So here we are again folks. New Years Eve.
Jesus. I remember when the millennium was such a big deal. It's scary to think that was 17 years ago. I'm proper old now kids.
There's no doubting New Years Eve is massively over-rated. Pubs charge a fortune on the door, restaurants are packed and mundane parties are in abundance. False bonhomie is the drug of choice.
Many a time I have been stuck in a party I haven't wanted to be in, singing 'old lang syne' (badly) with people I didn't know who also couldn't remember the lyrics or what they meant.
Many give it a swerve. Staying in to watch on TV or go to bed before all the nonsense begins.
Others gather at houses to get wasted and eat yet more grub after the Xmas excess.
We are all different. I don't want appear a killjoy. I'm all for spending time with family or friends and seeing in the new year and also chilling alone and letting it pass. I'm not fussed either way.
It's much different from years ago where the night was seen as a good way to injest as much alcohol and drugs as possible, surfacing several days into the new year with a hangover that seemed to last a year.
My first sober new year in 2001 was truly horrific. I was 3 months sober, trying to hang on desperately to sobriety, in the grips of a full blown obsession with an ex-girlfriend (I didn't know what co-dependency was back then but fuck me do I now!) and running around London with a mate who was also in his early days of sobriety going to various meetings trying to keep away from the need to drink.
We ended up at an all night meeting in the East end, with a collection of old people dancing badly to some 60's hits. When the clock struck midnight, a dodgy piper in full kilt and garb walked in playing old lang syne. I looked at my mate. He looked at me. We shared each other's horror and thought. "Our life is officially over."
It was fucking horrific. I then spent the next 2 hours moaning to him that my ex-girlfriend hadn't texted me and created a scenario where she was out with a multi-millionaire having a great time, whilst I was stuck in Sadsville with no life or hope (she was in bed ill, on her own for the record)
My insane jealousy, alcoholic head and co-dependency was in full flight. But you know what. I didn't drink, we got home at 3am and I will never forget that first sober new year. It was the first of many. I'm glad to report they have improved over the years.
Some people are sad at this time of the year. Staying in alone wanting to be with others. Some are social creatures who love to be with people and enjoy the banter. Whatever you are, you are enough, you are Ok and you are a legend. DO NOT FORGET THAT!
So, what has your year been like? 2016 has been an odd one. We've lost some famous singers and artists. But does that REALLY affect us? It's not 2016 taking them it's the years of drug and alcohol use and the toll of fame and excess.
What has really disheartened me about George Michael, was a 53 year old man dying as a result of terrible addiction and a full denial of it from management, family and media. How the fuck can a 53 year old man die peacefully in his sleep. Why can't we have a proper open and honest society where addiction or alcoholism isn't seen as a negative or a dirty word but as a thing as normal as cancer? Why does it have to be hushed up or ignored?
The reaction to his death has been profound and interesting to say the least. His PR, management, press releases and family have asked to respect the privacy and not debate on such negatives if he was on drugs or how much they played a part in his death. HELLO?!!!
Was it not that denial of the truth that was part of the problem in the first place? The poor fucker was at the middle of it. Yes I know that the addict has to want to get well. Yes I know it has to come from within. Yes I know all of that. There is nothing you can do to stop them if the addict is hell bent on self destruction. But what you CAN do is accept it. What you CAN do is not deny it exists. What you CAN do is learn about addiction. What you CAN do is bring it out in the open as a problem no different from cancer.
It truly gets my goat that the ignorance and demonization of addiction continues, it seems celebrity deaths shine a light on such ignorance and denial further. GGGRRRRRRRRRR.
It may not save people from dying but it can certainly help family, friends, you and me be in a better position to help others help themselves if we know what we are dealing with. Surely it's time for a different dimension?
Anyway, rant over.
2016 for me was an odd year. Some good, some bad. I worked hard at a corporate job that was well paid, only to find at the end of the year corporate life isn't for me and I didn't enjoy it. That job passed and then the financial fear kicked in of course.
Another year passed without me achieving my dream. Purely because I've never really known or pinpointed what my dream is. If you don't know what it is how the hell can you shoot for it?
On the plus side, I have a little more money, I became a spin teacher, got a few more months sobriety under my belt, began writing again, met some wicked people and my life is better for it.
However on the negative side, the old habits of smoking, sweetener, diet coke, eating disorders, relationships, lack of focus, avoidance procrastination and fear based anxiety continued to haunt me. I began to realise they started to really affect my life at 44 in a way they didn't at 34.
I guess I've been like most of us. Go with the flow, get a job, get paid, do some enjoyable shit, do some less enjoyable shit, pay some bills, fuck around on Facebook, have family occasions and eat too many Quality Street at Christmas and then we arrive back here again. New Years Eve. Fuck!!
So, you know what? This year. 2017. I'm going to do some shit. I'm not going to say exactly what. But I will make 2017 a year of 'Into action'.
The blog will be written again, the book will form, I will make strides to become a motivational coach and my 'dreams' will be closer to reality than before.
I have spent so long in negativity. So many hours spent wasted. Time for a new way forward.
I'm not going to lie, I love a bit of procrastination and putting shit off until tomorrow. My bad habits aren't just habits but anchors to my living. They are not so easy to just stop. So I have to accept there will be a bit of that going on. But I make a commitment, right here and now that 2017 will see a year of action for The Nick Evans and it will look a whole lot different in 12 months time.
I hope you follow my journey. Because I am you. We are all in it together and if I can do shit, so can you. I believe in you. I just need to believe in me more!
I'm not going to suggest make resolutions. We have every day to do that. It won't harm you writing down some goals for 2017 though or planning things you'd like to achieve or do. It could be holidays, kids, marathons, fitness or health. Whatever they may be - let's just do them!
But lets do it holistically. So it becomes part of our life. As they say in AA, Easy does it but do it anyway.
The last thing i'll say for 2016. Something I've been thinking about over the past few days.
Why do I want to do things? If I smoke lots, drink tons of DC, eat badly at times, really screw my health up - is that not self sabotage? Many people who have kids or something big in their lives - change bad habits because of a higher purpose. Like a higher calling.
I was thinking for me, if I don't value enough in me as a reason to change and live a better life - what will be my higher purpose to do shit and change? To get on with things and stop waiting? To stop hiding behind fear and limiting self belief?
If my higher purpose isn't the best for myself then what? Get a child? Get a dog? I have seen people get these things thinking it will 'fix' them and it hasn't. I know that a purpose has to come from within. But I have witnessed two people do remarkable things this year for someone else because they had too. It was their higher purpose they would never have done for themselves. It was incredible to see. They would not have been able to do it on their own. But because they had a higher purpose it drove them through their fear and they did something they never thought they could and would do.
It showed me our limiting beliefs can be broken if we have a reason that drives us on. I've never really had one myself or known what it is.
And then it struck me. My higher purpose is you!! Yes YOU!!!
I love writing, I love doing blogs, I love speaking. I am desperate to turn it into something. Yet I have fallen silent for years because I haven't changed my habits. I haven't fixed myself. So I figured, I can't keep banging on about the same shit. So be quiet, shut up, concentrate on getting a job and crack on Nicholas. But I wasn't happy or satisfied.
Yes I am a massive show off. Arrogant, self seeking, attention seeking. Vulnerable, loud, full of issues, insane and slightly ridiculous. Who gives a fuck. We all are to some extent. And my moto for this year> To thine own self be true.
Well, you know what. I am not alone. I am part of the human race who struggle. Fuck me, we've seen some of the biggest names in the world die this year about the very thing I campaign about.
What is my reason for being? To normalise and de-stigmatise dysfunction, addiction, alcoholism and 'issues'. I don't stand for just addiction. I stand for all mental health and things that contribute people to suffer. Abuse, eating disorders, sex problems, addiction, alcoholism, families of alcoholics, illness, relationship problems. I'm for ALL of them.
In my experience, people who are unable to speak out or communicate their suffering make it worse. That's almost as harmful as the problem itself.
So, if I am to stand by anything. If I am to be anything. I am for openness. I am for honesty. I am for authenticity. I am for full disclosure. I will write, blog, video, speak and yell about all of these this year in the search for answers, for recovery, for solutions and for a healthier happier place around them.
Because if I can. Anyone can. And I will not rest until that's the case.
Fuck denial
Fuck suppression
Fuck bullshit
We are all in it together and let's give 2017 a good fucking crack, regardless of where we are at
Love you all very much
The Nicholas Edward Evans
xx
Saturday, December 31, 2016
Thursday, December 29, 2016
The Return of Me Versus ManFlu
It's Official. I've got Man flu for the 3rd time in 6 weeks. Kill me now.
Experienced ManFluers will know the three main warning signs:
Firstly the tickly chest and cough. As a smoker I put it down to years of Silk Cut, but I knew something was lurking. I soldiered on over Christmas. Stoically eating everything in my path and helping others have a good time, but I knew I was a dead man walking.
Secondly, the sneezing and blocked nose. This began on Boxing Day. Again I can handle this. "It's just a cold." I kept telling myself. Like a boy whistling in the dark. I carried on exercising and doing shit. "I'm not going to let some poxy cold slow me down." became my Mantra. How foolish I was.
You cannot beat The Man Flu. He is cunning and patient and a real bastard. "Just you wait knob-head. I'll get you" He sneers.
And then, it hit me. The Third element of the holy trinity. The knockout blow. The count to ten punch. The true sign of ManFlu. The aching bones and energy zap. "NOOOOOOO!!!!!! Please don't rob me of energy. Take my nose, take my throat, take anything just not my energy or my bones!!!" That's where the true misery kicks in.
He didn't do this at home. Oh no. He waited until I was out, in the middle of a packed central London before hitting me like a train. BOOM! What a cunt.
I slowed to crawling pace. Patience has never been my strong point, but when you add in huge crowds, people in the way, sub zero temperatures and an aching flu that makes you feel like death warmed up. The happy go lucky persona is replaced by Dr Death.
"Ah aren't the Christmas lights so pretty in Regent Street." is replaced with, "Fuck sake, it's too bright and hurts my eyes. Wankers."
"I wonder if I can get a bargain in the sales" is replaced with, "What a load of shit on sale. I hate shopping.Wankers"
And finally, "I love the West End, it's such a buzz at Christmas." is replaced with, "God The West End is a shithole and I hate everyone here."
It's amazing how in the blink of an eye, the man flu can rob you of all humanity, kindness, spirit and turn you into Hitler within minutes.
The wonder of the world is replaced with a self centred, self piteous whine that only fighting the masses will satisfy. If only you had the energy.
Instead, you have to contend with battling your way home to immediately post on social media that you are ill again and spend the next few days forlornly checking for likes and sympathy attention from friends who have no sympathy at all.
You attempt humour but the veneer of hatred is too much and you give in to re-runs of Harry Potter Movies and old Only Fools and Horses on UK TV Gold. Various updates become hollow and you become sick of yourself, let alone others. Then it really is time to suffer alone, in private. That's when the true horror of man flu begins.
It's the 3rd time in 6 weeks this little fucker is back. I doubt he ever really left. Sticking to me like some kind of Genetically modified super bug. Or a distant relative over-staying their welcome at Christmas.
You all know you hate each other, but there is no getting away from the fact they are a wanker and you're stuck with them for a week or so. Try getting rid of them for a week or two and then seeing them come back. That is truly disheartening.
So, I sit here at 5.41am. I can't sleep. I have no energy to go for a walk or exercise. Smoking hurts my chest. I can't boat tons of diet coke as I need water and I have nothing in me to even contemplate energetic sexual adventure (my get out clause for fun and excitement.) - So thank you Man Flu, you've pretty much robbed me of my entire life.
What else is there?
As a recovering alcoholic I am prone to bouts of melo-drama and over sensitivity. So a third bout of ManFlu is obviously is a disaster. All I see are days of empty vacuous suicidal nothingness ahead. Like Nomania on steroids. It's grim folks. Truly dark.
In addition I like to diagnose myself too. Dr Evans only needs to Google his symptoms before settling on a rare form of Lukemia and blood cancer with chronic fatigue syndrome too. Who needs doctors when you have Google.
Of course, none of this is reality. But why let the facts get in the way of a good self indulgent wallow in misery? It is after-all, the devine right and pleasure of the addict/alcoholic to wallow in it like a messy bog. Especially at 5 in the morning. Fuck me, that's the perfect time. Insomniacs and people with mental illness will concur.
The small hours cling to you like a suffocating cloak. Enveloping you. The minutes tick by at half pace playing with your mind. Everything seems worse. If ManFlu is added to the mix, (where everything is becomes bible black), what you get is a big old pot of shit black stew. And nobody likes to eat that.
So, what's the answer? How can you ride it out?
Well, perspective helps. There's plenty of people homeless this morning waking up (if they are lucky) frozen solid. There are plenty of people displaced in the world. There are plenty of people disadvantaged. Doing Crisis showed me that. I am very fortunate.
There are people in loveless marriages, or alone and unhappy or estranged from loved ones. There are people grieving lost family members or celebrities they didn't know. There are angry knobheads shouting at people for no reason or the just plan stupid. There are people unhappy and struggling
So many worse off than me.
I am lucky.
I had a Christmas.
I received presents
The Man Flu will go. (I hope)
And I will get through this.
Perspective Nicholas. Perspective!
That's obviously the logical public thing to thing and say. But when you are on the wrong end of 3 hours kip, can't breathe, bones are aching like you've been in a car smash (and I have, so I know how it feels) and blinking is hard let alone moving, NONE of that matters.
Fuck Syria
Fuck the homeless
Fuck those less fortunate than me
Fuck everything
Fuck everyone
I don't feel well and I want some fucking sympathy. (but not too much as that will be annoying)
Fuck you ManFlu. You can bugger off now
PS - I've decided to write again in 2017. I like it and so do others apparently.
Nicholas Edward Evans
Experienced ManFluers will know the three main warning signs:
Firstly the tickly chest and cough. As a smoker I put it down to years of Silk Cut, but I knew something was lurking. I soldiered on over Christmas. Stoically eating everything in my path and helping others have a good time, but I knew I was a dead man walking.
Secondly, the sneezing and blocked nose. This began on Boxing Day. Again I can handle this. "It's just a cold." I kept telling myself. Like a boy whistling in the dark. I carried on exercising and doing shit. "I'm not going to let some poxy cold slow me down." became my Mantra. How foolish I was.
You cannot beat The Man Flu. He is cunning and patient and a real bastard. "Just you wait knob-head. I'll get you" He sneers.
And then, it hit me. The Third element of the holy trinity. The knockout blow. The count to ten punch. The true sign of ManFlu. The aching bones and energy zap. "NOOOOOOO!!!!!! Please don't rob me of energy. Take my nose, take my throat, take anything just not my energy or my bones!!!" That's where the true misery kicks in.
He didn't do this at home. Oh no. He waited until I was out, in the middle of a packed central London before hitting me like a train. BOOM! What a cunt.
I slowed to crawling pace. Patience has never been my strong point, but when you add in huge crowds, people in the way, sub zero temperatures and an aching flu that makes you feel like death warmed up. The happy go lucky persona is replaced by Dr Death.
"Ah aren't the Christmas lights so pretty in Regent Street." is replaced with, "Fuck sake, it's too bright and hurts my eyes. Wankers."
"I wonder if I can get a bargain in the sales" is replaced with, "What a load of shit on sale. I hate shopping.Wankers"
And finally, "I love the West End, it's such a buzz at Christmas." is replaced with, "God The West End is a shithole and I hate everyone here."
It's amazing how in the blink of an eye, the man flu can rob you of all humanity, kindness, spirit and turn you into Hitler within minutes.
The wonder of the world is replaced with a self centred, self piteous whine that only fighting the masses will satisfy. If only you had the energy.
Instead, you have to contend with battling your way home to immediately post on social media that you are ill again and spend the next few days forlornly checking for likes and sympathy attention from friends who have no sympathy at all.
You attempt humour but the veneer of hatred is too much and you give in to re-runs of Harry Potter Movies and old Only Fools and Horses on UK TV Gold. Various updates become hollow and you become sick of yourself, let alone others. Then it really is time to suffer alone, in private. That's when the true horror of man flu begins.
It's the 3rd time in 6 weeks this little fucker is back. I doubt he ever really left. Sticking to me like some kind of Genetically modified super bug. Or a distant relative over-staying their welcome at Christmas.
You all know you hate each other, but there is no getting away from the fact they are a wanker and you're stuck with them for a week or so. Try getting rid of them for a week or two and then seeing them come back. That is truly disheartening.
So, I sit here at 5.41am. I can't sleep. I have no energy to go for a walk or exercise. Smoking hurts my chest. I can't boat tons of diet coke as I need water and I have nothing in me to even contemplate energetic sexual adventure (my get out clause for fun and excitement.) - So thank you Man Flu, you've pretty much robbed me of my entire life.
What else is there?
As a recovering alcoholic I am prone to bouts of melo-drama and over sensitivity. So a third bout of ManFlu is obviously is a disaster. All I see are days of empty vacuous suicidal nothingness ahead. Like Nomania on steroids. It's grim folks. Truly dark.
In addition I like to diagnose myself too. Dr Evans only needs to Google his symptoms before settling on a rare form of Lukemia and blood cancer with chronic fatigue syndrome too. Who needs doctors when you have Google.
Of course, none of this is reality. But why let the facts get in the way of a good self indulgent wallow in misery? It is after-all, the devine right and pleasure of the addict/alcoholic to wallow in it like a messy bog. Especially at 5 in the morning. Fuck me, that's the perfect time. Insomniacs and people with mental illness will concur.
The small hours cling to you like a suffocating cloak. Enveloping you. The minutes tick by at half pace playing with your mind. Everything seems worse. If ManFlu is added to the mix, (where everything is becomes bible black), what you get is a big old pot of shit black stew. And nobody likes to eat that.
So, what's the answer? How can you ride it out?
Well, perspective helps. There's plenty of people homeless this morning waking up (if they are lucky) frozen solid. There are plenty of people displaced in the world. There are plenty of people disadvantaged. Doing Crisis showed me that. I am very fortunate.
There are people in loveless marriages, or alone and unhappy or estranged from loved ones. There are people grieving lost family members or celebrities they didn't know. There are angry knobheads shouting at people for no reason or the just plan stupid. There are people unhappy and struggling
So many worse off than me.
I am lucky.
I had a Christmas.
I received presents
The Man Flu will go. (I hope)
And I will get through this.
Perspective Nicholas. Perspective!
That's obviously the logical public thing to thing and say. But when you are on the wrong end of 3 hours kip, can't breathe, bones are aching like you've been in a car smash (and I have, so I know how it feels) and blinking is hard let alone moving, NONE of that matters.
Fuck Syria
Fuck the homeless
Fuck those less fortunate than me
Fuck everything
Fuck everyone
I don't feel well and I want some fucking sympathy. (but not too much as that will be annoying)
Fuck you ManFlu. You can bugger off now
PS - I've decided to write again in 2017. I like it and so do others apparently.
Nicholas Edward Evans
Sunday, May 15, 2016
Walking f*****g Football.
It's been a grouchy week. Most things have annoyed me.
I know, I know, people working a 12 step programme will be saying, 'read page 417 in the Big Book. Acceptance is the answer Nicholas, when I am annoyed it is more about something that I'M NOT doing, rather than the recipient of the annoyance.
I get that. I really do. I am responsible for my own attitude. If I don't sleep enough, eat well, live properly and make good decisions it can niggle away inside and turn me into a miserable angry sod.
I know logically It is NOT acceptable to keep pointing the finger at people covering up my own deficiencies. I am critical at the best of times. One of my worst traits. Being an ego maniac attention seeking recovering alcoholic Virgo means I am prone to bouts of intolerance and criticism. Both against me and pretty much everything and everyone.
Sometimes being locked in self will and ego creates this disharmony with the world around me. And i'm on collision course with it.
That's where faith and a higher power comes in. It's a personal opinion of course whether you choose to believe or not. Some people are more akin to personal responsibility rejecting the notion of a higher force. Others are all about faith and spend their life with grazed knees praying for pretty much everything.
Me? I have a difficult relationship with faith and God. I'm not really sure where I sit to be honest. I'm sold on the concept of a higher being or force or spirirt. I'm pretty sure I believe in something other than me. I see things happening to others which helps me access that faith and belief.
it's usually without you knowing and usually in a very subtle way. Whatever it is I think it's through other people. Either people being placed in your path to change the direction of your life, having a life changing incident or simply a connection with a particular group or community. Whatever it is I need it and it helps to change my mind, take me out of 'planet Nick' (or ego) and receive a new tuned in headspace.
Having said all that spiritual rational healthy fair minded shit, some people are fucking annoying. And this world is totally insane.
And somethings get right on my tits.
And sometimes I get fucking well cunting angry
Miserable people, sloany pubs, mobility scooters with able bodied people dressed in tracksuits driving to the pub, gentrification of London, The traffic, too many people up too early. Prams that are like SUV's, Life coaches selling you yet another spiritual 'how to live your life successfully' book. The list goes on ad infintum..
But yesterday I had a 'God incident' that helped take me out of this grouch and self induced egoic grump
Yesterday I did my exercise in the morning, practiced yoga, posted a video about some mild annoyances I had, got frustrated in yet more London traffic and went to see some friends on Richmond Green for the May Day fair.
Now Richmond is a place that is effectively The Daily Telegraph. Full of middle classed families wheeling around snivelling loud kids in prams the size of SUV's. The amount of courdroy on display is ridiculous. Whole Foods is like a mecca for all these fuckers and the May Day fair was going to be like a 'wanker rally'. Or so I thought.
There was bound to be a farmers market with 'black pudding scotch eggs at £4 a pop, a Himalyan Bath salt stand and the inevitiable 'bespoke cupcakes'. I braced myself for the tolerance tester.
I was taking myself way too seriously of course, which was rather ironic seeing as I was dressed like camp icon in lycra shorts and flip flops after training.
I settled down with the troops. Observing people just having a fun family afternoon, save for the occasional heroin addict passed out on the green. It was a 'nice' afternoon. The head was reasonably quiet but I still had an underlying niggle.
I was sat with my friends parents. Lovely 70 year old former teachers. Retired and dressed appropriately as OAP's in fleeces with grey hair. I had a good chat, learnt a lot and liked it.
Then it happened. My God incident. Out of nowehere an old gentleman of around 75 came up to me. Missing out the rest of the group. He arrowed straight to me and got right up in my face as I sat on the grass.
"Do you like Football?"
I paused for a second. My ego thought 'of course I fucking do I worked in the Premier League for 10 years. I'm a legend. Don't you know who I think I am?"
Instead I replied, "Yes I do. But I prefer triathlon these days' This was rather obvious so I thought, seeing as I was dressed in lycra showing off my muscular legs with the overly tight top I had carefully chosen to show off the guns.
"Great. Well take this, (handing me a flyer) we meet every Weds at 10.30 on Old Deer Park. Come along."
Before I had a chance to look at the flyer and take it in. He was off. Disappearing into the yonder.
I looked down and read the flyer. How fucking dare he! It was for walking football for the Over 50's!!!!
Walking Football on Weds mornings at 10.30. Walking fucking football!!! For OAP's. Walking fucking football?!!! Me? Walking Football. I was stunned.
Why didn't he give it to the OAP's I was sat next too? He only targeted me in the whole park. I didn't see him give any more out. It was just me.
I looked at the guys and I said, "did that just really happen?"
It was almost as much as a stunning blow of being called "big lad" during the marathon!! The Nick Evans Ego was bent right out of shape at this one. Walking fucking football? Are you kidding me?!
I read the flyer again and again. "For more information contact Jill at Richmond Age Concern. I'm getting right on the email to Jill on Monday I tell you.
I was mortified. I comforted myself by asking the whole group, "do I look over 50?" "Am I looking old?"
I mean I know I was up late the night before and smoking does age you but walking fucking football!!!! For OAP's. Didn't he know who the fuck I am? I did an Ironman last year don't you know. I was fresh out of Warrior training in my lycras. There was no fleece to be seen.
Walking football. Fucking bastard, How dare he!!
And Weds morning at 10.30am. Do I look like I'm retired and don't work? Do I look like I can mince about in the park of a Weds morning. Jill was going to cop a right earful on her email. Walking bloody football. Bastards!
Of course, after the initial 'what the fuck' had died down, I went searching for him, determined to have a fist fight with an OAP flyer distributor by the Dog Show and 'Himalayan Bath salt stand.
I read the flyer again, calmed down, took a step back, chuckled and then it came to me. It was God giving me a nudge. He was taking the piss. Don't take yourself so seriously Nicholas and lighten the fuck up.
He obviously sent the flyer guy into my path to deflate the ego and make me laugh at myself. It worked, I laughed at my utter ridiculousness.
On my own I struggle to get out of my own way. To get out of my own head. To gain a new perspective. I usually get this from other people. From meetings. From listening.
On this occasion this skud missile of a leaflet distributor was directly sent to me to change my perspective. The Higher Power certainly has a decent sense of humour. Of that there is no doubt. It was because he didn't target anyone else in the vicinity and buggered off immediately. It was one of those 'did that just happen' moments. Genuinely odd but I liked it. It was a power greater than myself changing the nature of my head, attitude, perspective and day.
So there we have it. That's my spiritual maxim for the day. God does work in very mysterious ways and if there is one thing I must not do today. Take myself so God dammed seriously!
I tell you what though, I'm taking a day off work on Weds to go and play 'walking fucking football' at Old Deer Park. I'm going to get stuck right in. My ego now demands to be man of the match and score a hat-trick, though to be fair, I reckon I stand a decent chance as my nearest competition is Stan, who's 90, with 2 bad hips and a walking stick. Reckon i'll give him a crunching tackle early doors and show him who's boss. I need to own that fucking game.
Nobody fucks with The Nick Evans. Walking Football my arse.
Love and peace
Nicholas Evans
I know, I know, people working a 12 step programme will be saying, 'read page 417 in the Big Book. Acceptance is the answer Nicholas, when I am annoyed it is more about something that I'M NOT doing, rather than the recipient of the annoyance.
I get that. I really do. I am responsible for my own attitude. If I don't sleep enough, eat well, live properly and make good decisions it can niggle away inside and turn me into a miserable angry sod.
I know logically It is NOT acceptable to keep pointing the finger at people covering up my own deficiencies. I am critical at the best of times. One of my worst traits. Being an ego maniac attention seeking recovering alcoholic Virgo means I am prone to bouts of intolerance and criticism. Both against me and pretty much everything and everyone.
Sometimes being locked in self will and ego creates this disharmony with the world around me. And i'm on collision course with it.
That's where faith and a higher power comes in. It's a personal opinion of course whether you choose to believe or not. Some people are more akin to personal responsibility rejecting the notion of a higher force. Others are all about faith and spend their life with grazed knees praying for pretty much everything.
Me? I have a difficult relationship with faith and God. I'm not really sure where I sit to be honest. I'm sold on the concept of a higher being or force or spirirt. I'm pretty sure I believe in something other than me. I see things happening to others which helps me access that faith and belief.
it's usually without you knowing and usually in a very subtle way. Whatever it is I think it's through other people. Either people being placed in your path to change the direction of your life, having a life changing incident or simply a connection with a particular group or community. Whatever it is I need it and it helps to change my mind, take me out of 'planet Nick' (or ego) and receive a new tuned in headspace.
Having said all that spiritual rational healthy fair minded shit, some people are fucking annoying. And this world is totally insane.
And somethings get right on my tits.
And sometimes I get fucking well cunting angry
Miserable people, sloany pubs, mobility scooters with able bodied people dressed in tracksuits driving to the pub, gentrification of London, The traffic, too many people up too early. Prams that are like SUV's, Life coaches selling you yet another spiritual 'how to live your life successfully' book. The list goes on ad infintum..
But yesterday I had a 'God incident' that helped take me out of this grouch and self induced egoic grump
Yesterday I did my exercise in the morning, practiced yoga, posted a video about some mild annoyances I had, got frustrated in yet more London traffic and went to see some friends on Richmond Green for the May Day fair.
Now Richmond is a place that is effectively The Daily Telegraph. Full of middle classed families wheeling around snivelling loud kids in prams the size of SUV's. The amount of courdroy on display is ridiculous. Whole Foods is like a mecca for all these fuckers and the May Day fair was going to be like a 'wanker rally'. Or so I thought.
There was bound to be a farmers market with 'black pudding scotch eggs at £4 a pop, a Himalyan Bath salt stand and the inevitiable 'bespoke cupcakes'. I braced myself for the tolerance tester.
I was taking myself way too seriously of course, which was rather ironic seeing as I was dressed like camp icon in lycra shorts and flip flops after training.
I settled down with the troops. Observing people just having a fun family afternoon, save for the occasional heroin addict passed out on the green. It was a 'nice' afternoon. The head was reasonably quiet but I still had an underlying niggle.
I was sat with my friends parents. Lovely 70 year old former teachers. Retired and dressed appropriately as OAP's in fleeces with grey hair. I had a good chat, learnt a lot and liked it.
Then it happened. My God incident. Out of nowehere an old gentleman of around 75 came up to me. Missing out the rest of the group. He arrowed straight to me and got right up in my face as I sat on the grass.
"Do you like Football?"
I paused for a second. My ego thought 'of course I fucking do I worked in the Premier League for 10 years. I'm a legend. Don't you know who I think I am?"
Instead I replied, "Yes I do. But I prefer triathlon these days' This was rather obvious so I thought, seeing as I was dressed in lycra showing off my muscular legs with the overly tight top I had carefully chosen to show off the guns.
"Great. Well take this, (handing me a flyer) we meet every Weds at 10.30 on Old Deer Park. Come along."
Before I had a chance to look at the flyer and take it in. He was off. Disappearing into the yonder.
I looked down and read the flyer. How fucking dare he! It was for walking football for the Over 50's!!!!
Walking Football on Weds mornings at 10.30. Walking fucking football!!! For OAP's. Walking fucking football?!!! Me? Walking Football. I was stunned.
Why didn't he give it to the OAP's I was sat next too? He only targeted me in the whole park. I didn't see him give any more out. It was just me.
I looked at the guys and I said, "did that just really happen?"
It was almost as much as a stunning blow of being called "big lad" during the marathon!! The Nick Evans Ego was bent right out of shape at this one. Walking fucking football? Are you kidding me?!
I read the flyer again and again. "For more information contact Jill at Richmond Age Concern. I'm getting right on the email to Jill on Monday I tell you.
I was mortified. I comforted myself by asking the whole group, "do I look over 50?" "Am I looking old?"
I mean I know I was up late the night before and smoking does age you but walking fucking football!!!! For OAP's. Didn't he know who the fuck I am? I did an Ironman last year don't you know. I was fresh out of Warrior training in my lycras. There was no fleece to be seen.
Walking football. Fucking bastard, How dare he!!
And Weds morning at 10.30am. Do I look like I'm retired and don't work? Do I look like I can mince about in the park of a Weds morning. Jill was going to cop a right earful on her email. Walking bloody football. Bastards!
Of course, after the initial 'what the fuck' had died down, I went searching for him, determined to have a fist fight with an OAP flyer distributor by the Dog Show and 'Himalayan Bath salt stand.
I read the flyer again, calmed down, took a step back, chuckled and then it came to me. It was God giving me a nudge. He was taking the piss. Don't take yourself so seriously Nicholas and lighten the fuck up.
He obviously sent the flyer guy into my path to deflate the ego and make me laugh at myself. It worked, I laughed at my utter ridiculousness.
On my own I struggle to get out of my own way. To get out of my own head. To gain a new perspective. I usually get this from other people. From meetings. From listening.
On this occasion this skud missile of a leaflet distributor was directly sent to me to change my perspective. The Higher Power certainly has a decent sense of humour. Of that there is no doubt. It was because he didn't target anyone else in the vicinity and buggered off immediately. It was one of those 'did that just happen' moments. Genuinely odd but I liked it. It was a power greater than myself changing the nature of my head, attitude, perspective and day.
So there we have it. That's my spiritual maxim for the day. God does work in very mysterious ways and if there is one thing I must not do today. Take myself so God dammed seriously!
I tell you what though, I'm taking a day off work on Weds to go and play 'walking fucking football' at Old Deer Park. I'm going to get stuck right in. My ego now demands to be man of the match and score a hat-trick, though to be fair, I reckon I stand a decent chance as my nearest competition is Stan, who's 90, with 2 bad hips and a walking stick. Reckon i'll give him a crunching tackle early doors and show him who's boss. I need to own that fucking game.
Nobody fucks with The Nick Evans. Walking Football my arse.
Love and peace
Nicholas Evans
Monday, May 2, 2016
My 2016 London Marathon - This is One Hurt....
I'm writing this a week after the race. well, when I say race, it was for some, not for me. The only thing I raced was the guy with the washine machine on his back and he cruised past me at 21 miles. It wasn't a good marathon for me.
This one hurt. I mean proper hurt. Not the hurt that fades within a few hours like a mild hangover. No this one is like a 7 day hangover with blurred vision and shit.
My legs are still like stale baguettes and I'm walking like I've been f**d senseless. It's not a good look. It really isn't.
All week I've been travelling around London on the tube, sliding up stairs sideways and going down backwards. My carefully styled image has taken a battering. The only slight mirth I have experienced is seeing other people across the stairwell doing exactly the same. Sharing that knowing glance. Brothers and sisters united in lactic acid.
Not all are like this of course. I've met several annoying bastards who ran under 3hrs 30 and look as fresh as a Virgin's quim. They were best avoided as I wrapped myself in self hatred and pain.
I'm grumpy. I didn't enjoy this marathon, ( my seventh London ),for many reasons, mostly self induced. But I wanted to share with my experience, my head and the outcome to help you get a handle of what it's like to be a recovering alcoholic, 14 years sober and still as mad as a box of frogs.
I ran it for Action on Addiction because the disease is close to my heart. Not only has it killed members of my family but i'm one too. Part of the reason for writing my blog is to lift the lid on the alcoholic mind so people can try to understand the disease a bit more and make it more acceptable in society. I like to think it's my little bit for educating and 'normalising' the disease.
I'm an addict. I'm 15 years into recovery, but i'm still an addict. I still think like one, have tendencies of one & behave like one. It's in my DNA.
The personality and character of an addict is prone to bouts of self hatred, self destruction, anger, intolerance, self obsession, high ego and low self esteem. I know everyone has these to some lesser or greater degree but I have them in bucket loads which makes normal rational thinking somewhat elusive sometimes. This contributed heavily to my marathon experience.
There were other factors of course, normal human reactions, my own stupidity, male pride but there was a large sprinkling of good old fashioned alcoholic thinking
Oh, also, before I forget I have food issues and body dysmorphia. These don't help either.
So that's the disclaimer out of the way. It's important you know all of that before reading what i'm about to put. It doesn't mean my thinking or perception is right. You may shake your head and think, 'for God's sake Nick' but I wanted to be honest and open.
It gives context to my Marathon experience. Ok? Ready? Here Goes;
Preperation.
Most standard marathon advice encourages you to book your space well in advance and do a solid 16 weeks of training for the big day. As a veteran of 6 London's you would have thought I know the drill by now. Well you'd be wrong. Underneath this largesse of tan and quiff lays a deeply stupid man.
I got a text from a pal in February/March, saying "a friend of mine can't run the marathon for AOA, can you?" I thought about it for a few minutes, remembering all the pain and suffering and how I shat myself in 2013. I remembered the blisters and torture. How little training I had done over the past 6 months. Only an idiot would attempt to run the marathon with 8 weeks notice and no training. I texted back, "sure". See what I'm dealing with here?
My attitude was, "fuck it I've done 6 of them i'll be alright." and, most crucially, it was an opportunity to run around London with 1 million people applauding and shouting my name. What's not to like about that? It's like the equivalent of 1,000 likes on Facebook or 50 shares of a particularly good picture. A self obsessed alcoholics' dream. I'm in!
I thought having completed Wales Ironman in September which was without doubt the longest and most painful day of my life. 14 hours and 19 minutes of sheer purgatory. This would be like a walk in the park compared to that. London Marathon? Piece of Piss!" - That arrogant disrespect of 26.2 miles was to prove costly.
The Marathon Gods heard my folly, 'That Nick Evans is being a bit lairy isn't he? We best fuck him up on the 24th April. I'm not having anyone take the piss out of me." The Marathon Gods had spoken. My fate was sealed.
Training
Part of the fun of participating in the marathon is the training throughout the long winter months. The long runs at the weekend, short sharp runs on cold, dark winter evening's. Even the gym sessions are interesting as you build towards your goal. It's part of the journey. Experienced marathon runners will tell you it's important to get the base fitness in the winter, add some speed and strength during the spring and slap in a couple of shorter races to tune up for the big day.
Me? Well I spent the winter gorging on processed meat and slamming as man silk cut and diet cokes down my neck as possible. The weekends consisted of staying up late pursuing non spiritual activities and the only thing short and sharp I did on winter evenings was a sauna. Its fair to say I entered into the marathon late without much in the way of base fitness other than the deluded part of my mind that thought, 'fuck it i'll be alright'. The Marathon gods laughed at this continued madness.
Don't get me wrong, when I did agree to do it, I did do some training. Dear Lord i'm not that mad. I slapped in a few hill sprints, did a few lap's and a bit of Richmond park (10 miles) and entered a half marathon. All too little too late though. My pal who's a serious sub 3 hour runner with a coach and plan and a goal and everything advised me to do a couple of long 20 mile runs before the day, 'just to get some miles in your legs Nick.'
I nodded at his wisdom then departed thinking, 'fuck it i'll be alright'. I heard a slight guffaw, thinking it was my pal. It wasn't it was the marathon Gods taking the piss. "Have you heard that? He's not even going to bother doing a long run. We're going to have some fun with him on the 24th."
April soon came and I completed my (non) training plan with a 6 day cycling camp in Spain. It was superb. 100-130 KM a day in a peleton climbing large mountains and being in amazing scenery and sun. I fell in love with cycling up mountains. Only trouble is it absolutely fucked my legs. Plus on the last day I got rather excited and joined the quicker second group and managed to crash on a descent. My own fault for being a tit (there's a pattern emerging here) but I smashed my knee and dislocated a finger. 1 week out from the marathon and I was hobbling around with a knee the size of a grapefruit. Such drama!!!
Not even pictures on Facebook got me enough sympathy and attention. Most responded, 'man up', which obviously got my back up. I did my best. Well as much as a man with died blonde hair in tight Lycra can indeed 'man up'.
The only saving grace was that I came back with an ultra powerful tan. Always good for attention on marathon day.
Marathon Week
Most people are anxious and nervous. All the training is done, the sponsorship collected and now it's all about the final preparations for the big day. Eat, rest, short runs, stretch, focus.
Me? Well, it was still touch and go. The world was waiting. Sky news ran a ticker tape on my progress with daily bulletins. Will he run or not?
On Thursday I decided to run. 'Fuck it i'll be OK' - didn't you hear? I've done 6 of these i'll be alright." Suddenly all those Facebook 'Man Up's could go and fuck themselves. Have they ever run a marathon on one leg? (Despite my knee being mostly better) I boiled.
I hadn't run in over 3 weeks. I hadn't done anything other than cycle, crash, ice, rest and eat. One of the joys of the marathon is indeed eating. Unfortunately my body dysmorphia and self obsession about weight meant I couldn't even eat loads as not running and eating would mean putting on 1 Kilo in weight. Disaster!!!!!! I was already 4 above my Ironman weight and wasn't as cut as usual. I would be running in Lycra in front of 1 million people with my head telling me 'fat cunt'.
I simply couldn't afford another Kilo so I avoided eating much all week. Yet another mistake.
My final preperations were completed with a sunbed to top up the Spain tan. I may not be the quickest but i'd definitely be the most tanned. That plus the quiff would get me through.
Expo & Registering.
The expo is exciting if it's your first time. However if it's your 6th it's a massive pain in the arse getting to Excel. But at least I wrote a heartfelt message on the marathon wall that would look great on Facebook. Job done.
I duly registered and escaped the Expo without adding to my collection of compression socks even though I was sorely tempted. Kind of like re-arranging the deckchairs on the titanic at this stage buying performance kit.
I got my knee strapped in bright blue rock tape. Another product that marketing makes everyone believe aids performance. The only thing that was going to aid my performance by now was about 10 litres of EPO, but I had to make do with flapjacks instead.
The blue rock tape strapped on was to keep my knee solid, but more importantly it was a visible sign that I was carrying an injury to extract more sympathy and attention. Plus it would be a great excuse in case I did a shit time. Shameless.
Marathon Day
So the big day arrived. I woke up to sub zero temperatures and gusty wind and that was just me. The weather was shit and yet another reason to feel grouchy. I ate porridge, bananas, guzzled coconut water and a protein shake. Limited my tea to two cups and silk cut to just three. I was serious about my prep.
I got the train and got chatting to a guy who was doing his first one. As a seasoned performer I left him with the sage advice, "whatever you do, don't go off too quickly." I could hear the Marathon Gods laughing.
Greenwich Park is a buzz. packed full of expectant runners, families waving off their loved ones, lunatics attaching horses heads to their costumes and pretty little things in Lycra taking their final selfies before the off. My personal favourite was a group of large hairy Army boys applying vaseline everywhere. There's nothing like seeing 8 hairy arsed guys oiling themselves up of a morning. Grim.
I disrobed, went with my AOA vest, lycra shorts, chunky trainers for support, arm warmers, gloves and compression socks. The quiff was extra large and I actually felt OK. I felt pretty strong and relaxed.
I forgot about my lack of training, crash and knee. I felt good. I thought to myself, 'I've done a 3hr 37 and 3hr 50 before. I'll be fine if I take it steady".
I nestled in the first quarter of the throng (35,000 of us) and noticed the dude with the 3hr 45mins flag on his back. I had never run with a pacer and I thought, why not. 3 hr 45mins is within my grasp. Even if it's too quick I can always ease off in the last few miles and do 3hr 55mins. 'Yes good idea Nick. Don't worry about your lack of running, pacing, miles in your legs and the fact you did those times years ago. Stick with this guy and then hang in there for the last 8 miles." The Marathon Gods popped a rib laughing.
Then 10am. The hooter went and we are off. Well, we were off at 10.10am by the time we got through the start. I dropped in behind the pacer dude along with several other people, mostly women with great arses in leggings which was a bonus.
The course was packed, he overtook lots of people, weaving in and out of runners so you had to concentrate and keep your wits about you. I got my head down, didn't engage with the crowd or notice too much to save myself from colliding and falling over. I felt good. This was fun!!!
The first 6 miles were comfortable. Quite strenuous at times when he put on the gas to catch up with his pace, but manageable. I was going quicker than I usually would, totally against the sage advice a gave the newcomer earlier, but I thought to myself 'fuck it, I've done 6 of these I'll be Ok."
My first grouch came at Cutty Sark 6 Miles in. The crowds are huge and the path narrows which makes running through slower runners difficult. People were slowing down taking selfies of themselves running or listening to music and I got annoyed.
I maybe totally self obsessed and a pantomime dame attention seeker but I NEVER take a phone when running a marathon or listen to music. You can't take in the crowd and the occasion and the atmosphere or be engrossed in the course. It's a matter of respect. If 1 million people have taken the trouble to come and support the day then the least you can do is not block them out with headphones and music. At least my blocking them out was natural. Pure self obsession, pain and hatred.
People were stopping to take pics which caused a shunt like you get on a motorway and I caught myself getting my first grouch of the day. "Fucking morons, even in the marathon." 'uh oh Nick, there it is' - my little alcoholic head was already nipping away.
We moved on and got through SE London. Getting to 9 miles before I felt myself struggling a little. The pace was beginning to hurt so I decided to let the 3hr 45 crew go. I witnessed them slowly pull away into the distance, rationalising that if I did a slow pace now I was already ahead of the game to do a sub 4 hour marathon.
They say people who do under 4 hours Ran the marathon and anything over 4 hours is a jog/walk. Well, not sure if I told you but having done 6 of them, anything over 4 hours was not acceptable for me. Male pride and ego wouldn't allow me to feel any satisfaction for anything over 4 hours no matter what circumstances.
I got to 12 miles and wasn't overtaking people anymore. I settled into a slow run as Tower Bridge approached. Tower Bridge is an iconic part of the marathon. It's packed and there is so much noise. It's a real buzz. I ran on the left to see my support team who had agreed to be there but couldn't find them. I found myself getting annoyed and alcoholic head kicked in, 'where the fuck are they??!!! I grumbled.
Over I went, a small wave to the Action on Addiction crew and onto Limehouse. I passed halfway in 1hr 55 mins and thought, 'that's not too bad, if I churn out a slow 2 hour half marathon i'll get home in 3hr 55mins. I'll be happy with that." And that's where it all started to go wrong.
Turning into the Isle of Dogs I slowly felt my power fading. The legs started to seize up and my pace dropped from slow to very slow. I got to mile 16, pretty much where the marathon starts and thought, 'fuck i'm in trouble here'. I took solace that back in 2013 at mile 16 was where I badly needed to shit myself. This time I was all good. The only problem being was that I had gone off far too quickly and was starting to hurt badly.
The Marathon Gods had a meeting and decided now was the time to show me who was in charge.
I told myself several times 'don't walk Nick, don't walk, keep going'. I got to Canary Wharf, mile 19 and had a stretch and a walk. I was fucked. There was no dressing it up, I was in a world of pain.
People were overtaking me by now but I had no response. A horse, someone running backwards and the man with the washing machine flew past me. My humiliation was only just beginning. Thank fuck I kept the Rhino out of reach. A small crumb of comfort for my ego.
By now the pace had slowed from very slow to the marathon shuffle. Neither walking nor indeed full running. Mobility scooters seemed a great idea at this point.
I got to mile 20 and a woman also running for AOA pulled alongside me, 'how's the knee Nick'. She is so lovely and wonderful and inspiring. Older then me and less fit but doing 4 marathons in 4 weeks, she's not what you would describe an athlete, but she found the time to ask how I was doing. "Playing up a little, i'm struggling, you go on, well done." I replied, but inside I was dying.
"fuck, now I'm getting overtaken by middle aged women." My ego was taking a battering and full alcoholic grouch head took over. "you failure." I couldn't respond. She pulled away (slowly) and I saw her gradually go well in front of me.
It was like seeing your wife run off with a guy with a bigger cock. I was devastated. All my marathons, Ironman's, all that sense of masculinity and self esteem from extreme physical challenges. All that machismo and pride were shot to pieces as she pulled away. I was effectively rendered cock-less and there was nothing I could do about it.
I walked a couple of times, got to the Embankment where the noise is deafening and support huge and thought, 'oh why don't you all fuck off with your 'Come on Nick' 'Keep going' - Jesus I was grumpy.
I couldn't engage with the crowd. I couldn't get involved. I couldn't enjoy it. I just wanted it over. I was locked in self induced pain and misery. It was a dark place (again)
Not even the attention I got was working. Every shout about my tan made me more self conscious and hate myself just a little bit more. I got one 'great lid' with reference to my hair, someone shouted 'go on big lad' which was horrific to my body dysmorphia as it made a mental note to lose 6 kilos and look like a refuge (only people with food issues will totally relate to that) and not even getting a 'oh look at him he's gorgeous' satisfied my crushed ego.
I saw my support team at mile 21 which was lovely and I could have happily had a cup of tea and silk cut with them but you have to plough on don't you?
The final straight was purgatory. Like a long slow descent into hell. 5 miles seemed like years. OAP's were passing me. Any semblance of time or sub 4 hours had long since gone. Any hint of respectability or satisfaction gone. My pride was battered, my ego shattered. The marathon had spoken. 26.2 miles had taken me.
I shuffled into the Mall and finished anonymously in 4 hours 20 mins. There was no Josh to save at the end and carry someone across on my shoulders heroically. There was no BBC camera crew interviewing me. I finished alone, in isolation, in my head, in pain, in alcoholism but at least I didn't shit myself.
I couldn't walk properly. The legs had seized up, the knee was hurting but I felt genuine joy it was over. Never again. Ever!
I met my team and we went to a restaurant a pal of mine who ran it in 2hrs 50, ( I know mad isn't it?) had kindly booked to raise more money for my charity. As we struggled up the stairs, I saw a girl who basically saved my marathon day. She couldn't even get up the stairs. So we helped her up and got chatting.
Pippa was a rower and had done her 1st marathon, was 25, eltite sports woman, was a great girl but was totally fucked and couldn't walk upstairs. Yes!!! Someone younger than me, prettier than me, more sporty than me, who was slower than me and couldn't walk aswell as me!! I know I shouldn't compare and despair but her pain made me feel so much better about myself! Thanks Pip.
We took her to the restaurant, saw my pal and some friends, he looked as fresh as a daisy and is a proper marathon runner and a big inspiration. Difference between me and him apart from around 1hr 45 mins? Well he didn't nip out for a silk cut during dinner. That may explain a lot.
We went home, I had a sauna and massive burger and that was it. The glow lasts 2 days as everyone asks you about it but then it's over. It's done. No more attention. No more allowances. I've used all that up now until the next thing.
And that was my marathon in 2016. I raised nearly £2k for Action on Addiction which is what it's all about really isn't it? I didn't get the time I wanted but who cares really? It's not exactly world shattering news. I learnt an awful lot about myself and preparation and my character.
You cannot piss about with the marathon. It finds you out . The distance is brutal if you don't give it the respect it's due. There are no half measures and I found out to my cost. I didn't train enough, I didn't put in enough work and I couldn't just wing it. It totally broke me this time.
It's exactly like recovery from alcoholism/addiction. If you don't follow the 12 step programme to the best of your ability, your disease moves in and you become locked in the head and pain. If you don't do the daily actions then self will drives you and life becomes painful. If you don't do the work it will claim you.
Just like the marathon, if you don't put in the training, if you don't do the work it will find you out on the day and make you suffer. No difference to the disease of addiction.
Both should be treated with respect and I learnt a valuable lesson. Wise people learn from it, The Nick Evans? Well I wouldn't quite call myself wise just yet. Diet Coke anyone?
At least I did 'Man Up' in my tight lycra shorts, power tan, great 'lid' and gay boy vest though. I know I look camper than someone from the Bee Gees but don't be fooled behind this metrosexual image lies a deeply stupid man but also a warrior who endured that pain, did the marathon despite not being in a shape to do it and raised some money for people who need it.
Just for today I give credit to myself and others who ran it. I did it. I actually did something that years ago when drinking I would never dream of doing. That is the gift of sobriety. Yes I may fuck it up with my self will, ego and issues but the bottom line is a did it and I salute everyone who sponsored me, supported me and I salute anyone who actually did the marathon and helped others.
It's important we recognise good traits and success aswell as errors. I am long enough around not to beat myself so badly as I used to. I wrote the piece to take the piss out of my head. To show you that you can do things despite yourself and that it all comes out good in the end. We are all warriors.
This is for all who have walked before us or never made it. I salute all my brothers and sisters and I love you all very much.
Oh and marathon Gods, I'm really sorry. I'll never take the piss out of you again.
Nicholas Evans
This one hurt. I mean proper hurt. Not the hurt that fades within a few hours like a mild hangover. No this one is like a 7 day hangover with blurred vision and shit.
My legs are still like stale baguettes and I'm walking like I've been f**d senseless. It's not a good look. It really isn't.
All week I've been travelling around London on the tube, sliding up stairs sideways and going down backwards. My carefully styled image has taken a battering. The only slight mirth I have experienced is seeing other people across the stairwell doing exactly the same. Sharing that knowing glance. Brothers and sisters united in lactic acid.
Not all are like this of course. I've met several annoying bastards who ran under 3hrs 30 and look as fresh as a Virgin's quim. They were best avoided as I wrapped myself in self hatred and pain.
I'm grumpy. I didn't enjoy this marathon, ( my seventh London ),for many reasons, mostly self induced. But I wanted to share with my experience, my head and the outcome to help you get a handle of what it's like to be a recovering alcoholic, 14 years sober and still as mad as a box of frogs.
I ran it for Action on Addiction because the disease is close to my heart. Not only has it killed members of my family but i'm one too. Part of the reason for writing my blog is to lift the lid on the alcoholic mind so people can try to understand the disease a bit more and make it more acceptable in society. I like to think it's my little bit for educating and 'normalising' the disease.
I'm an addict. I'm 15 years into recovery, but i'm still an addict. I still think like one, have tendencies of one & behave like one. It's in my DNA.
The personality and character of an addict is prone to bouts of self hatred, self destruction, anger, intolerance, self obsession, high ego and low self esteem. I know everyone has these to some lesser or greater degree but I have them in bucket loads which makes normal rational thinking somewhat elusive sometimes. This contributed heavily to my marathon experience.
There were other factors of course, normal human reactions, my own stupidity, male pride but there was a large sprinkling of good old fashioned alcoholic thinking
Oh, also, before I forget I have food issues and body dysmorphia. These don't help either.
So that's the disclaimer out of the way. It's important you know all of that before reading what i'm about to put. It doesn't mean my thinking or perception is right. You may shake your head and think, 'for God's sake Nick' but I wanted to be honest and open.
It gives context to my Marathon experience. Ok? Ready? Here Goes;
Preperation.
Most standard marathon advice encourages you to book your space well in advance and do a solid 16 weeks of training for the big day. As a veteran of 6 London's you would have thought I know the drill by now. Well you'd be wrong. Underneath this largesse of tan and quiff lays a deeply stupid man.
I got a text from a pal in February/March, saying "a friend of mine can't run the marathon for AOA, can you?" I thought about it for a few minutes, remembering all the pain and suffering and how I shat myself in 2013. I remembered the blisters and torture. How little training I had done over the past 6 months. Only an idiot would attempt to run the marathon with 8 weeks notice and no training. I texted back, "sure". See what I'm dealing with here?
My attitude was, "fuck it I've done 6 of them i'll be alright." and, most crucially, it was an opportunity to run around London with 1 million people applauding and shouting my name. What's not to like about that? It's like the equivalent of 1,000 likes on Facebook or 50 shares of a particularly good picture. A self obsessed alcoholics' dream. I'm in!
I thought having completed Wales Ironman in September which was without doubt the longest and most painful day of my life. 14 hours and 19 minutes of sheer purgatory. This would be like a walk in the park compared to that. London Marathon? Piece of Piss!" - That arrogant disrespect of 26.2 miles was to prove costly.
The Marathon Gods heard my folly, 'That Nick Evans is being a bit lairy isn't he? We best fuck him up on the 24th April. I'm not having anyone take the piss out of me." The Marathon Gods had spoken. My fate was sealed.
Training
Part of the fun of participating in the marathon is the training throughout the long winter months. The long runs at the weekend, short sharp runs on cold, dark winter evening's. Even the gym sessions are interesting as you build towards your goal. It's part of the journey. Experienced marathon runners will tell you it's important to get the base fitness in the winter, add some speed and strength during the spring and slap in a couple of shorter races to tune up for the big day.
Me? Well I spent the winter gorging on processed meat and slamming as man silk cut and diet cokes down my neck as possible. The weekends consisted of staying up late pursuing non spiritual activities and the only thing short and sharp I did on winter evenings was a sauna. Its fair to say I entered into the marathon late without much in the way of base fitness other than the deluded part of my mind that thought, 'fuck it i'll be alright'. The Marathon gods laughed at this continued madness.
Don't get me wrong, when I did agree to do it, I did do some training. Dear Lord i'm not that mad. I slapped in a few hill sprints, did a few lap's and a bit of Richmond park (10 miles) and entered a half marathon. All too little too late though. My pal who's a serious sub 3 hour runner with a coach and plan and a goal and everything advised me to do a couple of long 20 mile runs before the day, 'just to get some miles in your legs Nick.'
I nodded at his wisdom then departed thinking, 'fuck it i'll be alright'. I heard a slight guffaw, thinking it was my pal. It wasn't it was the marathon Gods taking the piss. "Have you heard that? He's not even going to bother doing a long run. We're going to have some fun with him on the 24th."
April soon came and I completed my (non) training plan with a 6 day cycling camp in Spain. It was superb. 100-130 KM a day in a peleton climbing large mountains and being in amazing scenery and sun. I fell in love with cycling up mountains. Only trouble is it absolutely fucked my legs. Plus on the last day I got rather excited and joined the quicker second group and managed to crash on a descent. My own fault for being a tit (there's a pattern emerging here) but I smashed my knee and dislocated a finger. 1 week out from the marathon and I was hobbling around with a knee the size of a grapefruit. Such drama!!!
Not even pictures on Facebook got me enough sympathy and attention. Most responded, 'man up', which obviously got my back up. I did my best. Well as much as a man with died blonde hair in tight Lycra can indeed 'man up'.
The only saving grace was that I came back with an ultra powerful tan. Always good for attention on marathon day.
Marathon Week
Most people are anxious and nervous. All the training is done, the sponsorship collected and now it's all about the final preparations for the big day. Eat, rest, short runs, stretch, focus.
Me? Well, it was still touch and go. The world was waiting. Sky news ran a ticker tape on my progress with daily bulletins. Will he run or not?
On Thursday I decided to run. 'Fuck it i'll be OK' - didn't you hear? I've done 6 of these i'll be alright." Suddenly all those Facebook 'Man Up's could go and fuck themselves. Have they ever run a marathon on one leg? (Despite my knee being mostly better) I boiled.
I hadn't run in over 3 weeks. I hadn't done anything other than cycle, crash, ice, rest and eat. One of the joys of the marathon is indeed eating. Unfortunately my body dysmorphia and self obsession about weight meant I couldn't even eat loads as not running and eating would mean putting on 1 Kilo in weight. Disaster!!!!!! I was already 4 above my Ironman weight and wasn't as cut as usual. I would be running in Lycra in front of 1 million people with my head telling me 'fat cunt'.
I simply couldn't afford another Kilo so I avoided eating much all week. Yet another mistake.
My final preperations were completed with a sunbed to top up the Spain tan. I may not be the quickest but i'd definitely be the most tanned. That plus the quiff would get me through.
Expo & Registering.
The expo is exciting if it's your first time. However if it's your 6th it's a massive pain in the arse getting to Excel. But at least I wrote a heartfelt message on the marathon wall that would look great on Facebook. Job done.
I duly registered and escaped the Expo without adding to my collection of compression socks even though I was sorely tempted. Kind of like re-arranging the deckchairs on the titanic at this stage buying performance kit.
I got my knee strapped in bright blue rock tape. Another product that marketing makes everyone believe aids performance. The only thing that was going to aid my performance by now was about 10 litres of EPO, but I had to make do with flapjacks instead.
The blue rock tape strapped on was to keep my knee solid, but more importantly it was a visible sign that I was carrying an injury to extract more sympathy and attention. Plus it would be a great excuse in case I did a shit time. Shameless.
Marathon Day
So the big day arrived. I woke up to sub zero temperatures and gusty wind and that was just me. The weather was shit and yet another reason to feel grouchy. I ate porridge, bananas, guzzled coconut water and a protein shake. Limited my tea to two cups and silk cut to just three. I was serious about my prep.
I got the train and got chatting to a guy who was doing his first one. As a seasoned performer I left him with the sage advice, "whatever you do, don't go off too quickly." I could hear the Marathon Gods laughing.
Greenwich Park is a buzz. packed full of expectant runners, families waving off their loved ones, lunatics attaching horses heads to their costumes and pretty little things in Lycra taking their final selfies before the off. My personal favourite was a group of large hairy Army boys applying vaseline everywhere. There's nothing like seeing 8 hairy arsed guys oiling themselves up of a morning. Grim.
I disrobed, went with my AOA vest, lycra shorts, chunky trainers for support, arm warmers, gloves and compression socks. The quiff was extra large and I actually felt OK. I felt pretty strong and relaxed.
I forgot about my lack of training, crash and knee. I felt good. I thought to myself, 'I've done a 3hr 37 and 3hr 50 before. I'll be fine if I take it steady".
I nestled in the first quarter of the throng (35,000 of us) and noticed the dude with the 3hr 45mins flag on his back. I had never run with a pacer and I thought, why not. 3 hr 45mins is within my grasp. Even if it's too quick I can always ease off in the last few miles and do 3hr 55mins. 'Yes good idea Nick. Don't worry about your lack of running, pacing, miles in your legs and the fact you did those times years ago. Stick with this guy and then hang in there for the last 8 miles." The Marathon Gods popped a rib laughing.
Then 10am. The hooter went and we are off. Well, we were off at 10.10am by the time we got through the start. I dropped in behind the pacer dude along with several other people, mostly women with great arses in leggings which was a bonus.
The course was packed, he overtook lots of people, weaving in and out of runners so you had to concentrate and keep your wits about you. I got my head down, didn't engage with the crowd or notice too much to save myself from colliding and falling over. I felt good. This was fun!!!
The first 6 miles were comfortable. Quite strenuous at times when he put on the gas to catch up with his pace, but manageable. I was going quicker than I usually would, totally against the sage advice a gave the newcomer earlier, but I thought to myself 'fuck it, I've done 6 of these I'll be Ok."
My first grouch came at Cutty Sark 6 Miles in. The crowds are huge and the path narrows which makes running through slower runners difficult. People were slowing down taking selfies of themselves running or listening to music and I got annoyed.
I maybe totally self obsessed and a pantomime dame attention seeker but I NEVER take a phone when running a marathon or listen to music. You can't take in the crowd and the occasion and the atmosphere or be engrossed in the course. It's a matter of respect. If 1 million people have taken the trouble to come and support the day then the least you can do is not block them out with headphones and music. At least my blocking them out was natural. Pure self obsession, pain and hatred.
People were stopping to take pics which caused a shunt like you get on a motorway and I caught myself getting my first grouch of the day. "Fucking morons, even in the marathon." 'uh oh Nick, there it is' - my little alcoholic head was already nipping away.
We moved on and got through SE London. Getting to 9 miles before I felt myself struggling a little. The pace was beginning to hurt so I decided to let the 3hr 45 crew go. I witnessed them slowly pull away into the distance, rationalising that if I did a slow pace now I was already ahead of the game to do a sub 4 hour marathon.
They say people who do under 4 hours Ran the marathon and anything over 4 hours is a jog/walk. Well, not sure if I told you but having done 6 of them, anything over 4 hours was not acceptable for me. Male pride and ego wouldn't allow me to feel any satisfaction for anything over 4 hours no matter what circumstances.
I got to 12 miles and wasn't overtaking people anymore. I settled into a slow run as Tower Bridge approached. Tower Bridge is an iconic part of the marathon. It's packed and there is so much noise. It's a real buzz. I ran on the left to see my support team who had agreed to be there but couldn't find them. I found myself getting annoyed and alcoholic head kicked in, 'where the fuck are they??!!! I grumbled.
Over I went, a small wave to the Action on Addiction crew and onto Limehouse. I passed halfway in 1hr 55 mins and thought, 'that's not too bad, if I churn out a slow 2 hour half marathon i'll get home in 3hr 55mins. I'll be happy with that." And that's where it all started to go wrong.
Turning into the Isle of Dogs I slowly felt my power fading. The legs started to seize up and my pace dropped from slow to very slow. I got to mile 16, pretty much where the marathon starts and thought, 'fuck i'm in trouble here'. I took solace that back in 2013 at mile 16 was where I badly needed to shit myself. This time I was all good. The only problem being was that I had gone off far too quickly and was starting to hurt badly.
The Marathon Gods had a meeting and decided now was the time to show me who was in charge.
I told myself several times 'don't walk Nick, don't walk, keep going'. I got to Canary Wharf, mile 19 and had a stretch and a walk. I was fucked. There was no dressing it up, I was in a world of pain.
People were overtaking me by now but I had no response. A horse, someone running backwards and the man with the washing machine flew past me. My humiliation was only just beginning. Thank fuck I kept the Rhino out of reach. A small crumb of comfort for my ego.
By now the pace had slowed from very slow to the marathon shuffle. Neither walking nor indeed full running. Mobility scooters seemed a great idea at this point.
I got to mile 20 and a woman also running for AOA pulled alongside me, 'how's the knee Nick'. She is so lovely and wonderful and inspiring. Older then me and less fit but doing 4 marathons in 4 weeks, she's not what you would describe an athlete, but she found the time to ask how I was doing. "Playing up a little, i'm struggling, you go on, well done." I replied, but inside I was dying.
"fuck, now I'm getting overtaken by middle aged women." My ego was taking a battering and full alcoholic grouch head took over. "you failure." I couldn't respond. She pulled away (slowly) and I saw her gradually go well in front of me.
It was like seeing your wife run off with a guy with a bigger cock. I was devastated. All my marathons, Ironman's, all that sense of masculinity and self esteem from extreme physical challenges. All that machismo and pride were shot to pieces as she pulled away. I was effectively rendered cock-less and there was nothing I could do about it.
I walked a couple of times, got to the Embankment where the noise is deafening and support huge and thought, 'oh why don't you all fuck off with your 'Come on Nick' 'Keep going' - Jesus I was grumpy.
I couldn't engage with the crowd. I couldn't get involved. I couldn't enjoy it. I just wanted it over. I was locked in self induced pain and misery. It was a dark place (again)
Not even the attention I got was working. Every shout about my tan made me more self conscious and hate myself just a little bit more. I got one 'great lid' with reference to my hair, someone shouted 'go on big lad' which was horrific to my body dysmorphia as it made a mental note to lose 6 kilos and look like a refuge (only people with food issues will totally relate to that) and not even getting a 'oh look at him he's gorgeous' satisfied my crushed ego.
I saw my support team at mile 21 which was lovely and I could have happily had a cup of tea and silk cut with them but you have to plough on don't you?
The final straight was purgatory. Like a long slow descent into hell. 5 miles seemed like years. OAP's were passing me. Any semblance of time or sub 4 hours had long since gone. Any hint of respectability or satisfaction gone. My pride was battered, my ego shattered. The marathon had spoken. 26.2 miles had taken me.
I shuffled into the Mall and finished anonymously in 4 hours 20 mins. There was no Josh to save at the end and carry someone across on my shoulders heroically. There was no BBC camera crew interviewing me. I finished alone, in isolation, in my head, in pain, in alcoholism but at least I didn't shit myself.
I couldn't walk properly. The legs had seized up, the knee was hurting but I felt genuine joy it was over. Never again. Ever!
I met my team and we went to a restaurant a pal of mine who ran it in 2hrs 50, ( I know mad isn't it?) had kindly booked to raise more money for my charity. As we struggled up the stairs, I saw a girl who basically saved my marathon day. She couldn't even get up the stairs. So we helped her up and got chatting.
Pippa was a rower and had done her 1st marathon, was 25, eltite sports woman, was a great girl but was totally fucked and couldn't walk upstairs. Yes!!! Someone younger than me, prettier than me, more sporty than me, who was slower than me and couldn't walk aswell as me!! I know I shouldn't compare and despair but her pain made me feel so much better about myself! Thanks Pip.
We took her to the restaurant, saw my pal and some friends, he looked as fresh as a daisy and is a proper marathon runner and a big inspiration. Difference between me and him apart from around 1hr 45 mins? Well he didn't nip out for a silk cut during dinner. That may explain a lot.
We went home, I had a sauna and massive burger and that was it. The glow lasts 2 days as everyone asks you about it but then it's over. It's done. No more attention. No more allowances. I've used all that up now until the next thing.
And that was my marathon in 2016. I raised nearly £2k for Action on Addiction which is what it's all about really isn't it? I didn't get the time I wanted but who cares really? It's not exactly world shattering news. I learnt an awful lot about myself and preparation and my character.
You cannot piss about with the marathon. It finds you out . The distance is brutal if you don't give it the respect it's due. There are no half measures and I found out to my cost. I didn't train enough, I didn't put in enough work and I couldn't just wing it. It totally broke me this time.
It's exactly like recovery from alcoholism/addiction. If you don't follow the 12 step programme to the best of your ability, your disease moves in and you become locked in the head and pain. If you don't do the daily actions then self will drives you and life becomes painful. If you don't do the work it will claim you.
Just like the marathon, if you don't put in the training, if you don't do the work it will find you out on the day and make you suffer. No difference to the disease of addiction.
Both should be treated with respect and I learnt a valuable lesson. Wise people learn from it, The Nick Evans? Well I wouldn't quite call myself wise just yet. Diet Coke anyone?
At least I did 'Man Up' in my tight lycra shorts, power tan, great 'lid' and gay boy vest though. I know I look camper than someone from the Bee Gees but don't be fooled behind this metrosexual image lies a deeply stupid man but also a warrior who endured that pain, did the marathon despite not being in a shape to do it and raised some money for people who need it.
Just for today I give credit to myself and others who ran it. I did it. I actually did something that years ago when drinking I would never dream of doing. That is the gift of sobriety. Yes I may fuck it up with my self will, ego and issues but the bottom line is a did it and I salute everyone who sponsored me, supported me and I salute anyone who actually did the marathon and helped others.
It's important we recognise good traits and success aswell as errors. I am long enough around not to beat myself so badly as I used to. I wrote the piece to take the piss out of my head. To show you that you can do things despite yourself and that it all comes out good in the end. We are all warriors.
This is for all who have walked before us or never made it. I salute all my brothers and sisters and I love you all very much.
Oh and marathon Gods, I'm really sorry. I'll never take the piss out of you again.
www.actiononaddiction.org
www.aa.org
Nicholas Evans
Friday, April 22, 2016
The Day I Shat Myself in The London Marathon - Classic Retro Blog
London Marathon. Sunday April 21st 2013. This is my account of the day from morning to night. Some parts are touching, some parts grim, some parts you may find boring, some parts full of vim. However you can guarantee one thing. It is a brutally honest account of my 6th London Marathon. It wouldn't be my style unless there were parts of it you wish I hadn't written. Here goes. Strapped in? Comfortable? To paraphrase the great Dylan Thomas, To begin at the beginning...
The Alarm went off at 6am. I woke to the most beautiful bright sunshine. Not a cloud in the sky. Everything was set for a truly iconic day. It was here. It was now. It was sunny. It was London Marathon day, Hooorayyyyy!!!
I had registered on Friday at the huge Expo at the rather annoying located Custom House. You get the buzz when you register. Lots of messages on the vast Adidas wall to do with Boston and personal messages of why people are running in memory of loved ones. That is when the sheer scale of the day really hits you and you get a special sense of emotion, excitement and adrenaline. This is what it's all about.
There are also stands and stalls selling everything from running products to massages. It's like a huge airport departure lounge except with fit women in Lycra. For me it's awful as i am the worlds most gullible impulsive spender. I'm not happy unless I've done £200 on something I may only use once. It gives me a proper thrill (I am an addict after all)
I came away from the Expo with a new bag, running compression socks, shorts, hat, rock tape and sweatbands. I had to pull myself away from the compression shorts with in built ice pack for £85. God that was hard to do, however I left in good spirits & £200 lighter. I was An officially registered starter. Number 33,480.
I was excited for the big day. I prepared properly. Cut out the diet coke, reduced my smoking from ultra heavy to heavy, ate clean, did yoga, stretched, slept and rested like never before. I felt good.
I was excited for the big day. I prepared properly. Cut out the diet coke, reduced my smoking from ultra heavy to heavy, ate clean, did yoga, stretched, slept and rested like never before. I felt good.
On Saturday night I feasted on salmon, veg and sweet potato.
Now having done loads of them you would have thought I knew exactly what to do. Except I'm insane and I behaved like a total rooky. Mistake number 1. I ate lots of things I hadn't eaten before and wasn't used to digesting. Flapjacks. Those little fuckers are like crack cocaine and boy did i tuck in. Before I knew it, this little over eater had done 6 of the sodding bastards and felt stuffed. No matter, i consoled myself with the fact they would give me lots of energy on the big day and slept like a log.
And so to Sunday. I woke early to bright blue skies & immediately tucked into some porridge. Then mistake number 2. I finished off the flapjacks. Oh god those bastards were so good. I couldn't leave home for 90 minutes though. 3 goes on the khazi until i was satisfied i had completed the traditional marathon runners morning Constitution. I won't go further but it is a much under rated part of preparations. A full carb loading stomach means the propensity for stomach problems is rife. Little did I know this was to prove my undoing hours later.
Mistake number 3. I wrote a clever dick ironic funny post on Facebook . "Please God let everyone who is running & watching have a safe day, to enjoy it and feel at one with each other. Oh and please god don't let me shit myself and ruin my self obsessed carefully crafted image". Oh how I invited trouble. Will I ever learn?
Then it was off to Greenwich Park for the start. I hopped on the tube and was immediately impressed with the London code of not saying anything to anyone on public transport. Even though there were other runners, we all ignored each other like it was a commute to work. Not a lot of Marathon spirit on my tube. I tried to strike up a conversation, but that was met with short shrift so i settled into listening to hardcore drum and bass to get myself hyped up. Mistake number 4. Never listen to pumped up music for a marathon. That should be for an explosive event. Instead i now realise i should have gone long and slow in my music. Something like REO Speedwagon. Instead the hardcore got me dancing around the train like I was on E and i couldn't wait to run. Needless energy expended.
Mistake number 5. I popped a couple of Ibuprofen and Lemsip Max to iron out my annoying cold and painful back. I'd taken some on my long run a couple of weeks ago and it was fine, but you should never mix medication.
I refrained from my usual routine of cramming in several cigarettes on the 10 min walk from station to start line. Once in the park it is a sea of mass hysteria and excitement. People rubbing, prodding, changing, warming up. It is a great sight. I changed and was ready to go. I changed next to a guy called Steve. He took a little longer than me but it pretty much summed up what the day was all about. Although I'd be gutted if he beat me.
Then you throw your bag into the truck, have several pees, jump over the barrier towards the front of the mass group (35,000 people) and wait for the countdown. This is when it hits home how big the race is. It's huge. An Incredible amount of people. We all put on our black ribbons in honour of those who were killed or injured in Boston and had a 30 second silence in their honour followed by 30 seconds applause. It was poignant and emotional. A moment I was proud to be part of. Solidarity to you Boston.
It was now 10am and the Virgina London Marathon 2013 officially started. Well the elite did. Mo and the boys went off first and my group took about 5 minutes to get over the start line.. We were off!! Let the fun (and pain) begin!
The start is always a nervy occasion. There are so many runners it's hard to get any kind of pace. I had left my watch at home so I decided to run 'on feel'. I had my previous best of 3 hours 37 in the back of mind. Someone had bet me £400 for my Charity if I could do it. I'd been injured for most of the winter, was under cooked in training but I felt good. I felt strong. I felt euphoric and I really enjoyed the first few miles. Taking in the scenes, the crowds, the sound systems. It really was a celebration of life. The crowds turned out in force, almost in defiance of what happened in Boston and it was the busiest I'd seen in my 9 years of doing it.
I kept a steady pace. Not too quick. Saw some friends on mile 2, fed off the crowd. Keeping my head down, doing the occasional High Five with a little kid on the side. Really the marathon doesn't start until Mile 13. The first half is all about pacing yourself and enjoying it whilst you can. Keeping energy in reserve.
I got through Greenwich on mile 6, Cutty Sark and the crowds were just enormous. Even through Rotherithe and Surrey Quays. The noise was so intense. Then you get to Tower Bridge on Mile 12 and you float across. I saw my family and had a quick hug and then it was eyes down to half way in 1 hr 54. I decided to slightly quicken my pace a little just to see if I could get ahead of the game. This is where it started to go wrong and so the story turns.
I had been getting a stomach ache from mile 10. Thinking it was a bit of wind, I carried on but it kept getting worse. Worried I may 'do a Radcliffe' I refrained from trying to shift it - the consequences were dire and I couldn't trust myself. I'd just have to live with it.
On mile 15 I found my energy draining, getting the sweats and stomach worsening. 'Oh god I'm in trouble now'. Here's where I made Mistake Number 6. I took an energy gel and ibuprofen to get through it. In hindsight, not a great move.
**WARNING. THIS FOLLOWING BIT IS GRIM. YOU MAY WANT TO LOOK AWAY **
By mile 18 at Canary Wharf I was in big trouble. I needed a toilet. I was definately going to shit myself. Gurgling, cramping and pain shooting through me. I felt sick. I was ill.
"Oh fuck me no. Not here. Not in front of 30,000 people. Not with 8 miles to go." I thought about my Facebook update - Please God don't let me shit myself. Well here it was Nick. You were about to. Who's laughing now. With your self serving supercilious updates. Fuck you Facebook!
I looked around, people were lining the course. No toilets, no quiet places, no pubs or restaurants as the crowds were 20 deep. Oh god no, I'm going to be Googled as 'the bloke who shit himself at Canary Wharf'. I could see it now. I'd be trending on social media by midnight. #shitboy.
The carefully crafted self obsessed image. All the hopes of being taken seriously as a writer, comedian, compere, comedy club host, businessman, actor, David Beckham look-a-like. All dashed, I'd be forever pointed at wherever i went as that bloke that squatted in front of crowds, families and kids and shit a river.
Oh god, please no. "I can't do it in front of people" I thought. They've come to watch their families running, not my arse with torrents of brown laser".
I was in a world of pain, just about carrying on through Canary Wharf until Mile 19 then A miracle, A mirage. 10 portaloos!!!. Oh my God. It was like a mirage of green in a desert - I staggered up to them mouthing gratitude under my sickly breath.
Opening the first door I was confronted by a scene from turd hell. It was like a shit grenade had gone off. I immediately recoiled in horror, slammed the door shut and tried trap 2. Exactly the same. "Oh fuck what if they're all like that?" Trap 3, 4 and 5 were rendered 'impassable', I was running out of options here and panic was rising. Then I saw a girl come out of Trap 6, "nice one, i thought, A girl is bound to only use a clean one". My theory was proved correct and in I went, Thank God. AHHHHHHH.
To give you an idea, I was averaging 8 minutes 40 a mile for the 1st 18 miles. I took 23 minutes for Mile 19. 14 minutes of that mile was spent in the portaloo. A World of pain.
I came out and started running, thinking, "well that's not so bad I'll still try and beat 4 hours, that's cleared the decks". I ran on for 1/2 mile until the stomach gurgle came back, the energy went and I felt sick. Oh god 6 miles to go and I'm in bits. I started cramping again.
The urge to shit my pants was so strong, but i held on. I did a world record clench. Then followed a slow run for the next few miles until i was forced to stop and walk on mile 22 for a few yards until I was forced to stop, I leaned over the barriers and began retching. I was in big trouble here.
I started running again, along limehouse onto the embankment. By now the crowds were fever pitch and huge but there was a sheet of glass between me and them. I couldn't engage. I couldn't take it in. I couldn't feed off them. I had nothing left. I was spent. Thoughts of quitting seemed so good, but then I couldn't face anyone then. No i had to continue. Another slow jog until mile 23 when another sanctuary in the Blackfriars Underpass. More portaloos. Oh fuck me YES! Thank you Lord of Portaloos.
Same scenario as before, but this time I wasn't so fussy. I would have shat in a sewage tank the state I was in. Another 10 minute pit stop and then out, chugging away. I saw people I knew but i wasn't really aware or able to communicate, heavily cramping and dehydrating i passed the London eye, (I was going slower than it) and saw the Houses of Parliament. Only a mile to go. Oh please help me make it. Please don't let me finish up the mall with turd down my legs. I'll never get on tellie then.
I turned into Parliament Square and the runner in front of me buckled and collapsed to the floor. Legs gone. Eyes rolling, he was delirious. I knew the feeling. For a moment I thought of joining him, but i stopped with another bloke to check he was alright, we gave him a gel, squirted some water on his face and then i have no idea why i said this or where it came from, but i heard the words come out of my mouth to the other guy 'lets carry him. We have to get him to the finish'.
We hooked his arms around us, flanking him either side, carrying his weight and trotted on. Fuck me the crowd went wild. All runners passing us saying 'well done' patting us on our backs. "good on you mate", "That's the spirit of the marathon"
"Oh fuck me yes. Of course. This is it", I thought. "This is the reason I've done it. This will pull this horrible marathon out of the bag. Forget about selfish personal bests. Forget about individualism and selfishness. This is human spirit. We have to get Josh across the line. It's going to be the enduring image of the marathon. It will be huge. Front page photo. Tellie. Interview with Johnathon Edwards.
The true meaning of humanity was right here, right now and then he started passing out. No!!!!
Nightmare. I talked to him, kept him awake, telling him it was OK, willed the crowd to shout for him but his legs stopped working. We were 600 yards short of the finish on Birdcage Walk. Less than half a mile to go. We could actually see Buckingham Palace.
"Fuck, don't wilt here Josh. You're our fucking saviour. Hang in there pal". I said. The other guy said 'no more', his legs had gone too. I considered for a moment carrying him on my shoulders, single handed. That would definitely make tellie and the media. I reckon I would get a few interviews and speaking tours out of it. Together we are Stronger would be my Mantra. I would be the spokesman for humanity and togetherness. Me, with a stomach bug, sick, dehydrated carrying a half conscious man over my head across the finishing line. That's a front page right there.
And then Josh started to fit. Fuck it was all over. The dream had ended. We got the paramedics, they sorted him out, wrapped him up, got him conscious. He was OK but his race was over. Mine had 500 yards to go and i was disappointingly forced to finish at a crawl anonymously, with no fanfare, no sick man on my back. No interview with Colin Jackson, no media photograph. Just me, my ill body and dodgy guts. Barely able to stand. Josh was so fucking selfish, he ruined my future.
I staggered across the line, with no TV, no Publicity, no attention. Just another finisher, apparently had my medal hung around my neck, collapsed into the portaloo's (Heaven, they were sparkling fresh) My London Marathon was over and I didn't publicly shit myself.Thank God.
I collected my bags, got changed, staggered to the meeting point to see my family, collapsed into them and couldn't speak for ages. I was spent. Totally gone. No pictures, no videos, no joy. No euphoria. Just need to get home to a toilet.
I was ill for the rest of the night (and next day) and if I'm honest embarrassed by my time. I expected a lot quicker but on reflection it was probably one of my greatest achievements to actually finish. When you are Ill like that the place to do it is on your sofa in front of 'Loose Women' and 'Flog it'. Not with 8 miles to run on a marathon course in baking sun in front of Half a million people. It was harsh. Never again.
I made some stupid mistakes. I'm a right twat sometimes but never did i think i was going to get that reaction. In hindsight i wouldn't have taken anything, kept it simple and gone old school. Still never mind. It's over now. I raised £1500 for Action on Addiction, my superb charity who were there supporting. I enjoyed half of the occasion, I got called David Beckham 16 times on the way round and I helped another human being for 700 yards. Not all bad.
If only Josh hadn't whited out it could all have been so different. Instead 125 people will read this blog instead of 125,000. Oh well at least it's good for my ego. God knows best. I did learn though that deep down i am a good person and did practice what i preach in helping another human, but what is really fascinating is really deep down, so deep you wouldn't see, is an inherent selfishness and sense of delusion that is quite staggering. Only an alcoholic can think of speaker tours and TV under the guise of helping out a stricken runner. My selfishness makes me smile. Weirdly I can only see it when sober and that Ladies and gentlemen is why I ran it for Action on Addiction.
#TogetherWeAreStronger (that would have been world wide trending on my speaker tour Twitter page if only Josh hadn't fucking well passed out - he was so Selfish!)
Peace and Love
Nicholas Edward Evans
xx
The start is always a nervy occasion. There are so many runners it's hard to get any kind of pace. I had left my watch at home so I decided to run 'on feel'. I had my previous best of 3 hours 37 in the back of mind. Someone had bet me £400 for my Charity if I could do it. I'd been injured for most of the winter, was under cooked in training but I felt good. I felt strong. I felt euphoric and I really enjoyed the first few miles. Taking in the scenes, the crowds, the sound systems. It really was a celebration of life. The crowds turned out in force, almost in defiance of what happened in Boston and it was the busiest I'd seen in my 9 years of doing it.
I kept a steady pace. Not too quick. Saw some friends on mile 2, fed off the crowd. Keeping my head down, doing the occasional High Five with a little kid on the side. Really the marathon doesn't start until Mile 13. The first half is all about pacing yourself and enjoying it whilst you can. Keeping energy in reserve.
I got through Greenwich on mile 6, Cutty Sark and the crowds were just enormous. Even through Rotherithe and Surrey Quays. The noise was so intense. Then you get to Tower Bridge on Mile 12 and you float across. I saw my family and had a quick hug and then it was eyes down to half way in 1 hr 54. I decided to slightly quicken my pace a little just to see if I could get ahead of the game. This is where it started to go wrong and so the story turns.
I had been getting a stomach ache from mile 10. Thinking it was a bit of wind, I carried on but it kept getting worse. Worried I may 'do a Radcliffe' I refrained from trying to shift it - the consequences were dire and I couldn't trust myself. I'd just have to live with it.
On mile 15 I found my energy draining, getting the sweats and stomach worsening. 'Oh god I'm in trouble now'. Here's where I made Mistake Number 6. I took an energy gel and ibuprofen to get through it. In hindsight, not a great move.
**WARNING. THIS FOLLOWING BIT IS GRIM. YOU MAY WANT TO LOOK AWAY **
By mile 18 at Canary Wharf I was in big trouble. I needed a toilet. I was definately going to shit myself. Gurgling, cramping and pain shooting through me. I felt sick. I was ill.
"Oh fuck me no. Not here. Not in front of 30,000 people. Not with 8 miles to go." I thought about my Facebook update - Please God don't let me shit myself. Well here it was Nick. You were about to. Who's laughing now. With your self serving supercilious updates. Fuck you Facebook!
I looked around, people were lining the course. No toilets, no quiet places, no pubs or restaurants as the crowds were 20 deep. Oh god no, I'm going to be Googled as 'the bloke who shit himself at Canary Wharf'. I could see it now. I'd be trending on social media by midnight. #shitboy.
The carefully crafted self obsessed image. All the hopes of being taken seriously as a writer, comedian, compere, comedy club host, businessman, actor, David Beckham look-a-like. All dashed, I'd be forever pointed at wherever i went as that bloke that squatted in front of crowds, families and kids and shit a river.
Oh god, please no. "I can't do it in front of people" I thought. They've come to watch their families running, not my arse with torrents of brown laser".
I was in a world of pain, just about carrying on through Canary Wharf until Mile 19 then A miracle, A mirage. 10 portaloos!!!. Oh my God. It was like a mirage of green in a desert - I staggered up to them mouthing gratitude under my sickly breath.
Opening the first door I was confronted by a scene from turd hell. It was like a shit grenade had gone off. I immediately recoiled in horror, slammed the door shut and tried trap 2. Exactly the same. "Oh fuck what if they're all like that?" Trap 3, 4 and 5 were rendered 'impassable', I was running out of options here and panic was rising. Then I saw a girl come out of Trap 6, "nice one, i thought, A girl is bound to only use a clean one". My theory was proved correct and in I went, Thank God. AHHHHHHH.
To give you an idea, I was averaging 8 minutes 40 a mile for the 1st 18 miles. I took 23 minutes for Mile 19. 14 minutes of that mile was spent in the portaloo. A World of pain.
I came out and started running, thinking, "well that's not so bad I'll still try and beat 4 hours, that's cleared the decks". I ran on for 1/2 mile until the stomach gurgle came back, the energy went and I felt sick. Oh god 6 miles to go and I'm in bits. I started cramping again.
The urge to shit my pants was so strong, but i held on. I did a world record clench. Then followed a slow run for the next few miles until i was forced to stop and walk on mile 22 for a few yards until I was forced to stop, I leaned over the barriers and began retching. I was in big trouble here.
I started running again, along limehouse onto the embankment. By now the crowds were fever pitch and huge but there was a sheet of glass between me and them. I couldn't engage. I couldn't take it in. I couldn't feed off them. I had nothing left. I was spent. Thoughts of quitting seemed so good, but then I couldn't face anyone then. No i had to continue. Another slow jog until mile 23 when another sanctuary in the Blackfriars Underpass. More portaloos. Oh fuck me YES! Thank you Lord of Portaloos.
Same scenario as before, but this time I wasn't so fussy. I would have shat in a sewage tank the state I was in. Another 10 minute pit stop and then out, chugging away. I saw people I knew but i wasn't really aware or able to communicate, heavily cramping and dehydrating i passed the London eye, (I was going slower than it) and saw the Houses of Parliament. Only a mile to go. Oh please help me make it. Please don't let me finish up the mall with turd down my legs. I'll never get on tellie then.
I turned into Parliament Square and the runner in front of me buckled and collapsed to the floor. Legs gone. Eyes rolling, he was delirious. I knew the feeling. For a moment I thought of joining him, but i stopped with another bloke to check he was alright, we gave him a gel, squirted some water on his face and then i have no idea why i said this or where it came from, but i heard the words come out of my mouth to the other guy 'lets carry him. We have to get him to the finish'.
We hooked his arms around us, flanking him either side, carrying his weight and trotted on. Fuck me the crowd went wild. All runners passing us saying 'well done' patting us on our backs. "good on you mate", "That's the spirit of the marathon"
"Oh fuck me yes. Of course. This is it", I thought. "This is the reason I've done it. This will pull this horrible marathon out of the bag. Forget about selfish personal bests. Forget about individualism and selfishness. This is human spirit. We have to get Josh across the line. It's going to be the enduring image of the marathon. It will be huge. Front page photo. Tellie. Interview with Johnathon Edwards.
The true meaning of humanity was right here, right now and then he started passing out. No!!!!
Nightmare. I talked to him, kept him awake, telling him it was OK, willed the crowd to shout for him but his legs stopped working. We were 600 yards short of the finish on Birdcage Walk. Less than half a mile to go. We could actually see Buckingham Palace.
"Fuck, don't wilt here Josh. You're our fucking saviour. Hang in there pal". I said. The other guy said 'no more', his legs had gone too. I considered for a moment carrying him on my shoulders, single handed. That would definitely make tellie and the media. I reckon I would get a few interviews and speaking tours out of it. Together we are Stronger would be my Mantra. I would be the spokesman for humanity and togetherness. Me, with a stomach bug, sick, dehydrated carrying a half conscious man over my head across the finishing line. That's a front page right there.
And then Josh started to fit. Fuck it was all over. The dream had ended. We got the paramedics, they sorted him out, wrapped him up, got him conscious. He was OK but his race was over. Mine had 500 yards to go and i was disappointingly forced to finish at a crawl anonymously, with no fanfare, no sick man on my back. No interview with Colin Jackson, no media photograph. Just me, my ill body and dodgy guts. Barely able to stand. Josh was so fucking selfish, he ruined my future.
I staggered across the line, with no TV, no Publicity, no attention. Just another finisher, apparently had my medal hung around my neck, collapsed into the portaloo's (Heaven, they were sparkling fresh) My London Marathon was over and I didn't publicly shit myself.Thank God.
I collected my bags, got changed, staggered to the meeting point to see my family, collapsed into them and couldn't speak for ages. I was spent. Totally gone. No pictures, no videos, no joy. No euphoria. Just need to get home to a toilet.
I was ill for the rest of the night (and next day) and if I'm honest embarrassed by my time. I expected a lot quicker but on reflection it was probably one of my greatest achievements to actually finish. When you are Ill like that the place to do it is on your sofa in front of 'Loose Women' and 'Flog it'. Not with 8 miles to run on a marathon course in baking sun in front of Half a million people. It was harsh. Never again.
I made some stupid mistakes. I'm a right twat sometimes but never did i think i was going to get that reaction. In hindsight i wouldn't have taken anything, kept it simple and gone old school. Still never mind. It's over now. I raised £1500 for Action on Addiction, my superb charity who were there supporting. I enjoyed half of the occasion, I got called David Beckham 16 times on the way round and I helped another human being for 700 yards. Not all bad.
If only Josh hadn't whited out it could all have been so different. Instead 125 people will read this blog instead of 125,000. Oh well at least it's good for my ego. God knows best. I did learn though that deep down i am a good person and did practice what i preach in helping another human, but what is really fascinating is really deep down, so deep you wouldn't see, is an inherent selfishness and sense of delusion that is quite staggering. Only an alcoholic can think of speaker tours and TV under the guise of helping out a stricken runner. My selfishness makes me smile. Weirdly I can only see it when sober and that Ladies and gentlemen is why I ran it for Action on Addiction.
#TogetherWeAreStronger (that would have been world wide trending on my speaker tour Twitter page if only Josh hadn't fucking well passed out - he was so Selfish!)
Peace and Love
Nicholas Edward Evans
xx
Thursday, March 31, 2016
We're doing better than we think we are - The Radical Acceptance Theory
I haven't posted for a while because of that lethal holy trinity - fear, procrastination and self doubt.
Those little bastards are bad enough in isolation but when they join forces it's bloody lethal.
I didn't feel I had anything worthwhile to share, had radically transformed or rid myself of all those pesky habits. I didn't feel particularly inspired or funny so I did what I usually do. Retreat to self!
I didn't want to write another blog saying, 'when will I change?' - This is both boring and familiar. So instead I wrote nothing. My head was telling me one thing, reality another. I became imprisoned in self.
This is an evil trap to fall into. The head. Don't bloody listen to it. It's dangerous to go into alone sometimes. As an addict or alcoholic (I know normal people have bad thinking too so I'm not missing you out) negative dangerous destructive thinking is par for the course - But here's the truth. Most of it is total shit.
I'm reading 'The Chimp Complex' at the moment, by Dr Stephen Peters. He basically comes at it from a scientific angle. He calls the 'head' 'the Chimp with it's own entity. He calls us 'humans'. Our job as humans is to apply the 'human' part of the brain or logic, and find ways of managing the chimp and putting it back in its box. Not to let it control us. That's what mine has been doing this week.
My Chimp is my alcoholic mind. The commentary that tells me 'you're no good, you're a waste of time, or 'lets be fearful, worried, jealous and slothful'. That compares and despairs me next to others - All those wonderful thought processes that render me useless and keep me 'down there', where it wants me.
As a recovering alcoholic with a 12 step programme, there are many tools I can use to help drag me out of this. Sometimes I use them immediately, other times it takes longer. But I always use it in the end instead of alcohol or drugs. Sometimes I have used other things to 'fix' this thinking. Sex, shopping, food, relationships, attention, box-sets, exercise. Anything other than a spiritual fix to make me feel better. But in the end I return to some form of spiritual solution and the other things revert back to normal healthy proportions. When I treat my head, I exercise because I want too instead of needing too. I have sex because I like it rather than compulsively to make me feel better about myself. I'll eat because I'm hungry rather than gorge to suppress reality - and so on. Life becomes healthier and more 'normal'.
I've noticed that some people have their own inbuilt 12 step programme. An incredible ability to get themselves out of this thinking and change it around. I admire these people greatly. They move from darkness to light self sufficiently and it is awesome to behold. Big shout to you lot.
Other's need help from things such as yoga, counselling, therapy, meditation etc to get out of the head and into positive action. It seems that most of the self help industry is dedicated to this in different forms. It's about fighting those demons in your head and moving into health and happiness
The only problem with this is that it requires action. Usually on a daily basis. And for most of us in today's society we want a 'quick fix'. Someone to do it for us. Isn't there an App for that??. Unfortunately it doesn't work like that and we have to find a place where we are either too uncomfortable, in too much pain or just sick of ourselves before we do something about it.
And then when we do want to do something about us that's where the real head-fuck comes in. Where do we start? So many self help blogs, websites, spiritual practices, therapies. The latest fashionable way of life, guides to happiness, catchy inspirational quotes. it becomes overwhelming. Since when did we have to get some perfect? When did this pressure to improve our lives kick in?
Have we ever considered we're actually OK? Have we actually considered we're exactly where we are supposed to be right now?
But you know what? We needn't worry. It is never that bad. Sometimes we feel we're worse than we are. We're not. We're doing OK. We really are.
All week I've been listening to people hammer themselves for slight character traits in the pursuit of happiness and enlightenment. Really admirable people trying to better themselves and rid negative processes. This I respect hugely.
But you know what - My Father's anniversary of his death has made me think. We're doing OK. Because his death was such a savage alcoholic one. Because it was so lonely, inhumane and empty. So low bottom. Because he slung along on the bottom for so long. Years. It made me think if we are sober, or clean, or married, or have kids, jobs, life. Even if we're carrying a bit of weight, or can't stop smoking, or we're seeing prostitutes on the side, or in unhappy relationships. We're actually doing OK. We can do something about these. We're in the game. We're alive for fucks sake and we're being human!!!
Part of the fun of being human is fucking up. Part of the fun is being unhappy because then we are prepared to do something about it! Part of the fun is in the character defects we have. In our imperfections. In our madness sometimes. The fun is in the journey to change them. If we spend all our lives trying to be perfect or castigating ourselves for not being this or not being that we miss out on the fun. We miss out on the pointers. We miss out on so much.
When I hear people who are sober, or clean or trying to get better hammer themselves for not being perfect it pains me. When I hear myself beat myself up that I'm not a best selling author or 'those people on Facebook are doing better than me', I need a slap of reality. I'm well ahead of the game of where I was 14 years ago when I woke up drunk, piss stained and fat on my girlfriend's sofa thinking, 'I need help here'.
So why beat myself up? Why hammer ourselves if we're not perfect? We're doing better than we think we are. If we accept our defects and habits then surely that's the first step to making them better. Learning to laugh at them is even more powerful. Sure, it doesn't cure them but guaranteed it makes them less painful and life becomes lighter.
Radical acceptance of self both good and bad is a massive step forward. It's something I've been doing this week and it really does work. Try it!
I'm a big fan of all of us today. We're all magnificent bastards doing the best we can!
Today I was in town and spent time with a guy 2 weeks off booze and heroin. I gave him a huge hug and told him he was the healthiest looking heroin addict I've seen in many a year. I told him he was OK, not to beat himself up. Not live in the could haves but live in today and it made me think of myself and for myself to do it, hence why I'm writing this blog.
I slipped a little back into self when on the tube at rush hour, but then a father of two sons, holding their hands slipped in front of me. One if his boys was shaking and clearly had a severe nervous disorder and mental illness. It made my heart melt. I had huge admiration of the father who was showing his boys equal love. But also at how fragile we all are, how lucky I really am to have what I have and how we can all reach out to someone and give them a little help now and again.
Getting out of self can be freeing. So why not do something for someone else tonight. Drop your parents a text, tell a friend they are ace, congratulate your man for not pissing on the toilet seat. It doesn't have to be big but just enough to make you feel like a magnificent bastard because you really are.
Did I make you feel good? I hope I did as that what makes me feel good. It's like delivering a big orgasm by blog and man do I love to do that. So good for my self esteem and masculinity. I'm that needy on outside affirmation and not healed yet.
Love you big
Nicky Evans
Those little bastards are bad enough in isolation but when they join forces it's bloody lethal.
I didn't feel I had anything worthwhile to share, had radically transformed or rid myself of all those pesky habits. I didn't feel particularly inspired or funny so I did what I usually do. Retreat to self!
I didn't want to write another blog saying, 'when will I change?' - This is both boring and familiar. So instead I wrote nothing. My head was telling me one thing, reality another. I became imprisoned in self.
This is an evil trap to fall into. The head. Don't bloody listen to it. It's dangerous to go into alone sometimes. As an addict or alcoholic (I know normal people have bad thinking too so I'm not missing you out) negative dangerous destructive thinking is par for the course - But here's the truth. Most of it is total shit.
I'm reading 'The Chimp Complex' at the moment, by Dr Stephen Peters. He basically comes at it from a scientific angle. He calls the 'head' 'the Chimp with it's own entity. He calls us 'humans'. Our job as humans is to apply the 'human' part of the brain or logic, and find ways of managing the chimp and putting it back in its box. Not to let it control us. That's what mine has been doing this week.
My Chimp is my alcoholic mind. The commentary that tells me 'you're no good, you're a waste of time, or 'lets be fearful, worried, jealous and slothful'. That compares and despairs me next to others - All those wonderful thought processes that render me useless and keep me 'down there', where it wants me.
As a recovering alcoholic with a 12 step programme, there are many tools I can use to help drag me out of this. Sometimes I use them immediately, other times it takes longer. But I always use it in the end instead of alcohol or drugs. Sometimes I have used other things to 'fix' this thinking. Sex, shopping, food, relationships, attention, box-sets, exercise. Anything other than a spiritual fix to make me feel better. But in the end I return to some form of spiritual solution and the other things revert back to normal healthy proportions. When I treat my head, I exercise because I want too instead of needing too. I have sex because I like it rather than compulsively to make me feel better about myself. I'll eat because I'm hungry rather than gorge to suppress reality - and so on. Life becomes healthier and more 'normal'.
I've noticed that some people have their own inbuilt 12 step programme. An incredible ability to get themselves out of this thinking and change it around. I admire these people greatly. They move from darkness to light self sufficiently and it is awesome to behold. Big shout to you lot.
Other's need help from things such as yoga, counselling, therapy, meditation etc to get out of the head and into positive action. It seems that most of the self help industry is dedicated to this in different forms. It's about fighting those demons in your head and moving into health and happiness
The only problem with this is that it requires action. Usually on a daily basis. And for most of us in today's society we want a 'quick fix'. Someone to do it for us. Isn't there an App for that??. Unfortunately it doesn't work like that and we have to find a place where we are either too uncomfortable, in too much pain or just sick of ourselves before we do something about it.
And then when we do want to do something about us that's where the real head-fuck comes in. Where do we start? So many self help blogs, websites, spiritual practices, therapies. The latest fashionable way of life, guides to happiness, catchy inspirational quotes. it becomes overwhelming. Since when did we have to get some perfect? When did this pressure to improve our lives kick in?
Have we ever considered we're actually OK? Have we actually considered we're exactly where we are supposed to be right now?
But you know what? We needn't worry. It is never that bad. Sometimes we feel we're worse than we are. We're not. We're doing OK. We really are.
All week I've been listening to people hammer themselves for slight character traits in the pursuit of happiness and enlightenment. Really admirable people trying to better themselves and rid negative processes. This I respect hugely.
But you know what - My Father's anniversary of his death has made me think. We're doing OK. Because his death was such a savage alcoholic one. Because it was so lonely, inhumane and empty. So low bottom. Because he slung along on the bottom for so long. Years. It made me think if we are sober, or clean, or married, or have kids, jobs, life. Even if we're carrying a bit of weight, or can't stop smoking, or we're seeing prostitutes on the side, or in unhappy relationships. We're actually doing OK. We can do something about these. We're in the game. We're alive for fucks sake and we're being human!!!
Part of the fun of being human is fucking up. Part of the fun is being unhappy because then we are prepared to do something about it! Part of the fun is in the character defects we have. In our imperfections. In our madness sometimes. The fun is in the journey to change them. If we spend all our lives trying to be perfect or castigating ourselves for not being this or not being that we miss out on the fun. We miss out on the pointers. We miss out on so much.
When I hear people who are sober, or clean or trying to get better hammer themselves for not being perfect it pains me. When I hear myself beat myself up that I'm not a best selling author or 'those people on Facebook are doing better than me', I need a slap of reality. I'm well ahead of the game of where I was 14 years ago when I woke up drunk, piss stained and fat on my girlfriend's sofa thinking, 'I need help here'.
So why beat myself up? Why hammer ourselves if we're not perfect? We're doing better than we think we are. If we accept our defects and habits then surely that's the first step to making them better. Learning to laugh at them is even more powerful. Sure, it doesn't cure them but guaranteed it makes them less painful and life becomes lighter.
Radical acceptance of self both good and bad is a massive step forward. It's something I've been doing this week and it really does work. Try it!
I'm a big fan of all of us today. We're all magnificent bastards doing the best we can!
Today I was in town and spent time with a guy 2 weeks off booze and heroin. I gave him a huge hug and told him he was the healthiest looking heroin addict I've seen in many a year. I told him he was OK, not to beat himself up. Not live in the could haves but live in today and it made me think of myself and for myself to do it, hence why I'm writing this blog.
I slipped a little back into self when on the tube at rush hour, but then a father of two sons, holding their hands slipped in front of me. One if his boys was shaking and clearly had a severe nervous disorder and mental illness. It made my heart melt. I had huge admiration of the father who was showing his boys equal love. But also at how fragile we all are, how lucky I really am to have what I have and how we can all reach out to someone and give them a little help now and again.
Getting out of self can be freeing. So why not do something for someone else tonight. Drop your parents a text, tell a friend they are ace, congratulate your man for not pissing on the toilet seat. It doesn't have to be big but just enough to make you feel like a magnificent bastard because you really are.
Did I make you feel good? I hope I did as that what makes me feel good. It's like delivering a big orgasm by blog and man do I love to do that. So good for my self esteem and masculinity. I'm that needy on outside affirmation and not healed yet.
Love you big
Nicky Evans
Friday, March 25, 2016
David Michael Evans - 1944-2009 - A Story of Alcholism in Life and Death
I always post this on Good Friday. Easter is a hugely symbolic date on the calendar. I consider myself more spiritual than religious but to me Easter is extra poignant to me and my family.
My Father, David Michael Evans died of alcoholism on Good Friday 2009. My Grandparents were married on Easter Saturday, my Grandmother the family matriach was born on the 13th April, my neice on the 16th and I had my moment of clarity and went to my first AA meeting on Easter Sunday 2001, setting in motion the journey to sobriety and recovery 16 years ago. Jackpot!
If Easter is all about death and rebirth, it's ridiculously symbolic my father dying of alcoholism on Good Friday and his third son getting sober on Easter Sunday! I'm honestly not making this shit up. I shit you not.
Today is the 8th anniversary of my father's death. He died a lonely, alcoholic death in a warden controlled flat in Parsons Green on Good Friday 2009. He was alone, 64, unfound for 6 days. His was a sad, alcoholic tale of life and death.
His alcoholic death affected a whole family, town and generation. Although tragic it inspired my Mother to go to Alanon and find recovery after a 40 year battle with alcoholism. It galvanised a cause in me to campaign for my own and other people's recovery from alcoholism as a terrible, powerful destructive disease and it has helped many people through reading this story or hearing about his demise. He has acted as a powerful example of what untreated alcoholism does.
Only a man of his ego could be born on Christmas Day and die on Good Friday! He was an arrogant bastard with a great sense of humour. Only a man of my ego could find a sober rebirth on Easter Sunday 2001. You couldn't make it up. I have taken on this family arrogance baton into sobriety. Like father like son.
I loved my father, he was my hero. A large, funny, charismatic man. But he was afflicted by the disease of alcoholism and after he left the family home in 1985 when I was 13, he effectively lived a solitary life of a drunk until he died alone, in 2009. A 24 year suicide.
I share this because it is interesting on many levels. I am not owning the story to be sadder than others. Many people have tragedy and sadness in their families/past. I am not using it to puff up my ego and make a point. I simply wanted to put the story of alcoholism down and how it affects a family and how in death life can begin.
It is a story of life and death, alcoholism and recovery. Sadness and light. It is a story about how David Michael Evans' life can inspire. Perhaps not in the way he thought or wanted. But in the way it was. I hope some may find solace, connection, identification or hope through reading it and have a couple of chuckles along the way. After all what is life without laughter?
I hadn't seen my father since I was 18, and then it was only for 30 minutes when my Niece was born in 1990. He had left my life when I was 13, due to his heavy alcoholism. He lived a life of a street drunk, popping up now and again. The odd phone call here, a card there. He was alive but not alive. The living dead type life that active alcoholism brings.
My Father, David Michael Evans died of alcoholism on Good Friday 2009. My Grandparents were married on Easter Saturday, my Grandmother the family matriach was born on the 13th April, my neice on the 16th and I had my moment of clarity and went to my first AA meeting on Easter Sunday 2001, setting in motion the journey to sobriety and recovery 16 years ago. Jackpot!
If Easter is all about death and rebirth, it's ridiculously symbolic my father dying of alcoholism on Good Friday and his third son getting sober on Easter Sunday! I'm honestly not making this shit up. I shit you not.
Today is the 8th anniversary of my father's death. He died a lonely, alcoholic death in a warden controlled flat in Parsons Green on Good Friday 2009. He was alone, 64, unfound for 6 days. His was a sad, alcoholic tale of life and death.
His alcoholic death affected a whole family, town and generation. Although tragic it inspired my Mother to go to Alanon and find recovery after a 40 year battle with alcoholism. It galvanised a cause in me to campaign for my own and other people's recovery from alcoholism as a terrible, powerful destructive disease and it has helped many people through reading this story or hearing about his demise. He has acted as a powerful example of what untreated alcoholism does.
Only a man of his ego could be born on Christmas Day and die on Good Friday! He was an arrogant bastard with a great sense of humour. Only a man of my ego could find a sober rebirth on Easter Sunday 2001. You couldn't make it up. I have taken on this family arrogance baton into sobriety. Like father like son.
I loved my father, he was my hero. A large, funny, charismatic man. But he was afflicted by the disease of alcoholism and after he left the family home in 1985 when I was 13, he effectively lived a solitary life of a drunk until he died alone, in 2009. A 24 year suicide.
I share this because it is interesting on many levels. I am not owning the story to be sadder than others. Many people have tragedy and sadness in their families/past. I am not using it to puff up my ego and make a point. I simply wanted to put the story of alcoholism down and how it affects a family and how in death life can begin.
It is a story of life and death, alcoholism and recovery. Sadness and light. It is a story about how David Michael Evans' life can inspire. Perhaps not in the way he thought or wanted. But in the way it was. I hope some may find solace, connection, identification or hope through reading it and have a couple of chuckles along the way. After all what is life without laughter?
I hadn't seen my father since I was 18, and then it was only for 30 minutes when my Niece was born in 1990. He had left my life when I was 13, due to his heavy alcoholism. He lived a life of a street drunk, popping up now and again. The odd phone call here, a card there. He was alive but not alive. The living dead type life that active alcoholism brings.
You get used to the drama and chaos an alcoholic causes in a house but you just get on with it. The drama becomes the norm and that's all someone growing up in alcoholic/addict house is used to. You don't blink at arguments, police, court orders, domestic violence, fear, guilt, worry and violence. In fact normality seems rather dull in comparison.
The effect on a child growing up in this environment is profound. You don't think it of course as you just live your life, but for me it has resulted in a double life, people pleasing, dishonesty, feeling sorry for myself, feeling superior to others, incredible anger, frustration, impatience, lack of self esteem and a series of failed relationships and commitment issues. Part of me never grew up. Of course, I'm not laying the blame for my life at my father's door. My own alcoholism did a great job of that, but now that I'm 43 I can see how some of the patterns of my upbringing has affected my life as an adult. Part nature and part nurture. That can be true of many people.
When I got the call in 2009 I was shocked. I hadn’t thought about him for ages. You get used to not having a father. I called my Mum, brothers and girlfriend. I was asked by my cousin if I wanted to take care of affairs, seeing as he had been out of our lives for so long. I didn't hesitate. Of course I did. He was my father after all and it was my duty.
I made calls to the coroner trying to find out the facts of his death and piece together his life. You have to take the role of a sleuth, trying to piece together the alcoholics final few years.
I found out he lived in a warden controlled flat. On welfare for years. He had apparently been in and out of hospital for years with liver failure and host of other alcohol related problems. He had a hemorrhage in his sleep and was found dead after Easter, he had been laying dead, in his flat for a few days. Last seen before Easter, so i figured a man as egotistical and grandiose as him, born on Christmas Day 1944, probably died on or around Good Friday. Only he could do that!
The effect on a child growing up in this environment is profound. You don't think it of course as you just live your life, but for me it has resulted in a double life, people pleasing, dishonesty, feeling sorry for myself, feeling superior to others, incredible anger, frustration, impatience, lack of self esteem and a series of failed relationships and commitment issues. Part of me never grew up. Of course, I'm not laying the blame for my life at my father's door. My own alcoholism did a great job of that, but now that I'm 43 I can see how some of the patterns of my upbringing has affected my life as an adult. Part nature and part nurture. That can be true of many people.
When I got the call in 2009 I was shocked. I hadn’t thought about him for ages. You get used to not having a father. I called my Mum, brothers and girlfriend. I was asked by my cousin if I wanted to take care of affairs, seeing as he had been out of our lives for so long. I didn't hesitate. Of course I did. He was my father after all and it was my duty.
I made calls to the coroner trying to find out the facts of his death and piece together his life. You have to take the role of a sleuth, trying to piece together the alcoholics final few years.
I found out he lived in a warden controlled flat. On welfare for years. He had apparently been in and out of hospital for years with liver failure and host of other alcohol related problems. He had a hemorrhage in his sleep and was found dead after Easter, he had been laying dead, in his flat for a few days. Last seen before Easter, so i figured a man as egotistical and grandiose as him, born on Christmas Day 1944, probably died on or around Good Friday. Only he could do that!
The coroner was lovely stating that it would have been quick and he wouldn't have suffered. But he suffered for 24 years.
I went to where he lived and spoke to the warden who put some pieces of the jigsaw together, it was then the real details of the alcoholics demise were brought to life. He lived in an old peoples block for 3 years, looking disheveled and tramp like most of the time. Leaving early to go and drink with his pals on Sheperd's Bush Green and coming back late at night. He said he didn't have kids (3 of us) and had effectively blocked out his past. (I don't blame him or am angry or hurt, it's just the pain of alcoholism - imagine normal people saying how can you do that? Too painful for him i guess so much easier to say you didn't have any)
Nothing prepared us for that flat. A small place. We opened the door and the stench of death was overwhelming. The heating was on full blast, it was a mild Easter and it was just a horrible smell. Disgusting. On the left was the kitchen. Bare, no cutlery, plates or anything. Just an ironing board with a book on it. A Rebus book from Ealing hospital library and rather ironically a book on health. In the fridge was an old fish and chip dinner out of date by 5 weeks.
Then the living room. Bare. 1 chair. A guitar, Free newspapers. Hospital papers and that was it. Empty. soulless. In humane.
The bathroom. Filthy. Covered in blood on the walls and toilet. Like he had been throwing up blood for years. A horrid state,
And finally the worst room. The bedroom. An utter synopsis of the end of the road for an alcoholic. Fuck Tracey Ermin's Bed installation. If I was to do one entitled alcoholism. I would reproduce the room. It was horrifying, upsetting, shocking, sad.
The stench was horrid. There was blood on the empty bed where he had died. There were clothes and knee deep rubbish all around the room. Empty bottles of vodka, cider and High strength lager strewn around. Cheap ones. When you reach that stage of alcoholism Smirnoff and other 'luxury' brands are long gone. Blood spattered paperwork was next to the bed. Shit and devastation everywhere. It was truly horrifying. But I guess the norm to him.
I had to look for his wallet, to try and get some details. I found his trousers on the floor. And this to me sums up alcoholism for those of you who don't understand it is a mental illness with a massive ego and self esteem divorced from reality. He had a pair of chinos (shit stained) with a dressing gown cord as a belt and in the pocket of these trousers which signified someone who had given up, were 2 combs. 2 combs! Clearly he still thought he 'had it' even at the end. That is the delusion of alcoholism, and always makes me smile when i think about it. Alcoholism is tragic funny. You have to see the humour to feel the sadness.
His wallet was a Freedom Travel pass and i found a cash card, money (fuck me can i have 25 years of child support payments please?) a picture of him, which we didn't recognise, yet did at same time. The arrogant menacing look and the nose broken and face ravaged with booze) and i found a piece of paper with 2 names and numbers. One was a woman he was with for a while but who left him to go to New Zealand, her number and the other, my name 'Nicky (as he called me) Evans (son) and my number. I think that got me the most. Clearly it was numbers to contact in case someone found him. Like he knew his fate, Prepared for it. He carried me around with him throughout. Makes me cry every time.
I took in the scene. Said a prayer. Talked to him. We took some paperwork and left. We were all stunned. Went for a coffee and sat in stunned silence, shock and sadness. My girlfriend never knew or met him, but she was so sad to see someone end up like that. If someone who doesn't know alcoholism or know the person at all, felt a connection and sadness on seeing that - then it can have a profound effect on people's attitudes to alcoholism. My Mum was so upset as she married this charismatic man, full of life and fun and stature. She had 3 children with him, she went through years of horrific alcoholism with him, yet for her to see his final years like this was massively upsetting for her. Tragic. It left a print in time on all of our minds.
For me? I don't know. He was my father. My hero. I looked up to him, Sought his approval. I was his son. I was upset of course, But i guess 12 years in AA, helping lots of newcomers or low bottom drunks, going to hostels etc - made me sort of used to what i had seen. I was also there to do a job, get my father buried with dignity and organise the details. I was shocked but i think i had better preparation than my Mum or girlfriend. I felt the connection of it being my father of course, but I also saw alcoholism, the rapacious creditor claiming another life.
Those were the circumstances. A few things stuck in my mind. The warden said my Dad was funny and joking that he discovered Charlotte Church. I emailed her management team and they had never heard of Mike Evans. I'm not sure she frequented Shepherds Bush Green much, though i admire his Grandiosity.
Those were the circumstances. A few things stuck in my mind. The warden said my Dad was funny and joking that he discovered Charlotte Church. I emailed her management team and they had never heard of Mike Evans. I'm not sure she frequented Shepherds Bush Green much, though i admire his Grandiosity.
The other was my brother Rob, organising the funeral directors and getting a discount deal. Great businessman, his Dad, a born bullshitting salesman would have been proud.
At the funeral there were 8 of us. Mortlake Crematorium. Nobody attending was from post 1987. Another example of how alcoholism robs you of life. A vivid example. It was a long slow suicide. A living death. A textbook case of alcoholism. The difference between active alcoholism and sobriety can be seen in funerals. My father pursued it to the gates of insanity and death. He had 8 people at the funeral. My friend Malcolm who dies last year 22 years sober had 300. The difference is stark.
It doesn't mean they are loved any less. It doesn't mean their lives are less worthy. It doesn't mean they are lesser people. It just means alcoholism will rob you of everything until it gets what it wants in the end. Your life.
It doesn't mean they are loved any less. It doesn't mean their lives are less worthy. It doesn't mean they are lesser people. It just means alcoholism will rob you of everything until it gets what it wants in the end. Your life.
I shall end this blog with the words I spoke at the funeral as we got him cremated to the Theme Tune to Minder. The last time we were together as a family. A happy nostalgic memory before the alcoholism took over.
If anyone is struggling to accept alcoholism as a disease well what do you think the above is?. If anyone wonders why I'm a passionate supporter of recovery now you know. If anyone wonders why i believe David Michael Evans to be a powerful example in death then you've just read why. He is an inspiration for me. One of the reasons I do sobriety. The reason sometimes I'm so evangelical about the power of the disease. I don't want a long lonely alcoholic death. I don't want others to have to endure 30 years of pain. I don't want families to hide it, claim it doesn't exist. I don't want the ignorance to continue. It is real and it affects many people. It is the least understood and most ignorant disease there is
Sometimes i don't feel good enough. Sometimes I don't know what it is to be man. Sometimes my own alcoholic ego runs away with itself or I struggle with my purpose, my journey, my soul. But in this time i felt a man. It felt right.
Death can be good. Death can provide life. Revoery doesn't have to be sad or serious. he was an insane rip roaring drunk with am assive personality. You can have this sober. You can have anything you want sober. Alcoholic or drugs doesn't have to define your life and stopping drinking doesn't mean a life of dull and boredom.
You meet a lot of recovery experts around. In AA, in treatment, on Facebook. Some talk a load of shit, claiming to know answers, preaching at what we should do, leading a fake spiritual arrogant and sanctimonious life. I say fuck it. Fuck them, fuck what you are supposed to do. Be real, be human and be true to yourself. Just don't drink, don't die and don't be a c**t. Seems like a pretty simple set of spiritual codes to live by?
I often wonder what a low bottom drunk like my Dad would think of a lot of recovery models and shit being spouted sometimes so I tell myself to keep it real, keep it honest but keep it humble.
A sense if humour and a sense of fun is important. Stay clear of the experts telling us what to do. Stay clear of the doubters or negative criticism. Just read the end of his life, tell yourself is that what you want. If the answer is no then there is a solution and I went to it on Easter Sunday 2001. It works it really does and if you are a family member affected by someone with addiction/alcoholism there is also a solution for you too. Alanon helped change my mother's life it could help you too.
David Michael Evans 1944 -2009
If anyone is struggling to accept alcoholism as a disease well what do you think the above is?. If anyone wonders why I'm a passionate supporter of recovery now you know. If anyone wonders why i believe David Michael Evans to be a powerful example in death then you've just read why. He is an inspiration for me. One of the reasons I do sobriety. The reason sometimes I'm so evangelical about the power of the disease. I don't want a long lonely alcoholic death. I don't want others to have to endure 30 years of pain. I don't want families to hide it, claim it doesn't exist. I don't want the ignorance to continue. It is real and it affects many people. It is the least understood and most ignorant disease there is
Sometimes i don't feel good enough. Sometimes I don't know what it is to be man. Sometimes my own alcoholic ego runs away with itself or I struggle with my purpose, my journey, my soul. But in this time i felt a man. It felt right.
Death can be good. Death can provide life. Revoery doesn't have to be sad or serious. he was an insane rip roaring drunk with am assive personality. You can have this sober. You can have anything you want sober. Alcoholic or drugs doesn't have to define your life and stopping drinking doesn't mean a life of dull and boredom.
You meet a lot of recovery experts around. In AA, in treatment, on Facebook. Some talk a load of shit, claiming to know answers, preaching at what we should do, leading a fake spiritual arrogant and sanctimonious life. I say fuck it. Fuck them, fuck what you are supposed to do. Be real, be human and be true to yourself. Just don't drink, don't die and don't be a c**t. Seems like a pretty simple set of spiritual codes to live by?
I often wonder what a low bottom drunk like my Dad would think of a lot of recovery models and shit being spouted sometimes so I tell myself to keep it real, keep it honest but keep it humble.
A sense if humour and a sense of fun is important. Stay clear of the experts telling us what to do. Stay clear of the doubters or negative criticism. Just read the end of his life, tell yourself is that what you want. If the answer is no then there is a solution and I went to it on Easter Sunday 2001. It works it really does and if you are a family member affected by someone with addiction/alcoholism there is also a solution for you too. Alanon helped change my mother's life it could help you too.
David Michael Evans 1944 -2009
I love you Dad
Together We Are Stronger
Nicky Evans (son)
Nicky Evans (son)
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