Nigel Marsh - Fat, Forty, and Fired: One mans frank, funny, and inspiring account of losing his job and finding his life

Fat, Forty, and Fired copyright 2007 by Nigel Marsh. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews.

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Marsh, Nigel, 1964

Fat, forty, and fired : one mans frank, funny, and inspiring account of losing his job and finding his life / Nigel Marsh.

p. cm.

Originally published: Sydney : Bantam, 2005.

ISBN: 978-0-7407-8884-0

1. Marsh, Nigel, 1964 2. Middle-aged menAustraliaBiography. 3. FathersAustraliaBiography. 4. HousehusbandsAustraliaBiography. 5. Advertising executivesAustraliaBiography. 6. UnemployedAustraliaBiography. 7. Life change events. I. Title.

HQ1059.5.A8M37 2007
305.24410994dc22

2006047951

First published in Australia and New Zealand in 2005 by Bantam

Cover design by Darian Causby/Highway 51
Cover candle compliments of Boston Warehouse, Norwood, Massachusetts

Pages 26061: The Bad Touch, words and music by James Franks. Copyright 2000 by Songs of Polygram/Hey Rudy Music/Jimmy Franks Music, Universal Music Publishing P/L. Printed with permission. All rights reserved.

Page 267: Extract from Balance Is Bunk! by Keith Hammonds, copyright 2005 by Gruner & Jahr USA Publishing. First published in Fast Company magazine. Reprinted with permission.

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Jacket photography by Blue Cork
Jacket design by Darian

For Kate, Alex, Harry, Grace, and Eve.
Always have, always will.

D O YOU EVER FANTASIZE about moving to the country or a beach and downsizing? If so I know how you feel. Ive spent the last two decades slogging my guts out in a variety of different jobs, for the most part in a decidedly rainy, urbanized country.

Like most of the population, when I started I had no assets to fall back on or family influence to gain leverage in any particular field for a smooth entry into the workplace. More important, I had no money beyond that which I could earn each week. London can be a pretty unforgiving place for a young man with no connections or qualifications beyond being able to read the Bible in Greek and a valid drivers license.

The early signs after I finished my education and moved to the city to seek my fortune werent particularly encouraging. But I didnt have a family to look after, and sleeping in a mates car while working on the railway didnt seem all that bad at the time.

As the years passed, I eventually secured a foothold on the bottom rung of a career ladder that seemed to suit my particular talentsthe world of marketing beckoned. My progress up the greasy pole was satisfactory, and I soon found myself above the poverty line. Indeed, after a few years I even qualified for the dizzying heights of middle management.

My personal responsibilitiesfour kids and countinggrew, along with my earning power, the former nicely canceling out the potential benefits of the latter. I began to work harder and harder to stay afloat. I changed jobs, companieseven countriesto further my career. As the years went by, though, I began to be aware of an increasingly persistent voice in my head. Whats it all for, Nige? Your life is slipping away. You need to change your priorities and spend proper time with your family. The voice wouldnt go away; indeed it just got louder as time passed. Of course for a long time I didnt change my lifestyle or take time off, but that didnt stop me from spending the last ten years having escapist daydreams about kicking it all in.

Then, in 2003, I found myself downsized and living in Sydney, Australia. The reality didnt quite match the dream. According to a recent headline in the Financial Times, Poor is the new rich and dropping out is the dream. Bullshit. Poor is poor and dropping out can be a nightmare.

I havent got a catchy slogan that sums up what I learned from my year off. I do know, however, that men arent from Mars and fat isnt a feminist issue. Men are from Earth and fat is fat. I dont claim to have usable wisdom for anyone else. All I can say is that I lived the dream of dropping out for a year and this is how it was for me.

S ANTA DIDNT COME to Sydney last year. The community nurse came instead. My four kids werent exactly thrilled with this swapbut then again, neither was I. Having over two pounds of seaweed gauze repeatedly packed into a fresh-cut ass wound does tend to take the edge off ones festive mood. Particularly when your company is about to be merged out of existence and you are stuck halfway around the world, fifteen thousand or so miles away from family and home back in England.

But worse things have happened at sea, as my dad always says. Im damned if I know why worse things happening at sea is supposed to help, but its the sort of useless counsel you seem to get when your lifes in the toilet and people are trying to be kind. I was just going to have to put into practice some of the advice Id gleaned from the covers of those self-help books you see in airports to help me deal with the problem.

The problem had reared its head precisely a week before. A visit to my doctor with what I thought was a boil on my butt resulted in me being told to put a green gown on backward and sign a lot of forms absolving anyone from blame if I were to die. An anal fistula is the correct medical term for my early Christmas presentHenry V died of one at age thirty-sixand a fistulectomy is the operation. (The postoperation packing process itself hasnt got an official medical term, as they couldnt translate godawfulsustainedpainandmisery into Latin.) Twelve hours later I woke up after such an operation in Sydneys Prince of Wales Hospital to groggily tell my wife, Kate, That wasnt so bad.

The surgery is the easy bit. Its the packing thats the killer, the doctor rather too cheerfully corrected me. Leaving aside the fact that at this point I didnt know what packing was, all I could think was, How bad can that be? As it turns out, badder than bad. Not just tear-jerkingly, painfully bad, but soul-destroyingly, humiliatingly bad. The first nurse who performed this task on me was delightful, empathetic, and skilled. She barely batted an eyelid as I screamed like a woman in the final stages of labor.

There. All done, Mr. Marsh, she said.

Oh, thanks so much and sorry for all the noise. At least the worst is over now. I dont think I could face ever having to do that again. She then gently explained that someone would have to do it every day for at least six weeks.

Every day? I groaned.

Every day, she confirmed.

Christmas Day?

Christmas Day.

New Years Day?

New Years Day.

At which point I adopted the role of Scrooge, not Santa, and effectively destroyed any festive spirit. I soon forgot the airport self-help books and settled into a marriage-wrecking combination of self-pity, anger, and helplessness. Daddys cranky was how Alex, my gorgeous seven-year-old, put it to all our rejected Christmas well-wishers.