But this is all academic. This doesn’t matter any more. Because this is the last time I will ever call your name. I won’t be commuting any more. I’m not commuting any more, in fact. I was in London today tying up loose ends – in the pub, with Goebbels and Harry the Dog, before their pre-arranged appointments at the police station tomorrow (I tried to get hold of Wee Tim’rous Trainee too, but she’s disappeared. Nobody’s heard a thing. I can’t help wondering if she’ll even turn up at the cop shop tomorrow. I called Bombshell too, but she wasn’t interested: ‘totes past all that, darls – wouldn’t look good now to be seen with the old crew, you do understand…’) – and I don’t plan on coming into London again anytime soon.
You’ll have seen the paper, of course. The final edition. The last splash. You’ll have been one of the six million people who queued up to buy it on Sunday. And, no doubt, you’ll have been one of the six million who stopped in their tracks, who forgot where they were, who forgot what they were doing, when you read the front page.
They went for it, of course. How could they not? It took them until past 11 at night, it delayed the presses and screwed up the paper reviews and meant the first edition barely made the newsstands in time for Sunday opening hours… but they did go for it. They put their mouths where the money is. They bloody well did it, too.
It was beautiful, wasn’t it? It was everything I wanted. It was – it is still – the single most devastating destruction of any individual ever run in any newspaper. We nailed him. We killed him, Martin. And when it was picked up by every news organisation in the country, when it made all the major networks in the US and Europe, when it hit Australia and Asia and South America… Game over. For us and for the man who did so much to take us down. Mutually Assured Destruction. God bless King Pyrrhus.
He was arrested before lunchtime. His career was over before then. Even if he dodges the clink, he’ll never work again. He won’t even be able to live in this country. Dropped like a stone by all those set up to protect him, his Twitter account shut down by the afternoon, officially the most reviled man in the Commonwealth before dinner. And by bedtime, all those other stories, all those other girls, coming forward, finally prepared to go on the record with their tales. It’s been a bonanza couple of days for the dailies. We’ve gifted them the best run of stories they’ve had in years.
Everyone at the paper’s screwed, of course. Those job offers I had? Withdrawn. I’m tainted goods, apparently. Toxic. The Goebbels trick worked in a legal sense, in a public sense, but in the industry it was sussed pretty quick. And I am the showbiz editor. It didn’t take Woodward and Bernstein to work out who was really responsible.
But that’s fine. I’m fine with that. Because you know those decisions I said I’d made? Well, I meant it. I’ve made them and I’m sticking with them.
I’m packing in journalism, Martin. I’m walking away. And I’m not walking as far as PR, either. I’m walking all the way away, bridges burned, head held high, two fingers left lingering in the air behind me.
What am I going to do instead? I have no idea. I don’t care. I’ll think of something. I’ve got a little redundancy payout which will keep me good for a while, but it’s not about the money. It’s about… life.
Did I ever tell you about the sloth? The way they die? After eating all the food nearest to them, they just can’t be bothered moving a few feet down the branch to get any more – they’re so indoctrinated in ennui they would rather die than make the tiniest effort to actually live. Well, that’s what sitting on a train is, Martin. That’s what sitting on one of your stationary trains every morning and evening, gazing pointlessly out of the window at another blank view of Reading and Slough, of Acton and Southall, of Didcot bleeding Parkway every day, is like. That’s what it is: sitting still and impotent and watching the world change and your career implode and your family life fall apart and not having the energy, the ambition, the guts to get out of your seat, get off the train and do something about it. That’s what commuting is, Martin. That’s what my life has been. It’s been the slow death of the sloth.
Well, not any more. I’m getting out of my seat. I’m getting off the train. Literally. I’m going to stop looking at life (through a grimy window, on a tired train in the night) and start living.
I’m walking away from my career and I’m going to go and get my wife. I’m going to go see my wife and my beautiful baby daughter. I’m going to find them and I’m going to say sorry. And I’m going to tell them we can start again. I’m going to tell them that whatever happened has happened, that the past is the past, that yesterday’s news is today’s chip wrapper. I’m going to tell them that I’m sick of Pyrrhic victories, I’m sick of scoring moral victories but losing what makes me happy in the process.
I have no idea what Beth will say. In a way it doesn’t matter. Because I’ll keep telling her that, I’ll keep repeating the simple facts – I love her, I love Sylvie, nothing else is important, everything else can be dealt with – until she gets it too. And she will get it, sooner or later. Because that’s why I married her in the first place. Because that’s the girl she is.
And in the meantime? The big wheel will just keep on turning, right? The world will keep on doing what it does. Dealers keep dealing, thieves keep stealing – that’s what the song says. Whores keep whoring, junkies keep scoring. Ain’t no use in praying, that’s the way it’s staying, baby. Tabloids will keep on stinging. Scandals will keep on selling. And good luck to them, too.
And your trains, Martin – they’ll keep getting delayed. No amount of letters is going to change that. No amount of angry words or absurd excuses will account for the lost minutes, the lost hours, the accumulated days gone for ever, pointlessly, tragically.
And I’m having none of it any more. Don’t take it personally. I’m not quitting because of you. And, despite how it may have seemed sometimes, I have enjoyed writing to you. Between you and me, there have been times this year past when writing my angry little letters has been the only thing that’s kept me going. So, oddly, and don’t take this the wrong way, thank you, Martin. Not for your trains, not for the job you’re doing, but thank you for being a gentleman. Thank you for your advice. Thank you for being you. And that’s so much more important than any job.
And that’s it. I’m gone. Oxford looms through the gloom and our 15-minute delay is almost over. Overkeen Estate Agent has just said the words ‘I’m in this womb-to-tomb. I’m 1,000 percent in the trenches on this one. I’m accelerating my bandwidth as we speak, mate. Literally’ – and I can’t think of a more fitting note to end on than that.
(Actually, there was one thing more, Martin: I was going to ask you something about Sauron Flesh Harrower. Something about something you said about… but perhaps I won’t. Perhaps I’ll leave it as it is.)
Good night, Martin, and good luck. Not farewell, but fare forward!
Goodbye
Dan
Epilogue
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Re: Out of Office Reply
Dear Sir/Madam
Thank you for your email dated May 23 this year. I can confirm that Mr Harbottle has received it and will endeavour to respond as soon as possible. Your concerns are of utmost importance to us.
Thank you again for writing to Premier Westward.
pp Martin Harbottle, Managing Director
*This is an automatically generated response. Please do not reply*
Acknowledgements
Thanks to everyone who made this book possible. There are too many to name, but you hopefully know who you are. (If you’re not sure, feel free to ask.)
In addition, however, I’d especially like to thank Heidi, Eithne and Albert, without whom, nothing – and of course Mum, Damian, Kevin, Finola, Gabrielle and Jenny, for the support, the encouragement, the belief.
This book started life as a blog and no acknowledgements would be complete without a mention of th
at – so to Rachel, Mark, Ellie, Laura and all at Fabulous who lived through the whole thing as it happened – thank you (and sorry). Likewise all the friends, colleagues and twitterers who led me to believe there might be something more in it. Also, of course, thanks to everyone who read and enjoyed the blog in the first place – and apologies to Benjionthetrain for nicking Lego Head.
While we’re on the subject, thanks to all the fellow hacks whose anecdotes I stole. And, y’know, sorry for stealing your anecdotes.
Should I name someone cool now? Thanks, Joe Strummer. Cheers, Ian Brown. Good on you, all of New Order.
Thanks to Gordon Wise, my brilliant agent, to Catherine Marcus for being the first person to get really excited about the text, and to Charlotte Van Wijk, for her enthusiasm, amazing editing and genius way with a book title – as well, of course, to the whole team at Oneworld for all their hard work and faith in the book. And special thanks to Hannah and Becca Barr for introducing me to Gordon in the first place.
Finally, most importantly, this book wouldn’t have happened without Mark and Sue. Thank you especially, Mark. Not for your trains, but for always being a gentleman – and that’s got to count for more, in the end.
Table of Contents
Prologue
April 7
April 21
May 31
Martin Harbottle’s Appreciation of Time
Letter 1
Letter 2
Letter 3
Letter 4
Letter 5
Letter 6
Letter 7
Letter 8
Letter 9
Letter 10
Letter 11
Letter 12
Letter 13
Letter 14
Letter 15
Letter 16
Letter 17
Letter 18
Letter 19
Letter 20
Letter 21
Letter 22
Letter 23
Letter 24
Letter 25
Letter 26
Letter 27
Letter 28
Letter 29
Letter 30
Letter 31
Letter 32
Letter 33
Letter 34
Letter 35
Letter 36
Letter 37
Letter 38
Letter 39
Letter 40
Letter 41
Letter 42
Letter 43
Letter 44
Letter 45
Letter 46
Letter 47
Letter 48
Letter 49
Letter 50
Letter 51
Letter 52
Letter 53
Letter 54
Letter 55
Letter 56
Letter 57
Letter 58
Letter 59
Letter 60
Letter 61
Letter 62
Letter 63
Letter 64
Letter 65
Letter 66
Letter 67
Letter 68
Letter 69
Letter 70
Letter 71
Letter 72
Letter 73
Letter 74
Letter 75
Letter 76
Letter 77
Letter 78
Letter 79
Letter 80
Letter 81
Letter 82
Letter 83
Letter 84
Letter 85
Letter 86
Letter 87
Letter 88
Letter 89
Letter 90
Letter 91
Letter 92
Letter 93
Letter 94
Letter 95
Letter 96
Letter 97
Letter 98
Letter 99
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Martin Harbottle's Appreciation of Time Page 32
