Up and at ‘em

Up and at ‘em

By Phil Miller

After finally completing the run of my life- 2001 London Marathon- I realised I should have put more time and effort into training for the event after a tall Sikh athlete sped past me at the 22-mile mark wearing a T-shirt that read,“ SPEED CHICKEN,” on the back; he was in his late eighties.

My wife decided it would be a good idea to organise a surprise party for me.

It was something I could have done without, considering my inner thighs were chaffed beyond repair and my nipples had bled due to the friction against my vest; the hazards associated with running over 26 miles, at a snail’s pace. It didn’t matter too much; most people thought I had been pouring blackcurrant juice over myself.  The photo handed to me when I crossed the line, distinctly showed that I was so exhausted, my eyes were fixed in a crossed position, and stayed that way till I arrived home, in the burbs of Essex, in the back of the brother-in-law’s, clapped out 1980’s 2.0 litre Granada, that farted a great plume of black smoke every time it broke from the traffic lights.

An old double bedspread had been stretched across the UPVC bay window with the words, “WELLCOME HOME, YOU DONE US PROUD!” painted in big black letters.

The neighbours must have thought I was returning from a theatre of war; I think they were right.

The music was playing loudly and there was much laughter and merriment going on. I crept in, ignored everybody, and made my way slowly upstairs to bed, where I promptly collapsed, in a heap. The sores between my legs were excruciatingly painful, and all I wanted to do was sleep. No sooner had I closed my eyes, my daughters had decided to run in and jump all over me, like a couple of puppy dogs. I told them, through gritted teeth and rolling eyes that I would make my way downstairs and say hi to everyone. Five minutes later, I was standing at the top of the stairs. I took one step down but the fatigue and burning pain in my calf muscles were unbearable, so I had to walk down backwards, on my hands and knees. Somebody stepped over me on the way to the loo, “what’s the matter? lost your marbles, ha! ha!”; I didn’t reply but thought to myself, I must have done, to run around the streets of London, while everyone else was stuffing sausages and beer down their necks, dancing and prancing and having a good time.  

After a few minutes I reached the bottom step and stood upright on the laminate flooring. I walked forwards, hands stretched out to the walls for support, and made my way to the living room. I looked like a cross between Douglas Bader and Frankenstein’s monster.  The guests were admiring the sharp lines of the new kitchen units, the sparkling tiled walls and new pristine appliances. The kettle drew a great deal of attention; weird.

After about 10 minutes, a lot of sniggering and the occasional pat on the back, I fell onto the sofa to begin my life as a human sloth.

It was nice that people made the effort but really, all they wanted, was an excuse for a knee’s up. All I wanted was to have a kip; for about 72 hours.

There was a knock on the door. I heard somebody acknowledge my dear old friend, Timothy. I sat, waiting for him to come into the living room and offer up a plate of praise. He didn’t come in to see me. After 15 minutes, I went painfully in search of him and found him hiding behind a very large wine guzzling woman in the garden. When I say hiding, I mean, if he turned sideways he would have vanished. He was emaciated. His eyes were sunken and they had large black bags around them. His cheekbones were ready to breakthrough.

“Bloody! Hell, Tim, you’ve done some weight.”

“Hello, Jack. Well done on running the marathon.”

“What’s happened, mate? You look ill!”

“I haven’t slept for three days.”

“What?”

“I’ve been taking E’s, Charlie, LSD and Ketamine, I’m screwed.”

“Jesus! You ain’t got any paracetamol, have you, my head is splitting?”

Tim just stood there. Not a smirk, grin, or false laugh.

I said, “Where’s Tracy?”

“We split up 6 months ago.”

“Oh! No! Sorry, mate. Do you want a drink?”

“No, just water, I’m so dry.”

“Where you been living?”

“Back at mum’s.”

“Oh! Dear.  Come to think of it, you look a bit like Ronnie Corbett, sorry.”

Tim swallowed his glass of water and apologised for his early exit.

I didn’t see him again until one winters night in 2004. It was three am and I was slumped on the floor of a bus shelter. I had half a litre of whiskey in one hand and a fag in the other. I was crying; I was pissed; I hadn’t smoked for fifteen years and my normal tipple was a bottle of merlot over the weekend. It was Seven Kings High road. Tim was walking on the other side of the street, to catch the night bus.  He had been on a date; some online thing.  He couldn’t believe it when he saw the state I was in.

“Fucking hell Jack, you ok?”

“Curs am kay.”

“What?”

“Ahsed, ham urkay,”

“Where ya been?

“Getchin pished.”

“Who you with?”

“Live mehee aloon.”

Tim lifted me to my feet. He had put on a lot of weight.

“Is the missus picking you up? Shall I get you a cab? Do you want to stay at mine?”

“Shee don luff me, annimor.”

“What?”

“Spanitch arshers.”

“I’ll get you a cab home.”

“Not hurm now. Dumped me.”

“Oh! shit. Come on, stay at mine.”

Tim supported me as I staggered left and right and backwards and forwards. It took us 2 hours to walk 2 miles to his place in Romford.

When I woke up in the morning, we had a good old heart to heart.

I said to Tim, “What did you get from your divorce?”

He said, “I was so distraught, all I asked for was my mastic gun and tape measure. She said, do you want the curtains?” I said, “stuff the curtains, keep them. She did. I didn’t know they were worth two thousand pounds. I also didn’t know that she had racked up a credit card bill for over £25,000, and I was liable for half the debt.”

“Bloody! Hell Tim.”

He said, “What are you gonna ask for from your missus?”

I said, “A Stanley knife and my decorating table.”

“Ay! Why’s that?”

“We can go into business then matey.”

We both laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

Up and at ‘em, that’s what my granddad used to say.

Copyright Phil Miller