Ten years ago I was one of 36 men, women and children recruited to live on the remote Hebridean island of Taransay as part of the Castaway 2000 project for the BBC.
It was ambitiously billed as a "bold new experiment for the new millennium" and we were the guinea pigs who'd build a sustainable, self-sufficient community from scratch and fend for ourselves in the Scottish wilderness. We'd grow our own food, kill our own meat and govern ourselves for the year-long project. It was to be a year that changed my life in ways I could never imagine.
In contrast to today's reality TV, there were no cash prizes, rewards, winners or losers – we were told this was a show with "integrity and credibility". At the time of being selected in 1999 I was a 44-year-old gay man living in Twickenham; I was in pretty good shape – happy and content. I'd just retired from an acting career and begun a degree in counselling, supporting myself as a freelance writer. I had a clear focus and direction, but curiosity got the better of me.
A friend alerted me to the advert for Castaway, saying I'd be the only person they knew mad enough to give it a go. The concept intrigued me. What a fantastic opportunity to experiment with a different way of life; to learn about human nature and group dynamics.
Nobody was more surprised than me when I was selected. I was one of the first Castaways to be offered a place, and the last to sign the contract. I felt like a groom walking up the aisle on his wedding day, not really convinced that he's doing the right thing.
It didn't take long to discover my gut instinct was right. On 27 December 1999, we left our homes and families, and on our arrival in Scotland were told the island was not ready for habitation. We were thrown into a youth hostel and then informed that some of our personal possessions had been dropped during an airlift. I was one of the four unlucky ones – everything we'd packed for the year had been destroyed.
One catastrophe followed another – there was a serious outbreak of flu and bronchitis, and many of us were terribly ill. The younger, fitter Castaways were shipped off to the island and built makeshift accommodation in the schoolhouse; those of us who were sick were transferred to a hotel, along with the families who refused to put their children at risk on Taransay, which still resembled a building site.
The TV crew looked stressed and agitated. We were later to discover that the division created between those on the mainland and those on the island would provide their first major source of televised conflict – with those on Taransay hailed as heroes and the rest of us portrayed as objectionable wimps. These stories found their way into the tabloid press.
Being pitted against each other wasn't pleasant, and it felt as if there was more to come. Many of us thought of returning home. But we kept each other going, saying that once we got to the island things would be different.
Sometime in late January we eventually got to the island. Taransay is one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen, and we all fell in love with it. The winter weather could be ferocious but in spring and summer it was heaven on earth. The landscape is rugged and wild, and you feel at its mercy.
Most of the early days were spent getting to know each other and having endless meetings about how we were to live on Taransay. Many rows ensued regarding the work rota and how to spend the community budget – even some punch ups between some of the men. It all seemed so surreal because of the ever-present cameras.
We had a resident camerawoman who was installed as a fellow Castaway, and we were taught how to use cameras and encouraged to film each other. In addition the main crew visited every fortnight – this would make most of us scatter to all four corners of Taransay to evade them.
By now, most of us had a fundamental mistrust of the TV company – feeling they were manipulative, divisive and disruptive. They had their favourite Castaways, those who were compliant in the face of their demands, and these people were treated well and given gifts. Others – like me – who refused to be controlled were treated harshly.
Ben Fogle was chosen very early on as the star of the show, and this caused resentment within the camp. It wasn't Fogle's fault – he was a good-looking young man with a posh accent, while the rest of us looked like we'd been pulled through a hedge backwards. He was obviously going to be the show's eye candy.
Ben and I started out as good mates but, like everyone on the island, we had our ups and downs. As the programmes began to be aired, we received letters from home warning us that we'd been cast like actors in a soap opera – with all the focus on the rows and discord. Many of us decided to play the production team at their own game, and began to break the rules of the project. We were supposed to have no contact with the outside world but gave our credit cards to locals on the mainland, who would bring us "contraband" – luxury foods, alcohol and tobacco.
We felt like we'd been set up to fail. For example, having selected me as the only gay in the village, the programme makers had also recruited a family of Seventh-day Adventists, who would be likely to object to my sexuality. The fuse was lit by members of the production team who publicly branded me a "drama queen" whenever I refused to co-operate with them. And they eventually got their pound of flesh, when the situation flared up and I had the Bible quoted at me. I was left feeling isolated and vulnerable.
We eventually patched up our differences, but little support was offered by the programme makers, who only seemed interested in squeezing every last frame out of the situation. And the same went for many other Castaways who needed emotional support for a variety of reasons that year – bereavements, severe depression, broken hearts, homesickness, the list was endless. We were left to our own devices – it was sink or swim. There were no counsellors attached to the project – only a clinical psychologist who had helped with the selection process and who, by her own admission, had little or no counselling experience.
Six months rolled by and I became increasing disillusioned. My dog, Charlie, who had been my constant companion for 13 years, suddenly became very ill and needed to see a vet on the mainland. Advanced cancer was diagnosed, and Charlie was put to sleep. Grief-stricken, I fell into a deep depression. I'd bought Charlie as an eight-week-old puppy from Battersea dogs' home in 1987 and she became my world – we went everywhere together. To me, it was like losing a child.
At my lowest point, a member of the production team presented me with the vet's bill and insisted I obtain the Castaways' approval to pay this from the community budget – another potential source of conflict. Their insensitivity made me see red, and sparked a chain of events that led to me leaving the island.
I wanted to be with my family and friends, so I planned my escape on a boat that came to collect livestock. The TV producers insisted I stay. Before we left, the author of the official Castaway book, who had been visiting the island was told: "Take the bastard into the middle of the sea and drown him."
Back at home my depression deepened as I watched the programmes. I left the show in June 2000, but footage of me rowing with other Castaways continued to be screened right up until October. I was portrayed as a loose cannon with few redeeming qualities. I was constantly recognised by people who'd seen the show, and I felt they were thinking badly of me. Losing one's anonymity in this way can be scary. I became a virtual prisoner in my own home. By then I was drinking far too much alcohol and my life was in chaos. Every time another episode of Castaway was aired, it got worse. One of the hardest things was discovering that my nephews had been bullied at school because of the way I'd been demonised.
Eventually, after around 18 months in hiding, with the help of a therapist, I managed to pull through and went back to training as a counsellor. Continuing to gather strength, I decided sue the BBC and the production company Lion TV for libel following the screening of a sequence of events that I can only describe as distorted and untruthful.
Viewers were led to believe that, following Charlie's death and being told about the vet's bill, I'd had a violent outburst and thrown a chair at a female Castaway. The row had actually been with a member of the production team, when I had thrown a chair – against a wall – and left the room. The programme-makers then cobbled this together with old footage of another Castaway crying, and saying that she was intimidated by me.
I won my case and was awarded £16,000 in damages, plus costs, and I got my apology in the high court. Libel is notoriously difficult and costly to prove, and I remain the first and only reality TV participant to have successfully sued in this way. Since then, I've watched the damage caused by reality TV get progressively worse: the cruel exploitation of young people on shows such as The X Factor; extreme violence erupting on Big Brother; suicides, mental breakdowns and even a murder arising from one American show. Many people who feel their lives have been destroyed by reality TV have contacted me for help and support – some of them suicidal. Their suffering is real – and a high price to pay for entertainment.
In defending their programmes, TV producers claim their victims know what they're letting themselves in for, that contestants "know the score". I certainly didn't – and the power imbalance was huge. From our experience on the island, it was telling that no significant dramas involving the community's camerawoman were shown on TV.
An incident on Taransay sticks in my mind. One of the kids stole some sweets from my room and the camera–woman demanded I be interviewed on camera. I refused, explaining that if the programme branded the child a thief, it could have devastating consequences for them. She told me that on becoming a Castaway we'd agreed that everything could be filmed: "It's contractual," I was informed. Her lack of concern for the child's welfare astounded me.
Sadly, it's far too late to stop the reality TV beast, but I'd like to see much better accountability and responsibility. Producers could start by only recruiting those robust enough for the challenge and by offering appropriate support and aftercare. Why does there always need to have been a fatal train crash before the dodgy rails are fixed?
Of course, Castaway wasn't all bad. I made some great friends and the bond between us is like those forged between survivors of any terrible disaster. We've been far more forgiving towards each other because we accept that we lived in a pressure cooker. We all said and did things we regret and are guilty of taking ourselves far too seriously.
A decade on, some of us are planning an informal reunion on Taransay this weekend, and this time we will be captains of our own ship – this is a holiday for the Castaways by the Castaways, void of intrusive camera crews. This will be the first time I've been back to the island, and it's been good to reflect on the experience.
Many of my most treasured memories involve the children. I'll never forget my drama classes, and making music in the kitchen with pots and pans and anything else we could find. My biggest contribution to island life was in the education and development of the children, but sadly only a few seconds of this was shown over the entire series.
It's a shame the children were not featured more – they're a very special bunch. After Charlie died they made beautiful sympathy cards and created a seat made from rocks at the foot of her grave so I could "sit and talk to her". One of them gave me a stone decorated with 13 tiny yellow seashells – one from each of Charlie's life. Looking back I can that perhaps we had the most to learn from the children, who bonded quickly, rarely argued, had terrific fun and were an inspiration in how to seize the day. It will be interesting to meet them again as young adults.
Although Castaway had its successes, it also had glaring failures. We were given a wonderful opportunity to live differently, and all we did was replicate how we lived at home: people wanted rules, cliques, some kind of permanent, secure structure. It was disappointing that the Taransay community appeared to reflect society, but, for whatever reason, the minority groups felt marginalised and quit the island early – the oldest man, the gay man, the black family.
The experience has changed me in many ways. I left London and moved to the country, and I'm happier with a quieter, more relaxed existence. I guess the project helped me grow up: the person I am today would never do Castaway. But perhaps the biggest legacy is my healthy contempt for reality TV, and my desire to assist those who have also been damaged. Since gaining my degree and working as a therapist, I've decided to specialise in TV aftercare. I certainly feel qualified.