Truth about the man who began Fathers 4 Justice

Matt's work, which includes orchestrating the infamous flour-bomb attack on Tony Blair, has moved the issue of fathers' rights to the top of the political agenda. Here, Matt and his ex-wife Sophie tell how their bitter divorce led Matt to where he is today.

Sophie says

I knew my troubled marriage to Matt had reached its end when he failed to return home on Christmas Eve, 1999.

That was the climax of four tumultuous years, during which he'd had countless affairs, spent most of his time drunk, and offered me little support during or after my pregnancies.

Watching our two sons, then aged two and three, sitting waiting for their father that Christmas morning, surrounded by presents they were desperate to open, was simply too much to bear.

That miserable morning I would never have believed that a few years later, Matt would set up a pressure group offering support and advice to thousands of distressed fathers. In those days he didn't even understand the concept of fatherhood. He was, quite simply, a lousy husband and father with a drink problem.

Looking back, the omens were never good. Matt and I met in a pub in 1994. I was having a quiet drink with friends when Matt, who was drunk, burst in through the door. He staggered over and proceeded to chat us up. Despite his state, I found him interesting. He told me he worked in design and marketing, and we both shared a love of Ireland.

I gave him my number and a few days later he called; he admitted he'd been so drunk that he couldn't remember what I looked like. Maybe I should have known better than to agree to see him again.

But that said, we got on famously. Matt is charismatic, funny and a wonderful conversationalist. He swept me off my feet. He proposed just three months later, on a weekend away.

I did suggest living together for a year first, but Matt didn't want to wait. He sold marriage to me as though it was one of his marketing operations, even taking me to see Four Weddings And A Funeral to get me in the mood. Swept away with the romance of it all, I agreed, and we married that same year.

On our wedding day, his friends kept joking about leaving the car engine running so he could make a quick escape; they took bets on how long we'd last, plied him with alcohol and tried to persuade us to go out clubbing after the reception. It wasn't really the spirit with which I'd imagined entering such a union.

At first, married life was fun - a constant whirl

of socialising. But things changed, when, just under a year after we married, I fell pregnant unexpectedly.

I had no choice but to give up much of my social life, but Matt wasn't prepared to compromise. He frequently stayed out all night without letting me know, and when he eventually staggered in, he couldn't understand why I was upset.

After our first son was born in April 1996, things got worse. Matt was working long hours and staying in the company flat in London up to three times a week. I pleaded with him to slow down, saying I was prepared to downsize if it meant he would be around more, but he wouldn't hear of it.

Just seven weeks after the baby was born, I went back to my job because I'd had to take my maternity leave early after suffering bleeding at seven months. I was utterly exhausted.

I rapidly fell out of love with Matt - I couldn't feel any positive feelings towards someone who was so unsupportive - and considered filing for divorce. But then, during an attempt at a reconciliation, I fell pregnant again. Matt was shocked, but seemed pleased. Our second son was born in November 1997.

With each passing month I felt increasingly resentful. Matt was spending more and more time in London, sometimes returning only to get his washing done.

He had an amazingly glamorous lifestyle - a great job, hectic social life, a smart four-wheel drive Jeep and nice clothes. By contrast, I appeared to be single-handedly raising two small children, dressed in ghastly maternity outfits and with an old Audi to squeeze the push-chair into. I felt like an abandoned single mum.

I was too embarrassed to admit to my friends and family that it was all going horribly wrong so early on.

But worse was to come. I discovered Matt was seeing other women. It was all the old cliches - his clothes were covered in make-up and reeked of perfume. And on one occasion, condoms fell out of his trouser pockets while I was doing the washing.

I tried to talk to Matt every couple of months about saving the marriage, and our conversations would always end with him promising to make more effort, to be home earlier and to spend more time with the children. But barely a week would pass before he was breaking his promises.

My priority was to give our sons a stable home; if Matt didn't want to be a part of it, that was his decision.

By 1999, I felt totally detached from him. He was hardly ever there and never took on any of the hard work involved with raising a family.

That Christmas was the final straw. I told him to move out, and started divorce proceedings in January 2000.

At first, we arranged contact with the children between ourselves. But we argued at each pick-up and dropoff. I wanted to fix the times and days when Matt would see the children. He wanted flexibility, to accommodate his job and his social life.

Plus, he was always changing his plans at the last minute. After a while, I felt out of control - he was still exerting control over my life by forcing me to change my plans just because he'd changed his. I became so frustrated with Matt messing us all around that I stopped contact between him and the children. I felt terrible about it, but I was desperate to force him into a position where he'd have to consider us.

In fury, he turned to the courts. Initially, I was happy for the law to be involved - I wanted contact to be clearly defined, and I hoped Matt would be forced to abide by rules if they were set by someone in a position of authority.

But despite the courts' intervention, rows at pick-ups and drop-offs continued - over everything from money to dividing our belongings and the amount of time Matt was spending with the children. The atmosphere became so hostile that on several occasions, one of us ended up calling the police to calm things down.

We hit rock-bottom on Christmas Eve 2000, when an argument as we handed the children over became so heated that Matt kicked the car door and I called the police. He was arrested and cautioned for criminal damage.

After that, Matt withdrew totally from our lives for a month and had no contact with the children until a court hearing four weeks later.

He knew he'd acted appallingly and was scared the judge would punish him. He thought that staying away would be seen as sensible on his part, but he was ordered to see the boys only during supervised visits at centres in south London.

That set-up lasted almost a year. Matt found these visits incredibly difficult. He felt degraded, as though he wasn't trusted with his own children.

I tried to have as little to do with him as possible when I dropped off the children at the contact centre. Despite his distress, the arrangement worked for me because it was neutral territory and I finally had set times when he would be with the children.

In September 2001, Matt's business partner died in a fall from a balcony in America. As a result, Matt lost his business - and with it, the flat in London. He had no choice but to stay on friends' floors. He became extremely depressed and has since told me he even considered suicide.

But that period was to prove a turning point - and a new Matt, who I would learn to trust and even care for deeply again, began to emerge. He realised that his playboy lifestyle offered him very little emotionally, and he finally started to grow up.

He moved to a converted barn in Suffolk, and after our next court hearing I felt happier letting the boys stay overnight with him now that he had a proper home.

Our communication began to improve as I could see he was finally getting his life in order. I felt that despite the distress he'd caused me, I had to get on with him for the sake of the children. Today, we have a great relationship - we get on well, and communicate frequently about the children's needs. He's a great father.

I'm incredibly proud of Matt for setting up Fathers 4 Justice. I do feel for fathers who find themselves in a position where they're unable to see their children.

The ironic thing now is that, despite the worthwhile cause, the group has affected Matt's parenting time. It leaves him so exhausted that I often long for him to walk away from it. He is so busy shouldering other fathers' problems that sometimes I worry that once again, his own children will be the ones who suffer.

Matt says

Standing on the railings of Waterloo bridge, all I could think about was ending my life by letting myself tumble into the water.

It was October 2001, and I'd drunk an entire bottle of whisky in a bid to numb my pain. But I'd come to realise that no amount of alcohol, parties or beautiful women could change the fact that I'd lost my wife, home and children.

I teetered on the edge of the railings for 30 seconds, trying desperately to
think of a reason to live. Then, suddenly, it was obvious - I had to live for my sons.

I vowed then that I would get more contact with them, and, most importantly, that I would do all I could to prevent other fathers suffering in the same way.

Fathers 4 Justice was born as I stepped down from the railings. The reason our protesters now climb bridges is because it signifies that turning point for me.

I'm the first to admit I was a terrible husband. I was allergic to marriage.

At that stage of my life, I was utterly sucked into the hedonistic City culture of working hard and playing hard. I was out almost every night, drinking and chatting up women until the early hours. I was a party animal, unable to resist any temptation.

Sophie's pregnancy came as a shock. I can understand now why she became so angry and hurt by my behaviour during it; in fact, I often find myself reduced to tears now when I remember what I put her through.

At the time, I did want our relationship to be good again, but my refusal to compromise just made everything worse.

Of course, none of that is an excuse for what I did after my second son was born - especially the numerous affairs and flings. I'd lost all perspective. All I can say is that I felt lonely and as though I wasn't getting any love at home.

When Sophie finally asked me to move out, I felt relieved. We organised contact with the boys between ourselves initially. But again I was very selfish, because I didn't really consider anyone else's position. I didn't see why changing my plans was such a problem.

In the summer of 2000, Sophie stopped contact altogether. Although I now understand her motivation, I still maintain this was the wrong thing to do, as it forced us into the legal system.

I couldn't believe the courts didn't seem to recognise my right to see my boys. It was as though I was meant to feel grateful when I was granted just eight hours a month to see them.

Slowly it dawned on me how much I had messed up. I missed the boys awfully, and desperately wanted to sort myself out. I lost interested in the women and lifestyle, and instead felt an awful burden of guilt and shame.

But Sophie and I continued to row. There was so much resentment between us, and every court hearing was like pouring petrol on the flames.

2001 was a disastrous year for me. Seeing the boys in a contact centre broke my heart. They used to run straight past me to the toys, and I felt like a criminal. When my business partner died that autumn and I lost my income, I hit rock bottom. After the Waterloo bridge incident, I felt it was time to move out of London. I needed some peace and time to put my life back together.

A friend whose floor I was sleeping on loaned me £10,000 and his camper van, and by chance I came across the converted barn in Suffolk where I now live.

With a new home and my life back on track, the storm between Sophie and I seemed to die down. She even started bringing the boys and her mother to visit.

At our final hearing, I was granted overnight visits and more time with the boys. I thought: 'Whatever it takes, this system has to change.'

I set up Fathers 4 Justice in the hope that I would prove I'd learned from my mistakes, and that someone else might benefit from what I'd been through.

I'm immensely proud of what I've achieved. But I sometimes feel as though it's a cruel joke. I'm running my marketing business at the same time; last week I was sent to hospital with high blood pressure.

Every day I get thousands of letters and emails from distressed fathers. It's ironic that someone who was as terrible as I used to be is now shouldering all this emotion.

But walking away would be impossible. After all, I know just how awful it is to be denied access to your children - even if you haven't been a saintly husband or a perfect father.