Hey you! Yeah you! The
jiggly bit around my waist. That’s right. You.
F*CK YOU BELLY!
Avid readers (i.e. me) of this fine repository of literary genius may remember a previous posting - First Word Problems (part 2) - from back in May of this year.
This post concluded by throwing down the gauntlet - I must shed almost and stone and hit 12 stone 7 before the wedding.
In the months that followed I developed a cunning strategy to achieving this goal - binge dieting and binge exercising.
The concept is a simple one - like a Eurozone economy, it's all about the double dip. The strategy has 3 steps:
Step 1 (dip) - Lose weight by bingeing. Get wedding suits fitted. Step 2 - Stop bingeing. Get fat again. Have a merry Christmas. Step 3 (double dip) - Repeat step one. Get married
So far today I have eaten an excellent Chilango Burrito, 3 cookies and half a bag of Haribo. Why? Because today I weighed in at 12 stone and 5.6 pounds - I've lost a stone in just over 2 months.
For the first time in a very long time, the stupid BMI measure tells me I am no longer overweight. Victory is mine.
The best part was, the 69 days this took wasn't even that tough. Training for the run helped, lots of weights helped and now swimming is helping. The diet - a 'slow carb' diet championed by Tim Ferris in the book '4 Hour Body' - was pretty easy:
No carbs unless they are beans or lentils
Shed loads of protein
Only drink red wine (I added single malt whisky to this because it is goooood)
Binge day once a week
So you get to eat meat, meat and more meat 6 days a week and gorge on pizza, cheese and haribo on a Saturday. That's not a diet my friend, that's a privilege.
Wow, I just read back what I've written so far. Sounds like a weight watchers advertorial. Apologies. I'm not going to change it though - want to keep this as a reminder for me!
Now Step 1 is done, I don't think I want to do Step 2 anymore - question now becomes whether I want to stay where I am or try and get totally tonk and chase one of my lifetime goals I mentioned earlier...
What a completely dull and off topic post. Sorry. How can I get back on track?
Hey you! Yeah you! The
fat guy from the office gym. That’s right. You.
F*CK YOU BUDDY!
In what world is it acceptable to dry yourself using the hand dryer in
the changing rooms, meat and two veg angrily flapping around as if someone was testing
their aerodynamics in a wind tunnel. In fact, I’ll tell you how aerodynamic
they are – IT DOESN’T F*CKING MATTER WHEN THEY ARE THAT SMALL.
If you’re really that proud of your boatrace, take a f*cking photo and
keep it in your wallet rather than subject me to that scarring sight when I’m
already about to chunder following a
particularly intense work out (BEEEEEEFCAAAAAKE).
And one other thing. EVERY DAMN TIME YOU DO IT, you do not have to
loudly justify that you only do it because you don’t want to get your f*cking towel wet.
Jesusteabagginchrist you are a ridiculous excuse for a human and all I have to
say is F*CK YOU BUDDY.
* * * * * * * * * * *
So there I was sat in an excellent
bar in the sublime city of Philadelphia with my beautiful fiancée (suck up
comment following previous post’s admission of lycra fetish. Check.) reading the
local paper. Scanning through the
personal ads (American personal ads are comedy gold by the way) I came on to
something even better – the rants section.
Whilst hugely “American” in content
and literary style (rants included gems such as, “Why you so fat? I see you waddling yo fat
ass down the centre of the sidewalk. How’s a fella meant to get paaast when you
so fat?”) the column was incredibly entertaining.
It was at that point a
lightbulb flashed on in my head – FYB.com – F*ck You Buddy.
FYB.com will be my
Facebook, and I its Zuckerberg. Together - fuelled by advertising, brand
endorsements and a range of official FYB merchandise - I will make one meeeeelion
dollars. Perhaps even one hundred beeelion dollars and never have to work again allowing me to more actively pursue my lifelong ambitions of doing the man-o-man pec dance and becoming a 1337 member of Str8 Rippin
"So how does it work" I hear
you cry? Simple, you have 160 words (a la my rant about the shower guy – this is
totally true and very disgusting and also exactly 160 words) to vent. This vent must be directed at a
specific individual – if they can recognise themselves from your rant, even
better. The location, time and date must be specified. Other users "like" or "dislike" your rant, allowing for a “rants of the day / week etc.” to be formed. One day I hope to add some kind of "right of reply" functionality if you can somehow prove that the rant is aimed at you. I have no idea how that would work.
Together, we create a
community of the angriest people in London, the UK, even the world and head
steadfastly towards global domination by the invective tribe with me as its handsome and charismatic (yet lethargic) leader. It’s a flawless
plan.
However, by now you will
have spotted the main problem with this plan. Much like a Justin Bieber autobiography - I am writing about this venture,
spilling all my secrets and sharing the lightbulb moment with all 3 of the
readers of this blog (me at work, me at home and me on my mobile) before I have actually done anything. Whoops.
Thing is, I can’t make
websites (with the exception of my effort with the Wokingham Town U16s website
some 11 years ago – it was hosted by Freeserve, was a member of a "football webring" and had pictures and frames and everything) and I am quite lazy
and awfully busy.
Anyone want to make this for me? You can be my
Winklevoss twins…
Last Sunday afternoon came with an all too familiar feeling.
Throbbing headache, aching all over, inability to move, severe drowsiness,
massive euphoria, sense of achievement…
Hold on, those last two don’t sound anything like a
hangover.
Last Sunday was different, if only for the getting up at
6.30am part. This is not normal. The only times I have ever seen 6.30am on a
Sunday were when travelling to an airport or when in a very different time
zone.
Last Sunday was the culmination of months of blood, sweat
and tunes – The Nike+ London Half marathon. With over 200 miles, 30 hours and
25,000 calories logged since April, Sunday saw the final push – 13.1 miles.
Throughout my training, a good day would see me take about
9mins 15secs to run a mile; a bad day would see the times edge closer to 10. I
had set out on my training aiming for a 2 hour half marathon (almost bang on 9
mins per mile).
Sadly a 2 week binge sampling the culinary wares of our
heavy-set transatlantic neighbours (For the record, Philly Cheesesteak does
exactly as it says on the tin and tastes even better than you imagine) was slap
bang in the middle of my ramp up to race fitness. This trip kindly bestowed
upon me about half a stone of gut and undid any kind of cardiac conditioning I
had achieved over the previous months.
I scaled back my goal to 2 hours 10mins (but to be honest,
if I’d gone over 2 hours 5 I would have been disappointed) and made my way to
the O2 in my fetching purple T-shirt.
A couple of hours later I removed my sunglasses from my
sweaty face, lifted my sweaty arm and took a look at my sweaty wrist. 1 hour,
45 minutes. Jesus. Teabagging. Christ.
So explains the Euphoria and sense of achievement on an
otherwise agonising Sunday afternoon.
After the good old H2O / ibuprofen cocktail cured my
headache I tried to rationalise why I had destroyed my target and all my
training runs. My run tracker app showed me the half marathon was not only my
fastest (and only) ½ marathon, but also my quickest 10k, 5k and 1 mile. I came
up with a few explanations:
(1) Carbs – I will probably be writing about this
another time but I am currently following a “slow carb” diet and have been
running with minimal carb intake during my training. A few days before the race
I started nailing more pasta than an Italian porn remake of American Pie and
during the race I sunk more blue liquid (Powerade) than I used to during a
night a Park End (VK Blue).
However, I was only off carbs for the last couple of weeks
of my training, so this doesn’t explain (all of) it.
(2) I run like I drive – Anyone who has ever been in
a car will me will understand my driving mantra. Irrespective of quality of car
(big up the L reg Fiesta), accelerate, move into fast lane, arrive at
destination. I do not feel like I am making progress unless I am overtaking
something. Turns out I run like I drive – weaving crazily between sweaty bodies
like a queue jumper in McDonalds.
(3) Lycra – I’m just going to come out and admit
this. I have always been a fan of lycra (when combined with the appropriate
female form). I would just like to take this opportunity to thank the inventor
of lycra running leggings. Combine this penchant with my ADHD attention span
and the “run like I drive” observation above and you have the optimal running
strategy:
(1)Find appropriate combination of lyrca and bottom
approximately 100m ahead
(2)Overtake other racers until “slipstreaming”
chosen target
(3)Get bored
(4)Return to step 1 and repeat for 13.1 miles
Sadly, none of this explains how I had the energy to run
faster and further than I have before. However, one thing does:
(5) Competitive Pressure – I am inherently lazy. You
know that. I know that. Minimum effort, maximum result has always been my
mantra. I am also pretty competitive, but only in short bursts and only when it
does not contradict my 80:20 beliefs.
I stepped into the pen (the “1 hour 40 to 2 hour” pen as I
had put “2 hours” on my target time), skulked to the back and then looked
around:
“Fatty. Fatty. Old dude. Fatty. Guy dressed as giant foam
tap. Fatty. If you can do sub 2 hours, so can I”
About 40 mins in – when I usually have a little walk:
“Knackered. Just a little walk”
“No. Only fatties walking. Keep going”
“Oooooh – Angel’s With Snipers by InMe, what a tune!”
“What was I just thinking about? Lycra ahead!”
And so on until the end.
So, like I said – “Eurphoria, sense of achievement” followed.
Unfortunately this had all vanished by Monday and had been replaced by
invective, for once pointed directly at my own lethargy…
If I am capable of running that quickly, why hadn’t I
trained at that pace and then run even quicker on the day?
More importantly, in general, is my laziness actually
holding me back from achieving a lot more?
I thought about this across other areas of life and found
myself dwelling on a few nagging doubts and questions:
If I
look back at my career choice after university, maybe I should have more
actively scoured the milk round rather than taking a job offered to me
after my internship, ending up in a bank, hedge fund or PE and taking home
the mega-bucks. Why did I take the easy option?
If I
look back at the work I do in the two weeks running up to a deadline, both
the quantity and quality of this work puts the pre-ceding months of low
incentive churning to shame. How much could I achieve if I did this all
the time?
If I
look back at my house move, if I had chased earlier and more tenaciously
then maybe I could have fixed it before it went wrong. Why didn’t I chase
this harder?
But you know what, all in all I wouldn’t change a thing.
As much as I thrive on pressure, deadlines and a challenge;
I love kicking back, relaxing and reflecting just as much. All batteries eventually
need recharging - whether they have been drained by years of keeping a wristwatch
ticking or by a couple of seconds of tazering a younger brother (and you and I
both know which is more fun).
A slightly eccentric friend once described life as a sine
wave. I agree, and for me it’s all about the amplitude. Frequent (ish) bursts
of effort (interspaced with the requisite Xbox days) directed at as wide a variety
of things as possible (holidays, ranting, banter, drinking, working, dancing,
driving, running and wedding) are the way forward and if I miss out on a few
things during the recharge days, so be it. After all, it’s these recharge troughs
that put quite how awesome the peaks are into perspective.
From now on, I will not worry about what passes me by or
what I could have achieved when I’m recharging. I’ve come to the conclusion that
all the fun is in the sequence of short, sharp, sprints. It’s just strange that
it took running a half-marathon to realise this…
To date, my posts here have typically addressed the burning, yet very trivial aspects of everyday life. Things that, whilst irritating, provide the lows that help contextualise all that is awesome about bothering to get out of bed1.
1 month and 10 days after the collapse of my house move, I feel like I am now able to rationally and philosophically look at what happened and recount the cataclysmic confluence of endless ineptitude that has characterised my experience of supposedly “professional” individuals so far in 2011.
It all started with Davina McCall. One cold December Friday I had managed to secure “reserve” tickets for the Million Pound Drop live on TV from the Applause Store. Having trekked all the way to the delightful area of Bromley-by-Bow we ended up as the first people on the wrong side of the “sorry we’re full” line. Cold, wet and dejected, we made our way home to watch it on TV instead. My lovely girlfriend (yep, so long ago it was pre-fianceé days) started browsing housing websites and we found a big new development out in North West London.
We visited the development the next day – no show home, just blueprints at that stage. It looked perfect: open plan kitchen and living room, space for my dream of a dedicated “cinema room” on the ground floor, garden, garage, enough bedrooms for the children that I don’t expect or plan to have for a long while yet and to finish it all off they would take our flat in part exchange. We waited until after Christmas when the show home had been built – but we knew from that Saturday that we’d go for it. In January we reserved with the developers (incompetent party #1), instructed the solicitors they pressured us to use (incompetent party #2) and the process began. Initially the solicitors struggled to get in contact with our freeholder (incompetent party #3) but eventually contact was made.
All seemed to be progressing well – we designed our kitchen, bathrooms (4 bathrooms for 2 people, in hindsight, was probably superfluous) garden and all important power, TV, telephone and Sky sockets – paying the requisite deposits as we went. We read the replies to the developer’s enquiries from the freeholder’s solicitor (member of party #3) and were slightly shocked at how rude, unprofessional, slapdash and poorly written these were. Even more shocking was the fact this poor excuse for a document carried a £250 fee that we were expected to pay. A letter from the developer (unsurprisingly) followed shortly expressing concerns with the incompleteness of the answers and we assumed that all parties would act practically and quickly to get around what seemed a simple hiccup in the process. At no point were we given reason to think otherwise.
Our assumption was given further weight when we were given contracts to sign (although these were never ‘exchanged’) and were informed by the developers that the moving date would be confirmed within the week. This was the start of July, a full half year after the process began.
The day we were due to find out our completion date we got a call from the sales team – “we have a serious problem with your freeholder”. Like a fat Scottish chancellor’s reaction to an exponentially expanding budget deficit coupled with politically fuelled expansive fiscal policy during a pre-recessionary boom period, the inept parties had chosen to ignore the “hiccup” until it became an almighty “f-up”. We would not be completing until this issue (highlighted a number of months before and left unattended) had been resolved.
“Fear not though”, we were told by the valiant Three Tard-keteers, this can be easily rectified if the developer (#1) tells the solicitors (#2) to tell the freeholder (#3) what is required and simple actions are taken to resolve the situation. In a thoroughly unsurprising moment – when their powers were combined all that materialised was Captain Jack-Shit2.
Despite my attempts to call, shout at, push and pull to remove the inertia, not enough progress was being made so the “big boss” of the developer jumps in. This is a man so revered and feared by the sales team that his first name was taboo. He was referred to simply as “Mr. [REDACTED]”.
Annoyingly, this initially stopped me guessing his email address but that was nothing Google couldn’t fix. In fact his name was Tim. Little Timmy (as you will see from the molto forte crescendo of my final rant) remains the main object of my diatribe due to epitomising a spectacular expertise across the entire scope of the “Trifecta of Tard-domTM”.
Little Timmy waded in and pulled the plug – the move was over. We were devastated.
Now that time has allowed me to traverse the stages of denial, self-pity, rage and acceptance, I find myself experiencing a couple of feelings I was not expecting – relief and embarrassment.
Embarrassment in that my inability to purchase a 4-bedroom family home at the grand old age of 27 was one of the more notable setbacks I have experienced since getting an “A” in my French GCSE. This hardly qualifies me to sup bourbon whilst delivering a heartfelt blues performance to a bar full of unemployed divorcees. What am I whining about? I’ve got it (and always had it) pretty damn good.
The relief comes from the fact that I have since realised I am not quite ready for middle-aged life in suburbia, nor the penny pinching frugality that would come with the Godzilla of mortgages that I narrowly avoided, nor the potential for the sub-standard soundproofing of modern terraced houses to leave me exposed to the nightly mating rituals of hideously overweight neighbours.
Notwithstanding the silver lining and my over privileged melodrama, having had chance to undertake a deeper analysis of the series of events that led to the collapse, the professional disdain for competence displayed by the trio of parties3 in a trifecta of ways is undeniable and still gets my goat whenever I think about it.
I know, I know, you’re thinking:
“OK, I get the ‘trio’ – freeholder, lawyers, developer – but now you’re going on about a ‘trifecta’ – what the deuce do you mean by that?”
Funny you should say that – let me introduce to you the “Trifecta of Tard-domTM”:
Actually, before you do – this is already my longest post. It is no doubt tedious and self-indulgent and I’m not even getting started yet. If you would like to take a break, now would be a good time – here is a picture of a cute puppy to entertain you during this break.
Now on with the trifecta…
Practical Incompetence – The ability to get eternally submerged by process, theory, a lack of intellect or general lethargy and effectively avoid any remote possibility of getting something valuable done. Please Google “Government”, “Corporate Risk Management” or “Arsene Wenger’s transfer policy” for relevant examples
Emotional Incompetence – The uncanny ability to misread the emotional state of people and either deliver discourse or undertake work in a way that is in direct conflict with the basic social etiquette understood through instinct by all except the most gifted of sociopaths. Examples can be found through searching for “Reacting to the mass exodus of client facing staff from a Strategy Consultancy by ignoring all concerns raised4 and delivering a charisma-absent speech about the 10 year vision for the team” or “Piers Morgan”
Logical Incompetence – As someone who is both employed and naturally inclined to look at every situation through a logical lens (much to the irritation and, no doubt, tedium of others), this one really pilfers my porcupine5. Defined here as simply “the inability to think through the logical consequences of an action or sequence of events”, examples can again be found through searching for "Oregon's Exploding Whale" or "The Chewbacca Defense".
If Practical incompetence were a perfume it would be “Eau de freeholder”; if it were a meal it would be “Beef and freeholder stroganoff”; if it were a football team, well, you get the picture. Very few people have the capability to covertly buy the freehold to a block of 3 flats with a ground floor commercial unit, acquire planning permission to turn the commercial unit into a restaurant without informing the residents, violate planning permission on as many occasions as humanly possible during the construction of the restaurant and then subsequently run the restaurant into the ground. Twice. Within six months.
Our freeholder managed this (possibly the only thing he has ever bothered to manage). What’s more, at the same time this individual managed not only to remain incommunicado but also managed to fulfil none of his responsibilities outlined in the lease. Upon attempting to move it took this gentleman three months to suggest that his ready appointed solicitor perhaps get in contact with my lawyers. Whilst the unprofessional conduct of his appointed solicitor certainly carried an air of practical incompetence, he definitely majored in emotional incompetence so before I talk about him anymore, I will devote a few words to my beloved solicitors.
To me, nothing says…
“Daddy wanted me to get a real job but the fact I possess all the drive and mental agility of a Big Brother evictee meant that the intellect, moral compass, professional standards and capacity for empathetic human interaction required for a career with Injury Lawyers 4U was too much of a stretch for my genetic endowment”
…quite like becoming a conveyancing solicitor.
Even so, when you’re job requires the management of a process, often to a tight and changing deadline, you would expect some level of competence from people that are supposedly acting on your behalf. In a time pressured environment, identifying bottlenecks and acting to release them should come as second nature to even the lowliest and least capable of project managers.
When the absence of sufficient information from a freeholder is bluntly identified as a potential sticking point in a process, surely a daily email or phone call politely reminding the freeholder of their legal obligations to facilitate this process would be appropriate? 3 weeks of burying ones head in the sand, on the other hand, is hardly “acting in my interests”. The fact that the developer’s legal team also did no chasing is testament to a Practical incompetence inherent in the profession in general rather than solely bestowed upon my legal team. Further, the clients of conveyancers (i.e. me) are unlikely to provide regular repeat business (whereas the developers that enforce their use are). Couple this with the fact that their fees are largely contingent on time spent rather than success and you have a collection of professionals with absolutely no incentive to be anything other than useless.
Whilst the practical incompetence of conveyancers may be a simple fact of life, here I have a prime example of legal support that is effortlessly able to combine this practical incompetence with a healthy dose of Emotional incompetence.
People have egos. People stuck in the unloved depths of a legal department of a corporate behemoth subject to endless conveyancing and seen as the treacle that stops sales going ahead are likely to have low self esteem and thus be protective of their egos (hello developer legal team!). Similarly, people who have recently bankrupted their own law firm, resulting in the suspension of their license to practice law and subsequently having to take an un-named role at a no-name solicitor firm whilst trying to re-establish contact with the most naïve of their former clients that would at least consider using a barge pole to make personal contact are also likely to have low self esteem and thus be protective of their ego (hello Freeholder’s solicitor!).
Based on the above I have prepared some “top tips” on how aspiring conveyancers should attempt to travel the road towards Emotional competence:
Top tip one, if you are the illiterate underling of an already incompetent “lead name” conveyancer acting for me, do not forward the unprofessional and rude replies to initial lease enquiries penned by the Freeholder’ life-frustrated solicitor to the Developer without attaching the questions that were asked.
Top tip two, when you receive a pompous letter from a posturing developer’s counsel highlighting the poor quality of responses and questioning the capability of the freeholder’s legal team, do not forward the unedited letter directly to the previously disbarred bankruptee.
Top tip three, when said bankruptee replies that the letter from the developer is “hysterical” and “unfounded”, do not forward this unedited to the frustrated corporate slave in the developer’s legal department.
If you think “oops” when you read any of these tips then you are officially Emotionally incompetent. If you think “oops” to all three, then you can be safe in the knowledge that you are not on my Christmas card list.
As I progress in my career I have the aspirations of achieving a pretty senior position within a business – ideally a CEO, happy with a place on the board of directors. Getting there will require me to jump through a load of hoops and take on a number of other jobs. These may include non-board director ships, regional roles, down and dirty operational roles or all manner of things I have not thought of.
In all my experience of senior teams in business, both in my current role and through consulting, I have generally been impressed with the logical thought processes exhibited by these people and their general professionalism and competence. Unfortunately, little Timmy was an exception to this rule and a master in the art of Logical incompetence.
As a regional director responsible for sales, you are responsible (and incentivised) to maximise both revenue and profit for your division. Prior to cancelling our move, Timmy was in an excellent position to do just that:
Because we were taking part in a part exchange with our flat, the full asking price for the house was to be paid – a rarity in current economic conditions
The part-exchange offer for our flat was slightly below market rate and during the process the ground floor commercial unit changed from an unoccupied restaurant to a bookmakers, thus increasing the property value
The house, during the build, was tailored to our specification. It was not only tailored to our tastes (which in hindsight, sadly did not include polka dot carpets or a pink kitchen) but we would have paid significant sums for the privilege, at a huge mark-up for the developer
In summary, cha-ching. Thus, if you believe there may be some uncertainty with the freehold management of the property, the rational thing to do is to seek further information or take steps to reduce this risk, or at least reduce the information asymmetry in understanding whether there is a risk of reselling the flat at all. A logical person would have taken one or more of the following options:
Seek advice from a lawyer who is legally competent in the practicalities of freehold law in London (i.e. not the paper monkeys internally)
Instruct your minions to work to rectify the situation
Work out that if the risk of a problem with resale is, say 10%, that 90% of the value you would receive from this transaction is still well above what you would receive from attempting to resell the house (after adjusting for delays, people paying less than asking price, people not paying for optional extras, you not receiving more than you paid for our flat)
Following this, think of something to make it work
Sadly, Timmy is not rational. Non-rational decisions such as Timmy’s have led to the share price of his company plummeting to 7% of the value that it was in 2007. OK, the minor economic slowdown may be in part to blame but if you look at six of Timmy’s competitors over the same period, whilst his stock options have fallen by 93%, his competitors have only been hit by 68%. It is the lack of competence of senior figures like Timmy that leads your £10,000 of accumulated stock to be worth £700 (£9,300 of value destruction) rather than nearly 5 times as much.
Obviously, both Timmy and Timmy’s boss have received strongly worded letters pointing out his and his team’s incompetency. I can only hope they read them and that their egos are sufficiently in check for some of the messages to sink in. I have come to learn from this process that incompetence is contagious – especially within large organisations – and I can only hope that self-awareness can start to cure this so that other people are not subjected to the same stresses that I have been.
Writing this has been liberating. This is partly that in venting the frustrations that have built up over the last 8 months I have limited the possibility of a “rage explosion” in the near future. Also, and maybe more importantly, it has shown me that you do not need to be superhuman or super competent to find yourself in a position of power and influence. There may be hope for me yet.
Maybe one day I will anonymously link parties 1, 2 and 3 to this blog, thus congratulating them on achieving mediocrity despite their genetic shortcomings. Maybe Timmy will read it and develop the self awareness to work on his many flaws. Maybe I will send it to them, maybe I’m just too lazy.
1 Or all that is awesome about staying in bed recovering from dancing like a maniac to a live Pendulum DJ set until 5am
2 Yes, I know, that is a terrible and vague Captain Planet reference. I apologise
3 Technically there are well in excess of 3 parties who displayed ineptitude (2 of my lawyers, 1 freeholder, his lawyer and somewhere between 5 and 10 employees of a the large national housing developer) but they can be grouped into 3. And GCSE English told me stuff has more impact in threes
4 Initially – followed by a sudden u-turn sparked by the threatened resignation of the majority of the senior team…
5 I realised I really like the phrase “gets my goat” but I was unwilling to use the same expression twice in the same post. Incidentally the origins of this expression are largely unknown – with hypotheses ranging from “goat” being a misspelled “goad” to a direct French translation of “prendre la chevre” to the malicious practice of stealing the “pet goat” of a race horse immediately before a race (in the 1700s, goats were apparently used as companion animals to help settle race horses prior to major events)
At least 90% of these things are caused by specific individuals (the remaining 10% split between frustrating tasks, my Xbox and the everyday plight of our deteriorating society1). Of these individuals, I would estimate that at least 75% know of my dissatisfaction with their actions shortly afterwards2.
I suppose that the obvious question is “why is 68% of my rage is outwardly and shamelessly invected at specific people?”. I believe, however, that through one particular timeless cinematic moment, a Jack Nicholson quote is worth 1,000 words:
“There are two kinds of angry people in this world: explosive and implosive. Explosive, which is the most common, is the type of individual you see screaming at a grocery store cashier for not taking his coupon. Implosive, the least common, is the cashier at the store who remains quiet at his job day after day until he then finally loses it and just shoots everyone in the store”
Granted, this profound insight was actually delivered to Adam Sandler (or was it Ben Stiller? I’m pretty sure they’re actually the same person) and thus the film itself was, undeniably, terrible but you understand the underlying message and this “better out than in” philosophy was something I strongly advocated throughout my formative years.
However, in evolving from an angry, opinionated teen to the fine, mature, highly successful and wise future leader that you no doubt see when you look at me today, I have learnt that the 75% expression of rage I mentioned previously – or rather the antithesis-ish 25% associated with it – is far more important than I had assumed.
It is at this stage where I would like to give a subtle, yet anonymous, nod to a special friend of mine. This fine specimen has really helped me through some tough times and taught me that the emotional capital, morale and camaraderie that can be built from respecting the 25% is the key to success, and in all serious, happiness.
Actually. Screw anonymity. However, before I shamelessly shed this friend’s disguise, it is worth providing some context around how our paths became so inextricably linked.
In my previously life I was responsible for managing a team of fresh-faced, enthusiastic strategists as we provided advice to a firm of super-sharp, super-demanding private equity investors looking to acquire a well known retailer. Deadlines were tight, stakes were high and client demands (as ever) were completely unreasonable. 6 weeks into the process and morale was waning and temperatures waxing, all exacerbated (man, I really love that word) by the Orwellian monitoring, variable temperament and additional unreasonable demands of our Senior Manager. This person’s processes of logical thought and project management mantra was (whilst generally effective) completely different to anything I had experienced before, or have since3.
My frustrations were mirrored and amplified by the rest of my team and despite dogged attempts to cheer up and motivate the team, it was clear that this was one instance where repression, grinning and bearing would have to win over kicking, screaming and raging.
It was then that I met him.
Like a Wayne Rooney hair transplant, he is almost unrecognisable now from when we first met. Sat unused aside an empty box of Wasabi’s finest sushi was Ragey – expressionless, armless, yet an instant and talismanic symbol of how we the people could prevail against adversity.
Meet Ragey - the Rage Spoon
After a facelift and appendage transplant, Ragey became an icon. The premise was a simple one - only one team member could possess Ragey (the “rage spoon”) and only this person could express anger, frustration or outright rage in the workplace. A formal, verbal request to receive the services of “Ragey” was required for a transfer of guardianship.
I half expected the repressed anger to build up and eventually overflow, but this explosion never materialised. Ragey’s happy-go-luck expression and the privileged knowledge of his existence and symbolism (initially only afforded to the project team) meant all the bottled up tension simply effervesced into nothingness. Unreasonable expectations were met and the pain of the process was (partially) forgotten shortly afterwards.
On the day I left that job, I tearfully bestowed Ragey’s keeping unto a good friend. I am glad to hear that the legacy of the 25% lives on, it certainly does with me.
I realise that I have now written quite a lot regarding the 25%. I had planned to include an example of my recent interactions with the 75%, heralding from my recent experience of the perfect storm of Tardship that resulted in the collapse of my house move. However, the lethargy has set in. So I just added “part 1” to the title instead.
1 Approximately 66.66% of these reasons are not blatant lies
2 Or appearance, odour, presence etc.
3 As an example, when I suggested during our post project review that we hadn’t got the 80:20 balance (i.e. 80% of the result with 20% of the effort) quite right on the project I was informed that the SM “didn’t care if the last 20% takes 5 times as long as the first 80%, we must get 100% of the way there”. Incidentally, this moment was somewhat of a turning point in where I saw my career going. Just to be clear - this person is great fun socially and someone I would consider one of my closer friends and the previous job, we just clashed when it came to working together!
If there is one thing that makes the working week more bearable, it’s my noise cancelling headphones.
My Ultimate Ears SuperFi 5vi’s deliver a crisp rich sound directly into my head, providing a clear mid-range and delivery of bass that you simply wouldn’t expect from in-ears. Whether its dance music when running, angry rock music, audiobooks or podcasts these are by far and away the best (and, coincidentally at £50 the most expensive) headphones my iPhone has ever been hooked up to.
To be honest, that’s not difficult as the bundled white buds from Apple are frankly terrible, my Skullcandy Full Metal Jackets died in less than a month and my 3 pairs of Sennheiser MM50ip’s each lasted only a little longer than that.
However, the quality of the sound is not the reason I love them. In fact, for the length of time that they worked for, I have loved all of my noise cancellers equally. See, it’s the noise cancelling part that really matters. It lets me shut myself off from the outside world and exist in my own little bubble.
For years, I survived with standard Apple white buds. This was until I moved desks in my first job to sit between the two office loudspeakers. As a half-arsed attempt at keeping their identities a secret, let’s call them Mrs. Chew and Mrs. Ribery.
There’s a Mrs. Chew in every office. More than happy to forcefully impart an opinion on absolutely everything and everyone. More often than not any opinion imparted would be voted against by supermajority or better. A hypochondriac with a compulsion to share every gory detail. All of this at a volume that could drown out the fire alarm drill.
And then there’s Mrs. Ribery. I am still not sure if she is technically a Miss, but at a certain age I tend to refer to all ladies as Mrs. Employed for her ridiculous language skills (fluent in more than 10 languages), this lady sure could talk. Constantly. Without breath. For Days.
To add further annoyance, Mrs. Ribery had somehow wangled her way to convincing the powers that be that a 9 month working year was a good idea. I would certainly agree that the 3 summer months were blissful, if only it weren’t for the months directly before and after this annual sabbatical. The month before, the yapping would commence but the month after was the real killer, and it got worse every year.
I have noticed that as a lady gets older, years of sunbathing can leave skin somewhat leathery, almost crispy. Imagine, if you will, that you were to coat a half inflated balloon with old, dry leather. What would the surface of this balloon look like if you were to re-inflate this balloon on an annual basis? (Following a gradual deflation over the previous year)
Trust me, you wouldn’t want to see it. However, I am not so lucky – I remain haunted to this day by two of these (freshly inflated) coated balloons dangling over my desk as their owner rabbited on about the previous 3 months.
Alone, one of these two ladies (Mrs. Ribery and Mrs. Chew, not the balloons) could be bearable. Together, not so much. Then I discovered the bubble. Armed with Last.FM, some shiny new Sennheisers and a can do attitude I erected my capsule of personal space. Amazingly, not only did I no longer hear either of them, but the sagging twins stopped a-visiting due to the clear “leave me alone” body language. Result.
Secondly, a shorter one this time. I live in London. Public transport in London is one of the most unpleasant things anyone can ever experience. However, stick on some headphones and ignore everyone else and you can pretend its not happening. OK, you may still end up being pressed nose-first into the armpit of a gorilla reminiscent of a larger, hairier cousin of Stavros flatly but at least you can be listening to Whitesnake while you’re doing it.
Finally, these 2 small balls of ear-filling goodness can be your first, last and only line of defence against the worst scum of the universe. That’s right. Chuggers.
I hate charity muggers with a passion (or “Street Fundraisers” for the PC amongst you). And here’s why:
Most charity muggers are paid on an hourly basis (although some are paid on commission). They can be paid up to, or more than £12 an hour to do their thing. Think about it. 5 days a week. 8 hours a day. 52 weeks a year. £12 an hour.
These scumbags are stealing up to £24,960 per year from the charities you want to give money to.
That’s more than a new teacher (paid from £21,588 outside of London) and a new doctor (Foundation Year 1 = £22,412). Clearly something is not quite right.
Yes. They will argue that after the charities have paid the initial commission (the Chugger Pimps are all paid on commission) the charities will make money they wouldn’t do otherwise, which they may well do. But I’m pretty sure that if you give me a week with the “marketing budget” assigned by charities to chuggers I could get you a much better and more immediate return.
Stopping my tirade for a second. You have to give credit to some of the chuggers. If they are smart enough to work out that a £25k salary for wandering around outside with no performance related criteria to be judged upon is a fairly good return for very little effort, then fair play to them.
Irritatingly, however, most of these people enter into this world as a result of a jumped up self-reverential ideology that they possess the power to deliver rectal sunshine to the rest of the world. They couldn’t possibly compromise their morals and get a “real job” - this would just feed the evil capitalist beast. Heck no, they must act like Sir Robin Hood and steal from these rich and give to the poor (after the poor have first paid them, handsomly, for their galant service).
Dining out on tales of how their “chosen path” leaves them similar in moral stature to Ghandi, they are not forced to realise that their pierced lips, dreadlocks, outrageous facial hair, sandals and constant aroma of [insert one from: marijuana, body odour, hemp or Lynx Voodoo] make them virtually unemployable in the real world. You’ll see this as a recurring theme in my writing, but again, here is an instance where we as society have stopped natural selection running its course.
So, I spent a while thinking about the optimal strategy to get rid of chuggers. I am currently split between two options.
One. Stand there and talk to the chugger for as long as is humanly possible. The whole day would be ideal. In the best case scenario, the chugger is on commission so will not make any money. At worst, the chugger’s pimp is being paid on commission so will not make any money. They will, however, still have to pay the chugger so will be losing money and eventually starve. After distracting the chugger for as long as possible, inform them with a smug grin that you will now be going to donate online. Donate online if feeling rich.
Two. Counter chug. Carry a big sign saying “don’t pay the chugger” and encourage the chugees to donate directly instead. Surely by now, most people susceptible to chugging have been chugged so all you are really doing by stopping any new customers is simply speeding up the natural process of starvation (and saving each new intake of grads and school leavers let loose in the city from funding future chugging). Donate online if feeling rich.
I think both these strategies are equally valid and can lead to the end of chugging (whilst keeping the money flowing to the charities). Sadly, I don’t have enough time (and am frankly too lazy) to put any of these strategies into practice. I just stick my headphones on, enter my bubble, and ignore them.
As a nation, we simply do not like ze Germans. With the war well before the time of most of us (and most of our parents) I struggle to believe that that this is the real reason why.
I have spent a fair bit of time trying to work out why and, quite aptly, the four reasons I can think of closely resemble a pair of secret policemen – SS SS
Sunbeds – clichéd reference to the blunt efficiency of the Germans. I would say more a reason for annoyance than dislike
Sport – from Football to Tennis to F1, ze German’s consistently hand our medium-rare backsides to us in sporting situations. Let’s face it, our British politeness means that we are, essentially, a nation of chokers. Ze Germans, conversely are used to winning so end up winning
Seriousness – entertainingly, there has been a full on academic study of why the Brits and the Germans have a level of mutual distrust – have a read of this:
For the lazy, it boils down to small-talk – whereas we use small talk to “provide a social function” – i.e. make people feel good – our German counterparts see this is an unnecessary waste of time, and in some cases, insincere small talk is seen as tantamount to lying. Imagine a life without unneeded chat. Certainly more efficient but much less entertaining.
Sarcasm – I would like to take this opportunity to thank our very own Hugh Laurie for finally bringing sarcasm across the Atlantic through the medium of medical drama. Having honed his craft in arguably the greatest example of quintessential British satire – Blackadder – Dr House finally taught the Amercian public that insults and sarcasm are in fact the highest form of wit. Sadly, the common perception is that our Germanic friends are yet to follow the same path.
Last month, I went to Munich, and I have come to understand where the distrust, resentment and oft time dislike of the Germans come from. Compared to all other European nations, the Germans are more like the British than anyone else. Reserved, fanatical about sport and fuelled primarily by lager there is more than a passing resemblance between our nations. The reason for the distrust comes from the fact that in areas we pride ourselves on (and others that we don’t), the Germans are simply better than us. Munich was one of the best European cities I have ever visited.
Let’s take a simple example – one of the best inventions I have ever seen. The Beercycle.
Strolling through a beautiful park in a beautiful city we heard a noise, singing. Not real singing, but man singing. The noise got louder and before we knew it we were overtaken by a man on a bike. However, this was not just any bike. Behind the “driver” was a beer keg. Behind this beer keg was a 12 person dining table surround by the requisite 12 people drinking from the aforementioned keg. Under the table, these folk were helping with the peddling.
Yesterday, back home in London, I went for a beer in the city. Imagine if you can Bishopsgate at rush hour – it’s not a pretty sight by any means. But lo and behold – not one, but two Beercycles passed us by (sandwiched between two double decker busses). But no, these were British beercycles, no keg of beer (drink cycling – how dare you even consider such a thing), no table – just a handrail to hold on to. Worst. Imitation. Ever.
1-0Germany.
I have lived in London for almost 6 years now and I love it. However, the 2 best times of the year are between Christmas and New Year and the Easter long weekend.
At these glorious times of year, somewhere between one third and half of “Londoners” bugger off to where they were born and raised (often, me included – big up Reading). Suddenly, there are seats on the tube, there is space to walk and London has the right number of people in it.
Imagine these idyllic times of year, then imagine that every road looks like The Mall leading up to Buckingham palace. Welcome to Munich. 2-0.
OK, there are examples where stereotypical German efficiency can go too far…
On our trip, we happened to pass a large white statue outside an office. Quite cool, but thought nothing more of it.
In that very building, a German office party epitomised both German efficiency and the “functional” approach to problem solving. Again, for those too lazy to read, a number of “pros” were hired to satisfy certain urges of the salesmen of this organisation.
Just to be clear, in my opinion this is completely wrong and immoral. But my god was it well executed.
Ladies were awarded coloured wrist bands – one colour for waiting staff indicated “don’t touch”, one colour for the plebs and one special colour for the finest of all the ladies who were reserved for the board and presented as a reward to only the best salespeople (interesting alternative to stock options as a bonus plan). But wait. There’s more. Following each “use” a lady was stamped on the forearm – similarly to a Café Nero loyalty card. I can just picture the attendees of the event methodically trading off the diminishing returns of multiple “uses” against the physical attractiveness of the item in question. Sheer madness.
Finally, I would like to come back to sarcasm. The common perception that Germany and sarcasm do not mix is quite frankly not true. Some of the finest exponents of dead pan satire that I have ever met have heralded from the Rhineland. Deliberately paying tribute to the robotic stereotype, I have witnessed truly breathtaking dead pan delivery of discourse so scathing and full to the brim with acrimony that I have had to stop myself applauding in slack-jawed amazement. Not to name names, but BF, TS, DG – I salute you.
Thinking back to the depraved debauchery that occurred behind that white statue, I can rest assured – or at least imagine – that the phrase “München meinen truncheon” was used more than once. And that the ladies were stamped accordingly.
In the summer of 2009, my 5’ 10’’ frame was supporting around 14st 7 of chunky goodness. If you’re wondering what that means in terms of BMI, it placed me somewhere between overweight and Eric Cartman.
With a 14 hour a day sedentary desk job and a weekend schedule akin to an episode of “Booze Britain” my waistline was headed only one way. Clearly something had to change.
Being a consultant, I obviously began setting out and subsequently ruling out a set of strategic options.
(1) Healthy diet?
Nope. Like food.
(2) Exercise?
Nope. Lazy.
(3) Surgery?
Nope. Stupid.
(4) 6 months travelling around the world?
Bingo.
OK true, weight loss obviously wasn’t the only factor that helped me to decide on a 6 month global jolly with the future missus but nonetheless it was a happy side effect. Walking around looking at beautiful / interesting things, eating loads of foreign food, drinking less and, probably most importantly, sweating more than a Gaddafi body double (Zing! Bursting with topical content right here) for the best part of six months led me to return at a waif-like 12st 10.
I’m not going to lie, I quickly grew quite fond of this new bloke - less sweaty during everyday activity (damn you Piccadilly line!), happy in non-baggy clothing and with boundless energy. The sub-13st fine specimen of a man stuck around for almost the whole of 2010. Almost.
Damn. You. Christmas.
2011 started and the scales starting tipping the wrong way. 13-2, 3, 4, 5 – and that’s where they settle today. Sadly, when I looked back at my options, (3) and (4) are totally off the table due to financial constraints. Leaving me with salad and running. The target has been set – 12st 7 by the wedding, let’s see how that goes…
In an pre-blog effort to commit some memories to digital eternity, I began to scribble a couple of entries into my iPhone. I figured it would be worthwhile to put these in one place. Here.
Written April 15th 2011, 8.15am
As I write this, I am sitting on the 141 to London bridge. Apparently stuff went down last night and my head is telling me all about it.
Last year, I had a small health scare after a particularly punishing stag weekend. For a man who used to pride himself on his ability to put away far more than his fair share, a painful recovery led me to drastically cut back on my alcohol intake.
Thankfully it turns out I'm fine, or not actively dying for the moment at least. Still, this has led to somewhat of a lifestyle change – healthier food, more exercise, less beer.
The problem is that boozing is fun. Or at least feels like fun at the time. Currently, my head would disagree…
As a slight distraction from the tribulations of my head, the annual European weekend looms on the horizon. Armed with matching T-shirts [although thankfully this did not actually end up transpiring] and a “foreign money is monopoly money” attitude, six of England’s finest embrace the British way and impart our culture on the wider EU through the medium of debauchery.
This year, lucky Munich got the nod. I know very little of Munich save for the prevalence of the local instrument of torture. The Stein. Obviously, lederhosen clad stein drinking for 20 hours a day is not 100% consistent with my straight edge lifestyle. It is time to make a choice: to beer (heavily) or not to beer (heavily)
This brings me neatly back to last night. I had genuinely not consumed more than 5 pints in one sitting for around 7 months, leading to uncertainty around my body’s reaction to good ol’ British binging .
Any difficult choice (such as the Munich question) should be an informed choice. Any informed choice should be based on evidence backed experiments. Last night provided 7 pints, 3 shots and a Jagerbomb’s worth of experimentation. Evidence collected includes one mother of a headache and the timeless smell of Eau de San Miguel flowing liberally from every pore of my body.
Thankfully, thus far the evidence does not include death, or in fact anything abnormal (when compared to around 50% of my time at university). Experiment 2 begins this evening…
I sit here faced with a moral dilemma. I have always, and continue to pride myself on fighting the good fight against pretention, self-indulgence and unfounded delusions of grandeur.
Having spent three years at a well known university before embarking on a career in the city I have been exposed to more than my fair share of these aforementioned pet hates. From spending my days walking past numerous “Tarquins” dressed in sub fusc as they quaff Lanson straight from the bottle I graduated into a world where everyone (ranging from these same “Tarquins” to budding “Sir-Alans”) resorts to mutual dog eating in order to receive recognition for their very own brand of pompous.
Don’t get me wrong, I am extremely fortunate to have fluked my way into and through higher education and then into a job that allowed me to survive a fairly chunky recession without adding to the unemployed statistics. I would not change a moment of my time so far and have numerous happy memories and no doubt many more which I have forgotten.
I have, however, made it my mission to never overestimate my own importance.
Herein lies my dilemma. Pretention, self-indulgence, pomposity – blogging absolutely ticks every one of these boxes and provides a side order of narcissism to boot. However, I am at an age where I know I will want to remember what I will soon forget and would like an opportunity to write in English rather than the bastardised version that is liberally spattered across PowerPoint slides.
As such, the only way I can see to both achieve this goal and evade hypocrisy is through a chunky disclaimer. This page is written by me, for me. Others are more than welcome to read it, but I don’t expect you to. If you do, I do not expect you to enjoy it nor do I expect even the slightest thing in the world to change as a result of you doing so. In fact, I apologise for wasting your time if you have read this far. But no, you don’t get those 2 minutes back.
My friends and my fianceé and would no doubt place me on a sliding scale somewhere between lazy and bone idle. In many cases I would argue that it is efficiency rather than apathy - doing the minimum needed to get a good result - but in other cases I would have to agree.
I no doubt expect the theme of lethargy to run throughout any future posts I can be bothered to make here, or at least be reflected in the infrequent nature of postings. I would also not be surprised if “decnunciatory or abusive discourse” (such as that directed at my imaginary friend Tarquin) were to appear more than once in the future.
Based on all this, “Lethargic Invective” seems like a sufficiently pretentious title for these ramblings.
