Fat, Forty, and Fired: One Man's Frank, Funny, and Inspiring Account of Losing His Job and Finding His Life

Fat, Forty, and Fired: One Man's Frank, Funny, and Inspiring Account of Losing His Job and Finding His Life

Nigel Marsh

Language: English

Pages: 288

ISBN: 144942337X

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

"Homer Simpson meets Anthony Robbins. Marsh's honesty and humanity make Fat, Forty, and Fired essential reading for anyone whose life has ever hit a roadblock. Hilarious and inspiring." --Bob Rosner, best-selling author and internationally syndicated Working Wounded columnist "An extremely funny and touching account of how someone can use humor and optimism to put adversity into perspective. Marsh's warm and distinctive view of life lights up every page and makes this a thoroughly enjoyable read." --Paul Wilson, author of The Little Book of Calm "I can pinpoint the precise moment when I realized my transformation from 'executive dad' to 'guy who doesn't work' was complete." --Nigel Marsh Take Dave Barry, Jack Welch, Homer Simpson, and Ray Romano, mix in a family, a little weight gain, failure, introspection, and redemption, and you have Nigel Marsh's international best-selling autobiography. As a stressed husband and father of four small children under the age of eight, Nigel Marsh was enslaved to his mortgage, recuperating from an embarrassing surgery, and suddenly fired from his corporate career. Deciding to venture "off the treadmill" in search of a more meaningful and balanced existence, Marsh tackled the art of hands-on parenting while simultaneously training for an ocean swimming race and coming to terms with his alcoholism. Touching on topics ranging from marital sex (or lack thereof), dieting, and parenthood to work, love, football, religion, self-help books, and sharks, Marsh makes his U.S. debut after enjoying best-seller status in Australia and the U.K. with this provocative and funny book.


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power, the former nicely cancelling out the potential benefits of the latter. I began to work harder and harder to stay afloat. I changed jobs, companies – even countries – to further my career. As the years went by, though, I began to be aware of an increasingly persistent voice in my head. What's it all for, Nige? Your life is slipping away. You need to change your priorities and spend proper time with your family. The voice wouldn't go away, indeed it just got louder as time passed. Of course

correct medical term for my early Christmas present – Henry V died of one aged 36 – and a fistulectomy is the operation. (The post-operation packing process itself hasn't got an official medical term, as they couldn't translate 'motherfuckingawfulsustained-painandmisery' into Latin.) Twelve hours later I woke up after such an operation in Sydney's Prince of Wales Hospital to groggily tell my wife, Kate, 'That wasn't so bad.' 'The surgery is the easy bit. It's the packing that's the killer,' the

. . . it's not as if I've got a drink problem . . . The next morning I decided that I would stop drinking. Not give up for a month, or a year. Stop. Never touch another drop for as long as I lived. It was a deeply personal decision and because of that I didn't feel the need to change the externals. I didn't walk around the house throwing bottles or glasses out. I didn't ask Kate to stop drinking in front of me. I didn't stop going to the bottle-o to buy her wine. I didn't even change my social

handsome younger man.' She said this while all the time looking directly into my eyes and holding my hand and – I swear I'm not making this up – pulling me even closer. On several occasions she asked me to retell a story and laughed uproariously each time. Throughout the evening, when I was talking to her she would often mouth the words along with me as if I was some sort of guru imparting spriritual wisdom. On one bizarre occasion she even went so far as to ask me what men of my age found

self-help gurus say, 'You need quantity time for quality time.' On the second day, I drove Alex over to stay with his cousins, so it was just Mum and I in the house. Time with her was as happy as visits to Dad were sad. Most days I drove Mum with me to Bristol. We'd spend the journeys reminiscing, retelling favourite family stories even though we'd told them hundreds of times before. Mum surprised me on one trip with a story she had never told before. The story wasn't the surprise – indeed, I

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