This is a story about abandoning ship...

I went down to Bournemouth to decide what was worth saving from my old life, which I had hurriedly left behind in an attempt to move on and start again back in London.

These are some of the photos I took. I'm not going to write much.

The stuff was mostly in cupboards, under the stairs or in megashed. I didn't have time to go up in the attic. I must have literally spent less than an hour quickly snapping before I had to get out, and not get dragged back into the past (ha ha! Not really winning, I know).

Here's everything that made it to London in the car:

And here's what I brought on the train, when I first ran away:

And here's everything I salvaged put into storage:

That's it, a life dismantled. The contents of a 3-bedroom house, attic and megashed, refined down and locked away in a rented cupboard.

This is a blog post with pictures of my house taken in the daytime, for your interest: https://www.manicgrant.com/2015/stress-test

It's only stuff, but words fail me for some reason. Perhaps because I have never since quite managed to get all the same pieces at the same time ever again: the friends & family, the girl, the hobby, the job, the house, the car and the stuff.

Tags: #divorce #london

This is a story about going round in circles...

The mistakes of the past, the pitfalls, the traps, and the warning signs and the other things that can be learnt by experience, are not hidden from me. The 'right' way to live your life is not alien to me. There was a period of many years where I worked regular hours, paid my mortgage, bills and went about my daily routine with familiar normality.

Now, it's easy to point at many aspects of my life and say "that's not right" and "you need to fix that". I'm not blind and I'm not stupid. I can see what needs to be done. I know where I need to get to. However, there is no short-cut to moving from dysfunctional to productive regularity. There are no fast fixes for the myriad little things that break down and need attention.

The accumulation of this backlog of little broken things and time spent trapped into a dysfunctional existence, leaves very steep sides to a very deep trench that you get stuck in. There are limited opportunities to make your escape.

Please don't think this is a case of poor me, poor me, pour me another drink. I'll either get out of rut I'm stuck in, or else I know quite precisely where I'm going to end up.

It's true that at a certain point, it becomes attractive to just give up, to capitulate, to self-sabotage. When the task ahead just looks so daunting and you have none of the resources you need to complete it, why not use what little remaining life force you have in reserve, in a hedonistic exit from your miserable existence?

I'm certainly not in that position at the moment. I have a couple of excellent lifelines, and to throw in the towel now would be churlish. When I scratch the surface, things are so much worse than I could even imagine, but at the same time, I have some assistance and opportunities that I'm ridiculously lucky to have.

For those who have to imagine the many parts of the picture that remain obscured to anybody except the mind-reader, you will struggle to see much difference between your own functional life, and my dysfunctional one. It doesn't look like it would take much to restore normality.

However, it has been a long time since I was 'in the saddle' as it were, cycling along with good balance and steady pedalling rhythm. 3 meals a day, a hard day's work and a good night's sleep. Week after week, month after month, year after year. My life simply has 'episodes' now, where I switch between different modes.

I'm stuck in an episode of low mood, low energy, high anxiety, high stress, low productivity. Things that aren't exactly peachy for getting your life back on track. It's hard to imagine why I'm not up at first light, fixing everything up and pushing hard to get back into the swing of things. Hard to imagine if you've never hit a brick wall of depression or anxiety.

It's a bit of a waiting game. Moods fluctuate. The body and brain dictate the terms, and to artificially alter them with chemicals is partially how I ended up stuck in this rut, so it's not like I just need a few happy pills from the Doctor. Or that's certainly a route I'd like to avoid anyway, having already seen several iterations of that particular approach, with the same results every time.

It seems there's no cheating the system.

Doping in sport can lead to enlarged hearts that can suddenly stop beating, blood that's so thick that you can't fall asleep and have a drop in blood pressure, muscles that are swollen into vein covered monstrosities from steroid use, arthritic joints and inflamed tendons. Don't you think we're just pushing the human limits too far some times?

Using vast amounts of strong coffee to concentrate on work, and vast amounts of alcohol to switch off and de-stress after work, is perhaps the office worker's equivalent of being in the Tour de France, surrounded by other people who are using the performance enhancing substances, who are your peers and you need to keep pace with.

My body is screaming "where are the stimulants?" as I deny it caffeine. I could start drinking coffee and cola again, but I have no idea how far away from my true self I really am, I've been so out of touch with my chemically unaltered moods for so long.

I've started drinking alcohol again, and it's alarming how insidious it is, rushing back into my life, to tranquillise my jangling nerves and put me to sleep. There is some moderation, self-control there, but not much. There is sanctuary to be found at the bottom of a bottle. Intoxication is sweet relief from otherwise never-ending relentless exhausting stress and anxiety.

Without alcohol or some tranquillising medication, or even an herbal sleep remedy, I will just spend a night awake with my fears, my negative thoughts, my anxiety about the sheer volume of things that need to be fixed up, repaired, my stress about the workload ahead.

Things are getting worse before they get better.

Ok, so we have London, and we have bicycles. Some elements look consistent. However, we still have the seasons, and the dark and the rain and the cold are all fairly debilitating unless I'm in a well-established routine, or I can get away somewhere hot and sunny for a couple of weeks respite.

I know that Spring has sprung, and that we are on British Summer Time (BST) now, giving a whole extra hour of evening light. However, my body's not fooled, because I don't have a routine that is particularly dictated by clocks and calendars. I have moods that are dictated by sunlight and warmth.

Over the years I learnt what my body and brain needed, and when. It was important to establish an annual routine, as well as the daily workweek routine. How else could I lay down periods of up to 4 years in the same job, for the same company?

All that's been washed away in recent years. I've shown I know how to survive and get by, but not how to thrive and make things have any longevity anymore it seems.

I would say though, that I haven't forgotten the vast majority of what I learned in 20 years attempting full-time employment. It's only been since 2010 that everything went very much out of kilter. I guess it's like spinning helicopter blades. It only takes a little bit of damage to one of the blades, and the machine will shake itself to pieces.

Just popped round to see Liz and Phil for a spot of tea

Tags: #bipolar #depression #mentalhealth #london #career

This is a story about not being anonymous...

I'm not powerless over drugs and/or alcohol. My life has become pretty unmanageable, but I don't need a higher power to return me to sanity. I don't consider myself an alcoholic or an addict and I don't go to meetings.

I certainly have trouble turning down subsequent drinks, after I've had my first 2 pints of strong European lager and I'm enjoying the company of friends or work colleagues. It's probable that I will keep drinking until I've had 6 or 7 pints and I'm reaching an intoxication limit where I'm starting to slur my words and be unsteady on my feet. I won't keep drinking though... I'll normally bolt for home & bed when I've hit my limit.

I don't think I've had an alcoholic drink before midday on any day except Christmas Day, and even then, only a handful of times. I'm pretty sure I never went more than about 10 consecutive days where I got drunk. I know I did 115 days without a single drop of alcohol. I didn't cheat once, even though there were times that I was very tempted to bend the rules.

There have been times when my drinking was getting out of control, with beer every lunchtime, long Friday afternoons in the beer garden, drinking again when I got home, drinking all weekend. I'm not sure it ever qualified as 'problematic' though. Drinking was quite ingrained in the lifestyle of my friends and the work culture, to the point that despite many years of being half-cut in the office, nothing has ever been said, except for one day I was so hungover I didn't make it to my desk until 2pm.

But alcohol really isn't my problem. Supercrack is my poison of choice. Certainly if I have this drug in my possession, there is limited chance of me doing anything sane or rational. There's the added problem of unplanned binges as well. Once you pop, you can't stop.

When I am struggling with active addiction, I tell myself all sorts of lies. The main one is that I will act in some kind of reserved, controlled way. Once Supercrack is coursing its way through my drugstream, there is very little chance of me seeing onrushing death and health damage as any reason to curtail my foolish actions.

Do we think that the many relapses that I've had mean I'm an addict for life, and as such, should always attach that label to myself, even when I'm 'clean'? Well, it's certainly true that once experienced, things cannot be un-experienced, and there is disappointingly little dissipation in the desire to continue to use a drug that one has been addicted to, if there were no consequences.

Aversion therapy, is using negative reinforcement to break the addiction to something. If you link and associate enough unpleasant experiences with your addiction, the downsides start to outweigh the upsides, and it's not so difficult to stay 'clean'. Could you be said to no longer be 'addicted'?

Human memory is a strange thing though. Negative memories seem to fade faster than positive ones. When you recall some event that was extremely harrowing at the time, each time you think about it, it loses some of its pain and regret. Humans are programmed to be optimistic and take risks. Otherwise, we would never have risked leaving our caves to hunt and domesticate sharp-toothed & clawed predators.

Another lie that I tend to tell myself when I'm slipping back into active addiction, is that there will be some way to satisfy my addictive demands with some harm-reduced and risk-managed 'lapse' that will stave off a full relapse. In actual fact, this then gives the excuse for the next addict lie, which is that the use of drugs can then no longer cease until I'm fully satisfied that I have extracted the maximum possible from the experience, even though the trend is clearly destructively spiralling downwards.

This drive to end a period of addiction on your own terms is kind of laughable, if I look at myself with a harshly critical eye. I can see that there is never any recapturing the initial high that you experience when your tolerance is low and your body in a healthy state. Your days are literally numbered while you're in the grip of a dangerous addiction, and refusing to acknowledge that continuing is futile and foolish.

Most people run out of money or run out of luck before they have exhausted their demand for their drug of choice. The common street drugs have been on the market for long enough to find a price point that has been optimised to fit the addictiveness of the drug to an affordability that ensures steady demand.

I feel very grateful that I never became addicted to Cocaine, Crack Cocaine, Heroin, Crystal Meth or other street 'hard' drugs. They say a fool and his money are easily parted, and so, the street drug addict must be the biggest fool of them all.

Or is it so clear cut? With street drugs, at least you have some direct human contact with your dealer, who has a symbiotic relationship with you, and therefore a reason to not let you tip over the edge into total self annihilation. Often, social groups might form around drug use, and there's a kind of safety in numbers. Even an addict might heed the advice of another addict when somebody says "I think you've probably had enough".

Having essentially unlimited access to the drug you're addicted to, with virtually zero oversight or social ties, is like playing a game of chicken where you're invisible to an oncoming bus driver. Only you can jump out of the way of the bus. The drug will never blink, never back down.

And so it is, I find myself able to relate to most of the stories I hear addicts and alcoholics tell, but there is something terrifyingly unknown and isolating about being amongst the first addicts to have become ensnared by mass-produced Chinese legal research chemicals, and with unlimited access to the world's hardest drugs, with a few mouse clicks on the Dark Web.

Governments have no idea what the consequences of trying to head off the cat & mouse game of criminalising novel chemical compounds will be. The invention of the Dark Web and the synthesis of these new 'designer' drugs is surely a reaction to laws and prohibition. Who could have foreseen that this would create new drugs, new markets, trap unintended types of people into the horrors of addiction and criminal justice?

That's a rock of Crack Cocaine that I was offered on the street soon after moving from North London to East London. Disruption in somebody's life can expose them to things that they've never experienced before.

Tags: #drugs #addiction #notanonymous

This is a story about dress sense...

I'm interested to see that the BBC are running a series of programmes about identity. It's a topic that I think about a lot.

While watching a documentary recently, a man who was being interviewed said that he never realised that children were just little people, with their own unique thoughts, tastes, opinions. feelings and experiences. It wasn't until his own children had grown into adolescence and adulthood that the penny had dropped that they weren't dollies or toys.

Occasionally, I worry that men who have owned dogs may become frustrated with children, given that a child has human genes, which don't predispose it to respecting the alpha of the pack, like a dogs genes would. Once a dog knows its place, it goes wild for praise and affection from the top of the pyramid, or will lower its head and tail in shame, if the alpha is apparently displeased with it.

To the dog owner who has taken time to establish the pecking order with their dog and train it somewhat, children look unruly, argumentative, difficult, badly behaved. We're talking about a fairly major species difference though. A dog may feel like a surrogate child, in that it invokes a caring, nurturing response from you, and the release of the bonding hormone, Oxytocin. Children are far less likely to jump on you and try and lick your face or hump your leg. They'll probably wander off to play with their toys once they've been fed.

Parenting must be incredibly difficult, and especially so if you haven't studied evolutionary biology to even a basic level. It's probably not until you're outnumbered by your offspring that the penny would drop that you are just a blob of trillions of cells, all expressing the same DNA. The blob constitutes an organism designed to replicate copies of genes. Once you've reproduced more than a couple of times, it becomes clear that your purpose is spent. You've carried out the will of your genes, in making more copies of them.

There are some wasps that can inject a psychoactive substance into a spider, to get the spider to weave a home for the wasp, before becoming a tasty snack. In much the same way, every gene in your DNA sequence is most likely to be there because it increases the probability that you as an organism will make a home for some genetic clones, and then become the food provider for your offspring organisms that carry your genes.

I remember when families used to wear matching tracksuits (or 'shell' suits as they seemed to be known then) and it's still uncommon to find families wearing matching outfits. I believe it's quite a common trend in the United States.

We quite like belonging to family, clan or tribe, as social animals. It's a more complex form of group behaviour than the wolf or dog pack, and all wearing the same identifying clothes can increase your security, your sense of belonging to the group.

And so it is, we might continue to wear the family shell suit, while it suits us to belong to the family. Getting your meals provided, a roof over your head and maybe your shell suit washed is a big bonus when you're a child without the means or maturity to support yourself. However, certainly as a young adolescent male, you're going to have to get pushed out of the childhood bosom of the family and tribe, in order to maintain genetic diversity and avoid the risk of incest.

A girl who stays close to home, and maintains strong and close family ties, is quite normal, and fits with everything else we see in nature. However, boys should at some point become men, and become more distant from their blood relatives in the interests of finding a mate and starting their own family, and hopefully a long bloodline in a clan or a tribe. This is what we are evolved to do.

Jumping ahead to the modern day, we are still governed by the same genetics and evolutionary advantages of organising ourselves into families, clans and tribes, but we have much extended the period of childhood and adolescence, as well as making the gene pool vastly more diverse, especially in cities. Road travel, rail travel and air travel have meant the intermingling of people from all continents. The transition from village living to commuting or city living means the modern tribe is all but extinct in the wealthier nations.

However, boys still need to become men at some point, and this requires the acknowledgement of a unique identity. You can't choose your son's clothes and dress him forever. You can't expect your son to live at home forever, despite the financial convenience.

In some ways, dress sense is a measure of maturity, or at least how long that person has been allowed to develop their own identity, free from parental influence. I know that the idea of giving gift vouchers is vulgar to some people, but the idea that somebody could know the subtle nuances of my tastes and pick out an item of clothing that I would select myself seems highly unlikely.

Because of highly unfortunate circumstances surrounding the collapse of my marriage and subsequent divorce, I have had to go cap in hand to those with money in order to bridge gaps in my income. Does it seem right that creditors would dictate how a 36 year old man dresses, or where they live, or how they furnish their home? Aren't those things part of an adult's identity, and wholly unique and owned by that individual?

It might seem ungrateful to not want to live back in the family home, and be fed and dressed by my mother, and have my lifestyle under the close scrutiny of my father, but I can't stress enough how destructive that is, when you're in a house in a village where you don't have any of your own friends, where you've never lived, where you've never worked.

There should be gratitude to just have a roof over my head, clothes on my back, right? Is it pride that keeps me from capitulating, and regressing to a state of childhood adolescence, turning up at my parents door, destitute?

I've barely been able to afford more than a pair of new shoes, in my non-work wardrobe in the last year. A relatively vast sum of money was expended on getting myself a flat, even though it represents excellent value for money in London, where the jobs are. Do these things seem like profligacy to you? Does it seem arrogant, spoiled, greedy, to expect to have a home (or a share of a home) I can call my own and to dress in a manner of my choosing?

I bought my glasses with money my parents gave me as a housewarming gift, for which I'm incredibly grateful. The T-shirt was a birthday present from a girl nearly 2 years ago. The bicycle is on loan and the fact I'm in San Francisco is a business expense

Tags: #parents #childhood #oxford #london

This is a story about late starters...

The way that girls enter and leave my life is fairly strange. Often I find myself dating somebody who was firmly in the friend zone. It never seems to pan out with the girls I've picked myself, so far.

I seem to be inescapably hopeless at reading hints that are dropped, or other indications that the opposite sex has taken an interest in me. When I replay past events, conversations, sometimes it seems obvious that there was flirtation, and I slap my palm to my forehead, but other times I seem to completely get the wrong end of the stick.

While some people might mourn the loss of the games, the ambiguity, the 'chase', playing 'hard to get' and generally feeling insecure and uncertain, I'm very glad that we're entering a more modern phase in the development of society, where we tell each other what we think and girls are allowed to be as forward as boys are. Hopefully, everybody gets what they want a lot quicker and easier than the old fashioned way.

It would seem to me though, like matching people's self-esteem levels is as important as matching people who are attractive to each other. Getting together with a girl who you feel is 'out of your league' when she confidently let you know she was attracted to you is one thing, but can you handle those little deliberate or accidental blows to your sense of security? When one partner clearly feels they have the upper hand, is the relationship doomed?

In your mid thirties you can't deny that the stakes of the game change substantially for the sexes. For women who haven't yet had babies but would like to be a mother at some point, the biological clock doesn't have that many more years to tick. The race to find the few remaining single men who haven't become fathers, adulterers or terminal imbeciles, is a challenge that I don't envy the opposite sex.

So, the photo-message of bodily parts is the new pre-date paradigm, apparently. After the exchange of phone numbers, WhatsApp'ing can commence, and for many men, the urge to send the object of their affections a picture of their 'junk' is too hard to resist, apparently. Perhaps shorthand for all that conversational 'getting to know you' waffle, the sending of penis photos is quite normal now, I'm told.

I don't think I've even photographed mine, let alone entrusted the digitised image to the internet for delivery.

I know that my ex used a no-strings sex website for a hookup, and photos of genitals were positively and eagerly sent and received there, but I can't see how it could have made a transition to traditional dating, although I guess it's the next logical step now that we are doing away with the hint dropping and more subtle flirtation.

I feel quite glad to have had a few relationships end amicably, or fizzle out naturally, to reassure me that things don't have to end as badly as they did with my ex-wife. It's true that with one fiery Italian, things were a bit too similar for comfort, with plates and other kitchen implements being hurled at my head. When she stormed out of my flat, I was all too pleased to lock the door behind her. She was surprised and disappointed I didn't chase after her.

Finding a girl who'll sunbathe on a windswept beach for an entire week, taking photos and videos of you kitesurfing, is jackpot kind of stuff, but holidays are only brief respites from daily drudgery. If you're not getting along in your regular everyday life, at some point the relationship is going to fall apart.

The modernisation of relationships is great in terms of transparency and getting what you want, but personally, I can find myself going along with things and ending up somewhat embroiled in situations that I never intended, simply because I still lack self confidence and don't assert myself sometimes.

Being polite, courteous and generous when buying drinks or food can often be mistaken for shy guy flirtation, and I know I've sent some girls confusing signals, when I've done little more than conduct myself with good manners, or so it seems to me.

I read something the other day that suggested men have sex whenever they can, and women have sex whenever they want. I guess I must be quite the freak if the article rings true with most other people, as I myself have found myself faking illness and even faking climax, although that one is slightly harder to pull off without a condom.

If you've read much of my blog, you'll know I'm exceptionally weird anyway.

Not having sex or at least trying to kiss the girl on the first date is seen as saying you're not interested and there's no 'spark' so far as I can tell. Taking things slowly with girls I've really liked has always been misread as me not being interested, and so it is that things tend to move pretty fast in the London dating scene.

Pulling in a nightclub is still a black art to me, but perhaps I shouldn't flirt so much with my gay friends. Probably sends out the wrong kind of signals.

What's the proper protocol to observe when trying to pull a girl in a club? I know there's something about meaningful glances being exchanged, and then you dance closer and closer, until you're definitely unnaturally in each others body space. Then I guess there's a point at which you just grab each other and start getting off. Either that or you get knee'ed in the bollocks and some kind of sexual harassment change is brought against you, presumably. I haven't really had the guts or the stupidity to try it.

Men are pretty lazy and content to go with the flow. I wonder how many relationships have continued to the marriage and children phase, simply because a guy couldn't face the tears and practical task of actually separating. According to the James Bond movies I've seen, women seem to make their selection of partner based on someone wh0 pushes themselves upon them most forcibly, before then becoming limp and compliant.

Personally, I seem to not have benefitted at all by trying to be the gentleman, doing things in a slightly old-fashioned way, even if I do benefit from the fact that at least I know where I stand with most girls now, and opportunities for promiscuity are there even if I'm still pretty much a serial monogamist.

I guess London has always had its seedier side

Tags: #london #divorce #friends

This is a story about a desire for privacy...

I've pretty much given up on the idea of having any personal privacy and instead swung to the other extreme of making most of my life completely public. Our family has never had any locks on bathroom/toilet doors and finds the notion of knocking before entering another family member's bedroom to be a baffling concept.

It might sound odd, but this issue grew and grew to become psychologically traumatic for me, and when I'm unwell, I can become obsessed with the idea of people bursting into my bedroom or bathroom at random, leaving me feeling vulnerable and under threat. I appreciate that this is not exactly rational thinking.

My ex-wife had demanded that my parents take me away from the home I owned, the bedroom that my parents put me in had one half of the door lock, but not the other half. I fashioned something that would fit in that lock from a roll of sellotape and had made myself a crude 'front door lock'. Something I was quite used to having from 7 years as a homeowner, and several other years with my own flat.

When my Dad came to randomly burst into this bedroom, he found that the door would not immediately open. Instead of saying, "Hello, can I come in?" or even "Hello", he marched downstairs and phoned the police. It was me who tried to initiate a conversation with him, which he roundly ignored. It wasn't until the police arrived that I found myself having a normal human conversation.

For anybody struggling with the concept of human communication, it goes like this:

• First, greet or otherwise attract the attention of the person you wish to communicate with, using their name or saying "Hey!" or "Hello!" or some other form of greeting or conversation initiator. This avoids saying things when nobody is expecting to be addressed or otherwise communicated with - they might be distracted or busy talking to somebody else.
• Secondly, once you have succcessfully established a dialogue, you may then raise your topic of discussion: ask a question, make a statement.
• Finally, if a response was expected, you should receive one. Otherwise, after a reasonable wait, you may ask if you were heard and understood correctly.

It doesn't seem that complicated for the vast majority of the 7 billion souls who crawl over the surface of the planet every day.

Also, there are fairly universal taboos that are not times when communication normally takes place, throughout this large human population: when a person is bathing or showering, when a person is getting dressed or undressed, when a person is having sex or masturbating. Those are normally not acceptable times to expect to hold a normal conversation or interact in a communicative way.

I honestly don't think that it was the fact I didn't grow up in the Swinging 60's that means that I follow the human communication protocol and respect the taboos of most people. I'm fairly certain that most people would have some problem with my parents entering your bathroom while you're taking a shit, for example.

You might have heard about acid flashbacks people get, when they have a really bad trip on LSD. One example might be feeling like ants are crawling all over your body, and then that imagined event might occur again, purely psychologically with no drugs in your system, simply because it was so traumatic when it happened.

Similarly, now I'm in my own flat again, and I have a lock on my en-suite bathroom door, I still have attacks of paranoia about people bursting in randomly, unannounced. This has led me to screw 6" screws into the door woodwork, and other acts of keeping my bedroom door physically closed. This has become obsessive and frantic, at times where my underlying psychological trauma has been exacerbated with drugs and lack of sleep.

My flatmate is actually the first person I've ever met who can calm me down and get me to realise that there is no threat, and it's all imagined, and put down my tools and whatever else I'm fashioning a barricade out of and start to relax and feel safe in my own home again.

I don't think it takes a professional psychologist to understand that if somebody feels under threat in their own 'safe' space, it only takes fairly limited reassurance that the human protocols of knock before entering are going to be observed, before the distressed individual starts to feel better.

That's the view looking down from my attic in my old house. As you can see, there is no ladder or steps lowered to ascend or descend. I climbed into the hatch without the aid of either. The more you shout at a person and corner them and traumatise them and use the police to do the human part of speaking to somebody, knocking, talking etc... the more you drive them into a state of complete psychological trauma, fear, madness.

The psychological damage can be repaired, and the self-protection response doesn't have to be triggered to the full extreme, and it gets better over time. My friends Will & Jess, who had let me stay in their guest bedroom, pretty much left me alone until my leg was mostly healed and I was sat in their lounge, before having a normal human conversation about how it was probably time I started looking for my own flat. They were very delicate and considerate with my feelings. They were kind and considerate. They helped and repaired psychological damage.

I have no idea how 5 people can co-exist with a total loony in the same house, and nothing was really said, but they were very discreet and I'm sure they were kind enough to tell a few white lies to save my blushes. I can't thank them enough for doing that for me, although just like applying the brakes on a supertanker, it takes some time before a person can start to feel safe and unthreatened after a long period of trauma and stress.

You certainly won't get an aggressive response back from me, however you choose to deal with me, but you may find me trying to burrow my way under your floorboards or pretending to be a pair of curtains or something else equally bonkers, as an absurdly twisted response to the extreme threat that I wrongly perceive.

Aggresssion rarely solved any problems in the world.

Direct action might be disruptive, but you can never be sure that the consequences will be positive, and not simply drive behaviour underground and close off open and honest dialog. You can also never be sure whether a person is trying to disrupt/interrupt their own behaviour, unless you really know what you're looking at, when you peek into their private world.

Tags: #addiction #mentalhealth #friends #divorce #parents #london #oxford #police

This is a story about being isolated from the real world...

I remember an ex-girlfriend had lived her entire life in the village centre of Haslemere, Surrey. She was completely oblivious to the existence of the struggles of lower social strata. I remember my washing-machine repairman friend, Justin, being absolutely speechless when she casually talked about her parents retiring to Beaulieu, so they could be closer to their yacht. She was completely clueless. Not her fault.

One of my friends from school said he used to like coming to play over at our house, because at mealtimes there was lots to eat and it wasn't just potatoes. I liked playing at his house, because we would be messing around on decaying railway infrastructure, climbing huge mountains of coal or precarious games that involved the canal. Oxford might have become gentrified in parts, but there were still areas that were incredibly deprived.

The number of my friends who have spent time in jail, have some kind of criminal record or have at least spent time in the criminal justice system, is surprising, given my background could have completely isolated me from the 'bad crowd'. I did go to state school, but central Oxford has enough sons & daughters of lower ranking academics to mean that in the top sets of streamed subjects you would be unlikely to find a proper 'working class' child. Our form groups were also chosen quite specifically to try and stop the ruffians getting mixed up with those destined for greater success.

I hope that I'm fairly 'class blind' and don't judge people on their socioeconomic background. I also hope that I'm sensitive to the fact that I've had opportunities which are quite simply barred to a huge proportion of society. Being taught to speak like I was to the manor born, having posh sounding schools (although entirely ordinary state entities) and being quite relaxed speaking to adults of any rank or status, means that many doors have been open to me.

In some cases, money simply prices any ordinary people out of the market, so you'll find that all your neighbours are wealthy, successful and educated. There might be gates or a gatehouse or some kind of obvious border to the pocket of wealth you find yourself in, but often there isn't such clear demarkation. In London, for example, things are very subtle most of the time. The part of a London area that has the chic delicatessen, nice restaurants, a Waitrose, tastefully in-keeping shopfronts, colourfully painted townhouses or monolithic blocks of grand Georgian terrace... these things are pretty obviously what happens over time to an area after the hipsters have increased rents which drives out those who wish to shop at Cash Converters, Argos and Lidl.

Camden Town is a strange melting pot. A stone's throw from Regents Park and Primrose Hill, where some top dollar rent is demanded, but yet the high street has more than its fair share of pawnbrokers and low priced food outlets. I guess nobody really wants to live by the market, where drugs are dealt openly on the street at night, and in the daytime is crawling with tourists and pickpockets.

S0, I find myself now living somewhere that seems to only have an abstract connection with London. I live in a gated community with a concierge who is only too happy to take delivery of online supermarket shopping, if I never wished to leave the comfort and security of this well-insulated riverside apartment at all. There is water on 180 degrees of one side of the apartment... not even any roads, with the capital's incessant sirens as emergency services vehicles make their way from one incident to the next.

Only, where there are navigable waterways, there is always the chance for social mobility. Boatloads of people on the Clipper, party boats and speedboats come joyriding and commuting along the Thames. The police boat can even be regularly be seen jetting off up-river somewhere, with it's blue lights flashing. Tugs removing barge-loads of trash, or bringing containerloads of goods, chug their way up and down through the semi-tidal water.

I used to be content to watch a massive storm batter the coast, even if I had driven for many hours in the hope of being able to kitesurf, but the conditions were too rough and wild. As my equipment improved, I was able to afford a range of kites that could handle high winds as well as light breeze. I was able to actually get on the water in a storm, but that's right at the limit of survival and you don't have any time to actually think about what's going on around you.

I don't recommend you try it, if you've never been in the water when the wind is plucking you up, and depositing you several hundred metres downwind, as a 60-70mph gust comes through, turning the top of the water into stinging spray and foamy froth.

I don't recommend you try it, if you've never been in the water when breaking waves are the size of 2 or 3 storey houses, and all you can hear is a deafening roar as they're breaking behind you, as you try to outrun them. When one of these monsters catches you near the shore, it pummels you underwater into the seafloor, which hopefully is made of sand, not rocks or coral or something else sharp. Without your kite to pull you back to the surface and back onto the beach, you're as good as dead.

Kitesurfing used to be a fairly level playing field. Now, the equipment is so expensive I can't see how anybody of ordinary means could enter the sport. I guess surfing is still low cost-of-entry but who has enough time to bob around on a floaty thing waiting for a wave big enough to be worth paddling for? The English Channel is about the 3rd windiest place on the planet, and living on an island means you can't be too many degrees of separation from somebody who has at least some sense of how to move on water.

But here I am, inland, although only a stones throw from a river which would quickly carry me to the seawater of the Thames estuary. I used to kitesurf on Canvey Island and at Whitstable, which have reassuringly brown estuarial water. The water there very definitely came from the arsehole of midlands.

It's been so long since I had to rub shoulders with the proletariat. I'm not sure it's exactly made me forget the struggles of ordinary people, to lose perspective, to feel entitled or not realise that most of my worries and stresses are pretty much first world problems. Not travelling also means not seeing people who are not just a social division below, but an entire national or continental division below my own standard of living. When you're kitesurfing you tend to be in the poorest fishing villages in some of the remotest parts of the world, and when a fisherman saves your life, you definitely can't avoid feeling humbled.

It's a strange existence, being able to glide across the surface of the water on a thin little tray, and fly into the air as if you didn't weigh so much as a bird, but at the same time, your equipment, your choice of leisure activity puts you in a very exclusive club indeed.

It takes a certain amount of insanity to shackle yourself to a kite big enough to pull you bodily out of the water and into the air

Tags: #london #kitesurfing

This is a story about clean slates...

Life is like a line of dominos all perched precariously upright. People have filled massive areas - like basketball courts - with row after perfect row after perfect row of these surprisingly weighty little objects. Watching a huge 'wave' fan out as all the dominos fall over, after just the very first one looks very pretty from a distance.

Let's imagine I'm 1/10th the size of a domino, and I'm staring up at these skyscrapers. I couldn't lift them or knock them over. I'd assume it was something like stonehenge: an unnatural arrangement of things, so much bigger than human scale.

When the seismic event finally happened, and the first one was pushed so that it would fall over and cause the other one to fall, you wouldn't be able to believe your eyes and ears. That something so heavy and seemingly stable, could topple over would be amazing. It would seem to take ages to accelerate and smash into its neighbour. Then with an almighty crash, most of the energy would be transferred and the next one would fall to the ground.

Looking at the two fallen objects, they would seem now to be permanently in this collapsed heap. The idea of re-standing something up that's so big and balancing it again... unthinkable, impossible. People who never saw the objects upright, would be amazed when you told them that they were, at one time, defying gravity.

Every event can be traced back to something that started a chain reaction.

I now own the world's most expensive pencil. Well, I don't - technically it's capital expenditure on a business asset. I was having a cashflow crisis when my business insurance expired. That means that when my Macbook Air had its 3rd major hardware failure, and is completely broken, there is no policy for me to claim on.

Her Majesty's Revenue Collectors have come up with 2 ways to get businesses to invest in new assets. Firstly, I'm on a scheme where if I spend over £2k on a single invoice, I get the VAT back (£334). Secondly, I can buy assets rather than pay tax. So if my Corporation Tax bill was £2,000, I would buy assets instead of paying the bill.

This is how my company came to own an iPad Pro as well as the Apple Pencil. I don't even like drawing on it... I much prefer the feel of graphite on paper. It's good for more accurate 'white board' type stuff, where you're sketching out technical ideas, but it's still plastic slipping all over really shiny glass, with no sense of how hard you're pressing down.

So I have the Mac Pro now, instead of the Air. The main difference is that it's nearly a completely blank slate. I've decided that I'm not going to rush to fill it up with Adobe Photoshop, Windows & Microsoft Excel etc. etc.

I have a backup of old photos and things, so I'm not panicking too much about lost data yet. I can find most things somewhere in 'the cloud' but I still have a habit of creating local notes for myself, and not putting code into github.

I wrote a piece of code that basically simulates a CPU, so I could track bits through left and right shifts. Theoretically, it could be used to solve 'impenetrable' algorithms like SHA, which have such a cascade of effects from changing just one bit, leave the end result unrecognisably different from the unaltered starting data. This code is lost.

I wrote my own blockchain (e.g. Bitcoin) in Java, so I could reverse-engineer the problem, and figure out some theoretical attacks on the cryptocurrency. This code is lost.

I'm not really worried about losing code. If I had to do it again, it would improve immeasurably, and take me a fraction of the time. I might also gain a new insight, understand something a bit better, or completely restructure things, so they are elegant and simple.

There will be little notes, half-finished graphic design projects, other people's example work they gave me on a USB stick... they'll be gone. One day soon, I'm going to say to myself "I know what I can use here" and I won't have it. No biggie. I am going to start taking more regular backups from now on though.

I also have a clean slate in terms of where I go from here. A contact thinks I can get Undercover Manic Depressive published in serial form, which means I'd be a paid author... how cool is that?

Self-publishing in digital form is cool 'n' all and I did it as an experiment to see how hard it was. It took me 5 or 6 hours to write 12,000 words, sign up with Amazon, upload, create a cover... and that was it! My incomplete book with terrible formatting and zero editing is published and can be bought for $3. I don't think it's going to compare to actually seeing a book I wrote on bookshelves, if it happens.

Cashflow is a disaster... paying rent left me with £40 and my company probably can't afford to pay salaries at the moment. My salary of £676 is about 70% of my rent, but I needed a new laptop, and at least this way I can keep writing on a half-decent machine with a familiar keyboard.

Yes, it seems ridiculous to risk eviction and bankruptcy, to sit by the River Thames, writing, on a brand new laptop. Do you know how long I've been out of full-time work, in total, since my 17th birthday? It's less than 2 years. So, any of you who went to Uni or had a couple of gap yahs can get off your high horse. I genuinely did earn this. Sadly, it was my ex who nicked the profits and my parents who've had to reach into their pockets and give me just enough to do nothing except be stressed and not able to reach escape velocity.

Getting up to go to a job that feels like it conflicts with my values, ethics or has simply reached the point where I'm sick of the lack of passion and expertise, gave me a 'direct debit' life where everything got paid on time every month, and I never had to borrow any money. In fact, I had tens of thousands of savings, and spent tens of thousands more on the poison dwarf (ex) and it was killing my soul. I feel I have died a thousand deaths and I fear not one more.

Yes, it's upsetting that this disruption means missing out on time with friends, my sister, my niece and maybe my mum. People might think it's selfish, immature, irresponsible... those certainly weren't adjectives that were being applied to me when I skipped University, and missed out on all those sweet girls, drunken nights, reading books, writing and just thinking and being challenged by something different every day.

If you want to know about deferred gratification, ask me.

This is the kind of stuff there's no space or time for in Canary Wharf or The City. I needed to stop and smell the roses, and we ask so much of our children with homework and good grades to get into a good Uni to get a good job etc. etc. that there are some people who just don't know how to say "I feel I'm not getting what I need in life to stay alive, but I have never had chance to explore what that is".

Tags: #london #career #computing

This is a story about destructive relationships...

I stood up my most respected and one of my most sorely missed friends for the third time yesterday.

I was supposed to see him and his family just before Xmas, then we were going to have Tea at the Ritz, then we were going to travel to Heathrow, catch up on the train and in in the ample time before his flight.

WHAT'S GOING ON?

Well, I've never not had a girlfriend. I'm too addicted to sex. After the most almighty row at my ex-wife's brother's wedding, we took a break from each other for a few days. While she discussed my faults and possible solutions with her parents, I found a way out of one destructive relationship and into another.

I have written before about our unhealthy co-dependency on sex, and sex on drugs. "NRG-3" had no ingredients listed, but it was the last untried chemical on a legal high & research chemical website where each weekend, my ex and I would fuck on a different drug.

I would spend a bunch of spare time at Cambridge, reading about research chemicals, and then I would order one, ready for when I next saw my ex. I saw us like Alexander and Ann Shulgin, and had read their candid co-biographies about synthesising about 3,500 psychoactive drugs, and testing them all on themselves. The ones that seemed safe and interesting, as an aphrodisiac, Alexander took with Ann and they compared notes in their famous books PIHKAL and TIHKAL, which I read when I was 17/18 years old.

Only "NRG-3" was going in the bin. I did some snooping and found that "NRG-x" was the name for the old stock of unsold 'legal' highs that weren't legal anymore. Most people speculated that it was Methylenedioxypyrovalerone, which Crystal Meth and Crack users were switching to because it was 1/1,000th of the price per dose. Except MDPV had terrible extrapyramidal side effects in people not regularly abusing stimulants: panic attacks, palpitations, tachycardia, hyperthermia and said to be more addictive than the illegal drugs.

John McAfee, the famous billionaire software engineer became addicted to MDPV and started posting videos of himself pointing a loaded gun at his head on YouTube. The more I read, the more convinced I was that I needed to add the pyrovalerones to my 'never try' list (heroin, crack, crystal meth, PCP).

Only, in a suicidal state after the aforementioned temporary separation from my ex-wife, I thought "fuck it, what harm can 15mg do?" 15 milligrams is 10 to 20% of the size of a dose of 'most' stimulants. The line of white powder is more of a short, thin, hyphen. Your eyes can't believe that 15mg is so tiny.

My affair started immediately. I loved this drug. I loved the effects of this drug more than the pleasure I derived from my destructive relationship with my ex-wife. I had a mistress. I was having an affair. I was also free from the fear of losing my co-dependee.

I took 800mg over 4 days when I had intended to only take 15mg, for the duration of it's effects, which could be between 3 and 24 hours. It's not a stable and predictable compound. My behaviour had always been stable and predictable: I would take a single accurately measured dose, orally, and I had never ever broken my rule.

I had tried maybe 50 drugs up to this point, so I wasn't naïve, but I found myself saying and doing things I knew were addict clichés. "I'll just have a little bit more", "that looks underweight/small, I'll just increase the dose slightly", "I'm going to have one last dose then I'm going to stop", "OK, this really is the last one".

I didn't eat, I didn't sleep until the 3rd night. When I woke up I was having a terrible panic attack. Time inched by. My pulse and blood pressure were maxed. I was convinced I was going to die. I wasn't naïve though. I downloaded a computer game called Samorst, and played that for 12 hours. I felt a bit better.

This happened a few weeks after Springboard ended. I knew I had to pitch in London a month after demo day. I remember almost turning back home as I was almost on the train to London, because the thought of leaving my drugs for a few hours was scary. Way scarier than giving a pitch while high and hoping nobody from Springboard noticed I was high, sleep deprived and I had lost weight.

Everyone said that my London pitch was better than my Cambridge one (practice? home town?  drug-induced confidence? Smaller audience?).

Maybe I just didn't care so much. Jason Trost of Smarkets spotted the founder problem I had right away. I picked a startup that would be cashflow-positive, I could code in on my own in no time, and we already had a customer (5 or 6 household names by the time we started Springboard). The problem was this: I'd solved the problem in my head, written it: boring work only now, and I had no founder passion except pride in our startup.

David Hazell should have been the CEO from day one, and it took him well out of his ColdFusion comfort zone, but he can code Java and Objective-C as well as running a well administered business.

So how do you cure an MDPV addiction? Simple. Stop taking it. My ex took it as personal that I got addicted and she thought I wouldn't quit out of stubbornness  and I just needed shouting at and abusing.

I had a 'man cave' (office/lounge/bedroom) built in the summerhouse I built, but she would still walk down the garden path to shout at me there.

As if this wasn't enough, my parents were ordered to come and take me away. Things didn't get off to a flying start when my ex lets my Dad in and he's been primed to start shouting "you're a junkie" too, the moment he got in my front door. I was in the middle of an email about admission to a specialist drug clinic in London, and I should have told the hypocritical c**t to get the fuck out of my house that I paid for, back to his house which was bankrolled by my mum, and the money that came from the profit of the little cottage that my granny bought her.

My parents then insisted that we get some fresh air (it was January and I was not in a good state). Even though I wore dark glassess and a coat with a big collar, it was still mentioned at work that somebody had seen me out on the clifftop while I was off work sick.

My GP kindly gave me 5 weeks so I could attend the 28-day detox program at The Priory, where one of the country's best psychiatrists specialising in dual diagnosis (Bipolar & substance abuse) was based. A few white lies were told to protect my professional reputation and my health insurance would pick up the £12,000 bill.

My ex-wife said if I went into private hospital, she would divorce me. My psychiatrists said dual diagnosis mortality rates are very high, they disagreed that it was lack of willpower that had meant I hadn't quit by means of being shouted at, and professional care was needed, even just to see what was going on with my comorbid Bipolar II.

3 and a half weeks is what I lasted in hospital, before it dawned on me that I was going back to the same life. 3 weeks became a kind of benchmark. I could quit for 3 weeks, but never any longer. Ignorant people will say that proves a lack of willpower. Fuck you ignoramus.

When separation and divorce finally started to happen, my friend Will rescued me back to London, where I managed 2 months abstinence before my lazy ex wife insisted I travel 240 miles to get 3 valuations on a house she lived and worked less than a mile from.

I had just founded a new startup, was in advanced discussions about raising money, had built a working prototype, cycled to TechStars London every day, had a beautiful girlfriend and lived with one of my oldest friends and made new local friends as well as reconnecting with old.

Paying the mortgage on an empty property ate my savings, especially when she rejected a cash buyer who wanted to move in 6 weeks. Instead she chose an agent who didn't know the area or have any clients looking in that area, and accepted an offer from a couple in a chain who didn't even have an approved mortgage. They took 6 months.

When my parents refused to help ease the cashflow burden like they had repeatedly promised they would - not wanting stress to cause a relapse - it took me a hell of a lot of effort & distraction to raise money that I would have prepared in advance, if I knew their offer was just hot air.

I relapsed back in Bournemouth, with the idea of turning the house into a homeless shelter or something else to piss my ex off. Rang the family solicitor after all the other laughed at me, because I had trashed a hotel room in a drug-fuelled rage, and I wanted to prepare them before I handed myself in to the police.

Strangely my friend Tim turned up, got me out of there, then my Dad got me back to Oxford. Turns out the family solicitor had phoned my mum and begged them to help their son. I was very keen my dad contact the hotel and let me settle the matter with them directly. He didn't care. He doesn't have my ethics.

I had told Will (most innocent and naïve man ever) to chuck me out if I ever got any mail from Spain or Germany. Luckily I managed to find MDPV in the USA, but it still feels shitty using drugs in your friends house, even if you're trapped on the first floor with your leg in plaster in agony because the docs won't give you anything stronger than Tramadol (in case you abuse it).

Camden Town is not a good place to be a drunk or a drug addict. I would meet with Frank every day for weeks until he got a paid hostel bed. While I was making notes, to tell his story, I unwittingly took down the addresses and contacts of everywhere I had to go to try and get help from Camden.

Eventually Will did chuck me out, because of lies my Dad told him. Will did it very nicely, but my Dad destroyed the relationship we had. I remember lying in hospital, 2 canulas, torn liver, burnt abdomen, failing kidneys, and not only did Will ask for his keys back, he asked if I had made any other copies.

This is what happens when a drug addict hypocrite c**t like my Dad starts 'helping' instead of helping like he originally falsely offered to do with a modest bridging loan.

(as an aside my parents lied to my sister and said they'd lent me 250% More money than they actually did, and that I was 'emotionally blackmailing them' by being in hospital, even though they're not my next of kin anymore and I would never bother telling them if I was in hospital. No, my mum said it's ok because it's only worth making the coroner's if they need somebody to identify my body)

I survived homelessness and further hospital admissions, so I saved my mum that train fare, but Camden Council kept reneging on their promises. I got a one line email from Camden Council Housing, saying I couldn't even get a hostel bed

"On the basis of the information you have provided I am afraid that you do not meet the residence criteria to be considered for our Hostels Pathway Scheme."

What the fuck? Do you only accept people with money and houses and nice parents?

If you ever want to speak to a psychiatrist in hospital here's a little trick. Ask the the receptionist if you can borrow her phone and then dial the switchboard. Say "can I speak to the bleep holder for psychiatric liaison please?" Make sure you don't let on you're a patient until you absolutely have to. Saying "I'm trying to locate a bed in a psych ward or crisis house in London for a voluntary admission" doesn't actually contain any lies.

In this way, I was able to get 2 whole weeks of accommodation out of the council tax I pay Camden Council. I don't feel bad, because I had a massive wound in my leg and my penis was hanging off.

At the end of the two weeks, Camden Council said "here's a number for you to phone [if you haven't been mugged or stabbed, and still have your phone]  in the morning for us to come check on you". I said I wanted to stay in a a derelict tennis court maintenance shed to stay dry. They said, "we need you to stay where [muggers are and people have pissed]".

So I booked myself into a suite at the Royal Camden Golf & Spa Resort (a 14 bed dorm in a hostel) and proceeded to go into drug withdrawal. The think about London hostel dorms is, there's bunks, and there's a bathroom, and then outside there's the capital city of London, but if somebody is going through drug withdrawal in one of the bunks, fuck London, you should stay and watch them cos there's no privacy. It's like "Trainspotting" as a live play with one of the best actors you'll ever meet.

Fuck rehab at £430 a night... a hostel is a great place to get clean, provided you have a Laurence. Laurence could see that this was a dress rehearsal, and opening night would be never hopefully, and ushered a disappointed crowd of rubberneckers off around the sights of London. 

I'd managed to hang onto enough money to put myself through the cheapest rehab in the country, which is in Bournemouth believe it or not. I told my mum to hang on though (could hae been yet more lies anyway) because I needed to finish my round of golf and I had a massage booked for later [as in, hostels are like cheap rehab anyway].

Before long I had a group of friends. Laurence from the mountains. Rory the Lidl vodka stealer. Jody the poet. Definitely not French Jack. Psychic Laura. "I just want a baby" Priscilla. "Quite Old But You Still Would" Marla, Gorgeous Flavie, My later ex (banned) Antonella. DJ Kristos.... and many many more, including Paolo who had previously been acting tourguide, but with about 8 times as many years in the Big Smoke than him, I accidentally stole that role.

The thing about a hostel is, if you want drugs, everybody else wants to share, and you have to be high in public. Also, there's none of this pious "not a drop of alcohol shall pass my lips bollocks", and it's a lot easier to get clean with a beer in your hand than an herbal tea being told by some ex-junkie "drugs are bad mmmkay".

It took me a month to get clean and another month to get a job (and stay clean) and then I stayed clean until I dumped Antonella for being abusive, and then Laura got all mumpy that I didn't move onto her. Jody, who was in Love with Antonella, also was angry with me. My entire group of friends in London (except Rory) fell apart, and then my contract ended.

• Abusive relationship = multiple relapses
• No money + massive stress = relapse
• No job + no friends = relapse
• Innocent/naïve middle class person + lies about drug addiction = no friend

So I was nursed back to health by the nicest family in Ireland. The O'Riordan's of Killlavullen, Cork [The Rebel County]. I owe them my life.

The thing about the O'Riordans is that they're the smartest most hard-working and make do people you'll ever meet. Eddie, Laurence's dad's climbed 8,000m peaks and can sail, as well as repair just about anything. Breda, Laurence's mum is just so full of love & care, without all that œdipus complex bollox that my mum needs to deal with. There's sister Maria the nurse who all the boys in Magners drink in to look at and chat to, but they know they'd get the beating of a lifetime if they touched her. Then there's Danielle, with her scholarship, but she's practically already [unofficial] #2 in a company that's about to IPO. She's got Dublin culture but no arrogance.

Anyway, seeing and staying touch, and not falling out with friends is hard. Imagine if all your money just takes you deeper into debt, and keeping your mind quiet is harder than working any job... and it used to say lots of interesting things, but now it just says one: "MDPV"

Just about anything and anything that could have hurt my self esteem has happened. Showing a nurse your penis hanging off is a good one. How's about the police leading you out of a hotel, handcuffed, just wearing boxing shorts ["I'm sure you deserved it, you devil"].

And I keep having to go back to doing what I have done since the age of 17 to stop myself from going bankrupt, but I hate it and it's so easy I can type and have a conversation at the same time. And then when I've got just enough money, I'll walk into the boardroom and I'll tell the board exactly what I think, and I always get fired, but they're too scared I'm going to whistleblow to not give me a reference, so they just quietly sack whoever needs to actually go.

So, I came up with a couple of lists of things I like doing and don't like doing, and I've come up with a bunch of ideas that bring in money, keep me busy, and doing the things I like not the things I don't.

I'm sending it to Jakub, because he's the only man alive who can judge whether I'm talking pie in the sky bollocks or it might be worth a go (maybe with some discussion with his dad).

I have a practical speculative list too, which I might send to Rory, as he's the only man alive who'd come in on me with some mad scheme to stop both of our minds from driving us mad.

Jakub, it just remains to say, I'm so sorry for standing you up, but I was 6 months clean in San Francisco, but I had to ethically walk away from the HSBC corruption and incompetence. Since then, it's been promises, promises and false starts, but I'm waiting for the day when I either die cos I'm dumb enough to figure out how to get high for 14p a day, or smart enough to do something I can be proud of and it was my destiny.

So cute (9 October 2013)

P.S. - Sansa (Happy Birthday!), Lydia, Margaret, Nicola, David, Willian, Will, Jess, Cameron... I'm going as fast as I can. It's like trying to get a 10,000kg ball rolling.

Tags; #startup #addiction #friends

This is a story about self destruction...

This little machine has allowed me to rise to a level of mastery of a profession where I could command in excess of £200k (gross) per annum for my skills, walk out of one job and into another, and generally enjoy a period where I didn't have to know my bank balance or save up for anything. This statement is vulgar, I hope people don't think boastful, but it's certainly distasteful.

I now live in an apartment with panoramic views of the Thames. I can see Heron Tower, The Gherkin, Tower 42, The Cheese-grater, The Mobile Phone, Tower Bridge, The Shard, The London Eye and a number of iconic London skyline icons.

This would be sustainable, but since the age of 19 or so, I figured out that it doesn't matter if it's torpedos fired from a submarine, or Credit Default Swaps, traded in the front office of an investment bank... it's all the same fucking 1's and 0's.

Some pudgy, piggy-eyed, adenoidal little pricks have carved themselves out little fiefdoms where they have constructed such impenetrable balls of mud, that no sane programmer would venture in.  They take pleasure in having made themselves key-person dependencies.

I like to think I'm ethical, and it's only because I was being whipped so hard by my bossess to deliver DTCC that I didn't think of the ethical impact of Credit Default Swaps and Collateralised Debt Obligations on the world economy. JPMorgan processed 70% of that toxic waste, and that equates to $1.16qn of money that was circulated, while the real collateralised securities and precious metals were moved into the accounts of those who knew what was really going on.

I wrote the system that confirmed those trades. I saw the data flow through. I saw live production data, and I couldn't believe the notional values that were being traded.

I feel like I could have stopped $1.6m of 'fake' money, for every man woman and child on the planet, from being pumped into an economy that was only ever supposed to last as long as the 'smart' money moved their assets. There just isn't enough precious metal, fiat currency, property and securities to collateralise all the derivatives that have been printed. The paper is worthless.

I can't see how it can be propped up. As it starts to crumble, I'm going to feel more & more responsible.

I feel like ground zero.

I don't want to wake up tomorrow.

Tags: #banking #suicide #career #london