The third of five dramatic exits from a 12-year toxic relationship had just happened when I met Yvonne Campbell. I was unravelled. Hollowed out. Pretending to function. I’d gone from swiping someone else’s gold card in Soho to hustling in East London with a laptop and a dream. Life had stopped being glossy. Now it was about finding a way back to myself. And without even knowing it, Yvonne became the first person to guide me there.
I was consulting for a pair of estate agents that felt like the greasy knock-off of Foxtons. Picture: two lads who left the main brand with a stolen landlord list, set up shop in a room the size of a disabled toilet, and rebranded themselves with a budget Shoreditch aesthetic that looked like Tango had made love to IKEA. But I saw Olympic gold in their database. Landlords were getting greedy. London was heating up. And I was quietly positioning us to ride the wave.
Enter Natalie Doyle. Head of Property Management, Dagenham darling, my soul twin in a pencil skirt. We bonded immediately over fags in her car and bitching about the old boys in management. She was younger than me, smarter than they realised, and had a mouth that could skin a man in three syllables flat. She was doing her best to hold it together under bosses who thought women couldn’t attend industry events unless they were a manager, and yet she outworked and outshone them all. She had the spark. So I made it my mission to fan that flame.
Together, we schemed. We mapped the players behind the Olympics, from LOCOG to the boroughs. We tracked school partnerships, athlete housing, mayoral priorities.
“Natalie casually mentioned her landlord might be useful. “You’ll love her. She’s got this laugh.”
The London Olympic Stadium For The Opening Ceremonies Is Where The Roar of the crowd sent tingles through your spine…
We were standing in the lobby of one of the council buildings, and before I saw her, I heard her. That laugh. Warm, soulful, slightly mischievous. Then the elevator doors opened and there she was. Hair flawless, energy grounded, smile you could see from E8 to N1. She walked over, hugged Natalie like an old friend, and nodded to me. I was instantly jealous of the hug. I had to earn that.
This was Yvonne Campbell. Or, as Natalie and the girls in property management called her, No Bullshit Yvonne. A landlord, yes. But also a community leader. A connector. A quiet force of nature who somehow made people give a damn. That first meeting was about Olympic housing partnerships, but it quickly became about so much more.
We pitched. We performed. Yvonne just listened, then laser-cut through the nonsense. Direct, respectful, kind. Her poker face was rubbish, which made her perfect. You always knew where you stood. She was one of those women who didn’t need to prove anything. She just was. She’d grown up in an era where you didn’t swear in front of your mum or let your dad see your PE report, but she moved through the modern world with grace and authority. Real class, real roots.
A week later, we found ourselves at a Hackney school field, hosting a community event she’d organised. We were in fluorescent orange T-shirts that looked like rejected fruit pastilles. Plastic javelins in hand, surrounded by estate agents trying to out-alpha each other. I took one look at the javelin and knew I was doomed. My dyspraxia, coupled with a very theatrical gay frown, ensured I looked like a malfunctioning windmill trying to flirt with the sky.
I heard her laughing from inside the school. Natalie was on the floor. We all knew it was ridiculous, but I’d never felt more seen. Because in that moment, I wasn’t the broken guy from the breakup. I was someone who could show up, laugh at himself, and be part of something.
Later that day, Yvonne pulled me aside. I was still wearing the fake smile that says “I’m totally fine,” but she saw right through it.
She looked at me. Really looked. Then she said:
“You need to know yourself young man and see what I see…”
She said I was driven. I was sharp. She’d clocked the designer bags and the good manners and the ability to bounce back. She said she saw something in me that I clearly didn’t. And she told me, gently but firmly, to stop wasting time on people who couldn’t love themselves, let alone love me.
That moment changed me. “Know yourself” became a kind of internal gospel. I say it before I go onstage. I whisper it before big meetings. It lives next to my other mantra: It’ll be fine, no one will notice.
That summer, the city pulsed with energy. London had a heartbeat.
The Games were coming. Yvonne, being Yvonne, handed me and Natalie two VIP tickets to the Radio 1 Weekender. No drama. No ego. Just,
“Here, you deserve a night out.”
Rhianna Rocking It In Hackney!
Yvonne like me has lost a Dad she was so close to.
Natalie turned up half-cut. The bouncers nearly refused her entry, and I had to run interference like some gay secret agent of charm and apology. Eventually, we got in. And when Rihanna came onstage, it felt like we were witnessing the beginning of something. We danced like idiots. Somewhere across the crowd, I saw Yvonne again, this time with her sister, the incredible Pauline Campbell. I didn’t know her well yet, but she had the same glow, the same groundedness. Years later, I’d learn she was a lawyer who gave it all up to write and live more honestly. It runs in the family, apparently. Pauline a solicitor by day and a published and successful author by night.
That night, I saw Yvonne relaxed. Joyful. Not battling budget lines or bureaucracy. Just laughing with her people. It stuck with me.
But was the person to teach me to be grateful for you Mum every day and cherish every moment and I love seeing her globe trotting the world with mum.
And then, not long after, Yvonne handed me something even more important. Through her connections and her quiet genius, she helped me get tickets to the Olympic Stadium for my dad. He never made it to the Formula One, but we got him to Stratford. He saw the athletics. He felt the pride. And years later, after he passed, that memory became one of my most treasured. Because of Yvonne.
Yvonne Campbell didn’t just help me with work. She helped me heal. She redirected my trajectory. She brought people together. She told the truth. She laughed with her whole chest. Her home, which I later visited, was like stepping into a Scandinavian dream.
Warm wood, sharp lines, candles that always smelled expensive, and family photos everywhere. Real printed photos. Memories that don’t live in clouds but on walls, held in frames. You could feel the love in that house. You could feel the life.
To my dad the evening is one as a 1st generation immigrant never thought he would see and all though I never got him to the F1. That magical night of seeing the joy on my 75 year old dad’s face was priceless
She is a woman of elegance and efficiency, but most of all, humanity. I’ve seen her charm government ministers, humble developers, and uplift entire boroughs without raising her voice. She is classy but real. The kind of woman people underestimate, until they see her in action. And then, they never forget.
So this is part one of Yvonne’s story. The part where she changed mine.
In part two, she joins me our Shoreditch studio in person. I’ll cook, she’ll talk. We’ll laugh, probably cry, and we’ll dive into her own journey. The before. The after. The wildness of it all.
But for now, I leave you with this:
Know yourself. You’re amazing.
Yvonne taught me that. And I’ll never forget it.
