Stretch, 29. Damian Lanigan

£14,273

      Yes, it was pretty straightforward really. Frank Stretch, underachiever, flop, relegation contender – outclassed by his friends. Now, you may think that you’re less successful than your friends, and you may well be right. The difference between us, however, is that I have a system that proves it.

      If you feel as if you’re under-achieving, perhaps you’d be tempted to read a self-help book. Don’t, because I’ve tried them, and the thing about self-help books is that they are all wrong. They make it easy on the reader and tell him from the outset that he’s really a wonderful, successful human being. They refuse to acknowledge the hard and heavy truth, which is this: people who read self-help books are less successful than their friends, that’s why they read self-help books. My approach to the whole issue is a lot more rigorous and a lot more honest. It goes like this: ‘Admit it, you loser, you’re less successful than your friends, and not only that, you can prove it.’

      According to this inclusive and elegant system of classification of success in life, my best friend Tom scores 73, and my (ex) flatmate Henry 59. Lottie, his knitwear fanatic girlfriend, scores a moderate 46. Bart, my dear boss, weighs in with 68. I score a lot less than any of these people. In fact thanks to the system I am now able to make a broader statement about my standing in the world: ‘Stretch, you’re less successful than everyone you know.’

      I’m aware that I am open to the accusation of being self-pitying, but I’d like to point out that it is closely scrutinised, finely calibrated, judiciously-arrived-at self-pity. If you were me, and thank Allah you’re not, you’d be self-pitying too.

      I call the system The Maths, as in, ‘Ooh he looks as if he might put in some really good maths’, when applied to a new acquaintance, or ‘Pretty abysmal maths there’, when applied to myself.

      The principle is quite simple, really; scores for the ten important areas of life, out of ten. Let me talk you through it.

      ONE: MONEY

      The second golden rule is, don’t forget family. A friend of yours, let’s call him Henry, might complain that he’s underpaid and over-mortgaged, and can’t afford to go on holiday this year. You may feel entitled to a momentary moment of superiority. But hold on a second. You then find out that his dad’s a sales director of a small slipper-making company in Preston. Still feeling chipper? Well, Henry Senior has share options worth £150,000 and pension rights running to two-thirds of his annual £48,000 salary. On his demise, that dough is only going in one direction, and that’s to Henry Jun. This is by no means the worst example I could cite. I once shared a flat with a bloke who ate Safeway cornflakes with tap water for Sunday lunch and smoked Berkeleys. He was trying to get into the movies, like every other fucker. He chose as his mode of entry to this rarefied world working the late shift at the Brixton Blockbuster video store. It transpired that he had an obscure great-uncle who spent his days strapped into a leather wing-backed armchair in the Carlton Club, pissing himself with rhino force inside his tweed britches. When he finally had his coronary over the fashion pages of the Telegraph, my flatmate inherited half a million, as well as a sizeable tranche of Herefordshire and moved into a loft apartment in Clerkenwell. What looked like a dead-cert dowdy 1 turned out to be a big, airy, sky-lit 9.

      Guess what? He’s now in the movies.

      In 1994, the year before all this started, I earned £14,273.00 and had no expectation of ever inheriting anything. My mother died fifteen years ago, and my dad had gone AWOL in the Mid-West or the West Midlands, where his last known employment was self-unemployment. Another half-arsed Thatcherite dream gone tits-up. I could go on, about postmen uncles and dinner-lady aunties, but any way you look at it, I’m skint and likely to remain so pretty much forever.

      I’ll just give you a ready reckoner:

      TWO: LOVE

      THREE: SEX

      No, those to watch for high scores here are the ones who barely seem to look at each other at table apart from to exchange black, jaded insults. After dinner they nurse their hostilities at opposite ends of the room, while everybody else inwardly speculates on their imminent break-up. In the sack they’re like a herd of satyrs home on leave to make a porn movie. Look for the flu symptoms: bleary-eyed and all sore and achy in the morning. And then watch them closely. They are already considering their next options: which orifice, which lubricant, which forearm, which piece of machinery. A 9, no question.

      You may have noticed that the sex symbol is phallic rather than yonic, if you will. Now, the act of sex for me is a yoni thing rather than a phallus thing, simple as that. That is, in an ideal world it’s a yoni thing. At that time, however, it was very much a phallus thing, and no prizes for guessing whose phallus. I regularly scored a fine upstanding 1, especially in the mornings.

      FOUR: WORK