Originally experienced – September 17th, 2018
Published on – 26th February 2025
(Art by Dawn Treacher – https://dawntreacher.com/)
One morning, I felt my body give up on me. I had barely opened my eyes, but I knew almost instantly that something had irrevocably changed.
Writing that, I still don’t know if it’s true. It was years ago now, and my memory can be a bit fuzzy.
Surely my brain would hope for something that wasn’t quite as damning; surely, it would assume I was ill with the flu.
But no, when I lie in bed and think about the genesis of my illness, I knew instantly. Apparently.
I struggled out of bed in slow motion, searching for an explanation as to why I felt so bad. I had just gotten home after being in Austria. I worked for an advertising agency whose big client was in the automotive sector. They sold brake pads, shock absorbers, and car engines.
Their audience consisted of automotive enthusiasts and car suppliers, and we were creating a big, expensive advert just for them.
The shoot days were tough, but the months leading up to it were even worse. Working for a small ad agency means you do pretty much everything, and I had been producing, selecting wardrobe, managing, writing, and appeasing German clients for the last three months.
One example of doing everything is when I had to visit a pet store to find the most photogenic fish. The clients didn’t trust my eye for spotting fish talent, so I had to linger around the tanks, sending them photos.
Behind the tank was a pin board with various Polaroids of “wanted” people who were no longer allowed near the fish. I wondered what crimes they had committed to be publicly shamed like this, and then immediately prayed that my fishy paparazzi shots wouldn’t secure me a place on the wall of shame.
The clients were unpredictable and tough to satisfy.
When I arrived on set in Austria, I was taken aside and told that I had to fire one of the actors and find a last-minute replacement. When I asked why, I was told that his previous credits showed that he had played an SS officer, and they couldn’t risk being associated with him.
I asked a few of the other actors on set (all German) if they’d ever played a Nazi before, and what followed was a lot of eye-contact avoidance. Not that I could blame them, it’s just a pay check.
But everything about the two-week shoot had gone to plan, the success of which would secure the promotion that I had been campaigning for. And I now had a day to relax in Austria before flying home.
I stepped out for breakfast, planning to explore the picturesque town of Innsbruck but then my phone rang.
There was a crisis happening back in England, and I needed to get to a computer. I sprinted back to my hotel, and for the next seven hours, I didn’t move. It felt like an emergency of catastrophic proportions at the time, but now, I can’t even remember what it was.
With the crisis averted, the rest of my team had gone ahead of me to a beer festival. But my plan was to find an Austrian McDonald’s and go to bed.
As I walked down the Innsbruck high street, I noticed most things were closed. The heart of the town was all down by the river, but the bright lights of one establishment grabbed my attention.
From the outside, it was ambiguous what type of bar this was. I inquired at the door whether it was a strip club and received no definitive answer. But most importantly, it was open.
There were no dancers. Instead, I was welcomed with the sound of heavy metal and a strong waft of cigarette smoke.
Austria’s newest prime minister ran on two pillars: making smoking indoors legal again and raising the national speed limit. His campaign slogan should have been “Live Fast, Die Young.”
At this point, I was desperate for a beer, feeling as though, for once, I was deserving. The barman told me he had to change the barrel, so my wait went on.
I surveyed the bar. It was quiet, apart from a rowdy bunch in the corner. They all had near identical haircuts, long knotty curls just like Dave Mustaine. They swirled their drinks from side to side as they enjoyed the loud music coming from the jukebox to their right.
Still beerless, I wandered over towards the jukebox, and the headbangers in the corner went quiet. Their attention suddenly turned to me, and to what my next move would be.
I scrolled through band names I’d never heard before—Repugnant Stench, Cadaverous Condition, Distorted Impalement—maybe I was out of my depth.
But then I saw it, the one song for any bar situation. I clicked the enter button with all the confidence in the world and took my seat as the opening riff of Thin Lizzy’s “The Boys Are Back in Town” came on the speakers.
The place erupted!
It didn’t really, but the occasional head bob and look of appreciation from the metalheads felt like a victory.
I sat, enjoying the music, drinking my beer, and having that ceremonial moment that I craved.
And only 36 hours later, I would be crawling to the shower.
The adage of “you’ll feel better after a shower” was on a loop in my head. I just didn’t think it would be this hard to get to it.
As I said, my body had given up on me. Gravity felt stronger somehow, and I was using all my energy to fight against it.
A walk became a crawl, but I made it. Slumped down in front of the shower.
Hoisting myself up over the bathtub, I took a moment to catch my breath. As I inhaled, deeper than I’d ever done before, I reached out and turned the shower to any temperature that wasn’t boiling.
I stood, trying to steady myself.
But it was too much.
Slowly, I crouched down and took a seat as the water rappelled off my head and into the bath.
I stayed there for a while, resembling a drenched owl, but feeling very much like a lost boy.
My assumption was right—something had irrevocably changed. And that past version of myself, indestructible and fearless, was no more.
Now, if I could go back—to that boy in the bath, sitting and searching—and tell him what the next seven years would have in store for him, I really don’t know how he would pick himself up.
But pick himself up, he must.
LIFE IN A CRASH 