tell her that it’s OK to have doubts, to feel angry, to feel you are losing your friends, to feel – in the middle of all this adoration – isolated.
Most of all I want to tell her: of course you feel the pressure. But try imagining what it’s like for your mum and me.
For a start there’s the issue of what to call each other. Jasmine is not my child, but I care deeply. Even though I might not show it very well, and it’s never easy taking on someone else’s children, I regard her like a daughter (and, memo to Lola, my blood daughter: I love you like a daughter, too).
Like a true father, I have delivered a masterclass of calamitous communication, offering stern words when tenderness is called for, and offering tender words when only a kitten or puppy will repair the damage. Pouring oil on troubled waters seems to be a speciality. Can I take this opportunity to apologise for that time I threw an empty ice-cream tub towards you jokingly – only to burst out laughing when it transpired the tub was not empty, and covered you head to toe in rancid emulsified fats and artificial colouring?
The trouble is, there’s no word that neatly describes the relationship an adult has with the child of a partner. Stepfather doesn’t cut it: Jasmine’s mum and I remain resolutely unmarried, and from the time I came into Jasmine’s life when she was eight, the last thing I have wanted to do is act like I’m taking the place of her biological dad.
So when Jasmine introduces me to friends as “my mother’s boyfriend”, it’s a description that, while factually bang on, suggests a certain peripheral quality in the domestic set-up.
And I don’t think that’s quite fair. I’m not just thinking of the parents’ evenings at school, the terrifying dogs Jasmine made me stroke, the fun we had marching her acrophobic mum up vertiginous cliff-tops … I’m thinking of my contribution to her music career.
In the early days – before the era of tour managers, musical directors, dressing-room riders – who carried the keyboards across London to open-mic nights and singing competitions? I did.
It’s the emotional investment that lifts me on to the parental pedestal and qualifies me to be seen as more than mum’s bit on the side. Every time I’ve seen Jasmine perform, I’ve left a bit of my soul in the venue. The heart-melting sight of her, maybe nine years old, dwarfed by the mic stand, at a battle of the bands in Plymouth. The heart-stopping moment at another competition where she opened her mouth to sing – and nothing came out.
After that bundle of nerves came the amazing success of Bundle of Tantrums, her self-released album. Perhaps that success might not have been quite so amazing without me on hand to help pack and post all the orders that came flooding in.
In recent years, Jasmine’s horizons have expanded from small gigs in south London to festivals in South Africa, skateboarding in Stockwell to songwriting in Stockholm, and weeks go by when I barely see her. So it was a shock to realise that old emotional rollercoaster was still in me when her headline tour rolled into London a few weeks ago, and I caught up with the show for the first time in years.
Jasmine had a band. The act had been blooded in concerts all over the US and Europe. Surely a sell-out crowd in familiar old Camden wouldn’t hold any horrors? Well, it did for me. The concert was agony. All I wanted was to appreciate how far she had come, but I found myself consumed with dread. Is the lighting working? Are the crowd responding? Can’t that couple tear themselves from each other’s arms and watch the show? Is the sound drowning out Jasmine’s golden voice? Did she just swear?
I had to keep fighting the urge to tell every audience member I thought was not paying sufficient homage to my girlfriend’s daughter: “Don’t you know how hard she’s worked? Don’t you realise how lucky you are to hear this extravagantly gifted artist live? She’s only 16, goddammit. Now stop having sex, and listen.”
Afterwards, I was told that Jasmine and the band had smashed it. But don’t ask me. I’m too busy fighting off the pitbulls. If they want to get to Jasmine, they will have to go through me first.
