Many of us have an ‘inner critic’. Mine belongs to a famous musician

I’ve only ever admitted this to my shrink, but while many people have an inner critic (or seven) that berates them, I appointed a witch-finder general. He’s actually a famous pop star, but I won’t say who in case it reveals something about my nature in some weird psychoanalytical way.

I mean, I think I’m already spilling enough.

When I was 21 and working as a junior music publicist, this guy, my absolute hero, came into our office one day (actually, he swept in, a bit like Darth Vader, his leather coat streaming behind him), and joined me and my boss in the tiny meeting room to talk about the publicity plan around his upcoming release.

This guy was known as an enigmatic genius, accumulating number-one hits while retaining a cult-like sense of cool.Credit: Getty Images

This guy was known as an enigmatic genius, accumulating number-one hits while retaining a cult-like sense of cool. He is also a notoriously dour, prickly, misogynistic man. In the posters on my wall when I was younger, he tended to be shot from below, so he could regard the camera loftily.

When I greeted him as we settled in our groovy armchairs, he glared at me in disdain as if my voice had been offensively shrill, and addressed his comments only to my boss. The shame of being wilfully ignored was heightened by my boss’ attempts to include me, all thwarted by the pop star refusing to ever again look in my direction. I was sent out to get coffee and didn’t come back for hours, by when I knew he’d be gone.

Little did that guy know, he took residence in my brain that day and stayed for a couple of decades, judging me. Whenever I wasn’t distracted by conversation, or whenever a conversation was boring and I wanted to be distracted, he’d pop up with his malevolent presence. But he never said anything.

I appointed this third-party pop star to police me. His silence spoke volumes.

Did your mother ever say to you, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all”? Well, I used to scold myself in my awkward early 20s: “If you don’t have anything interesting to say, don’t say anything at all.” I just didn’t trust myself not to blurt out something completely weird: some joke that didn’t fit the scenario, or some random line that people would laugh at politely but didn’t make any sense.

These weren’t unfounded fears. Back then I was like an AI bot trying to figure out how to use humour. So I appointed this third-party pop star to police me. His silence spoke volumes. Maybe this chart-topping critic was my yardstick for: Am I cool enough?

He wasn’t saying, so I’d never know. It was like I was an approval junkie, teasing myself in the knowledge that I would never get approval. But having grown up feeling confused by things that happened to me as a child, with no forthcoming explanations from my family, appointing a mute inner-critic made sense.

By the time I was in my early 40s and my brain’s de facto pop star was in his late 60s, I’d become so accustomed to him that I wondered what I would do if he actually died. What would that do to my psyche?

Maybe, I thought, it was time to tackle this. When I told my shrink about this guy, I thought he’d nod in recognition at this very common psychological device, but instead he admitted this was a first for him. So that really helped my self-consciousness. Also, had he not heard of God/Allah/insert deity here, appointed by religious folks to be their critical eye in the sky?

Since then, I’ve listened to the audiobook by Australian musician Clare Bowditch, Tame Your Inner Critic, in which she discusses the inner voice she’s named Frank. Then there’s the episode of the podcast Miss Me? – a no-holds-barred chat between musician Lily Allen and her old friend, TV presenter Miquita Oliver – which is all about self-sabotage.

The pair discuss a voice-note left for them by a listener, describing the “shitty committee” that lives in her head. In particular, there’s a character she calls Stella. Stella is a confident beauty that the listener could never live up to – “and boy does she like to remind me of that”.

In response, Allen is confused. “I had no idea people did this,” she tells Oliver. “I didn’t realise this was a thing.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, big time,” Oliver assures her. Turns out, Oliver’s mum has “Tania” living rent-free in her head, and Oliver herself has “Sh’Niqua”. Let’s say Oliver is planning on going to the gym because she wants to lose weight, but is veering towards, “I can’t do this.”

“Damn straight you can’t,” Sh’Niqua will chip in. “Let’s go to the pub.”

So there you go, some people do have a third-party inner critic. At least theirs talks to them.

Edited extract from The Introvert’s Guide to Leaving the House (Affirm Press) by Jenny Valentish, out May 27.

Get the best of Sunday Life magazine delivered to your inbox every Sunday morning. Sign up here for our free newsletter.