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
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
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
