Think Void: The Wall

It's a day in early March, and nothing has happened. 

Well, stuff has happened. I work full time, and stuff happens there. I spend a lot of free time walking around Cheltenham, and I see things happen; some of it in front of me, some of it involving me. Some of it has had a positive effect on me, but most of it seems to be detrimental to my overall happiness. But there's something about it all that has eaten me up inside. None of it is noteworthy. 

No matter, I'm imaginative enough. I'll embellish a bit!

I'm sat in my armchair, a cup of Earl Grey beside me and a non-descript album on in the background, staring. Staring into a blank screen. Something must have happened this month! I rack my brains for something to write about. What could I possibly share with you? 

I do things I never usually do to try and get some juices flowing. I stand up and walk around. This is something I've noticed my boss does, and it must work for him because, somewhere along the line, more than one of his ideas have made him fucking successful and popular. God, what I would brutally kill for an idea like that right now. Probably him, if I really had to. Does it work like a monarchy, where if someone dies, we all move up the line of succession? Would I have the "Junior" knocked off my title, and move one step closer to the ultimate goal - business cards? That's right, I don't want a company car, a season train-ticket, or a huge wage (handy those all might be), but, for some reason, I can't help but yearn for a business card. Something with my name on it! I could really be somebody in this place!

But I digress, plus it's my turn to make the tea.

****************************************************************

It's mid-March, and I'm not panicking. 

I'm sat in my parent's house, discussing their upcoming holiday to New Zealand. They are doing something noteworthy. The bastards. They have a moral duty to make sure I'm doing something noteworthy! What kind of parents are they if they're not giving me stuff to do?

"So, how's work going, Jim [my parents call me Jim, you don't because you're not allowed]? How's the missus?"

I must add, that nobody, NOBODY calls my girlfriend 'the missus' except me, and I'm not so uncouth as to do it in the real world. Just here, in case there is a change in casting. 

"Yeah, it's going well, and we're both very well, thanks. How's Henry?"
"He's good, his fiancés good, their little one is coming along nicely."

That's right, my younger brother is engaged, and his first child is due in September. He's got stuff to talk about. Some people will do anything for a bit of material. 

"How's Grace? [my sister]"
"Yeah, she's alright, just getting ready for A-levels and India"

For God's sake! Everyone in my family is doing something except me! This cannot be for too long. I've got to do something about anything!

Right, that's it. Tomorrow, I'm going to have an event!!



****************************************************************

It's lateish March. My New-Year's resolution of producing 12 quality pieces of work is being absolutely trashed by my tiny brain not being able to translate anything that has happened into words.

An email appears. The font has been changed to protect the identity of the computer that sent it.

Hi James and [a much better informed colleague]

Can we pls get a blog from both of you about the pension and ISA reforms announced yesterday in the Budget.

If I could have something by the end of the day from both of you that would be fab.

Thanks

I'm being mocked! Mocked for my literary impotence! I can't think of ANYTHING in a month, and now I have one afternoon to knock up a blog about the Budget?! What to say? How do you make something like that interesting? Why do I only have an afternoon to come up with this? Furthermore, why am I being put against a colleague who is much better informed than I am about these matters?! This is unfair. I've been deliberately set up for a fall. 

In a flash, I clear my afternoon and stare at a blank Word document, for quite some time. How humiliating. A politics graduate, albeit from Swansea, unable to say anything about the Budget. 

As it turned out, I said a fair bit about the Budget. In fact, I wrote too much, and bits had to be taken out - most of the compliments about the Tories failed to make the final cut, but those are acceptable losses. Was it so hard to write something? Do I just need to be sat down and told what to do, with the incentive of continuous employment being dangled in front of me. Do I need to be forced to do it, with something a bit more intimidating dangling in front of me? Something as to give. Something will happen. Even if I have to force it. 

****************************************************************


"So, what do you think?"
"I think it's stupid, why would we do it?"

Walking away from the burning wreck of March, it is now April. I now have to come up with TWO things to write about this month. Time, the wily fox, has forced my hand.

I'm sat at work with a colleague, friend, (and I don't think he'll mind if I share it with you) and secret lover - bugger! okay, lover - whom I have just pitched an absolutely shite idea to, to try and get a bit of hustle going in both the office and my own head. An idea which is for my own benefit as much as anyone else's, but it's one of those crazy things marketing agencies get up to. What are we like, eh? 

"Wouldn't it be really cool and kooky if, on Friday, all the men in the office were wearing checked shirts?"
"Nope", he said. 
"Oh. Well, let's see how it goes anyway!" 

Turns out he was right. Half the men didn't do it, all of the women complained that they weren't included. I didn't even own a checked shirt. He has six. Would he share one? Nope. He, almost gleefully, strode in, had a quick chuckle at me, and sat down at his desk. 

Two minutes later, a message from him. 

Hey, at least you've got something to talk about for your blog! Haha!

The swine.

****************************************************************

It's now the middle of April. A century has passed since the last blog post. I've gone above and beyond in search of an awkward situations, but, after 2 car washes, a new phone, a round of golf, a game of monopoly, #CheckedShirtFriday (don't look for it on Twitter, it didn't get the 'traction' (that's a marketing word, apparently) I hoped for), a 20 mile walk in Worcester, a 16 mile walk in Cheltenham, and a purchase of a tin horse, things got desperate. I tried, dearest reader. I tried so hard for you. 

How do writers do it? How?! One minute they're at the dead end of a labyrinth, surrounded by mind blocks and mental barriers, and the next, they're centre stage in a story unfolding before the reader's very eyes, real or fictional. They're so current, so relevant, so cool! Some writers don't even bother with pithy little articles, they sit in a shed and somehow come up with entire fucking novels! How the fuck does that happen?! 

I know someone who has actually done this. He's an incredibly cool man, and, paired with a particularly inspirational English teacher in 6th Form - who used to be able to come up with entire essay plans on the fucking spot - awed me so much, I used to desperately want to be a writer, albeit a hugely idealised one. I imagined my mornings would be filled with supping fresh, corporately-branded coffees in a small flat in London, my fingers moving too fast for the human eye to compute over a keyboard, only briefly pausing my trail of thought to either light another cigar, or to usher out the model that stopped by for a coffee last night. Or maybe to fight crime. Right now I'd take anything. Anything! 

Anything!... Anyone?...

If you've been snubbed/in an accident/erect at work, and you'd like to get in touch with your story, just telephone 0845-5839-224 and press '2' to speak to an empathiser. If you're not the billpayer of your telephone, calls are essentially free, so we'll cross that bridge when we get there. T&Cs apply, but are 87 pages long, so just tick the box and let us all get on with our lives.

Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa-Fashion

It's a blustery weekend in Dublin, and the missus and I have "randomly" taken shelter in a luxury department store. Some seriously big labels inhabit the floors of this building - Alexander McQueen, Mulberry, Bobby Valentino, including some other exotic ones which I didn't recognise, but I'm told are big in the fashion world. 

We stroll through past some watches which are expensively irrelevant, and some handbags which are as ridiculously priced as they are impractical ("You see, this one is €895, but you'd have to be so careful about what you put in it, so you don't scratch the leather or scuff the fabric, or stretch the handle, and really this could only work with one or two outfits I have... Let's just keep looking"), and eventually the inevitable happens. 

"Oh, I love this one!" 

It's an Orla Kiely (me neither) handbag, and, incredibly it's an absolute bargain! Just over what the government thinks I should pay for the privilege of owning a thirsty, rainforest-destroying Alfa Romeo, per year. It's a lot, but in the time it has taken for you to realise that the rest of this sentence is a just a bit of unnecessary filler, she's bought it.

We continue walking around the various departments, as she clutches her new product more tightly than you or I have ever been embraced by our own mothers, and eventually, we head down to the men's section. It's an exhibition of a lifestyle I can only dream of. Suits, shoes, accessories, designed by men with iconic names, made by men in Italy by the finest craftsmen and women, and worn by people who have "made it". Nobody knows what 'it' is, but I believe it's when you're rich enough to be able to buy a pint in London and not go "fucking hell, you could cure AIDS for that much!". They're the kind of people whom you don't care if they're late for an event, you should just be glad they're there so that you can bask in their excellence. The sort who throw in the odd french words in their sentence, and have a certain joie de vivre.

I am no such man. 

I trudge around the various labels, looking at suits I can't afford, browsing shoes I'll never wear. It's all so hopeless. The biggest giveaway that I couldn't afford a shoelace in here is that nothing was priced at something-ninety-nine. Not one item is "just €99.99!", it's €100. Whole numbers terrify me. It makes me wonder why our forefathers even bothered to decimalise currencies.

"Ah, wow, James you'd look incredible in this!" 

The missus is holding a blue, rather extravagant, Ted Baker waistcoat. It looks very, very nice, I might give it a bit of a try - wait what? HOW-fucking-much-you're-fucking-kidding-me?!

"Just go and try it on- oh, and this shirt would look great with it!"

What the fuck? The shirt's as much as the waistcoat's as much as the GDP of Luxembourg!

Sheepishly, I accept the shirt and waistcoat, and trudge off into the changing rooms to try them both on... Hm... I look alright in it. 

I look more than alright, I look like a bloody sexy bitch!

Or do I just look good because it's an exorbitant amount of clothing? Would I look good in any clothing that's that expensive. Would someone typically sartorial like David Beckham or Eddie Redmayne wear something like this? I look quite smart! But Jesus it's a lot of money. 

It takes an almighty, plaster-ripping moment for me to cave in. Fine, I'll buy these two ridiculously expensive items of clothing. 

"Ah, I'm so glad you are" said the missus, who seems to take some kind of sick pleasure in me handing over money, "you'll look so smart in them. It's the kind of thing David Bowie would wear".

My eyes light up. 

David Bowie!

A few years ago, and in the space of about 2 months, I went from 0-100mph in my addiction and affection for Bowie and all his alter-egos. I was, and still am, nuts about him. Even right now, as I write this, and probably as you read this, I'm listening to one of his songs. 

I return to the mirror. Maybe it is the kind of thing he'd wear? I don't really know, he's worn some pretty outlandish things in the past. This is probably a bit vanilla, a bit magnolia (I have been described as both before) for someone like David Bowie. 

Okay, I'll get it, but NO more spending for the rest of the holiday.


A scarf, two dinners, a jumper, countless Guinnesses, and a pair of sunglasses (in Ireland in February?!) later, we're back in Blighty. 

I unpack the clothes that started this whole mess and hang them on the back of the door. 

They do look nice. 

But now I cannot find an occasion that would warrant such an expensive outfit. Out for dinner - but with what money? What kind of looks would I get in Kev's Southern Chicken Parlour? To Mum and Dad's - I can see the conversation now; "How's things with money, son?" "Pretty good thanks" "Yes I can fucking see that, any chance of repaying us what you owe?" To work? - Ah, maybe!

We have a big client coming in soon, and they'll be sure to expose every flaw we have. We've got to be at the top of our game and, for me, that means - rather superficially - looking my best, and letting the little work I do around the place take care of itself. 

This is it! I now have the perfect occasion to wear my shiny new outfit! It shall be preserved until the sacred day, where I'll do my little turn on the catwalk (yeah on the catwalk, on the catwalk, etc.).

The big day comes, and I wheel out the shiny new fabrics. Cut off the labels (now there really is no going back), and pair the shirt/waistcoat with a pair of chinos I bought when I was, once again, under the influence of an intoxicatingly swish marque. And some boots I found in a sale.

I must impress that it's not often I do this, but, I admit, I did give myself a little twirl in the mirror that morning. Okay, I do it all the time, but who cares, I'm fabulous! I do look a bit like the Thin White Duke!

How do I look?

I 'accidentally' wake up the missus so she can see me. 

"You look great" she says, face buried in the pillow. 

That's all I needed.

Into work I strut. Listening to Bowie all the way. I could make a real stand here and become the office fashionista. Will they like the new me?

"Morning James!"
"Morning, Identity protected!"
"Interesting waistcoat!"
Whatever. 

"Morning James!"
"Morning Colleague"
"Funny-looking waistcoat - you look like you should be a snooker player!"
Okay, that's two people now. That's two who like it (the missus and I) against these two philistines who have mocked it.

"Hey James! Been snookering recently?"

Now, there's nothing wrong with the fashion sense of snooker players, but they're hardly up there with the iconic man himself! Do I look that uncool? Snooker's not the most glamorous of sports. Is it that bad? Maybe the waistcoat is a little garish. 

I couldn't work it out either...

The rest of the day hideously knocks my confidence. I'm conscious of how I look everywhere I walk. But marketing's quite an edgy sort of business, isn't it? I've seen some pretty trendy marketeers. How do they do it?

They are understated. Black trousers, white shirts, black designer specs, white iPhones, black smart shoes - you see a theme here? A splash of colour is maybe channelled through a tie, or a handkerchief, but it's not Jackson Pollocked across the whole outfit. 

I look bloody ridiculous. I'm too colourful!

My 15 minutes of fame with a big new potential client is more of 30 seconds of shame, as I'm shown the door quicker than I had time to say hello to our possible new friends (all wearing very fashionable specs, none looking like they've been assaulted by a child with a handful of Sharpies). 

Mortified, the rest of the day goes by with my head bowed down, all communications done online, and at 5:31, I bolt out the door. By now, thankfully, it's dark outside and no-one can see this abomination. I barge in home, slam the door shut, lock it twice, close all the curtains and pour myself a drink. 

Missus enters, stage left
"Oh, you're early, how was your day?" 

"Never mind that, who do you think I look like?"

"Hm, a bit like a gay snooker player." 

It's just one of the side effects of being this avant-garde, oui?

#NewYearNewYou

The start of a new year means that anyone and everyone with an outlet to spout their miserably unwanted thoughts is obliged to come up with some fake 'resolutions' because it makes them look willing to better themselves in this imperfect world, and also because it makes them look festive and with the times, even if they write something ridiculously dated like "I promise I'll stop listening to that TRULY ADDICTIVE Gangnam Style!"

Instead, I present to your my New Year Resolutions for you, the Great British public. If you are an avid reader of the Daily Mail (and, being a human being capable of sensitive thought, I sincerely hope you aren't), you'll know full well that we, as a society, are crumbling into disrepair, and will soon be unable to say the phrase "It wasn't this shit back in my day", because it just won't ring true any more. 

So, here they are: 

1. Don't get your hopes up too much. 
This year, a select 23 from a pool of 60 million citizens will fly to Brazil to try and win the World Cup, while the rest of us sit at home and just hope that they don't completely humiliate themselves, and us, for another four years. To achieve this, it's vitally important that NOBODY predicts anything other than a Group Stage Exit. Anything better than that is dangerously optimistic, and will only leave us flat and sobbing like Gazza when we exit at the Group Stage. 

2. Try not to kill anyone. 
America spent so much time defending it's right to bear arms after the Newtown Massacre of December 2012, it completely looked over the fact that, since those horrible events, over 9,900 more gun-related deaths have occurred. This issue was most-famously discussed on Piers Morgan's CNN show with red-faced gun enthusiast Alex Jones, who firstly barked on about how dangerous Piers is, and then about how Great Britain is since it banned the ownership of automatic firearms. After watching the interview on YouTube, I managed to prove him wrong by not going out on the street to stab someone. Perhaps this year a few more of us could do that

3. Stop messing about with your own hair. 
I should know. 

Blonde in Berlin, 2008

'ENOUGH!' I screamed, last month. Why do I put myself through this each day? The cuts, the products, the messing about with it, the combing, the brushing, the dyeing, the straightening, the curling, the wind, the rain, the eventual misery when you realise that you'll never look as good as David Beckham. 
It had to stop. So must you.

4. Write and feature in your own TV show.
Go on, try it. Oh, you can't? That's because it's REALLY FUCKING HARD. I've tried it all from heartwarming sitcoms, to chilling dramas, to even an arthouse indie show. It's really tough, and now I appreciate how tough it is to write a decent TV show week in week out. Alternatively, if you don't want to try writing/featuring in a TV show, how about never complaining about one ever again? If you sit there watching Made in Chelsea going "This is so good it's bad, how can anyone watch this?! I only watch ironically it to laugh at the people who watch it?" then you, my good friend, are not the solution. You are the problem.

5. Stop someone mid-meltdown, and make them laugh. 
Judge the mood first - don't make a fart noise in front of your grieving grandmother. But if someone's having a sob about how work's getting on top of them, or having a crisis of confidence in their own ability to cook rice, now's the time to remind them of that picture you have of them licking one of the Queen's guards to see if he will move, and how hilarious it was at the time. See? Life's too short to get in such a state.

6. Stop using the word 'bants'.
"So there I was in Yates's, absolutely shitcunted off two WKD blues, when the-legend-that-is-Spunko headbutted a stranger for no reason, threw him to the ground, and then me and the LADS started shouting verbal abuse at his missus as she tried to use some tissues to stop the heavy bleeding coming from the side of his head. BANTS"
It's safe to say that the word 'banter', and all it's variations, have been heavily bastardised.

7. Stop asking people if they've seen 'Breaking Bad'. 
Barely a day has gone by since the bloody thing finished that I haven't been treated like an inferior being because I didn't watch it. Nor have I watched Homeland, The US Office, The Sopranos, Spaced, Peep Show, Frasier, Ripper Street, or Sherlock. Can we still be friends?

8. Don't take part in Democracy
In the UK, and throughout Europe, elections in May will decide Members of the European Parliament, in which the views of 63 million of us will be condensed into 73 men and women. That means one representative for each 863,013 of us. 

Last year, drug-addict-turned-comedian-turned-Jesus-H-Christ Russell Brand told Jeremy Paxman that he has never voted, and doesn't intend to. I disagree with him: go to the polls, and spoil your ballot. Show these people that they don't represent you. Unless one of them really does. But, as we know, there's a 1 in 863,013 chance of that happening. 

Failing that, get a myWaitrose card and only go there for the free coffee, and nothing else. Apparently it annoys posh people. Stick that up your arse, establishment!

9. Stop going to nightclubs
Everything about them is ridiculous, as I have tried to say before here, (and failed, because I still frequent them). On the last night of 2013, I, and two good friends who are more handsome than myself, was lured into one by a lady more attractive than the three of us combined, who assured us all that it would be 'fun'. The loud music, the inability to dance, the standing next to people distinctly more attractive than you (male and female) and wondering how you ever managed to have intercourse with another human being, the £10 to get in even though we weren't there for the New Year's Countdown, the £5 for 25ml of vodka, 35ml of lemonade and 150ml of ice. All in the name of fun!

Interestingly, at no point for the whole 45 minutes we were there did my two attractive male friends, or even our very pretty friend, say "This is so much fun!". Which was the correct thing to do, because friends don't lie.

10. Keep the faith
I will still love you, no matter what you do. Remember that. Go forth and hold these resolutions close to your bosom. Love them, cradle them, print them off and tape them to the back of your lover, or record someone reading them out loud and have it as your alarm clock, so that we all may have a better life, one day at a time. 

And, for God's sake, don't read the Daily Mail. 

Coming Clean

What's important to know is, as a man who emerged on the other side of a 3 year stint in some of Swansea's finest flats and student accommodation, where 'what's mine is mine and what's yours is mine, but you have to wash it up because it's yours', it's safe to say that I'm not the most possessive of people. I don't mind if you have a cup of my delicious Chamomile and Honey (what?) tea in my favourite Cath Kidston (seriously, what's wrong with it?) mug, just as long as you say your pleases, your thank yous, and hold doors open for women. 

But what is even more (okay, neither really is "important", but for the purpose of this blog, it is) important to know is that not everybody is as open minded and liberal with their germs as I. Some people, as bizarre as it sounds, don't actually want the germs of another on their possession. In fact, some people actively go out of their way to decontaminate themselves from the slightest hint of a molecule of bacteria being shared from somebody else who, in their mind, is undeniably carrying a super-strain of AIDS crossed with diphtheria. 

Gentle, most forgiving and patient men such as I understand this, and do not wish to impose our reckless lifestyles on those who have to have a shower when a speck of dust lands on their scarf. All I ask in return is that these, shall we say, inhibited fellows do not impose their, shall we say, inhibited lifestyles on us. 

It's a dreary Tuesday and I have somehow, but deservedly, been branded as a tea-making skiver in my department, and am verbally frog-marched to the kitchen to do my 'fair' share of catering, which, given my experience in one of Britain's most questionably ethical hotels, should be a doddle. 

Unfortunately, because it was such a doddle, I end up losing focus and am left speaking to somebody I don't know, who's looking for a teaspoon. No problem, I say, and simply lift one out of the draw. 

"I'm afraid I can't use that one. You see, I can only use one teaspoon. It's my teaspoon, which I use only on when I make a tea for myself. I don't even use it on other people's teas"

I refrain from congratulating this stranger on being such a fucking biological martyr, leave him to uncover the whereabouts of the sacred teaspoon. 

"Aha!" he exclaims pulling a totally non-descript teaspoon out of the annoying bit in the dishwasher where convention has dictated is the ONLY place to put cutlery. "Got it!" he says to anyone listening (I think he meant me?), and continues to wash it (bearing in mind where he just got it from) in the sink. 

"Well done" I mumble, handing him a tea towel, so he can give his precious spoon the love it so clearly has desired in the dishwasher. 

I am given a look which, without context, might have been the look of a man who had just been offered to eat the toenails of Katie Hopkins. 

"You use the tea towels here?"

"Yes" I reply, bemused. "Why wouldn't I?"

He advances towards me, "Tea towels, my friend [we're not friends], are nothing but vehicles for germs to spread around the office. I don't know anybody in here that does use them."

I was starting to get a bit annoyed. If he is right, and nobody uses them, firstly; why is it slightly damp? and secondly; surely there are no germs on it, because nobody has touched it? I, surely, am the first person today to have touched the towel? Do I have germs? I bloody hope so. 

This charlatan, clearly thinking he hasn't imparted enough wisdom for one day, continues. 

"I recently have just come back to work after being ill for the third time this year, which is a bit unusual for me, so I'm pretty keen to be a bit on the safe side to begin with."

To put that into perspective, I have been ill once since December 2012, and that was in December 2012. You could almost say (and I'm touching every piece of wood in sight as I say this) that I have not been ill once in 2013. I've had a runny nose this year, but the winter was pretty cold. But I have not been so incapacitated that I have been unable to carry out my mundane tasks of life. Unfortunately, like most men, because of my five-star immune system (probably built up from, if you believe this stranger, years of licking toilet seats and burying my face in the ground so I can ingest a juicy worm), it means that when we men do get ill, we are so stricken with agony that many people think that we are overreacting to our 'man-flu'. How dare they. If only they knew of the dangers we had encountered over a 12-18 month period. 

One of the most popular ways in the office of postponing certain death, at least until after half past five, is by using a personal mug which nobody else touches, which fascinates me completely, mostly because I was unaware of a 'personal mug' section until about three months into the job, which explains all the dirty looks I've been receiving from the gentleman whose mug I favoured. 

Blissfully ignorant to the perils I was putting my lips against on a daily basis, I have continued to use the helpfully titled "public" mugs, until this morning when my boss, ever the gentleman, offered to make me a drink, and I, ever the ungrateful bellend, said yes instantly. 

Back he comes, ever the gentleman (I value my job), and I was shocked at his chosen receptacle. 

Somebody's mug. 

But it wasn't just somebody's mug, it was somebody who sat close to me's mug! I could be exposed as a innocently guilty thief if this got out! What do I do? I can't just take the coffee straight back after my boss, ever the gentleman (it's not arse-kissing if he doesn't read these, and I don't think he does), has kindly made it for me. That would be employment-suicide! I need to distract him, and get the mug back to safety before the owner arrives at work. 

It's easier done than said. By boss, ever the hard-working gentleman, is whisked into a meeting to discuss matters of the utmost importance, I assume, and I triumphantly stride into the kitchen. How simple was that! Everybody is none-the-wiser for my boss's blunder and my heroism to save the situation. 

But that could be down to people probably not really focusing on the mug...

"Morning James, back for a second coffee already?"
"Ah, you know me (names changed to protect the identity of those affected) Mildred! Can't get enough of the stuff "
"Haha, yeah- nice white socks! Is one of your trouser legs deliberately tucked into it to show it off?"

Mildred laughs so hard she nearly goes into cardiac arrest. 

We really do live in a dangerous world. 

THE RUN2REMEMBER TRILOGY: Sweat the Small Stuff

Why? 

Why did I sign up to this bloody race in the first place? Why had I not been bothered to train properly? Why is it raining so hard outside?!

The omens from the off were not good (they never are when you're a devout pessimist such as I). The Friday night before the race was spent quivering beside a pool table with a couple of other runners who, for some heathen reason, were despicably optimistic about the whole affair, and then sat on the sofa with some paté on toast (which according to a gym-going friend of mine, has the same nutritional value lard-flavoured Ben & Jerry's) and the concluding missions of Grand Theft Auto 5. The sense of achievement I gained from finishing the game was quickly diminished by the realisation that I was very much on my own, in my freezing cold house, and nothing could save me from my fate tomorrow. Nothing. 

Later, I lie in bed, holding Boris tightly. It's probably worth pointing out that Boris is a Moomin-branded hot water bottle, named after the Mayor of London who bought it for the missus when she was working at City Hall. It's impossible to sleep... What if I take ages to finish tomorrow? What if I round the final corner, only to see a load of roadies taking down the stage and the arch over the finish line? What if there is no finish line? What if they already took that bit away, and there's nowhere for me to stop, and I'm forever lost in a legless limbo? Or worse, what if everybody is there to watch me stumble to the line in last place and a decorated, and devastated, war hero hands me a wooden spoon with just the C-word etched into the handle, to forever remind me of my failure? 

Eventually, after multiple reassurances from Boris that he would protect me from long-distance running monsters, I drifted to sleep, and in no time at all, my alarm went off again. Shit, that was fast. 

Once again, I polished off a delicious and nutritious meal (2 mountains of Nutella on barely-visible toast), got dressed (which I believe is quite conventional for leaving the house), and set off. 

Lydiard Park had been transformed from a quaint landscape of tranquility to a gauntlet of mud and military officials. Gone were the sights of balmy afternoon picnics and children running amok with a football. In its place, a dreary, grey sky shedding very little light on a quagmire marked out loosely to resemble a running track. In my eyes, the desolate view before me was more of a tribute to the First World War than any poem or painting could manage, made all the more fitting by the 'volunteers' who had signed up to run in these conditions. Up on the stage, the Military Wives Choir were in full voice, and a gentleman from the Navy (whose name and rank eluded me, I was too focused on planning my desertion to be interested) took everyone through a muddy, slippery warm up. Well, I say everyone, I spent most of the warm up chuckling at a woman standing a few feet away from me who was smoking like there was no tomorrow; as if the fire in her cigarette was the last hope of warmth she had before her tar-filled body eventually succumbed to the weather. 

Shattered from the warm up, I slip over to the start line. Just before we started, there was a moments silence to remember why we were running, and who we were running for. I could see men murmuring their best wishes to their fallen friends, and women hushing their children excited to start. People more religious than me put their hands together, others shaking legs and arms as they tried to keep warm. 

The race begins.

A thousand or so people lurch forward and, on the soggy field, begin their Run2Remember. Instantly, two of my colleagues shoot ahead of me. Supporting friends and families are cheering their heroes on, but it's just moving mouths to me, as I slot my earplugs in and listen to some loud, harassingly upbeat music. Nobody should be this upbeat in the rain on a cold Saturday in November. Nobody. 

Eventually, I begin to start passing people. This feels quite good. I had forgotten what it feels like to actually be better at people than. At school, our rugby team were horrendously below par- every season was a losing one, particularly on a personal level. Due to my going straight from the same junior to senior school, I had racked up around 125 games in a wide, adolescence-dependent positions, and scored just three tries. Three. There were props in the school who had scored more in just one season, and I had three in my entire career, the first of which came when I was 17. Each game began with bright, controlled-aggressive optimism, and finished with humiliating impotency. Before you start saying "Yes, but there are other sports boys play at school!", you are correct, but nobody cares. Rugby is where credibility is won and lost. If I had just tried to be a little bit better at rugby, maybe I wouldn't have had to put peroxide blonde highlights in my hair when I was 15...

Anyway, the run. How to convey how it felt accurately to you... Well, look down at the floor, put one of your feet in front of the other, and keep doing that. Now, look up and see who's in front of you. Can you pass them? Nope. Stay where you are. Now look behind you. Can you see your colleagues? Nope, because they're all in front of you. Better turn back around before you bump into someone. Keep looking at your feet. Don't look up, that will only break your morale as you see how far you have to go, and how many people are in front of you. And repeat step 1.

Keep doing that for 56 minutes and 50 seconds...
...

Done?

Sure?

I don't believe you. 

Eventually, after a lot of panting and sweating, it was over. I crossed the line about as gloriously as a fish which has been taken out of the sea and dropped onto the boat deck. Flopping about, soaking, and wishing he was somewhere else completely. It wasn't exactly like Mo Farah finishing in London 2012. In fact, it seemed to go eerily quiet when I crossed the line, as if people made a distinct effort to not applaud me. All I could hear was my own sweat sloshing in my ear and gasps for a suspiciously little amount of air, like I had just ran underwater for an hour.

But I didn't care. It was over. 

The victor of our inter-office battle was standing at the finishing line, chatting to a few other race-goers.

"Wow, well done! How do you feel?!"
Whatever I said to him wasn't constructive or very family friendly. But can be summed up in one word beginning with the letter F. 
"How fast did you go?"
56;50 seems so cumbersome to say when air is a luxury you cannot afford.
"Oh, about 56 minutes"
"Nice!"

He barely looked like he had broken a sweat. The bastard.

I was just glad I had finished, and now, I had one thing on my mind. 

Pub. 

I had had enough of my alcoholic abstention. It had been far too long without the sweet elixir of hops. I immediately went over to a good friend of mine's (Ieuan....Ieuan...No, with an I... Ieuan. I-E-U-A-N, Ieuan!) house, in need of some adulation for my efforts, and a pint bought by somebody else. Except, like the men we both are, adulation is pretty hard to come by. 

"So, how did it go?" he asked, amidst the background of pool balls clattering and England's attempt at playing some 'rugby'.
"Yeah, went alright"
"How fast did you go?"
56 minutes seems such a long-winded phrase when you're thinking in pub-speak.
"Oh, about 55 minutes" 
"How far did you run again?" I never said he was a supportive friend.
"11km"
"How long's that?"
"About 6 miles"
"So, it's like a quarter of a marathon?"
"Yeah."
"What?! That's nothing!"
"I guess! But I did it in about 54 minutes, so it wasn't so bad."
"No, I guess not. You did quite well. How much did you raise?"
"£140"
"That's not so bad for a quarter marathon."

What had started as an inescapable, but still incredible journey by saying 'yes' to everyone had finished with my achievements being belittled by my best friend over a game of pool, completely neglecting the fact that I was beating him at it.

We're soon joined by a good mutual friend a few moments later after I seal a historic win, who buys his own drink (he doesn't do rounds with me since I ordered a glass of water when it was my turn, and made him get me a Guinness on his), and steps up to the pool table to play against me.

Our conversation meandered into the usual topics that three young men who haven't seen each other for a while talk about. We chat mindlessly about women, University and rugby as we play, then he thunders the black into the corner pocket after a four-pot streak, pauses, looks up and says, "By the way, how did that really fucking tiny run you were supposed to be doing go?"

I just shrugged and offered to get another round in. 

They don't know, man. They weren't there. 

THE RUN2REMEMBER TRILOGY: PART 2 ½- The Smell of Fear

The cool, calm autumnal tranquility of the Cotswolds is one which is shattered around 12 o'clock that afternoon. 

There's a crash against the front door of a small cottage. A rasping at the window and a grasping at the handle. Someone is desperate to get into the house. Fighting the weight pushing down on his chest, and the sensation that his legs are walking through treacle, a poorly dressed, socially awkward man fumbles his key into the door, and bursts in, gasping for what little air he could drag into his lungs, and collapses on the sofa. His eyes losing focus, and ears struggling to cope with the pounding in his head and his and heart, the man drags himself across the floor, props himself up against a nearby table, and hoists himself up to eye-level with the fridge. Scanning the contents, he spots a chilled beer, and all is well again. Slung over the sofa, the man swigs away and lists off into a Sky Sports-induced slumber.

It is safe to say that the training for the run isn't exactly a shot-for-shot remake of Rocky IV. Each burger purchased is justified with the phrase "But I'm going to do some exercise tonight, so it's okay", and each session of exercise is concluded with "Brilliant! Now I can have a burger and a pint!".

No, if I'm going to succeed in finishing this 11k run for the Royal British Legion, I'm going to have to use my cunning and wit over brawn and stamina. Mind games is what I need. Pure and simple 'Positive Mental Attitude', as my brother (who studied the great art of rugby at Hartpury, no less) would re-iterate if he were here motivating me. 

Though a noticeable problem is, I don't have anyone to motivate me. Hardly anybody seems to believe I can complete the course, and the minute percentage that do believe it'll be in such a slow time, the organisers will call off the search for me, pack up the event and start looking forward to next year.

In desperate need of a gee-up, I seek out our competitive friend, who, it transpires, is a bit of a half-marathon aficionado, and still believes that this whole event is some sort of race, despite my pleading with her that it is not a duel, it is simply a charitable event. 

"You'll be fine- what sort of times are you doing?"
"Times?"
"Yeah, like obviously the distance isn't the issue [excuse me?!], what sort of time do you think you'll do it in?"
"Oh, erm... (desperately trying to work out what a respectable time might look like), I was thinking of aiming for about an hour?"
"Hmm... Yeah a couple of the girls last year managed it in 55 minutes, but I'm sure an hour's a good target for you."

Deciding to ignore her Alex Ferguson-esque toying with my morale, I decide to take a work social as an opportunity to canvass a slightly more objective opinion of my chances. 

Them: "It's not so bad once you get into a rhythm, I was fine up until about 10k then it really started to burn."
"You'll be fine, but I don't think you'll beat our competitive colleague."
"No, he's right, she's really good, I wouldn't aim to beat her"
"No, just run at your own pace, I'm sure you'll do fine"
"Mind you, how far have you run already?"
Me: "I haven't"
Them: "Oh! Oh, okay, you may struggle"
"Yeah, definitely don't try and make it a race"
"Yeah, our competitive colleague (obviously when this conversation was happening, we were all addressing her by her name, else it would have made for very uncomfortable listening for her, as she was right there the whole time, silently eyeing me like a hawk would a little shrivelled, defenseless worm secreting itself with fear) will probably just thrash you"
"Yeah, you're not going to fare well"
"Haha! We should all come watch and cheer our competitive colleague on!" 
"Yeah, but this is a bit easy for her, she's used to doing twice that length!"
"You're right, but don't worry about cheering James on"
"Nah, he'll be alright"
"No he won't!"
"I don't think he'll manage"
"YOU'RE GOING TO FUCKING DIE JAMES"

I politely excuse myself from the conversation. 

This is utterly dreadful, I tell myself in the mirror. What the hell am I going to do?! I can't run 11km- I can barely run 1km! The last time I fully engaged in any physical activity was refereeing a tag-rugby tournament that definitely wasn't tag-rugby at the end (hence my conversion to whistle-blower). I'm so screwed. 

In order to bail some water from my capsizing vessel of self-esteem, I decide there's nothing else for it: it is time for me to rediscover my hatred for the gymnasium. 

I shuffle in through the door of a new gym which has opened in the same town I work in, Cheltenham. It's a hive of finely-honed specimens, a hub of heavy lifting and a centre of muscular excellence, and, of course, myself. I stand at the door, my "small" Stevenage F.C (you may have to Google them) football shirt hanging off me in the same way a tent canvas hangs of a quivering telegraph pole. But I can afford myself a moment of private smugness: my motivator is waiting for me. A personal trainer who, for 60 gloriously agonising minutes, puts me through my paces and pushes the very limit of what I am capable of. 

Five minutes into the warm up, the ace in my deck says, "Right, as this is your first session, we're just going to do a couple of regimes which will just let me gauge your stamina, and then we can work from there." I wheeze something back to him, but I can't remember what it was, and it was probably unrepeatable anyway. Sweat was dripping into my ears after about 25 minutes, and festering more self-doubt about my ability to put one foot in front of the other for eleven thousand metres, which sounds like a lot when it's written out like that. 

However, upon returning home, having a quick sob in the shower and a blub into my beer and bowl of Coco Pops (which is perfectly legitimate at night, don't stand for convention!), my body suddenly feels like a million dollars! This is what it feels like to be trying at something, to be making an effort, and it feels fantastic. Expectations raised slightly, I quickly search for the 10,000m world record. 26 minutes, 17 seconds, set by a man called Kenenisa Bekele. Wow. Mo Farah, Britain's go-to distance runner, has done it in 27:44. Usually, such numbers would demoralise me back into submission- it took me 40 minutes just to watch Mo Farah win at the Olympics last year. Okay, those two pretty fast, but if I get inside half of that- that's 54 minutes! Plus I'm doing an extra kilometre, so it wouldn't even be that bad! There we go- all I have to do is be twice as rubbish as the fastest man in Britain. I literally have to be half the athlete Mo Farah is!

How hard can that be?

and how hard can it be to donate to this magnificent cause? Not very, all you have to do is click on the link below and then part with some of your very undeserved money. We all know you don't deserve it. These people do. Fix this mess right now and donate as much as you can or a little as you want, it all goes to a great cause. 

www.JustGiving.com/JDBrittain

THE RUN2REMEMBER TRILOGY: Episode IV- The Yes Boy

I say the word 'no' far too many times. 

I'm not alone in thinking that, I'm sure. Which is strange, because that very toxic word is the reason I find myself alone now, in the office, with nobody to talk to. 

It's a dreary, autumnal Monday, and as I make my lonesome weekly (alright, daily) mid afternoon stroll to a local, multinational, tax-avoiding (probably) employee-thrashing (possibly?) bile-regurgitating (definitely) fast-food chain, I begin to wonder how I can turn the fortunes of my one-man wolfpack around... Are things really that bad? If there was a statue of me (there never will be), would my colleagues tear it down and throw their shoes at it? Is it only a matter of time before I am thrown into the stocks, made to give back in my Macbook, and continue writing out all my work by hand. How did it get so bad? When I first arrived, my sole ambition was to simply say 'yes' to everyone to come across as a bright, positive young man. It seems that they have found out who I really am underneath all too quickly. 

Wait.

That's it!

Nobody thought I was a snivelling guttersnipe when I said 'yes' to everyone at the start of my employment. People loved asking me to do work for them! We shared the burdensome load over two sets of shoulders, and walked up the mountain of excellence together! Now, I have abandoned my travellers in pursuit of a separate, easier avenue up the hill, which, it turns out, is a very steep and lonely one. 

Surely if I started saying yes to everyone, things might look up for me?!

It just might work. 

For one week, I will be a 'Yes Man'. To any request, any query, any demand, if I could say 'yes', I would. No backing out, no shying away, and certainly no U-turns. I would say yes to everyone and everything, and go through with it!

I arrive back at the office, healthy wrap in hand ("Oh, and I have a student card as well, so, er, can I have a free cheeseburger?"), and begin my new quest for happiness.

"James, can you do some work for me-oh, have you just got some lunch?"
"Yeah, but it's okay, I'll do it!"
"Really?"
"Yeah, when do you want it done by?"
"Erm, later today?"
"Yep! No Problem"
"Oh, brilliant! Thanks!"

This is incredible. The ticker turns round to 'One'. I have said yes to the one person who asked something of me, and I have delivered magnificently. What a sensation! What elation! This is what saying yes feels like! Positive! I should do this more often. 

"James, I've got a little task for you."
"Yep, I'll have it ready by tomorrow afternoon."
"Amazing, thanks"
(This is an abbreviated conversation I had; the job was mind-bendingly tedious, but irrelevant to the story)

Two 'yeses' in my first afternoon, this is incredible! I may buy a little bell so I can ping it whenever a yes comes along. I'd never stop!

My journey home is a little longer than usual, as I let everybody looking to pull out go ahead of me, and am faced at my front door with the missus looking rather like a puppy does next to a broken vase. As it transpires, she had accidentally place a bid on two armchairs on my eBay account, not hers, and really it was my fault for not logging out. 

"But can we still get them?" 

I give a wry smile. And press 'buy it now'. We now have two new armchairs. 

Before you think that was either 1. Crazy or 2. A lie, the armchairs in question were only 99p combined. All we had to do was pick them up, and it turns out they were only 20 miles away. So, off we went, and hey presto, we have comfort in our living room at an affordable price. What an excellent yes!

The next day in Waitrose, I was in the queue to check out behind a woman who had decided that Tuesday morning was an excellent time to do her weekly shopping, leading me to silently bemoan my decision to come in just for a pack of gum. As she turns around, she sees my sole potential purchase, and gestures to me, "do you want to go in front of me?". "Yes!" I beam, and thank her hugely for her kindness. Another brilliant opportunity!

The rest of my walk to work wasn't so much a trudge-like commute, more like Charlie Bucket skipping home gayly and fancy-free, holding a golden ticket to eternal happiness. I can kiss my miserable old life of solitude goodbye- this is what the new James Brittain is all about, and all it took was a simple yes! 

This 'yes' nonsense was easy, I thought to myself as I reached my desk and set myself up for a 8 hours of sheer positivity. Eventually, I may get to a point in my life where I simply cannot say no to anybody. I'll be perpetually positive, always affirmative and agreeable, constantly carried away to wherever my next 'yes' may take me! A carefree life of simply saying 'yes' to everyone, and never worrying about saying no to anyone. 

Then, it all changes. 

A fierce test of my resolve springs up in my inbox. 

From <cheerful.colleague@notmail.com>

To <me@notmail.com><everyone.else.in.the.office@notmail.com>

Hi all,

On Saturday 9 November at 11am the Legion are once again holding the Run2Remember at Lydiard Park near Royal Wootton Bassett.

This year there is the option of an 11k, 5k or 1.1k distance and you can run, walk or march.

It costs £10 each to register and then you can hassle all your friends and family for sponsorship!

Go on... you know you want to!

I tried to run once. It was 10km, and I was so lazy in my approach to the whole event, I took back my entrance one week after I had signed up. To say I am feckless and lazy is just the tip of the iceberg of what I have underachieved in life. If there is a gladiatorial battle to be had against the very boundaries of mankind's capabilities, you can be damn sure that I am on the side watching it, waiting until injury time and a 12-point margin to pick a winner. 

I can run. But I will not run. 

But I have to run. 

I have to say yes, don't I? Wait- is there even a question in that email? I can't see a question mark there, can you? The e-mail was definitely void of a question mark. Maybe it's an imperative? Maybe we have to do it? But that's a violation of our rights as lazy employees!

I really should say yes. Ignoring the email is just as bad as saying no. 

One reply. 

From: <somebody.braver.than.me@notmail.com>

To: <everyone.in.the.bloody.office@notmail.com>

Stick me down for 11k.

FUCK. 

That is definitely somebody replying in the affirmative. Someone has said yes, and I have not. Yet. Wait. No. I can't. I shouldn't. I'd only embarrass myself. Besides, it's for charity. Should I enter purely because I cannot say no? I'll surely be unveiled as a sickening fake, and it's for the Royal British Legion, one of the oldest and most noble charities in the entire country, surely I'll be kicked out?

I can't. It's too much.

From: <competitive@notmail.com>

Oooo inter-office race! I'll do 11k too. 

WHAT?! Nobody mentioned anything about a race! What has this escalated into?! 11km is a lot! It's nearly 7 miles, which, if you were describing as a distance to a different place, you would say "about 10 miles". It's a race of "about 10 miles". I can't run that!

But I have to! These were the rules I created to better myself. I must abide by them. 
I take a sharp breath... and turn to the person next to me. 

"You did this last year, right?"
"Yeah"
"Was it good?"
"Yeah, was brilliant. Great day out, great cause. Yeah, it was good"
"Are you doing it this year?"
"Oh no! Couldn't do it again!- But it's really good."

It is a great cause. It's a fantastic cause. I'm a big fan of the Royal British Legion. It's institutional. The Poppy Appeal is one of the few comforting annual certainties we have in this country to remind ourselves of our glorious moment in the sun.  

It is a great cause.

Alright, fine. Fine. I'll do it! I'll run the 11k

Exasperatedly, I sign up. Another yes on the ticker. Whoopee for me.  

But I am certainly not in it to race. It's not about kudos at work, or the false feeling of victory I'd get if I were to finish first out of my colleagues (and, after judging the 'competition', I can tell you I definitely won't). It is for a great, British charity. The best of the British charities.

I'll do it! Willingly, and enthusiastically! 

Message: (It's our competitive friend) Hey, How fast can you run?
Me: (being unable to refute my prowess) Like the wind, my competitive friend. Like the wind.
Message: Argh! Looks like I'll have to train then!

As must I.

I arrive home later that day, chuck the 2 copies of the Big Issue and 4 leaflets about rubbish local events I couldn't say no to on the sofa, dash upstairs, and delve into the deepest, darkest part of my wardrobe. (I say my wardrobe- it actually contains everything the missus has ever bought since about 2006, and a suit I wore to a family wedding last year). There they are! My trainers from a lost time. Another age, where a more athletic, handsome me used to grace dusty trail. 

Outside my front door, a few minutes later, I'm staring out at the road my house looks onto. Head to toe in ill-fitting, high-visibility running gear (a white England football shirt is highly visible, right?), ignoring the rain that's beginning to descend as fast as the sun is behind the houses, and I look up at the ribbon of grey in front of me. 

Let's go!



To be continued...

You can donate to the Royal British Legion by visiting my JustGiving page, and don't forget to buy and wear your poppy with pride!