Martin Harbottle's Appreciation of Time (39 page)

Blimey, Martin. Another delay on the morning train (little surprise there – though three in a row is pushing it somewhat) – but, more to the point, no problems whatsoever on the evening trains! Whatever’s all that about? I’ve had faultless journeys home every night this week since Tuesday. (You should also know, and I’m telling you this deliberately because I can’t quite believe that such a thing as a formal warning even exists, that I have been drunk on every evening train I’ve caught this week. Drunk? I’ve been steaming. I’ve been shitfaced, cheesecaked, banjaxed. I’ve been blotto and bluey. I’ve been sozzled and sauced and boozed-up and bombed, loaded and looped, smashed and plastered. I’ve been inebriated, Martin. I’ve been thoroughly intoxicated. I’ve been drinking every night after work and I’ve continued drinking on the train home. And now, could I please have a formal warning?)

Where was I? Oh yes, sober in the morning. Sober as a judge. It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day and I’m feeling good. A new day? Not any old new day: it’s Judgement Day. It’s time for the book of revelations!

What’s going to happen, Martin? How’s it going to pan out? As it stands there is no splash – other than a rather lame ‘That’s all folks!’ effort. Right now there is no big story to go out on, no massive monument to say ‘We were here’. Nothing to show we’ve gone down fighting. Which is good. Which is all part of the plan. And at lunchtime today – in what? five hours or so – I’m going to walk into the managing editor’s office with a typescript, a bunch of signed contracts and a mobile phone with Goebbels on the end of it, and I’m going to give him an alternative.

I’m going to suggest running the nuclear option, pressing the nuclear button. I’m going to suggest Mutually Assured Destruction.

And you know what? It’s the end of the world as we know it – and I feel fine. My mind’s at rest. I lay in bed last night (drunk, Martin, after being really very drunk indeed on a Premier Westward train) and I made all sorts of decisions. I know what I’m going to do, and I’m pretty happy about it. About work and about other stuff too. Important stuff.

I feel brilliant, in fact. I feel… ready. So brilliant, so ready, that I’m gifting you four minutes this morning. Here! Take it! Four minutes, Martin! Use them wisely. Every minute counts, you know. Don’t go squandering those minutes – because one day, as you count up the minutes of your life, as you tally up the minutes of your existence, you’ll wish you had more gifts like this. Four minutes! You can change the world in four minutes, Martin. You can destroy the world in four minutes, you know. Anything can happen in four minutes!

Au revoir
!

Dan

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Re: First Formal Warning

Dear Sir

I am very sorry to have to tell you that, following reports of your repeatedly boarding Premier Westward trains in a state of intoxication, it is my regretful duty to issue a First Formal Warning, as outlined in our Passengers’ Charter.

Should you offend again, you will be issued with a Second Formal Warning. Following a Third Formal Warning, you will be recommended to the Passengers’ and Rail Users’ Standards Committee, who have the power to issue a First Cease and Desist Notice.

Any customer of Premier Westward who receives three or more Cease and Desist Notices within the course of one calendar month will unfortunately be recommended to the police as a candidate for an Anti-Social Behaviour Order, which may result in their use of the rail network being restricted at some times.

I hope this is all clear, and that this First Formal Warning acts as a suitable deterrent.

Yours faithfully

pp Martin Harbottle
Managing Director, Premier Westward

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Re:
22.50 Premier Westward Railways train from London Paddington to Oxford, May 23. Amount of my day wasted: 15 minutes. Fellow sufferers: Overkeen Estate Agent.

Hey Martin! Oh, Martin. Martin! Marty! Martinho! Good old ridiculous, pompous, avuncular Martin. Tormentor, target, therapist. Maybe even friend, in a weird way. How are you, Martin? How are you doing?

This is the end, Martin. This is the end, my only friend.

This is the last letter I’m ever going to write to you. (That sounds awesome, doesn’t it?) I’m kind of gutted I didn’t make it to 100, but I wouldn’t want to go making up delays just for the sake of a good story, would I? That would be unethical. But still: 99 is a pretty good number. Ninety-nine is better than 100, in many ways.

Do you want to hear one last journalist tip, Martin, before I leave it all altogether? One last tip from the tabloid book of tricks? Odd numbers are better than even. Prime numbers are best of all. Never promote 20 of something, or 50, or ten. Seventeen is better than 20, 49 better than 50, seven better than ten. Ninety-nine is better than 100. If you’re going to give competition prizes away, or advertise tips to improve your sex life, or make a list of the best whatevers ever, make it an odd number, a prime number. Don’t write 100 letters, Martin: write 99. It looks better. Paradoxically, it reads better. Trust me.

But this is all academic. This doesn’t matter any more. Because this is the last time I will ever call your name. I won’t be commuting any more. I’m not commuting any more, in fact. I was in London today tying up loose ends – in the pub, with Goebbels and Harry the Dog, before their pre-arranged appointments at the police station tomorrow (I tried to get hold of Wee Tim’rous Trainee too, but she’s disappeared. Nobody’s heard a thing. I can’t help wondering if she’ll even turn up at the cop shop tomorrow. I called Bombshell too, but she wasn’t interested: ‘totes past all that, darls – wouldn’t look good now to be seen with the old crew, you do understand…’) – and I don’t plan on coming into London again anytime soon.

You’ll have seen the paper, of course. The final edition. The last splash. You’ll have been one of the six million people who queued up to buy it on Sunday. And, no doubt, you’ll have been one of the six million who stopped in their tracks, who forgot where they were, who forgot what they were doing, when you read the front page.

They went for it, of course. How could they not? It took them until past 11 at night, it delayed the presses and screwed up the paper reviews and meant the first edition barely made the newsstands in time for Sunday opening hours… but they did go for it. They put their mouths where the money is. They bloody well did it, too.

It was beautiful, wasn’t it? It was everything I wanted. It was – it is still – the single most devastating destruction of any individual ever run in any newspaper. We nailed him. We killed him, Martin. And when it was picked up by every news organisation in the country, when it made all the major networks in the US and Europe, when it hit Australia and Asia and South America… Game over. For us and for the man who did so much to take us down. Mutually Assured Destruction. God bless King Pyrrhus.

He was arrested before lunchtime. His career was over before then. Even if he dodges the clink, he’ll never work again. He won’t even be able to live in this country. Dropped like a stone by all those set up to protect him, his Twitter account shut down by the afternoon, officially the most reviled man in the Commonwealth before dinner. And by bedtime, all those other stories, all those other girls, coming forward, finally prepared to go on the record with their tales. It’s been a bonanza couple of days for the dailies. We’ve gifted them the best run of stories they’ve had in years.

Everyone at the paper’s screwed, of course. Those job offers I had? Withdrawn. I’m tainted goods, apparently. Toxic. The Goebbels trick worked in a legal sense, in a public sense, but in the industry it was sussed pretty quick. And I am the showbiz editor. It didn’t take Woodward and Bernstein to work out who was really responsible.

But that’s fine. I’m fine with that. Because you know those decisions I said I’d made? Well, I meant it. I’ve made them and I’m sticking with them.

I’m packing in journalism, Martin. I’m walking away. And I’m not walking as far as PR, either. I’m walking all the way away, bridges burned, head held high, two fingers left lingering in the air behind me.

What am I going to do instead? I have no idea. I don’t care. I’ll think of something. I’ve got a little redundancy payout which will keep me good for a while, but it’s not about the money. It’s about… life.

Did I ever tell you about the sloth? The way they die? After eating all the food nearest to them, they just can’t be bothered moving a few feet down the branch to get any more – they’re so indoctrinated in ennui they would rather die than make the tiniest effort to actually live. Well, that’s what sitting on a train is, Martin. That’s what sitting on one of your stationary trains every morning and evening, gazing pointlessly out of the window at another blank view of Reading and Slough, of Acton and Southall, of Didcot bleeding Parkway every day, is like. That’s what it is: sitting still and impotent and watching the world change and your career implode and your family life fall apart and not having the energy, the ambition, the guts to get out of your seat, get off the train and do something about it. That’s what commuting is, Martin. That’s what my life has been. It’s been the slow death of the sloth.

Well, not any more. I’m getting out of my seat. I’m getting off the train. Literally. I’m going to stop looking at life (through a grimy window, on a tired train in the night) and start living.

I’m walking away from my career and I’m going to go and get my wife. I’m going to go see my wife and my beautiful baby daughter. I’m going to find them and I’m going to say sorry. And I’m going to tell them we can start again. I’m going to tell them that whatever happened has happened, that the past is the past, that yesterday’s news is today’s chip wrapper. I’m going to tell them that I’m sick of Pyrrhic victories, I’m sick of scoring moral victories but losing what makes me happy in the process.

I have no idea what Beth will say. In a way it doesn’t matter. Because I’ll keep telling her that, I’ll keep repeating the simple facts – I love her, I love Sylvie, nothing else is important, everything else can be dealt with – until she gets it too. And she will get it, sooner or later. Because that’s why I married her in the first place. Because that’s the girl she is.

And in the meantime? The big wheel will just keep on turning, right? The world will keep on doing what it does. Dealers keep dealing, thieves keep stealing – that’s what the song says. Whores keep whoring, junkies keep scoring. Ain’t no use in praying, that’s the way it’s staying, baby. Tabloids will keep on stinging. Scandals will keep on selling. And good luck to them, too.

And your trains, Martin – they’ll keep getting delayed. No amount of letters is going to change that. No amount of angry words or absurd excuses will account for the lost minutes, the lost hours, the accumulated days gone for ever, pointlessly, tragically.

And I’m having none of it any more. Don’t take it personally. I’m not quitting because of you. And, despite how it may have seemed sometimes, I have enjoyed writing to you. Between you and me, there have been times this year past when writing my angry little letters has been the only thing that’s kept me going. So, oddly, and don’t take this the wrong way, thank you, Martin. Not for your trains, not for the job you’re doing, but thank you for being a gentleman. Thank you for your advice. Thank you for being you. And that’s so much more important than any job.

And that’s it. I’m gone. Oxford looms through the gloom and our 15-minute delay is almost over. Overkeen Estate Agent has just said the words ‘I’m in this womb-to-tomb. I’m 1,000 percent in the trenches on this one. I’m accelerating my bandwidth as we speak, mate. Literally’ – and I can’t think of a more fitting note to end on than that.

(Actually, there was one thing more, Martin: I was going to ask you something about Sauron Flesh Harrower. Something about something you said about… but perhaps I won’t. Perhaps I’ll leave it as it is.)

Good night, Martin, and good luck. Not farewell, but fare forward!

Goodbye

Dan

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Re: Out of Office Reply

Dear Sir/Madam

Thank you for your email dated May 23 this year. I can confirm that Mr Harbottle has received it and will endeavour to respond as soon as possible. Your concerns are of utmost importance to us.

Thank you again for writing to Premier Westward.

pp Martin Harbottle, Managing Director

*This is an automatically generated response. Please do not reply*

Thanks to everyone who made this book possible. There are too many to name, but you hopefully know who you are. (If you’re not sure, feel free to ask.)

In addition, however, I’d especially like to thank Heidi, Eithne and Albert, without whom, nothing – and of course Mum, Damian, Kevin, Finola, Gabrielle and Jenny, for the support, the encouragement, the belief.

This book started life as a blog and no acknowledgements would be complete without a mention of that – so to Rachel, Mark, Ellie, Laura and all at
Fabulous
who lived through the whole thing as it happened – thank you (and sorry). Likewise all the friends, colleagues and twitterers who led me to believe there might be something more in it. Also, of course, thanks to everyone who read and enjoyed the blog in the first place – and apologies to Benjionthetrain for nicking Lego Head.

While we’re on the subject, thanks to all the fellow hacks whose anecdotes I stole. And, y’know, sorry for stealing your anecdotes.

Should I name someone cool now? Thanks, Joe Strummer. Cheers, Ian Brown. Good on you, all of New Order.

Thanks to Gordon Wise, my brilliant agent, to Catherine Marcus for being the first person to get really excited about the text, and to Charlotte Van Wijk, for her enthusiasm, amazing editing and genius way with a book title – as well, of course, to the whole team at Oneworld for all their hard work and faith in the book. And special thanks to Hannah and Becca Barr for introducing me to Gordon in the first place.

Finally, most importantly, this book wouldn’t have happened without Mark and Sue. Thank you especially, Mark. Not for your trains, but for always being a gentleman – and that’s got to count for more, in the end.