Marsh - Fat, Forty and Fired
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- Book:Fat, Forty and Fired
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- Year:2011;2005
- City:Sydney;Australia
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Nigel Marsh was born in Plymouth, UK. Five years later hewas sent to boarding school. He has spent the 35 years sincethinking of ways of gaining the attention and affirmation ofhis parents.
Having travelled the world and studied Theology for sevenyears, Nigel has concluded that Sydney is heaven.
The Chairman of communications group Leo BurnettAustralia, he lives in Bronte with his wife and four children.
www.fatfortyandfired.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Fat, Forty and Fired
ePub ISBN 9781864714487
Kindle ISBN 9781864716931
Original Print Edition
FAT, FORTY AND FIRED
A BANTAM BOOK
First published in Australia and New Zealand in 2005 by Bantam
This edition published in 2007 by Bantam
Copyright Nigel Marsh, 2005
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry
Marsh, Nigel, 19643-.
Fat, forty and fired.
ISBN: 9781863255530
1. Marsh, Nigel, 1964-. 2. Fathers Biography. 3.Househusbands New South Wales Biography. 4.Advertising executives New South Wales Biography. I.Title.
306.8742
Transworld Publishers,
a division of Random House Australia Pty Ltd
Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway
North Sydney NSW 2060
www.randomhouse.com.au
Cover design by Darian Causby/Highway 51
Cover candle compliments of Boston Warehouse, Norwood MA, USA
Pages 271272: The Bad Touch words and music by James Franks, Songs of Polygram/Hey Rudy/Jimmy Franks Music, Universal Music Publishing P/L. Printed with permission. All rights reserved.
Page 279: Extract from Balance is Bunk! by Keith Hammonds, 2005 Gruner & Jahr USA Publishing. First published in Fast Company Magazine. Reprinted with permission.
Typeset by Midland Typesetters, Australia
Printed and bound by Griffin Press, South Australia
For Kate, Alex, Harry, Grace and EveAlways have, always will.
DO YOU EVER FANTASISE about moving to the country or abeach and downsizing? If so I know how you feel. I've spentthe last two decades slogging my guts out in a variety of differentjobs, for the most part in a decidedly rainy, urbanisedcountry.
Like most of the population, when I started I had no assetsto fall back on or family influence to gain leverage in anyparticular field for a smooth entry into the workplace. Moreimportantly, I had no money beyond that which I could earneach week. London can be a pretty unforgiving place for ayoung man with no connections or qualifications beyondbeing able to read the Bible in Greek and a valid driver'slicence.
The early signs after I finished my education and movedto the city to seek my fortune weren't particularly encouraging.But I didn't have a family to look after and sleeping ina mate's car while working on the railway didn't seem all thatbad at the time.
As the years passed, I eventually secured a foothold on thebottom rung of a career ladder that seemed to suit myparticular talents the world of marketing beckoned. Myprogress up the greasy pole was satisfactory and I soonfound myself above the poverty line. Indeed, after a fewyears I even qualified for the dizzy heights of middlemanagement.
My personal responsibilities four kids and counting grew, along with my earning power, the former nicelycancelling out the potential benefits of the latter. I began towork harder and harder to stay afloat. I changed jobs,companies even countries to further my career. As theyears went by, though, I began to be aware of an increasinglypersistent voice in my head. What's it all for, Nige? Your lifeis slipping away. You need to change your priorities and spendproper time with your family. The voice wouldn't go away,indeed it just got louder as time passed. Of course for a longtime I didn't change my lifestyle or take time off, but thatdidn't stop me spending the last ten years having escapistdaydreams about kicking it all in.
Then, in 2003, I found myself downsized and living inSydney. The reality didn't quite match the dream. Accordingto a recent headline in the Financial Times, 'poor is the newrich and dropping out is the dream'. Bollocks. Poor is poorand dropping out can be a nightmare.
I haven't got a catchy slogan that sums up what I learnedfrom my year off. I do know, however, that men aren't fromMars and fat isn't a feminist issue. Men are from Earth andfat is fat. I don't claim to have usable wisdom for anyoneelse. All I can say is that I lived the dream of dropping outfor a year and this is how it was for me.
Paper pants
SANTA DIDN'T COME to Bronte last year. The communitynurse came instead. My four kids weren't exactly thrilled withthis swap but then again, neither was I. Having over akilogram of seaweed gauze repeatedly packed into a freshlycut arse wound does tend to take the edge off one's festivemood. Particularly when your company is about to be mergedout of existence and you are stuck halfway around the world,15,000 or so miles away from family and home back inEngland.
But worse things have happened at sea, as my Dad alwayssays. How worse things happening at sea is supposed to help,I've bugger-all notion, but it's the sort of useless counsel youseem to get when your life's in the shitter and people aretrying to be kind. I was just going to have to put some of theadvice I'd gleaned from the covers of those self-help booksyou see in airports into practice to help me deal with theproblem.
The problem had reared its head precisely a week before. Avisit to the local GP with what I thought was a boil on myarse resulted in me being told to put a green gown on back tofront and sign a lot of forms absolving anyone from blame ifI were to die. An anal fistula is the correct medical term formy early Christmas present Henry V died of one aged 36 and a fistulectomy is the operation. (The post-operationpacking process itself hasn't got an official medical term,as they couldn't translate 'motherfuckingawfulsustained-painandmisery'into Latin.) Twelve hours later I woke up aftersuch an operation in Sydney's Prince of Wales Hospital togroggily tell my wife, Kate, 'That wasn't so bad.'
'The surgery is the easy bit. It's the packing that's thekiller,' the doctor rather too cheerfully corrected me. Leavingaside the fact that at that point I didn't know what 'packing'was, all I could think was, 'How bad can that be?' As it turnsout, badder than bad. Not just tear-jerkingly, painfully badbut soul-destroyingly, humiliatingly bad. The first nurse whoperformed this task on me was delightful, empathetic andskilled. She barely batted an eyelid as I screamed like a womanin the final stages of labour.
'There. All done, Mr Marsh,' she said.
'Oh, thanks so much and sorry for all the noise. At leastthe worst is over now. I don't think I could face ever havingto do that again.' It was then that she gently explained thatsomeone would have to do it every day for at least six weeks.
'Every day?' I groaned.
'Every day,' she confirmed.
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