Battle Ready

by Ollie Ollerton

  BATTLE READY

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  Break Point

  Published by Blink Publishing

  80–1 Wimpole Street,

  London,

  W1G 9RE

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  Hardback – 9781788703369

  Trade Paperback – 9781788703376

  Ebook – 9781788703390

  All rights reserved. No part of the publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted or circulated in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue of this book is available from the British Library.

  Designed and set by seagulls.net

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  Copyright © Matthew Ollerton, 2020

  Matthew Ollerton has asserted his moral right to be identifiedas the author of this work in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Every reasonable effort has been made to trace copyright holders of material reproduced in this book, but if any have been inadvertently overlooked the publishers would be glad to hear from them.

  Blink Publishing is an imprint of Bonnier Books UK

  www.bonnierbooks.co.uk

  This book is dedicated to every person that reads these pages. To all that have dreamed big and failed, to all that fall foul to procrastination and hesitation and to those that have lost their way.

  To every living soul that strives for greatness and feels uneasy in this modern world, constantly repeating cycles that make no sense at all.

  This book serves as a guide to put all that read its words back on track, focused and proud of who they are.

  Surrender to yourself and fortune will prevail.

  ‘Nothing in life was ever great, unless at some point you doubted your ability to achieve it.’

  Ollie Ollerton

  CONTENTS

  The Promise

  Prologue

  Introduction

  PART I – THE CALL TO CHANGE

  Chapter 1 – At the Bottom of the World

  Chapter 2 – Epiphany

  Chapter 3 – Finding Purpose

  PART II – BARRIERS TO CHANGE

  Chapter 4 – The Negativity Default

  Chapter 5 – It’s All In Your Head

  Chapter 6 – Goals

  Chapter 7 – The Role of Visualisation

  Chapter 8 – Creating Positive Behaviours

  Chapter 9 – Kicking Negative Habits

  Chapter 10 – Demon Days

  PART III – HOW TO CHANGE

  Chapter 11 – Bootcamp

  PART IV – HOW TO SUSTAIN CHANGE

  Chapter 12 – Dealing with Failure

  Chapter 13 – Life, the Universe and Everything

  Chapter 14 – Return to Kong Island

  Epilogue

  Further Reading

  Acknowledgements

  Index

  THE PROMISE

  I ,

  on this day, state my intention to achieve

  and give my personal promise to follow the programme I have designed for myself. For the duration of the programme I will remain focused and disciplined, implementing and executing all my designs to the best of my ability. I will become Battle Ready.

  Signed

  (See page 202 for more information on making a contract with yourself.)

  PROLOGUE

  It’s a scorcher of a summer’s day and me, my brother Justin and mate James are wandering into town to the baths to cool down. It’s the eighties, we don’t have computer games that are worth staying inside for, our domain is the outdoors. As we cross a bridge over the River Trent, the air is buzzing with dragonflies. As we watch them skimming like Hueys over the water, we notice a circus being set up on a patch of nearby wasteland; a huge Big Top being hauled into the sky, its striped canvas skin flapping like ships’ sails among the rigging of cables. We walk around the brightly coloured tents, their guy ropes taut with pegs hammered into the dry summer grass. I smell candyfloss and diesel in the breezeless air and my stomach wheels with excitement. The circus . . . there’s something electric and dangerous about it. Those apparently obedient wild animals can at any moment break their training habits, go feral and turn on the audience, the lions bursting through the pathetic-looking caged barriers hurriedly set up around the stage perimeter.

  We hear elephants trumpeting somewhere in the background as we come across an outer circle of caravans and trailers where the performers live, the air now threaded with the aromas of fried onions and hot dogs. Jogging along with excitement, we come across a circus worker with a friendly face by the entrance to the circus and ask if we can have a nose about the animals. The nostalgic glint in his eye, which makes me think he must be remembering his own childhood, says, ‘yes’ before he’s even opened his gob. Of course you can, lads, and it’s rich pickings here for three intrepid, adventure-hungry boys. Roll up, roll up – try your luck on the One-Arm Bandits, test your strength and wield the mighty mallet on the Strongman Game, win a giant cuddly Spiderman toy at the Shooting Gallery, or maybe just go and snoop around the animal cages . . .

  He simply says, ‘Yes, of course you can. The animals are on chains so don’t worry.’

  And that’s all the encouragement we need as we race off through a labyrinth of grassy pathways between the tents. It’s amazing how different our town feels with the arrival of the circus, as if having passed through exotic lands it brings with it some of their magic and the promise of escape. And here’s Justin, James and me, three lucky lads being granted a VIP backstage pass.

  First up we follow the noise of the elephants, finding them in a large dark tent that whiffs of pissed-on sawdust. The next tent I wander into chatters with mean little monkeys with sharp canine teeth. The little fuckers hiss as I pass by. Entranced by my rare glimpse of this secret other world, I’ve drifted away from the others and become separated from them. Through a loose flap of the canvas tent whose eyeholes are still to be laced up, I spot something moving in a patch of sunshine outside. Curiosity gets the better of me as I poke my head out in the sunshine like a mole blinking at the light. Jesus, it’s hot today!

  I wriggle under the canvas into the grassy clearing; it’s completely hemmed in by tents and circus vehicles. In this private little oasis spilling with sunshine sits a tiny chimp eating a pile of fruit. He looks like one of the monkeys on the PG Tips adverts on telly where they dress them in human clothes. He glances at me as I stand towering over him, his little brown eyes trusting and innocent, and then he glances back at the fruit between his fingers. He has soft little hands and tiny nails just like a human’s, huge comical ears that are translucent pink with brilliant sunshine flooding through them, and his tufty hair is brown one moment then jet-black as he shifts a little from the sun’s glare into shadow. It feels as if time has stood still and the Earth has stopped spinning. But for the baby and I looking into one another’s eyes, everything else is non-existent.

  It feels like such a privilege, I’m completely hypnotised by him. I’ll never forget this moment. Then the little fella chuckles, holds out the banana he’s been chewing and offers me a bit. I gratefully receive it with a smile and, so as not to upset him, pretend to eat it before discreetly chucking it over my shoulder. This takes things to the next level. Now we are officially friends – Ollie Ollerton, Burton-on-Trent’s very own Tarzan, King of the Jungle.

  Something shifts in my ten-year-old’s peripheral vision, like a black bin bag blown by the breeze. It disappears under the colourful livery of a Foden lorry, reappearing a moment later in a blur of darkness and sunlight. But th
ere is no breeze, it’s hot enough to fry an egg on the pavement. The bin bag suddenly grows massive arms corded with muscle, and bolts toward me in a weird sideways gallop – a Space Invader covered in fur – and the air is split by a furious, high-pitched scream that cuts through me like someone dragging their fingernails on a blackboard. The beast’s coat is so black it appears almost purple in the sunlight, its eyes two points of fire buried in its skull, while its foaming lips peel back to reveal razor-sharp teeth. It crosses my mind that it might be the baby’s mother. It also dawns on me I’m frozen with fear and cannot move.

  I’m transfixed, the breath captive in my lungs as I watch this terrifying beast hurling toward me, its eyes full of hate. This can’t be happening to me, I think. Then a moment later something hits me so hard in the sternum that the breath is knocked out of my body, and the ape is on top of me. Heeeere’s Mummy! It’s as if I’ve picked a fight with the cock of the school five years above me, we’re so unfairly matched, the strength in her arms unimaginable. She pounds at me with knuckles hard as rivets, her dense weight pinning me to the spot, jaws wide-open and packed with teeth. I automatically put my forearms over my face to protect it, and between flinging me about like a ragdoll, she expertly goes to work on my body with her canines and molars. I hear bones snapping. As she comes up for breath her teeth are laced with stringy bits of flesh and blood. She’s taking chunks out of my arm as if it’s a raw bit of steak. I’m being ripped apart. A voice in my heart says, It doesn’t end like this, Ollie.

  Something primal flashes within me like a flicked switch; if there’s the smallest chance of survival, I need to fight back while I still have a pair of arms. I either allow myself to die or take a risk and fight back. I have to take this fight to the next level, if there’s any chance of me surviving. It’s a step into short-term discomfort for long-term gain. It’s that simple. The choice is mine. My arms aren’t working anymore so I shift my body sideways and unbalance the ape, giving myself a little room to manoeuvre my foot up and smash it into her ribcage. As she falls backwards, I scurry back a few feet. A second later she’s flying back at me for the final onslaught. But then, just as the ape is almost upon me, something rudely yanks her back and I realise she has a collar and leash round her neck. I’m just out of harm’s way and the chimp is white with rage as she batters the ground, bloody drool and fury flying from her lips. Maybe there is a god? Spent, I lie sprawled and ripped open in the sunlight, my body covered in blood, bits of gristle and white sinew hanging out of my useless arms . . . There’s no pain, yet; I’m deep in shock. Then a circus worker appears and puts her hand to her mouth to stifle a scream.

  * * *

  The air stewardess tapped me on the shoulder waking me from my nightmare. I shot up in my seat as if I’d been electrocuted, nearly knocking the G&T out of the hand of the passenger next to me. Did I want something to drink? Booze was the last thing on my mind. I’d barely touched a drop in years, while my friend Dave ‘Nicko’ Nichols had respected the request of the ayahuasca retreat, to which we were heading, and abstained from alcohol for two weeks before our arrival.

  As the plane banked, revealing a sea of endless jungle backed by the impossibly blue Pacific, I looked over at Nicko and wondered what the hell we were doing here. We had travelled thousands of miles to Costa Rica in search of a vine dubbed ‘the death plant’. The juice of the ayahuasca vine is a hallucinogen. Historically, it was used by shamans in the Amazon Basin to treat physical ailments, help mental problems and solve spiritual crises. These days, it’s popular among Western travellers looking for personal and vocational insights into their relationships, purpose in life, career choice, and, most importantly for our purposes, it is alleged to help sufferers of PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder), depression and addiction.

  Nicko, an ex-Para and former Special Forces Support Group operative and veteran of the war in Afghanistan, had witnessed his fair share of tragedies during his time there and returned to the UK a troubled man with PTSD. He’d done a spell in jail, was drinking too much and was heading in only one direction.

  Being in the Army insulates you with constant process; it gives each day a sense of structure and purpose. Add to that the camaraderie of your fellow soldiers, which creates a bond that is hard to put into words, and you want for little more. But on leaving the Forces, the scaffolding to the day disappears, which can make you easily feel desolate, lost, worthless and forgotten. The contrast couldn’t be more acute: in the British Special Forces you are an integral part of the most admired and feared group of elite soldiers in the world; on civvy street you’re suddenly a nobody, nothing but a walking mass of scars and trauma. Desperation, anger, fear and emptiness seem to be your only friends. Suicide is a constant siren singing to you from the bottom of a pint. The more you put down your throat, the less clearly you hear her.

  Nicko was a walking grenade ready to detonate, and sometimes he did. He’d enter his local and it would go quiet for all the wrong reasons. He looked like someone you wouldn’t screw around with, or worse still, like someone who hoped you might. The pub would soon empty, half-drunk pints left standing, while, oblivious, Nicko sat gazing into space with a ‘thousand-yard’ stare, tumbleweed blowing past his feet. When I was in the Special Forces we dealt with the blackness of war and our operations around the world by matching them with equally dark humour, machismo and aggression. Everyone had the same screwed-up symptoms so none of us realised just how fractured we were. In Afghanistan, Nicko had learned to deal with emotion by deflecting it. The problem was this emotion came back to haunt him tenfold. On leaving the Forces he tried to block it out, didn’t share his experiences of conflict, or the loss of his buddies who died in Afghanistan and who he’d never had chance to say goodbye to, with his wife and family. Dave is a big tough lad, a warrior, and as pillars of masculinity warriors aren’t supposed to show their weaknesses. And so he tried to bury it. That hadn’t worked. Then Nicko attempted suicide, twice: once by hanging, the other time by stabbing himself. Each day was a curse rather than a blessing. He had not only peered over the edge of the abyss, he had fallen to the bottom of it and knew his way around down there. His imminent death sat like a grinning witch’s familiar on his shoulder.

  I’d given Nicko quite a senior position in my company BreakPoint because I believed in him, but there were some staff he’d rubbed up the wrong way who would have been happier to see him go. I felt I had a duty of care, and I honestly think he would have tried to take his life again had I turned my back on him. But for all his complications there was a lot of goodness in him. He had a big heart as well as a great mind, which could be a major feather in Break-Point’s cap. We were heading to the jungle in Costa Rica not to take drugs and have a trippy time, but to face our demons.

  I’d been intrigued by ayahuasca for some time. Only six months earlier, my old girlfriend Nat, a psychologist who had been doing a lot of work with a hallucinogenic drug called DMT in relation to her treatment of soldiers suffering from PTSD, suggested I would benefit from taking it. As is often the case when you put something out there and focus your attention on an intention, the Universe listens and sends you the coordinates you need to get there. Having expressed an interest in the drug by ticking a page on Instagram, I shortly received a phone call from an American called Jessie. He said he worked for a charity called Heroic Hearts Project, who help military veterans suffering from PTSD by connecting them to ayahuasca therapy retreats around the world. He told me he was in London for a limited time and wondered if we could meet. As it happened, I was in London too, so we got together, talked and he invited me to an upcoming ayahuasca retreat in Costa Rica. My diary was free that week in December and so I was up for it. ‘Oh, and did you want to bring a veteran with me?’ he asked. I immediately thought of Nicko. The question was, would Dave be open to the drug? I knew the ayahuasca would force him to revisit the traumas responsible for his PTSD. Was there a danger the death plant could tip him into even more mental chaos than he was
already burdened with?

  Ayahuasca is Quechua for ‘vine of the souls’. It’s also called the ‘truth plant’, or ‘teacher plant’. They say it takes you to the very core of your real self by confronting you with your self-deceptions, previous wrong-doings, buried trauma and repressed memories. And yet the chance of clearing up old traumas came at a cost. In exchange, we would have to face our deepest fears. A trained spiritual healer, also known as a curandero or shaman, would guide us to the black cobwebbed forest of our early memories; a kaleidoscope of bright summer circuses and shifting shadows, nightmares and spiders. It didn’t matter how brave I might have been on occasions as a Special Forces soldier, back then I had a team around me. This was something I had to do alone. The shaman would only take me to the woods, he couldn’t come in with me and face the horror.

  I might have learned to travel light during my time as an elite soldier, but I was still carrying old baggage, the heaviest of which I’d lugged around with me for the best part of my life. And it wasn’t just a dream: as a ten-year-old kid, I really was involved in a freakish accident in which a female circus chimpanzee almost killed me. Chimps can weigh as much as 200 pounds, they’ve been known to kill leopards and, never mind a boy, they are twice as strong as a man. They are also known to eat one another and wage war on rival groups. Human victims of their rage have had their entire faces removed. I began to picture my old foe waiting for me. My whole life had been drawing towards this reunion, that diabolical primate waiting for me upstream in my nightmares, fight-fit and ready. But so was I. I had rebuilt myself bit by bit, both mentally and physically. At 48 years of age, I was finally ready to take it on.