Dispatches from the Pavement Podcast

It’s happened again. For some reason, morale was not boosted enough by the last windswept barbecue in May, resulting in 9 people from the office taking a couple of days off to recover due to undercooked meat. I spotted a chalkboard as I wandered past the coffee cart and thought nothing of it. When I got to work, before I could even perform my usual arrival routine of not sitting down and finding an unmarked coffee machine, I was told to pick a team, “James and the lads have already taken 7 of them. Only a fiver and it’s all for charity.”I couldn’t really say “I don’t believe in charity.” Although I think that would have been less controversial than what I actually thought, “I don’t believe in football.” Apart from anything else, it’s not all for charity. If it were for charity, you would just have a bucket there the whole time, and not cash in on some culturally interesting moment like an international football tournament hosted over three nations, one third of which we would rather not have to discuss the details of due to current ongoing political events. It’s not quite Qatar, but it does have a tinge we are avoiding.Thanks for reading Dispatches from the Pavement! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.“James and the lads” is something I hadn’t heard before. They were mostly just some colleagues who had Virgin Active memberships they talked about using, though I couldn’t see physical evidence of this, and enjoyed a sandwich from Birley. Undertaking a sandwich at Birley is a venture that contradicts what you would think of in a sandwich purchase. Whether you’ve been through the Subway production line or grabbed a pre-made Pret, walking into Birley is like stepping back and forward in time simultaneously. Imagine a rather careful and particular sandwich-making experience, handled by a specialised crew who will cradle your lunch through the necessary stages to build something remarkably simple: a sandwich. Imagine this experience in a small cobbled street, where you’ve spent a relaxed morning by a stream, wandered over for a meal, but discovered the entire population of London had the same idea. Queues out the door, moving so slowly because the Birley employees will not consider anything beyond what is directly in front of them. So if taking on that gauntlet makes you a “lad”, then yes, they are “lads.”I took internal pride in not being considered a “lad”, a triumph.Some idiot had chosen England in the sweepstakes. I had to check this was for the men’s tournament when I saw that the home team had already been chosen. We are in a political swirl where it’s hard to tell if people were really excited about England playing football a year ago, or something far worse, but it is now the case that wherever you go, you will be reminded that you are in England by all of the pubs. I didn’t know the odds, but could see a few other classic teams already favoured. As I continued down the list, I was more than a little excited as the list of nations had some representation I wasn’t expecting. Not just Scotland, either.New Zealand were on there. Had they retrained their rugby team? I’m assuming Canada, granted entry by default, were submitting their ice hockey team and hoping no one notices they’re not real football players when they aren’t fouled in the box and stay standing. Dead giveaway that. If you’re in the box, immediately fall down. It’s part of basic training. How else do you expect to not score and not get a penalty either?I went with Panama just for laughs. I wasn’t going to see the fiver again anyway. Kind of how Panama works, I think. Send your money offshore so it’s a bit like you have money, but you can’t ever actually use it for money, so why bother worrying about it?Entering the thing was my biggest mistake since pressing the wrong button on the lift and having to do the walk of shame past reception twice, and just to gett the stairs in the end. I was now in it. I was not in it to win it. I was in it to avoid conflict. I am known, as ever, as a team player.I got invited out for lunch to Birley’s, and I have regretted every subsequent decision from this point onwards. Please let this tournament conclude soon…Thanks for reading Dispatches from the Pavement! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tobyisaacscomedy.substack.com

As the World Cup looms, I have a short treatise that I submit to the sporting professionals:The game of football is, on the whole, dull. Incredible skill is required by ~30 players (I include the subs out of a misplaced sense of respect) to last 90-100 minutes of running around in the grass and the entire result can be settled if one of them scores 1 point in the first 15 seconds. This is considered a national sport for many european countries, with religious followings that defy logic.Thanks for reading Dispatches from the Pavement! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.The evolution of the game from my perspective as someone who has no real affiliation with any football team (except the occasional confusing emotional surge when the England Women’s team do what the men’s team perpetually fail at), is one that requires todays players to have finesse, tricks, foresight, and a whole lot more to outsmart the opposing club. These displays of professional football-ness are occasionally entertaining and makes useful fodder for the social media teams that need to keep up with the trends of ‘content’.Hundreds of thousands of hours are spent pouring over statistics that feel like they go back centuries. Statements like, “Germany haven’t won against Italy after going 4 goals behind since the 1976 friendly where Italy had 7 players sent off for inappropriate use of rosary beads.” are presented as if that has any bearing on the team that has nothing in common with even the ghosts of the players aside from a vague sense of shared nationality. The gameplay has evolved, the rules have changed, the players have changed, the kit has changed.Throughout the match you will be given stats about possession, corners, fouls, offsides, the pass to tattoo ratio, kicks made by yellow football boots, which amount, in the end, to nothing. A team can have all of these in their favour and the outcome is: ‘so what?’ Goal or no goal is the only thing that matters. And I think everyone knows how misguided this obsession with statistics is, and spend careers not talking about goals for the majority of the time, with entire channels dedicated to the moving and changing of teams that players are doing, because they know, deep down, that this whole thing is really boring.Here is my proposal to finally make this game ‘beautiful’ without just being told that’s what the game is with zero evidence.Get rid of the offside rule. The offside rule is, frankly, the most annoying bit of the game. It is the most egregious, infuriating flaw in the structure of human competition. “Oh, they were offside.” Entire tactics and teams are built around the misplaced goal of making the opposition find themselves in an offside position, and the constant looking to VAR for offside checks is exhausting. Errant shoulder blades are not a thing. But the thing is, if the attacking players get closer to the goal than the defenders, then they’re more likely to score and that’s what the game’s about. Eliminating this rule will stop the nonsensical flags waving to put a stop to the genuine celebration and make the game a lot more dramatic.No goals means field attrition An important aspect to goal scoring is the way to make sure teams are truly, religiously, solely focused on goal scoring, because I don’t think they are. Under these new rules, any team that hasn’t scored a goal loses a player every 5 minutes from the 45 minute mark. This will make scoring a goal in the first half really important. The first player to be removed from either team is the goal keeper and the player can only be returned through substitution once the team scores. By the 85th minute there are 2 players in orange and pink high-vis vests so that they can 1) make each other out in the bleak vast empty grassland and 2) differentiation from the security staff. I can’t stress enough how much goals make the football matches worth watching.Minimum 3 goals. If you don’t score 3 goals after 90 minutes, another 30 minutes are played. if it’s still less than 3, another 30 minutes are added. The principle: just keep going. I’m sorry, but a game with only 1 goal is worse than a game with no goals, but I can’t be doing with settling for a draw. You’re watching Chelsea and Crystal Palace waffle about not scoring and you’ve got a barbecue planned later; the players need to feel the pressure from the crowd that goals need scoring for this to be a match, otherwise refunds.No more goal kicks; only corners Goal kicks are boring.Only penalties I’m not quite sure how to implement this gracefully, but, in order to suitably take the feedback on football from my wife, it’s important we acknowledge that, for some, penalties are truly the only good bit of football. The rest is fluff. In order to accommodate this viewpoint, the coin toss at the beginning of the match should not be to decide whatever it decides today. I know what this is for in tennis, but in football, it’s irrelevant… unless it’s to decide if we, in fact, decide the winner with just penalties. Flip a coin and then everyone floods to one side of the pitch to take penalties. This adds to the already inherent drama of penalties, by potentially meaning that after the 2 hour build up, getting to the stadium, finding your way through to your seat, listening to whatever it is you listen to while you watch the players warm up and the squad announcements, you are then presented with a 10 minute penalty shootout and head home. But you have equal chance of getting a game that could go on for days, finally giving you the quidditch experience you read about in those books.No more conventional penalties; only Goalies. Somewhat fixing the challenge set above of continuous play until the glorious 3 goal minimum, it does eliminate then penalty shootout in standard play; coin toss notwithstanding. While you probably think I want to have no more penalties because as a Brit I have the drama of losing at penalties drilled into me as someone who finds himself in England during the tournaments where England participate. The historic English penalty performance is always something used to fill a 15 minute quiet period in the coverage. This is drilled into you by every analysis on every channel and sports outlet. The message is clear: England and penalties is basically hell. You would be half correct. But if you’re going to resort to the modern equivalent of the gladiator appearances in the Colosseum, then make it interesting; only goalies. Strikers have had their chance and failed. Let’s have the two remaining players who can barely use their feet give us some physical comedy. But also, penalties for fouls in the box is silly. Just more free kicks. Add to the chaos.I’m hoping this reaches the FIFA World Cup referees before the tournament kicks off, because I have offered a blueprint on how to improve the game infinitely for the better, make it much more watchable, and make it about what it should be: Goals. I have wasted too many hours watching the ‘wrong’ game, where the team on paper classed as the better team is playing, only to have them play to the tactics of the tournament. I should have watched Iceland vs Serbia. Last time I missed many a glorious match of, and you will forgive my bluntness here, GOALS!Thanks for reading Dispatches from the Pavement! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tobyisaacscomedy.substack.com

I have been living in what feels like a village, just outside of the M25 for a couple of months, due to… reasons. It is classed as a town and has a train station that is suitably functional; with the newsagent kiosk stocking the local papers as it tries to deny the proximity to the BIG CITY, with headlines that can be easily misinterpreted, due to the amateur nature of the journalism. One headline recently read, “Horror after teen stabbed by park”. This could easily be misread as a plot where a local park becomes sentient, starts stabbing teenagers, and that’s not even the worst part about the story… read on if you dare.That’s not what this is about. The scene is set.Thanks for reading Dispatches from the Pavement! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.Just outside the entrance to the railway station there is often a long queue of taxis, hopeful for ad-hoc fares in a growing app-based culture. And tucked away, you’d barely notice it, which is part of it’s charm and joy and salve to my emotions of not being in the middle of zone 1, is a coffee cart. A three-wheeled number, with a barista and fully functional espresso appliance sticking out of the boot. I can still get a decent flat white. The relief is palpableBut so is the familiarity as I get to the top of hill; another coffee shop. Confusingly, this one doesn’t open until 8am, so that’s already off to a bad start. Village life is being forced upon the local establishments, in a way that defies the surrounding area. And this coffee shop is, almost thankfully, modelled after the coffee shops of inner London. You may read about them in my previous work. This familiarity is welcomed. I can get a decent flat white and be served with the attitudes and elevated price that I thought would only be possible within walking distance of the Embankment.You would think this would be enough to convince people that this is what we should be doing here. Close enough to London, but I don’t have to hop on a train to be questioned about my milk choice.It isn’t. The management have put up a sign to try to justify their pricing structure.This is that sign.At first glance, it’s the passive aggressive nature that really doubles down on trying to be a big city coffee house with big city prices. But wait there’s more.Starting with:The coffee cart by the station gives me the same flat white for over a quid cheaper. AND he’s an easy bloke.“What would you like, mate?““Flat white, please, mate.”“Sugar?”“No thanks.”The sugar question is important. The man simply asks, ‘Sugar?’ and adds it during the brewing process—recognising, quite rightly, that the structural integrity of a hot beverage should not be left to the stupid person who bought it.And this whole interaction is ~25% cheaper which, in a “village” like this, is significant enough to be a class chasm. This man has set this up right by the station where city workers make it a morning routine to hover and chat around this cart before getting their train to the trading floors or whatever it is they think it is they’re doing that’s important in a suit in the city of London, and have this little extra community microchosm. I am invading that by being short, quiet, and untalkative, getting my coffee promptly, but not being made to feel bad about that in any way.The most beautiful moment is when I am handed the cup and I haven’t been asked “Eat In or Take Away?” I wouldn’t dare get so familiar that I get in to the only ‘eat in’ seat available, the passenger seat, because I wouldn’t even do this in a regular shop. I’m already feeling very exposed because I can’t hide myself in the generic hubbub created by the low conversation and background music of a brick and mortar coffee world.Let’s head up the road, shall we?It’s bad enough I have had to traipse to the top of the hill anyway, so let’s explore if this static version of coffee vendor can outdo the station cart. Spoiler: no.Maybe I’ve arrived by walking up the road from the station, or I’ve just finished a run, but either way, I’m making as much effort as possible to portray that I cannot get out any more words than I’ve already volunteered, “Flat white, please.”As if they’ve read my previous work, the next minute is spent what feels like completing an identity challenge when you call your bank. “What milk?” “Hot or iced?” “Cash or card?” “Eat in or Take away?” “Name for the order?” An internal invented desperation for coffee forces me through the answers, regular, hot, are you serious? Take Away.But I’m not happy. To be fair, my wife tells me to smile when I am happy, so I don’t think this would matter to them anyway.Order placed my eye catches the sign above.Let me draw you to the details of the justified cost of the oat flat white at £4.50:* VAT = 75p* Staff = 94p* Rent = 70p* Business rates = 32p* Ingredients and cup = 55p* Everything else = 66p* Profit = 13pThis has serious problems. Presumably putting VAT up top is to point you to blame the government for the higher prices; kind of missing the fact that this is not an operational expense it’s a pass through. It’s a redirect that tries to make your eyes look away while they work on their margins. “We are in this financial tragedy together, we would appreciate you obeying our laminated instructions.”The everything else category is, supposedly, going to utility, merchant fees, insurance, that Spotify Premium subscription being put to incredibly poor use. Hiding behind an everything else is a bit of an odd thing to do. Especially when business rates is already called out. What else are they hiding in there? Are the beans being ground under the feet of private school children as part of their diverse education and extra tuck shop money?What started as a bit of a premium, but accepted, price has suddenly forced me into a guilt trip for thinking that this price was unjustified. Of course, for the eagle eyed among you, the price is, indeed unjustified.The sign doesn’t actually add up. “About 13p” tries to mask the terrible mathematics being performed in front of everyone, but, if this sign is supposed to make me agree to the price, then I’d like 45p back please.Total = 405p (£4.05)Why did they feel the need to do this? I don’t go into the local butchers and ask about the lease agreement associated with the sausages. I don’t get drawn into the interconnected legalities behind a green grocers celery sticks. I don’t get asked to drop some extra pennies in the coffee cart’s diesel fund. In fact, he’s got a little table for me to help myself to a free Biscoff biscuit if I so choose.The final moment of payment asks if I want to tip them. They are taking payment before they’ve made the drink and I’m already gritting my teeth at their questions that delayed them starting the process. So no, you are not going to get a tip. You’re getting a magical 45p anyway.I would like to hope that these businesses offering an outside moment for community in the form of hot bean juice by various names have a future, but a cart doing the core service feels like it’s got a better chance at surviving, especially if more people like me move into the area.The Shop may last but, more likely, the owner of the establishment will be appearing in court in 2028 for embezzlement. When they ask how on earth this could have happened, the sign will be the only exhibit required. It reads, “rising taxes and costs are killing independent hospitality.” This might be true in the general sense, but I think, in this case, it is abundantly poor accounting practices.Thanks for reading Dispatches from the Pavement! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tobyisaacscomedy.substack.com

I’m not ashamed to say I shop at Waitrose occasionally. Their shoppers, for one, are far superior. I am ashamed to be judging everyone else in the Waitrose for shopping there. I am a grounded, down-to-earth individual, and can provide proof that I’m shopping there ironically if required. But everyone else, making it look like it’s their regular place to stock up on overpriced sourdough from the Gail’s shelf in the bakery section of Waitrose is enough to make one’s toes stick out a little too much and catch them as the they push the trolley (because obviously they have a trolley because it’s the big shop) and their imbalance causes them to try to catch their weight in the wayward food transport and they end up in the wrong aisle; Aisle 9: Confectionary without any Cadbury’s products.I stand there, staring at the ‘Essential’ range of ‘Chicken Steaks,’ sardines, mackerel, houmous, dark chocolate digestive biscuits; thinking, “none of these are essential.” And then my peripheral vision is invaded by a man in a gilet that communicates that his driver is waiting for him.Thanks for reading Dispatches from the Pavement! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.This is not his usual activity and he looks slightly lost, but is clutching a small piece of paper and is on a mission. He looks like he’s been given a task from his children to buy a jar of sauerkraut (found in the international goods aisle) for as little time and money as possible. That piece of paper is being held quite awkwardly; presumably he’s never held a five-pound note before: the denomination is too low and it feels weird.I had to follow him, because what else do you do in these moments. Something was bound to happen. Otherwise this would just finish here, wouldn’t it?He’s at the till now talking to the cashier and I hear him catastrophise the interaction straightaway.“I believe I have a DYE-count,” he says as he pushes the QR code into the personal space of an apron-wearing staff member.“Excuse me?”“DYE-count. Rhymes with ‘Viscount’. 20p off.”He’s never done this before and, supposedly, doesn’t engage with the lowly language of us peasants.The cashier was caught in a world between the push chairs and spaniels being walked around the shop and the world this man had appeared from; unable to process that a man with ironed shorts and no socks would be attempting this without supervision. She scanned both items and met his excitement and flourish with a dead pan response: “£2.40”“Erm… are you sure?” You could see the algebra spilling out his flat cap.“You wanted a bag as well.” The bag, naturally, is a Waitrose priced Waitrose bag; not cheap and never discounted.“Ah, of course. What a silly mistake.” He handed over the cash from his other hand with a look of relief.She placed the change in his hand and he stared at it for a moment.I was afraid that what happened next would include a scene where the manager was berated by a viscount for a discount that caused a miscount.I never heard ‘MYE-count’ but could see the eyes thinking something in that region as his laceless shoes clopped towards the automatic exit doors.The cashier caught my eye and nodded. “Yes. I did MYE-count.” She put 50p into the charity bucket.Thanks for reading Dispatches from the Pavement! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tobyisaacscomedy.substack.com

Is it ok to admit that I haven’t seen a dentist in years? Not on purpose anyway. I may well have seen a plain clothes dentist in a crowd of people trying to navigate Tottenham Court Road tube station, or perhaps even met one at a social occasion that I have entirely skipped the vocational steps in a conversation, as is my prerogative. I had a moment in my recent past that drove me to contact health professionals and the journey I was sent on resulted in almost having to break my streak.I had this odd pain in my left jaw when I chewed. It wasn’t a toothache, but it was definitely something in my head. I called the doctors surgery for an initial consultation. Here’s the immediate pit of despair that is experienced by the medical profession these days: specialism. There are specialists for everything. Knees, bladders, skin. Thanks for reading Dispatches from the Pavement! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.Every element of the body is chopped up into chunks for consultants to focus to the extreme in their study. There is highly likely a thumb specialist that I will surely be contacting at some point. We are are flat pack furniture with a penchant for praline.I get that we need to go deep in everything to make sure we properly fix things. I understand cancer and other serious conditions require specialists to properly navigate these difficulties. That is acceptable. But as I was going through triage, if you can call it that, it became very quickly clear that the health care system has dissected humanity so ultimately that triage is not really a worthy term for what I went through.“I have a pain in my jaw.”“Go see a dentist.”“You’re not going to ask when it started, if it’s inside out or outside my mouth, any other possible lifestyle factors that could be causing it?”“No. Goodbye.”That’s that then, I now accept.There is no other option anyway. And this is causing all kinds of pain that is impossible to avoid. You start with a bit of tiredness and get sent to a neurologist and then some head specialist, then over to an MRI to be viewed by an imaging specialist, and each thing takes triage and repetition and the hand over to the next is like the path crumbling behind you as you venture further into an ancient cave system. You are the Indiana Jones of the system. No going back. You must venture deeper until you reach an eventual void which, finally, is that the thing just kind of cleared up on its own. Or you’re dead. Both of which are considered acceptable.I could have gone to see the dentist, yes, but it was not a dental thing. The whole process, I have come to see, is to deal with the immediate symptom and solve it. The most often recommendation is: “take some paracetamol.” But no one thought to take a step back. Holistic views in the world of health services don’t really feel like a thing. GPs are generalists, but if we have PTs (personal trainers) who make you feel guilty about sleeping, or SCs (sleep consultants) who make you feel guilty about not-sleeping, why not add PHCs to the list? Personal Health Curators. Own the whole thing and make me a better and more healthy human being. This should come out of the council tax budget.Slightly tangentially, let me explain what I don’t want:To be drawn down the rabbit hole of multivitamins or other nutritional supplements that get jammed into my instagram feed between the video of cats on holiday in Tuscany and a kitchen appliance walkthrough. My health should not depend on the strange vertical screen lecture from yet another Dr. Gone Private and his cronies. There are at least five different adverts I’ve seen that are purporting to be full-blown businesses that have ‘cracked’ the food system by putting everything you need into a bullet sized pill. This is bullying by another name. It’s insane to listen to these people monologue and then just bypass the whole food thing to think that you can get nutrients from a button. A plastic button.We’re not astronauts. We don’t need to be astronauts. We won’t need ultra efficient food intake strategies for a picnic. There are versions of a futuristic world where meal deals are a series of packets and everyone absolutely loves it. I am already wholly against the paradigm of efficiency. Perhaps it is too late and we’re already careening towards a world where we can get 10g of protein from a granola bar and consider this progress. At least, for the sake of the Mediterranean diet, replace this with biting chunks out of a block of Parmesan.Just listen. I know you care.The pain in my jaw just kind of went away and I think it was probably stress related. I might have been grinding my teeth in the night or something, but I know that seeing a dentist wouldn’t have helped. Of course, knowing that now, knowing that the body can be a barometer for the broader episodes of life that are thrown at us, I don’t know that me calling the doctor would have been a good experience if the response from the receptionist was going to be:“Get a grip.”Maybe therapy? No thanks. Apparently. Still haven’t seen a dentist.Thanks for reading Dispatches from the Pavement! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tobyisaacscomedy.substack.com

As Tolkien tells the world through the voice of Gandalf to Frodo, “it’s a dangerous thing stepping out of your door,” so the modern equivalent is found when one logs into LinkedIn after a long weekend. A world where it is normal to be ‘delighted to announce’ that they are doing the same job with a new title and broetry about a pretend trial that turns out they had a big tidy and thought they’d lost their pencil sharpener. We are presented with an even more grating message: be productive. Productivity and efficiency at all costs. It is not uncommon to be put into direct competition with those who are claiming to be 1% better every day. Anyone standing still is on a downward escalator into failure.This is a simple statement that sounds so plausible. It is, however, mathematically irresponsible. A bit like oil prices.Thanks for reading Dispatches from the Pavement! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.I was first met with this unusual sentiment when a bio of a new senior leader made the throwaway statement “I aim to be a little bit better every day” in their introduction to the department, hiding it amongst their other general interests, pointing ultimately to a health obsession that suggests they haven’t felt a processed carb since 2019 and is very pleased with their Peloton membership.This is a person based in America, so maybe there is a belief that one cannot have a bad day. Maybe, due to the lack of national public transport, they have never been met with a delayed train or a bus. Any bus. Maybe, due to the limited history, they don’t realise that historical ruins are real, rather than manufactured for a theme park. Maybe, every visit to a downtown high street, the continuous change of retail establishments is seen as “a little bit better every day.”I’ve lived in London for a decade and a half and can tell you that the “engineering works” that shut down the underground services every weekend are evidence of one thing. The underground continues to run as usual. It has not improved even marginally. The Central Line is the defining experience that keeps you from believing in progress. Treasure it. Without this, you will be disappointed every time you try to justify why you had a day off.Improvement in London is a zero-sum game. If I get 1% better at my job, the Universe immediately compensates by making the guy next to me on the bus eat a tuna sandwich with his mouth wide open.If life were a spreadsheet, then, perhaps, this new VP would be happily on row 17000 of their days alive, ticking off another 1% improvement. Yes, there are certainly growth spurts in your life, and sudden gains when, in a sudden moment, you can ride a bike. But to put this in perspective, let me introduce you to (1.01)^365The 1% Better Club operates without acknowledging that this means that their annual members have to prove, beyond reasonable doubt, that they are 37.78 times better than they were at their last membership anniversary. Otherwise, they will be expelled into the dark of reality. ‘Incremental gains’ has a ring to it that is hard to challenge. Maybe this 1% is spread over many, many personal traits that could equate to something, but you tell me one person who is even 10 times better than when you last saw them, and I will bring out my spreadsheet asking for the evidence to be entered in columns B-K.By age 18, you have lived 6574 days. Your improvement at this rate would result in you being 2.56 x 10^28 (quintillion billion) times better. In the Western world, you may be aspiring to become an entry-level graduate in the next 3 years. But your sights are simply too low. You will actually be an interstellar object with enough force to destroy a moon or small planet.By age 30, you have lived 10,957 days and have improved 2.23 x 10^47 (quatuordicillion) times. Some would be impressed if you made it to middle management, but you are actually a sentient being with the brain the size of a planet.By age 50, you might have made it to being a member of a board somewhere, but being 18,262 days of 1% improvement and a multiple of your beginning being 8.25 x 10^78 (trevigintillion), you are now as good as matching the atomic count of the observable universe. You have transcended all existence, far beyond any deity, maybe you can finally look down upon the hustle and grind of the city. But will you betray this 1% club of which you have become so loyal? Is there anywhere else to go from here? Just don’t forget to pay your council tax.As with all things, words sound great. If something rhymes, we like it and believe it. ‘Better every day’ is a lovely mantra. 1% doesn’t sound like much. Maybe we have forgotten how much we already are. But let’s be honest, human performance is not exponential. This is, perhaps, why we are constantly baffled by HR processes and their ‘performance reviews’ that are systematically document how we continue to do our jobs just fine, as we were hired to do, and make that sound like a fireable offence.There are clear moments where we hit ceilings. We bang our heads on exposed beams. We get tired. We forget our keys. Productivity culture has weaponised mathematics against the average person. The inverse statement being, “your current self is 99% an anticlimax.”But the ‘inspiring podcasts’ section was where I was made more aware of something I had merely actively ignored the months prior. The Diary of a CEO podcast was front and centre. Dear Mr. Bartlett, your 1% better goal is functionally impossible.He has over 50 million subscribers, and this is seen as some kind of great success. An online community, numbering not far off the population of England, is watching this guy who is just really good at marketing, interviewing other people who are classified as ‘successful’ by some arbitrary metrics that boil down to bank balance. 50 million people thinking that listening to voices will somehow make them join the ranks of the super wealthy. No one has cottoned on to the mystery that comes with it.These people he’s shoved a microphone in front of do not share any special secrets to success. Each one is an outlier. Not one has achieved success. They have merely found themselves to be successful. This is a podcast that praises confirmation bias. This worked, therefore I must have been clever enough to have known what to do to make it work in my favour.He’s like the Jordan Peterson of capitalism. To avoid any doubt, this is meant as an insult.Steven Bartlett has convinced us, like a used car dealer for the soul, that life is a code to be cracked with ice baths, cold showers, and refusing to understand what a metaphor is. Rather than what life actually is, a series of varied frustrations that usually involve needing to have a good plumber.The message reaching 100 million ears is one that makes the person who is having a relaxing break in the Cotswolds feel, not simply guilty for lacking any kind of hustle or drive, but an outright failure and deserving of becoming the next victim of an ITV serial murder drama.One of the guests, in trying to refute the idea that people can experience burnout, claims that she was told she couldn’t experience burnout because “she is not a candle.” Later in the same interview, she criticises some business leaders as being a bottleneck. If we are not candles, we are also not bottles.Her use of the “candle” retort suggests she misunderstands (or chooses to ignore) that metaphors are figurative tools, not literal classifications. By saying “You are not a candle,” she is making a literal correction to a figurative concept. However, her reliance on being “rewired”, acting as a “bottleneck”, or undergoing “metamorphosis” proves she relies on the very linguistic device she attempts to discredit.If she truly adhered to the logic of her “candle” remark, she would be forced to abandon her own vocabulary, as she is neither a computer, a bottle, nor a butterfly. Maybe you should check yourself before displaying to the world that you don’t understand metaphor.This is a bigger problem because much of the advice given is to glamourously overwork, relentlessly doing activities for the sake of I don’t know what, criticise anyone who occasionally sits down for a wee, and ensure that the board of their start up is made up of only those people who have been diagnosed with chronic stress and anxiety; something that they can quickly dismiss thanks to Bartlett’s entertaining of the pseudo scientists who claim that this is all an imagination and they just need to eat more mushroom based products.After reviewing much of the content, I really felt like having a nap. Then I realised one of his guests is a sleep expert. I was even doing that wrong.All of this floods my senses as I reflect on my years of trying to live like a normal person in London. Only to realise that most people in London aren’t actually living in London. I do. I have been living in Zone 1 for a decade and a half and have an internal clock that creates an expectation that if my order in a tea shop isn’t taken within the first 200 seconds, I am immediately on TripAdvisor writing my 2-star review in anticipation of the rest. I have been coached by the lunch chains that have a production line that gives the illusion that I’m not having to wait for my order because I can see them making it. I then, to save time, eat my burrito over a bin because I have six minutes before a meeting. I have bitten my lip. I am now 4% worse than if I hadn’t decided to have lunch. I might cry.This isn’t really me. I have been asked why I arrive at 9 am and leave the office at 5 pm. My confused answer was to refer to my employment contract that laid this 35-hour week (lunch unpaid) before me as part of the agreement between me and company we work for. They didn’t seem to like this answer. Maybe I was pointing out their own failure to prioritise the reason why they work. I pointed out that honouring my own schedule had no impact on the quality of my work. Because, seemingly unlike all the other employees, I made sure that I delivered the work I was expected to do in the workday I had agreed to.This. Is. (Apparently.) Unacceptable.My colleagues are trying to be the equivalent of 1% better every day.I would like to find a pair of socks without holes.To make this really stick, we have another pithy phrase forced into the ear drum: “If you’re standing still, you’re moving backwards.” Creating this awful illusion that we, let’s be honest, thought we’d outgrown when we realised that FOMO (fear of missing out) was a teenage peer pressure, and we could do what we like. Nope. If you think you’re finally mature because you can go at your own pace, Bartlett and his network of CEOs are here to tell you that the social pressure of college is exactly how you should feel. Just remember that that anxiety is imagined, and you don’t need to really deal with it.If I’m standing still, then being accused of moving backwards assumes there’s some finish line to which we are supposed to be moving. What are we moving towards? A meeting about “synergy”? Finally, abolishing emails by building a new way to deal with emails? You don’t have to be accused of losing your position in a race if, to the chagrin of the manufactured audience of this secret audio diary, you choose not to participate. I do not need to be more efficient or productive, because that is not the purpose of life. No matter what is written in the small print.There is one image that completely shatters the ‘standing still’ insult, which is the picture of the person saying this phrase, then also being spokesperson for Peloton; a community of people pedalling furiously, clocking thousands of miles while staying entirely stationary in their living room, revealing, once they upload this ‘indoor cycle’ to Strava, that they are, actually, quite boring.We all are.Silence.I think I have reached the truest moment that undercuts this with my own version of internal stress: FOBI (fear of being involved). I don’t want to be 1% better, I want to be 100% left alone.The fallacy that this all misses is that if standing still is moving backwards, and 1% better clubs are springing up everywhere, by trying to move in any direction in a meaningful enough way to achieve the improved high productivity goal, we are actually standing still by moving. And it would therefore be far better to experience some movement in any direction by standing still.All success is temporary.Being a ‘successful’ person is all relative and not worth chasing.If this piece gets any traction, I 100% expect to be invited on Steven Bartlett’s podcast. Otherwise, this isn’t a success. The gauntlet has been laid. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tobyisaacscomedy.substack.com

Sometimes, as the sun glares through the misty window, and leaves break the sky up into tessellated blue, you get a strange idea that, perhaps this time, you’ll try to get your customer service from a real person. No more dialling a number, speaking to a machine, choosing from a menu for the closest thing you think applies to your bespoke query, starting the menu again because that led you to an automated message unrelated to your needs, finding the cheat code through the audio maze finally allowing you to follow automated authentication steps, mis-entering your account number twice, waiting for someone to answer to simply take that information all over again.But outside. Where the vape shops give the high street hope of survival.Thanks for reading Dispatches from the Pavement! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.Surely, looking into the eyes of another human, you will get a more positive experience. It is true that the amount that can be fixed automatically, means the only parts left to humans, are the difficult conversations. Maybe, we can find a way to make this one more fulfilling. We may only be naming each other because they are wearing a name badge that says ‘Stephen’ Store Manager, and my name is on the screen in front of them, but this does feel like, for a moment, we are two people sharing a common mission to solve something that has caused a distress we could fix together.Unfortunately, some brick and mortar stores in British high streets do not exist for this purpose. From the outside, as you wander by the water feature that resembles the shapes from a dream you barely remember, your mind contemplating the errand list you should have written, you spot the logo of a company of which that was one of the things you needed to sort today! The illuminated box above the glass frontage giving you a sense of hope. Not only has it reminded you of the thing to do, you could actually get it done by entering the premises.Or. So. You. Are. Led. To.I walked into a phone shop, let’s say it’s the Three store, because that’s what it was. I had this dream in my mind. The hope warming my insides as I’d tried to park in a multi-story car park with all the skill that is on display at a school visit to an ice rink; most people are staying close to the sides because venturing into the middle is the disaster zone.The welcome was on the cooler side of lukewarm. An old cup of tea, left in the sun, as if that was going to help things.Whether they wanted to or not, I explained the situation that needed the special assistance of real people, rather than the suggested version on the website. I’m not sure they were really listening, but they asked if I would sit down because I was making things look untidy. This wasn’t the exact phrase they used, but it was definitely implied by the way they said, “let’s sit down to sort things out.”I explained the situation again, twice. The situation itself doesn’t really matter here. It didn’t matter to them either. After the pleasantries they did the one thing I realise now is completely unavoidable. They called customer services and handed me the phone. I hung the phone up and asked why I couldn’t get this sorted by them in the premises of Three by someone with a Three name badge. They looked at me like I’d taken their car keys and thrown them at a sea gull. They were clueless, powerless, friendless. Somehow employed.Shakespeare claimed that all the world is a stage. Three must have that plastered in the staff room in the back. This whole place is theatre.It should have always been clear to me, in the same way as when a website has a ‘help’ section that is no help and a ‘contact us’ section that desperately avoids providing this information. This is that. In real life. I had walked into the .com/help section of a company. I had made a journey that I believed had real, genuine purpose. I had a mission and I was going to get it done. This wasn’t what they wanted though, was it? I had made this whole journey as an ode to the high street and been given the wholesome experience of being watched while I spoke to someone in a warehouse. These were the real people. The people who provided the service. The employees that populated the store were there as facade.I had walked into a place that on the surface should have given me hope. It was as if I had scaled the first peak to see there was a higher peak beyond and someone in a tent at this initial summit had given the impression that they were a guide, only to point me into a void.I persisted with my need to resolve my issue while in the shop. I was, at minimum, going to take up space and do it in a raised tone, except when divulging personally identifiable information. The tables had turned. I was now the actor, and the staff were the audience. All the world is, truly, a stage, and this performance was exquisite. The store manager was aware of things because I had clocked him at a moment of hold music and caught his attention. As I left, I made the point to question why this had to be like this and he made the ultimate statement that haunts me.“I don’t care. I’m just an employee.”A true manager.Maybe we should have two doors to these shops. One is to the normal shop, where you can pick up an unoperational phone and play pretend with it for a bit to see if that feels nice under your fingers. The other goes to the warehouse where all the helpful people are. The normal shop has ‘just employees’ wandering about, collecting dust. The warehouse has employees+. The ones you really wanted in the first place, but hadn’t earned.Maybe there is this other door and I never found it and, after I’d left, all the normal shop staff sniggered at my foolishness to perform the entire process over the phone when I could have just gone through the other door.The true customer experience for a brick and mortar shop presence in a high street needs fixing. And, according to Three, that fix is:* Entry is only allowed by entering an unknown 4 digit code. You can have as many tries as possible, because you will be given clear hints that you’re heading in the wrong direction by one of the employees reading out various responses, like “I’m sorry that’s not an option, press star to return to the main menu.” Once successful you will be handed a clipboard to provide them with all the information they need to make sure that you will see the right person once entering the shop.* An ante-room. A lobby where, once you gain entry, you will be given a number in the queue, while a 4-piece band will play indistinct jazz. They occasionally stop for a person to pop in, holding an ice cream, telling you there’s no one available right now.* Sit in this room and stare at a blank wall for around 90 minutes. Do not make eye contact with the jazz-four-piece. They will send you back outside to try again.* Welcome to customer services! You will be introduced to a teenager who is happy to help and get things solved for you today. They will then ask you for your name, why you are here and you will inform them that this is on the clipboard information you gave earlier. They will inform you this has been destroyed as is the process and to provide all the information again.* Routing: on providing the full query, this teenager will helpfully point out that they can’t actually help you and you need to speak to someone else. You will be sent back into the ante room for a few minutes.* Welcome to account management! You will be introduced to a friendly lady who will ask you for the information you provided on the clipboard again. She will apologise and make it feel okay that you have been repeating this query both aloud and in your head for a number of days.* Solved! Eventually. You will spend around 55 minutes with this lady who will fully and completely resolve all your issues including some useful tips for what would make a good Mother’s Day present. On leaving you will be led into the…* Survey room! You will be handed a clipboard that looks remarkably like the one you were given at entry and asked how the service was and how they could improve things. Answer this honestly and then place it in the large mechanical bin by the door in order to exit.* Daylight has gone. As you step back onto the street, the sun has set. You are exhausted. Your problem is solved, but your soul is slightly smaller.A future we can all look forward to. Please hold. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tobyisaacscomedy.substack.com