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Book: Life... With No Breaks (A laugh-out-loud comedy memoir) by Nick Spalding
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Authors: Nick Spalding
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camouflage jacket and combat goggles.
In the space of a few seconds, the bored expression on my face disappeared as I realised that I had a gun, protective armour and carte blanche to shoot other people in the head.
Off I went, eyes narrowed to slits and heart pounding like a jack hammer.
I was well and truly in the moment , barking out commands to junior members of staff and taking crafty pot shots at people from a handily placed bush.
This all went supremely well - for a while.
I felt I was bagging my limit and enacting small and petty acts of revenge on those who had dared to drink from my coffee cup or steal post-it notes from my desk.
Then - as is inevitable in Spalding’s life - things took an unfortunate turn.
At the event was our marketing team and sundry other individuals from the company’s lower echelons, along with four or five important clients, whose accounts we were managing at the time.
Among these clients was a large, sweaty gentleman from a pharmaceutical company, who was paying us a six figure sum to write and design some promotional pamphlets for a new anti-flea pill for dogs his boffins had cooked up.
It had been impressed on us in no uncertain terms that said gentleman must be accorded every courtesy, to ensure the account was retained.
This extended to my direct superior telling all us grunts that if we saw our pill-pushing cash cow during the paint-ball event, we were to aim high and wide .
So there I am, squatting behind my bush in cunning concealment, blasting anything that moves in sickly orange paint splats. I'm a poor shot, so more trees have developed a covering of orange than fellow combatants, it has to be said.
Homing into view were four people, not obeying the laws of paint-ball in the slightest by walking out in the open and chatting like they were at a cocktail party.
Two men and two women - with no idea there was a nutter in the bushes twenty feet away with a bead on them and the cold, red mist of war destroying any semblance of rationality.
You should be a couple of steps ahead of me at this point and have already reached the conclusion that one of these innocent deer was the sweaty gentleman from Drugs ‘R Us .
I cared nothing for this. My dander was up and my blood was at boiling point.
Ah ah! I thought to myself. Easy pickings .
I levelled the paint-ball gun at the wandering group and squeezed off a few shots. I think I shouted something along the lines of: ‘Die, you scum sucking mothers!’ as well, but I can’t remember clearly.
Most of the paint balls mercifully missed their targets by miles, but three hit home with an accuracy that would have made Clint Eastwood hang up his poncho.
One ball hit a woman on the thigh. She let out a yelp of surprise and pain and started to hop up and down like Zebedee at a pogo-stick competition. I later learned this was Matilda - fat sweaty gentleman’s German personal assistant.
The other two balls slammed into fat sweaty gentleman on his considerable paunch and only slightly less chunky neck.
He made an oofing noise when the gut shot went in and a high-pitched screech when the shot to the neck hammered home. Both were a delight to my battle-hardened ears.
Partly in shock, partly in delight and partly with unholy rage, I leapt from my hiding place and ran over, wailing like a banshee and with every intention of finishing off the other two from point blank range.
Hmmm.
There’s a moment of absolute clarity sometimes that hits you like a metaphorical bucket of cold water.
I got within five feet of my prey and looked at them properly for the first time.
Fat sweaty man was bent double, hand clasped to rapidly reddening neck. Matilda the Hun was now sat in the mud, rubbing her leg vigorously and crying. The other two were fussing around and were the first to realise their insane attacker had pounced, intent on a crushing victory.
I recognised mister fat and sweaty at once and the bucket of cold water got chucked over my
In the space of a few seconds, the bored expression on my face disappeared as I realised that I had a gun, protective armour and carte blanche to shoot other people in the head.
Off I went, eyes narrowed to slits and heart pounding like a jack hammer.
I was well and truly in the moment , barking out commands to junior members of staff and taking crafty pot shots at people from a handily placed bush.
This all went supremely well - for a while.
I felt I was bagging my limit and enacting small and petty acts of revenge on those who had dared to drink from my coffee cup or steal post-it notes from my desk.
Then - as is inevitable in Spalding’s life - things took an unfortunate turn.
At the event was our marketing team and sundry other individuals from the company’s lower echelons, along with four or five important clients, whose accounts we were managing at the time.
Among these clients was a large, sweaty gentleman from a pharmaceutical company, who was paying us a six figure sum to write and design some promotional pamphlets for a new anti-flea pill for dogs his boffins had cooked up.
It had been impressed on us in no uncertain terms that said gentleman must be accorded every courtesy, to ensure the account was retained.
This extended to my direct superior telling all us grunts that if we saw our pill-pushing cash cow during the paint-ball event, we were to aim high and wide .
So there I am, squatting behind my bush in cunning concealment, blasting anything that moves in sickly orange paint splats. I'm a poor shot, so more trees have developed a covering of orange than fellow combatants, it has to be said.
Homing into view were four people, not obeying the laws of paint-ball in the slightest by walking out in the open and chatting like they were at a cocktail party.
Two men and two women - with no idea there was a nutter in the bushes twenty feet away with a bead on them and the cold, red mist of war destroying any semblance of rationality.
You should be a couple of steps ahead of me at this point and have already reached the conclusion that one of these innocent deer was the sweaty gentleman from Drugs ‘R Us .
I cared nothing for this. My dander was up and my blood was at boiling point.
Ah ah! I thought to myself. Easy pickings .
I levelled the paint-ball gun at the wandering group and squeezed off a few shots. I think I shouted something along the lines of: ‘Die, you scum sucking mothers!’ as well, but I can’t remember clearly.
Most of the paint balls mercifully missed their targets by miles, but three hit home with an accuracy that would have made Clint Eastwood hang up his poncho.
One ball hit a woman on the thigh. She let out a yelp of surprise and pain and started to hop up and down like Zebedee at a pogo-stick competition. I later learned this was Matilda - fat sweaty gentleman’s German personal assistant.
The other two balls slammed into fat sweaty gentleman on his considerable paunch and only slightly less chunky neck.
He made an oofing noise when the gut shot went in and a high-pitched screech when the shot to the neck hammered home. Both were a delight to my battle-hardened ears.
Partly in shock, partly in delight and partly with unholy rage, I leapt from my hiding place and ran over, wailing like a banshee and with every intention of finishing off the other two from point blank range.
Hmmm.
There’s a moment of absolute clarity sometimes that hits you like a metaphorical bucket of cold water.
I got within five feet of my prey and looked at them properly for the first time.
Fat sweaty man was bent double, hand clasped to rapidly reddening neck. Matilda the Hun was now sat in the mud, rubbing her leg vigorously and crying. The other two were fussing around and were the first to realise their insane attacker had pounced, intent on a crushing victory.
I recognised mister fat and sweaty at once and the bucket of cold water got chucked over my
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