Speaker · Storyteller · Professionally Neurodivergent
Talks that help people see differently — from the inside of a brain that works in a way yours probably doesn't. Funny. Honest. Occasionally uncomfortable. Always useful.
"A tear in their eye. A lump in their throat. A pay rise for their team."
Book a talk →Every talk is built from real failure — mine. The kind of failure that teaches you something useful, once you've stopped being embarrassed about it. Failure is the curriculum. I just happen to have done a lot of studying.
What it actually looks like to experience the world through an AuDHD brain. Not a disability lecture. A different perspective on why the smartest people in your team might be the quietest ones — and what happens when you finally let them speak.
A practical guide to working with neurodivergent people. Spoiler: it's not complicated. Stop performing at them. Tell them what you need. Buy them a donut. Say hello. Don't ask how they are. That's a complicated question. Just say hello.
Every mistake I've made — and I've made spectacular ones — turned out to be a lesson I couldn't have learned any other way. What schools don't teach you about being wrong, and why getting it wrong faster is the only shortcut that actually works.
Same brain. Same stories. More wine in the room. An after dinner talk that earns its laughs by telling the truth — about the mistakes, the misunderstandings, and the spectacular miscommunications that make being human worth documenting.
"They don't find autistic people difficult to communicate with. They just haven't realised yet that they're communicating wrong."
Chris works with organisations that are genuinely trying to get it right. Not tick a box. Not photograph the initiative. Actually get it right.
Schools, colleges, teacher development. Understanding the brains in the room that aren't like yours.
Companies genuinely trying to build teams where neurodivergent people can do their best work. Every £1 spent on mental health at work returns £4 in reduced absence and higher productivity.
After dinner and evening entertainment for discerning audiences. Smart, funny, memorable.
The session that people are still talking about in the taxi home. Keynote or breakout.
Patient groups, advocacy organisations, medical cannabis, mental health. Chris speaks from lived experience.
After dinner speaker for events that want something better than another PowerPoint and a raffle.
Chris's talks work because they're honest. That means they're not for every room. If your organisation is looking for a talk that makes things feel fine when they aren't, this isn't it. If you're looking for something that actually changes how people think — about neurodiversity, about failure, about the people they work with — read on.
Chris doesn't work with organisations whose values conflict with inclusion, equity, and basic human decency. He's had enough experience of rooms like that to know when he's in one. He'd rather do fewer, better gigs with people who mean it.
They have something specific and often extraordinary to offer. They know it. You know it — that's why you hired them. The problem isn't communication. The problem is which kind of communication you're insisting on.
They don't want the small talk. They don't want the check-in, the team lunch, the motivational away-day with the ropes course. They want to do the thing they're brilliant at. Then go home. That's it. That's the whole ask.
(Not actually trademarked. But it works.)
Say hello. A smile. A nod. That's connection. That's enough.
Bring them a coffee. A donut. A small, no-strings gesture of human decency. Revolutionary, apparently.
Tell them what you need clearly, give them the space to do it, and then leave them alone to be brilliant.
"Hello, how are you?" is not a greeting. It's an interrogation. That's a complicated question. You don't want the real answer. Neither do they.
Manage them like you'd manage the person down the road. They're not the person down the road. That's the whole point.
Mistake quiet for disengagement. The quietest person in the room is often the one doing the most thinking. Let them think.
Chris P Taylor spent the first five decades of his life being told, in various polite and impolite ways, that he was doing it wrong. He was louder than he should have been in some rooms, quieter than expected in others. He made mistakes that baffled the people around him. He made connections that baffled him.
Then he got a diagnosis. Late. Very late. And suddenly every single one of those mistakes made complete sense — not as failures, but as the entirely logical output of a brain that processes the world differently from the one everyone had been assuming he had.
He spent thirty years performing — magic, comedy, hypnosis — learning how rooms work, how people work, how to hold attention and then use it for something useful. Now he talks instead. The stories are the same. The audience gets more out of it.
He is a prescribed medical cannabis patient. He is building an ecosystem of community tools for people who feel like they don't quite fit the world as it is currently configured. He has a dog called Roxy.
Before any of that — before the stages, before the diagnosis, before the performing — there was a CB radio. Doc Strange was a handle. He'd get on the air, do voices, imitate everyone in town, make strangers laugh through a box. Anonymous. No face. Just timing and a transmitter. The whole town was on CB then: organising boot sales, saving lives, looking out for each other, building the kind of community that didn't need a platform to function — just frequency and the willingness to show up.
There was an unwritten rule: if you saw a CB aerial on someone's roof, you knocked on the door. Guaranteed brew, sandwich, and a chat. It worked everywhere. Including Johannesburg, 1980, age twelve — where he knocked on the door of a house that looked like a hedgehog, bristling with antennas. The man who answered was big, South African, and deeply unimpressed. Chris explained he was on CB radio in England and had seen the setup. The man said he was busy. Come back tomorrow. Chris came back. "I didn't think you'd come back," the man said, and let him in. His name was Sherlock Holmes. Not a handle — his actual name. Sherlock Holmes was a radio ham with a one-kilowatt rig, and when he wandered into the other room saying "don't touch anything," Chris had ten minutes alone with it. He called his mates in Blackburn from South Africa. He also picked up a station in Newfoundland, Canada, clear as glass: ten-five and it, over.
He thinks about that a lot now. All those old radios sitting in lofts and garages. The aerials came down. The frequency went quiet. But the impulse is still there. FeelFamous is the same idea with a different transmitter.
In 1989 he toured Germany with a band called Big World — 22 gigs, November to Christmas Day. The Berlin Wall came down while he was there. He visited Bergen-Belsen. He played Hamelin, Osnabrück, Fallingbostel. He was in his twenties and didn't fully understand what he was standing in the middle of. He's going back now, by train, on a €68 monthly ticket, to find out.
Bookings through Scarlett Entertainment. Get in touch — let's find the right talk for your room.
Book via Scarlett Entertainment →Or reach Chris directly on Signal: +44 7976 884254