Just

I made my connecting flight.. just. JUST.

Sitting amongst the suits on the plane I became aware of how gross I actually was. Pret-ty gross.

I forgave myself and decided they had it coming because I can't buy a house. The sort of sound resolution of thoughts one might expect from someone so close to breaking.

We landed in Auckland, I picked up my bags and half ran with them from the domestic to international terminal.. because in New Zealand these things are seperated by an open air maze of carparks, wire mesh, prefab huts and wheelie bins which stretch on for roughly a kilometre.

I had made it in time to check in for my flight, the relief was immense! Until I tried to check in anyway.

Despite numerous paranoid queries to the airline and friends about what paperwork might be required for passing through the United States, no-one mentioned a transit visa. But the woman at check-in did!

I was boned.

Off to the service desk I trolloped, giddy, vision blurred, smell.. apparent, and so so embarrassed about the visa. I could see the attendent behind the desk's face droop, just as the woman at check-in's had when my lack of a visa become the topic of conversation. "I can give you options.." here we go "We charge $50 to do it plus US$14 for the visa.. or you can do it yourself on your phone and just pay the $14." Now that's what I call options volume eleven. "I'll take the latter."

With time running out, I probed through the ridiculous American forms and how well they displayed on a phone. "How many hairs do you have on your right arm?" - "What was your Grandmother's dog's favourite colour?" - "How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck was a terrorist?"

Finished. Paid. Sent. "You have not qualified for automatic passage" which I show to the ground staff "That never happens." Of course it doesn't. "Your application will be assessed and you will hear back from us within 72 hours" - US Government. Well that's handy as my flight closes in 17 minutes.

A sort of slow imposing dread finally starts to creep over me as the woman at the counter types in one thing and another "No." she says to herself "No." again.. she pats the keys and squints into the screen "This never happens." I'm half listening, mostly clock watching, my thoughts have turned to who I can ask to pick me up from Auckland airport and what people will think of me when it comes to light that I haven't left the country. I feel sick.

I'll never know who my hero was, their name, their age.. but they knew mine and somewhere in America they hit the green button. With two minutes before my flight closed, I popped up "Approved."

With a total air of disbelief and visibly emotional I shunt myself through the automatic doors and onwards..

Options

I'd been on the phone with the airline earlier in the day for reasons unrelated to my departure, however they'd picked up that I wouldn't make my international flight on my current connection.

Their quick thinking and attention to detail was appreciated, though the time I would lose in the run up to leaving my house forever was about as welcome as a slap with a wet haddock. The woman from the service team assured me she would sort it out and placed me on hold..

"Good gawd fuck" I thought to myself, just as I'm now thinking "I hope my Grandparents have the ability to censor swearwords in their minds". But swearing was required at the time and not relaying that now would be dishonest, which is surely the lessor of two evils..right?

The service team is back with options.. "We can change it for you for $280 or you can book a new flight for $299". Now that's what I call options volume ten!

I sat for a moment, I was too worn down, if I looked at that bit of floor a bit longer, maybe it would swallow me up? "Sir?" "Yes, right, well, the $280 option I guess" I said with as little conviction as is possible to convey a decision of that nature, it's like "you can eat this dog sick or cat shit".. "I'll have the shit thanks."

I'd lost time, I'd lost money and I'd lost self respect from eating all that shit. Not that I really ate any shit, that's not a past-time of mine, but I really want to rub in how bitter I was and it certainly felt like I had anyway.

Feeling not very well, I doubled down the effort, which was exactly like when you're already running, tell yourself to go faster and fall down in a heap. I did not get everything sorted before I left and I really can't apologise to my flatmates enough for that, at least I didn't leave piles of cat shit flavoured vomit anywhere.

I haphazardly packed my bags, got them downstairs and they were placed in a taxi on my behalf.. where I also eventually ended up. I'd frantically staggered there, soaked in sweat, twitchy and miserable, completely out of touch with my surroundings, we were off to the airport.

Sprint

I've been working towards getting to Britain for the last 3 years, chasing my crazy dream like the two foxes I just saw chasing each other outside my window (they have foxes! OMG! squeee!)

Ahem..

The last few months especially have been hard yakka, working two jobs, paying double rent, trying to sell my business, getting rid of my other worldly possessions.. did I mention 'trying'?

I wasn't able to sell my business before I left and the upshot was a lot of running around to make sure it could continue operating in my absence, like the squirrels frantically running around the garden (Squirrels! holy fucking shit! SQUIRRELS! errrmmmeerrggeerrhhdddd)

Ahem..

It meant the run up to my leaving really did become a sprint. In the last few days I regularly stayed up past 4am trying to dot t's and cross i's.. which was part of the problem, I could no longer tell my arse from my elbow.

I chose to stay home for Christmas rather than spending it with the family, not because I wanted to, but because I simply wouldn't make the finish line if I lost two days to be with them. I had fights with friends and family alike in those last couple of weeks, I was emotionally drained, mentally fatigued and incredibly unfit (that's not news to anyone) and I hit the wall.

I spent a lot of time staring at two things like any decision I made was life and death and would alter the future of the world. I churlishly goaded myself whenever I stood still unaccepting of any time spent on my elbows.

It was a hard farcical grind and if there had been judges present I wouldn't have made it to the second round. I was a mess on that last day, a sweaty, exhausted, emotional, quixotic mess. For those I wasn't able to see on that last day, you're lucky, that would have been the grossest hug you've ever had.

Here

I went to work for a major organisation in a far away land, a scary, but necessary prospect off the back of a lean year. In actuality literal as well as figurative as I was poor enough to get skinny, 15 kilos lighter than I am now and I'm not exactly bulging at 75kg.

The work was rewarding and my colleagues gave me open license to be funny and plenty of encouragement to chase my dreams.

For many of them where we worked was what they had been reaching for for many years, it was confronting for some that I'd only had a phone call to come over 3 weeks earlier. I learned to keep that fact under my hat. So often I'd been on the wrong end of years of toil versus dumb luck, this time I really didn't know how lucky I was.

I wasn't there long, but the love and respect of the people in that place is still with me today, still egging me on, still challenging me to go for it. It was so immensely refreshing from the safety first mentality of New Zealand that it made me believe I could do things. Anything.

I was tapping back into who I used to be, bright eyed, confident, precocious, ambitious, a person who constantly tore down the wall of "no's" and proved things were possible. People can't tell me I can't do things any more.

I was told about a course in comedy television in London and I applied, three times as it turned out, but I didn't get in. I guess people can tell me I can't do that one thing. However that didn't stop me either.

The dream is to work in comedy TV, why pretend like it isn't or that I'm not prepared to work two jobs and give up everything to go to the ends of the Earth to make it happen?

So here I am, to chase the dream, to see what happens and see what it makes of me.

Sensible

2006 was a weird year, mostly because it was 10 years ago and that is pretty weird.

I was living in Dunedin doing student radio and student television, I was having fun, as can be seen here

The problem was I was under immense pressure to grow up, have a 'proper' career, a family, a home (imagine) and my recent foray into stand up on the back of years of presenting simply wasn't going to cut it. Or so every single person told me.

I realise now that people were just looking out for me because they cared, the sweeties, but it lead me to believe I was on the wrong track and something needed to be done. So I went to film school and majored in post-production, sensible sound decision making.. which took me a bit off course.

I was now in a long term relationship with video editing, except I wasn't in love. We'd dabbled, played with each others feelings, pushed each others buttons, but we hadn't really clicked. Sure we worked well together, but our relationship was purely practical and eventually when I'd roll out of bed in the morning I'd seethe about having to touch those keys again.

I broke. A bit. My sensible choice had been an unmitigated emotional disaster and while up-skilled with practical abilities and a sound knowledge base, I was in truth blue to the tooth.

While still always laughing and joking, I think at times I could be unpleasant for those who knew me best because I was just so obviously down in the dumps. I felt trapped in the decision I had made, unhappy, but sticking by it because it was the sensible thing to do.

Eventually it was simply better to "fuck sensible". Why paddle round in calm conditions for fear of catching a wave?

Which brings us to 2013.