Fat Man Walking

11 February 2002
Jamie's in a bit of a pickle.

Let's get one thing straight before we go anywhere - I am not fat.

Don't get me wrong - I'm not one of those people who's obsessed with their size, 'you calling me fat?', all that crap - I just don't want you to get the wrong picture of me in your head. I don't want you to have this image of a fat guy sat on a chair with a gun to his head, flab spilling out over where his hands are tied tight behind his back. It's kind of like that, only diet. Just let the vision in your head lose a few stone and you've got it. I should sell the before-and-after pictures to Slimfast.

Hmmmm? Oh yes, the gun. You may think that's more important than my obesity or otherwise - well, you're entitled to your opinion. We live and die by our priorities, after all. Maybe I should spend less time convincing you I'm not technically over the average weight for a guy of my age and height (twenty-five, a shade under six foot, and twelve and a half stone, if you must know), and more time making sure this Guy Ritchie reject doesn't pull the trigger (the metal of which, I might add, is currently reacting with the sweat from his index finger, producing an odour which reminds me of the taste of flat Coke) and bring this whole story to an abrupt and rather unsatisfying end.

Well, as I said, that's your opinion. What you don't know is, I could fill a book with telling you how I got to be here now, and maybe me getting shot in the head would bring things nicely to a close. Possible a little too Fight Club, but not necessarily. I just think it's important to get it clear from the start that I'm not some Johnny Vegas-esque figure, that when people call me Fat Reg you don't start picturing me all wrong every time. It's the integrity of your vision I'm worried about. Be fucking grateful.

I think you get the picture.

So, the big question - how did things get so far out of whack? How did I go from respectable-if-unnoticed to tied-up-with-a-gun-at-my-temple in such a short space of time? In short, what the fuck happened?

The seeds were probably there all the time, to tell you the truth: little incidents, that individually wouldn't register but collectively pointed to some degree of self-destructiveness. I could go through my youth, through my school days, picking up on minor events and analysing their role in the structure of my life, pointing out each change of direction and the knock-on effect that leads me here now. Don't worry, I won't; I can sense your impatience that I even mentioned the possibility. I will get to the point soon. I just wanted you to know that this stuff has been there the whole time, somewhere. Just keep in mind that it doesn't really all begin the way, for the sake of narrative purity, that I'm going to say it does.

One more thing before this all kicks off: despite my cool exterior, I am actually quite scared. I know throughout this whole thing I'm going to give a strong impression of not caring about things that happen to me, but right now the uncertainty is shitting me right up. I'm the narrator, I wield ultimate power up to this point, up to right now I am immortal; each word I write is confirmation that I made it this far, so I can be pretty blasˇ about other situations I may have got myself into. But right now, I'm not so sure. I don't know whether I'm going to get out of this; what this guy's intentions are; whether the gun's even loaded, for Christ's sake. The sort of things any half-decent narrator really should have checked out. I could die here, quite easily, and that one thought terrifies me. Just thought you should know.

It all began on April 7th last year...

Current clown:

18 December 2003. George writes: This List

Most recent ten:

15 December 2003. Jamie writes: Seven Songs
11 December 2003. Dan writes: Spinning Jenny
8 December 2003. Victor writes: Rock Opera
4 December 2003. Matt writes: The Mirrored Spheres of Patagonia
1 December 2003. George writes: Charm
27 November 2003. James writes: On Boxing
24 November 2003. Jamie writes: El Matador del Amor; Or, the Man who Killed Love
20 November 2003. Dan writes: Rights Management
17 November 2003. Victor writes: Walking on Yellow
13 November 2003. Matt writes: Disintermediation
(And alas we lost Neil, who last wrote Cockfosters)

Also by this clown:

15 December 2003. Jamie writes: Seven Songs
24 November 2003. Jamie writes: El Matador del Amor; Or, the Man who Killed Love
13 October 2003. Jamie writes: The Persistence of Memory
22 September 2003. Jamie writes: The Email Eunuch
1 September 2003. Jamie writes: Credo
11 August 2003. Jamie writes: Brad and Jennifer and Me
21 July 2003. Jamie writes: Interruption
30 June 2003. Jamie writes: Do you remember the first time?
12 June 2003. Jamie writes: Forthcoming Attractions
19 May 2003. Jamie writes: Stupid Mistake
28 April 2003. Jamie writes: Hoping and Praying
7 April 2003. Jamie writes: Strangers on a Plane
17 March 2003. Jamie writes: Q&A
24 February 2003. Jamie writes: Altered States
3 February 2003. Jamie writes: How to say goodbye
13 January 2003. Jamie writes: In A League Of Their Own
23 December 2002. Jamie writes: What's in a name?
2 December 2002. Jamie writes: Lies, Damned Lies and Spastics
11 November 2002. Jamie writes: Memoirs of a Gaysian: A Preface
21 October 2002. Jamie writes: Love is blindness
30 September 2002. Jamie writes: Time for bed
9 September 2002. Jamie writes: Angry Exchanges Can Be Puzzling [10]
19 August 2002. Jamie writes: High Speed
29 July 2002. Jamie writes: Firkin Hell
8 July 2002. Jamie writes: Do you, er... haiku?
13 June 2002. Jamie writes: Unnatural Porn Thrillers
20 May 2002. Jamie writes: The Triumphant Return of the Septic Fiveskins
25 April 2002. Jamie writes: Meeting People is Easy
4 April 2002. Jamie writes: I Want I Want I Want
7 March 2002. Jamie writes: The Player of Games
11 February 2002. Jamie writes: Fat Man Walking
17 January 2002. Jamie writes: Passive/Aggressive
3 January 2002. Jamie writes: Love (classified)
29 November 2001. Jamie writes: A Lil' Nite Muzak
5 November 2001. Jamie writes: Natural born liar
11 October 2001. Jamie writes: All I need
17 September 2001. Jamie writes: Postcards From The Edge (of the pool)
23 August 2001. Jamie writes: Class act
30 July 2001. Jamie writes: Ritchie Neville is dead
5 July 2001. Jamie writes: A Letter from God
11 June 2001. Jamie writes: "If it's in French, it must be deep"
17 May 2001. Jamie writes: Reportage
23 April 2001. Jamie writes: Show me the Logos
29 March 2001. Jamie writes: Sobering Thoughts
8 March 2001. Jamie writes: Stupid, Stupid, Stupid
8 February 2001. Jamie writes: Spent
15 January 2001. Jamie writes: Full to the brim
21 December 2000. Jamie writes: fuck xmas
27 November 2000. Jamie writes: Eye Candy
2 November 2000. Jamie writes: World-wide-web?
9 October 2000. Jamie writes: Kids' stuff
14 September 2000. Jamie writes: Scatological Warfare
21 August 2000. Jamie writes: I can't stand up (for falling clowns)
10 July 2000. Jamie writes: The Etymology of Greatness

We are all Upsideclown: Dan, George, James, Jamie, Matt, Neil, Victor.

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