5 lessons learnt from 186 days of furloughed living
It’s been 186 days since I last worked. 186 days since I sent an email, shared an agenda, looked a colleague in the eye and lied to them about what I did at the weekend.
‘Not a lot, Jane’. Translation: ‘pills, Jane.’
186 days since I slagged off a colleague on Slack. That sweet rush of ignoring an “I hope this finds you well” email because the sender has not found you well. The sender has found you calling John in customer service a dozy arsehole to someone you’re simultaneously slagging off to John. Sure, you can do it via text, WhatsApp, over the phone even, but it’s just not the same if it’s not on the company’s dollar.
186 days since I thought I’d probably write a novel, maybe learn Spanish, maybe just, like, really improve “me”, yeah? Look in the mirror and say “who’s that guy?” “What’s his story?” 186 fucking days.
“Funlough” we all called it. Imagine. What fools we were. You can’t make sourdough forever. You can do some other things though and this list is 5 of them.
You can live the full cycle of a lifelong alcoholic approximately every 3 weeks
It’s May and the pubs are shut but the shops are open. The shopkeeper sees me buy 6 cans of Guinness for the third day in a row and gives me a look that says “why would you not just buy them all on the Monday?”
I give him a look back that says “because that would be admitting there’s a problem wouldn’t it?”
But it doesn’t matter because there’s a lockdown on, I’ve got no work, I’m having a lot of fun drinking cans, playing Cluedo and Playstation and wondering quite how much hair of the dog one man can do before he starts vomiting hair balls.
It’s the following week and I’ve moved on from Guinness to something slightly cheaper, slightly stronger and slightly more ‘bench-drinky’. My hangovers aren’t exactly making me suicidal but I wouldn’t say I’m dead set on living either. I’m still playing board games but I’m less fun to play with and I burst into tears when I’m accused of a murder I didn’t commit. I respond by calling Professor Plum a “turncoat nonce” and decide it’s time for a change.
It’s week 3 of the cycle and I’m actually doing really well, thanks. The thing is, yeah, I don’t even need to drink, it was holding me back if anything. I’m actually super into kombucha, haha, yeah I know, who’d have thought it? Me. Kombucha. What am I like? Can’t imagine I’ll ever drink again, tbh.
And repeat.
You can only rearrange your room so many times
“Let’s Marie Kondo this bitch,” I say to no-one. It’s mid March and I throw exactly one t-shirt away.
“Let’s Bobby Burke this motherfucker,” I yell out a window. It’s mid April and I’m getting into lava lamps in a big way.
“Let’s feng shui this prick” I scream in a mirror. It’s mid May and I move my pants to my sock drawer and my socks to my pants drawer. It seems feng shui goes both ways and I feel instantly worse.
“Let’s Alan Titchmarsh this cunt,” I whisper under my breath. It’s mid June and I’ve bought a cactus.
“Let’s Count Dracula this twat,” I struggle to say through novelty fangs in a Transylvanian accent. It’s mid July and I’ve replaced my bed with a coffin.
“Let’s Marcel Duchamp this shit,” I say in French. It’s mid August and I’ve fitted a urinal in my room and signed it R. Mutt.
“Let’s just leave it as it is,” I sigh. It’s mid September and I realise it was probably fine to begin with.
You can get weirdly into the Mafia
It’s around July I finally finish the Sopranos. I then watch Goodfellas, the Godfather Trilogy, The Irishman, Goti, New York vs The Mafia, and Trevor McDonald on the Mafia. I read Gomorrah, I watch Gomorrah, I̵ ̵b̵e̵c̵o̵m̵e̵ ̵G̵o̵m̵o̵r̵r̵a̵h̵ . One day I literally Google the word ‘Mafia’. I’ve become obsessed. I consider joining the Mafia. I trace my bloodline back. Does that say Sicily? No. Southport. Shit.
Coincidentally, I’ve spent the last few months looking increasingly like Tony Soprano. Full tracksuit, a bit of extra timber, (continuing hairline issues). A look that had started to depress me now gives me a new lease of life.
I start sitting in camp chairs a lot, sipping espressos, calling people “rats”. I think about buying a strip club but it would never work, not in this economy. I spend one week pretending to be in witness protection and demand my housemates call me by a different name.
Anytime anyone asks me for a favour I do an impression of Marlon Brando. People stop asking me for favours.
You can force your housemates to eat more of your cooking than they’d ever want to
It’s September and for the 15th time in 7 months, we’re all eating dinner at 11pm. I scheduled time to make the breadcrumbs, to marinade the mushroom, to prepare the sauce, but the Wagamama recipe for vegetarian katsu curry didn’t mention the 3 hours I’ll spend ‘idiot sandwiching’ myself in the garden. You’d have to be both a professional chef and a wizard to juggle all these plates.
I’m sweating as profusely as I’m apologising. There’s katsu sauce in my pockets. I’ve said to everyone “don’t worry, it’s on the house!” 100 times which is a funny way of saying “I’m still going to Monzo you for this” 100 times.
This would be traumatic to watch if they hadn’t witnessed March’s ill fated pastry ventures, April’s pickle party, June’s journey into weekly tasting menus, a month we don’t talk about but I’ve heard referred to in hushed tones “as the slow-cooker clusterfuck” which can only be July (I stand by that chilli con carne) and August’s slow spiral into, well, spiralizing.
The katsu gets mixed reviews.
You can play too much PS4
It’s mid August, a joypad is creaking in my hands and I’m screaming at my TV. My AC Milan side, with their front line of Sancho, Mbappe and a young upstart from Bristol with thick curly locks by the name of H. Pugh*, fresh off the back of a Champions League and Serie-A double, are terrorising defences at home and abroad.
I’m wearing my year 11 prom suit with a black and red tie and I’ve sewn the Milan club badge onto the front pocket. I’m 4–0 up against a piss-poor Liverpool but I’m not happy.
The commentator’s AI hasn’t acknowledged that said piss-poor Liverpool sacked me after my first season in professional management. Hasn’t acknowledged that they wrote me off when I couldn’t remember which buttons did what after 8 years on a self imposed Fifa ban. Football is nothing without stories and I’m seething that this tale of redemption, of revenge, of a legacy rebuilt, means absolutely sweet F.A to robot Lee Dixon.
“I worked so hard for this, Lee. Does it mean nothing to you?!”
But all he can say is: “Courageous goalkeeping but he’s got the ball. You have to be brave, don’t you, diving at the feet of the player like that? Good goalkeeping.”
I put my foot through the TV and take a couple of weeks off Fifa.
*technically a CF (centre forward) but can drop deep to dictate play when needed. As age saps at his pace and knee injuries take their toll, he’ll finish his career as a world class goalkeeper. What a funny game.