The Red Mist And the Outrage of the Mediocre UPDATE
I thought I had finished this piece but then I went to the podiatrist...
I'm paid to give business advice. I don't really like doing this. However, I have a few mantras that I believe have some value and the first on the list is “Don't start a Start-up – just start.”. After twelve years of posting on Mailchimp, I've migrated here and have been thinking about how the first posting needs to have world-changing influence, the wisdom of Buddha, the wit of Oscar Wilde and the turn of phrase of Coleridge – oh what the hell Robin, just get on with it! This is what's on my mind right now.
My agent Clive said to me one evening, when I was particularly vexed by the antics of a very successful singer, [whose name rhymes with chassis] “dull boring people make dull boring records Robin”. He was right on both counts. Firstly, there are definitely dull boring records out there and secondly there is a correlation between fire, drama and fearlessness in art and the temperament of the artist in question.
In sport they call it “the red mist”. Those moments when, on the field of play and in the heat of battle a player “loses it” and either screams abuse at the ref, lashes out at an opponent or kicks the ball away in frustration at a decision.
David Beckham suffered a year of public outrage and hatred for getting sent off after kicking out from the turf at the World Cup.
Caravaggio, Van Gogh, Beethoven, Picasso. All were reviled during their lifetime; all were later revered for their passionate genius. And yes, they were all, more or less, a pain in the arse.
Showmen and women, sportsmen and women, creators of every age and nation who excel know what this feels like and know how necessary the red mist has always been in their temperament and how hard it is to control when the fire burns brightest.
I'm writing about this half way through the Paris Olympics, because we’ve already heard outrage and disapproval from pundits and also of course because it’s Paris! “Good luck in the event you've been training for solidly for a decade – but whatever you do and whatever you feel about the judges or your opponent, maintain your decorum at all times”.
This daft posturing from people who have never driven themselves with passion, never got up at 4am to run in the snow, never bared their soul in art, is a thoroughly negative, ill-informed and pointless exercise. The judgement of the couch potato.
Now I do try to balance arguments, so here is an “On the other hand”.
On the other hand, I laugh with scorn when i hear athletes talk about their “struggle” about how “tough” it has been getting over a self-inflicted knee injury and about the “sacrifices” they have made (missing a mate's wedding) all for Team GB. Er ... No ... All for self-gratification, glory, praise and the nation's reverence. give us a break here. if you want to learn about “tough” and “sacrifice” just ask any of the 16 million people living with disabilities here or ask their friends and family. These folks – my folks – take toughness and determination to a whole other level. Athletes have a choice. Just stop and go back to the lemon drizzle cakes and a lie-in. We don't have a choice. When you fall from your chair, break yet another bone, lie there for 4 hours until someone finds you and you go to hospital for your 53rd operation and you are 9 years old or, like me, you bust your nose again and again walking into a door or falling over the Boris bike left in the middle of the pavement, that's when you find out if you are resilient and tough.
I thought I'd finished this essay. Then I went to the podiatrist. They share premises with a physio. I've been countless times. It's very hard to park, across a cobbled yard then up a flight of outside steps. The yard has a barrier controlled from the reception. They always let me and my assistant, Dino, park.
As I’ve mentioned before, travel and getting in and out always preys on a disabled person's mind en route. We waited outside the barrier and Dino went in and asked for the barrier to be raised (I know, I know, this seems like a lot of detail and you're getting impatient).
The receptionist, Sam, was six inches from the buzzer, “Drop him off then find somewhere to park”.
“We've been here a dozen times and they always let us park” said Dino.
“Sorry, you can't park here”
“Mr Millar is blind”
“Ask downstairs”
Dino goes downstairs.
“Ok, we'll open the barrier”
Now I'm getting to the point. This is relayed to me by Dino. I'm frustrated, annoyed but crucially I was already not looking forward to either the cobbles or the stairs.
We park. I go in for the orthotic fitting. My heart rate is elevated. I'm not calm. I wish I was but even now, every time the challenge of disability and the world rears its ugly head it gets to me.
So I march in “What was the problem with me parking? I've been here a dozen times”
“There's no need to raise your voice Mr Millar”
So I'm being told off for being blind?
If you're disabled and reading this then you've experienced it and you know exactly how I felt, how David Beckham felt and how Caravaggio felt.
If I hear another interview with Kelly Holmes about her struggle, I'll send this to her.