Time is Not Money. Time is Life.

Glasgow, Scotland, UK • February 2015 • Length of Read: 3 Minutes

“My favourite things in life don’t cost any money. It’s really clear that the most precious resource we all have is time.” – Steve Jobs

It’s a phrase that’s been bandied about by the white collar masses for decades; a quick and easy way to define the supposed opportunity cost that if we don’t use our time to earn money, we are in effect losing money. But in creating this algorithm,  the “Time = Money” outlook suggests that capital wealth is the end game, and that those who have accumulated the largest bank accounts and selections of desirable possessions are the victors of this rat race we call life. In our ever increasing capitalist society this may indeed be the case for some, but there are also many of us who live by a different agenda, one in which time would be seen as the most valuable resource we have at our disposal. A resource that is completely priceless.

Money can be accumulated and saved with interest growth; it can be blown frivolously and re-earned; it can even be re-printed through quantative easing if large institutions happen to mess-up. Time on the other hand cannot be compounded, and if you waste it there is no overseeing government capable of winding back the clock; no 88mph DeLorean; no Bernard’s Watch; and no Donnie Darko daydreams. If you become broke then life doesn't cease, but once your time is up then it is game over. In the transgressional words of Fight Club’s Narrator: “This is your life and it’s ending one moment at a time.”

Why then is it that so many people who have been the unfortunate recipients of a doctors' "you have X number of months to live" speech are suddenly able to do such amazing things with their precious final moments? That they then decide it might be a good idea to create a Bucket List of goals and ambitions or to mend broken bonds with relatives and old friends. It's almost like receiving a blunt termination date is the wake-up-call one needs to start truly living; to maximize happiness rather than financial wealth. Echoing Benjamin Franklin: "Most people die at 25... they just aren't buried until they're 75. Lost time is never found again."

Now in fairness, yes, if I do decide to undertake some form of altruistic charity work then I am obviously forgoing time in which I could be adding to my hourly salary, but what 'Time = Money' neglects to consider is that this act of selflessness is probably more rewarding to an individual than that the financial forfeit. In fact, in their 2013 academic paper ‘Time, Money and Morality’, Gino and Mogilner conclude from their research that that money is a corrupt resource and that time can actually “salvage individuals’ ethicality”. Shifting from a financial-centric world-view to one in which time is the major influencer of all decisions will therefore not only make you a happier person, but also someone who is more congruently grounded in their beliefs. Emotions such as humour and love may carry no price-tag, but they are infinitely more valuable than any paper trail.

So, how are you going to spend your most scarce and influential resource? How are you going to spend your life?

Snowboard Down A Mountain (Bucket List #55)

Andorra La Vella, Andorra • January 2011 • Length of Read: 10 Minutes

I started taking snowboarding lessons in February 2010 having spent weeks marveling at some of the Winter X-Games greatest moments on YouTube, and from the minute I strapped in my boots I was hooked. The indoor dry slopes of Glasgow quickly lost their novelty however and before long a bigger challenge was needed, which is why in January 2011 I found myself on a winding bus journey through southern France with my friend Twiggy towards the Pyrenean nation of Andorra; a hot-spot for those in search of real powder but who seemingly can't afford winter sports elsewhere.

Our accommodation for the week was so close to the slopes that you could almost jump onto the resort's primary chairlift from our hotel room window, and across the landing from us were four similarly aged lads from Stoke who had started drinking before they'd even checked-in. In the words of Cooper Harris from the teen comedy Euro Trip: "This is definitely where I parked my car."

Smuggling some food from the breakfast buffet the next morning I used our dressing table as a chopping board to produce a family-sized picnic of Norwegian smoked salmon with cream cheese baguettes. Unfortunately however I had no bag in which to put them so had to find somewhere on my person. Thankfully the jacket I had bought came with approximately 5,431 different pockets and I found a nice break in the lining where they would stay moderately 'fresh'. Perhaps Karl Pilkington's theory that Napoleon invented the baguette as a space-saving snack isn't 'bullshit' after all! He claimed to have read on the wall of a train station that, whilst marching through the Russian tundra, the French Army were so laden down with warm clothing that there was no room in their backpacks for supplies. To resolve this problem they therefore invented a sandwich that could be slipped down their trouser leg. I still question the validity of this origin, but at that moment was happy to run with it.... or board with it as the case would be.

The Adrenaline was pumping through my veins as we picked up our rental gear and started to ascend the mountain. The panorama was breathtaking; not just because we were 10,000 ft above sea level but due to the sheer awe and scale of the distance the mountain range ran. This spectacle was unfortunately broken in the most ungraceful manner however when I attempted to disembark the chairlift.

Raising the safety bar I positioned my board left-foot-forward and when the moment seemed right pushed myself from the safety of the seat. For a split second I'd nailed it, like a gymnast's perfect 10 dismount from the high horse, but then I soon hit a piece of ice that flung my whole body into an entranced spasm. Looking like some ecstasy fueled raver I spammed out of grace and control before crumpling onto my tail-bone and howling out: "fuck my ass"; much to the bemusement of a Twiggy bent over in stitches beside me.

"No thanks" he trolled back.

This was going to be a very painful week.

After one particularly bad fall that afternoon in which my safety gear ended up sprawled about the slopes like I was having a yard sale, I dusted myself down to find a crumbling mess. I'd been travelling at what felt like supersonic speeds only to become momentarily distracted by a group of toddlers easing effortlessly past me in squadron formation, levering the twists like they'd popped out their mother's wombs wearing a set of skis. This lapse in concentration was all it took to send me careering into an off-piste minefield of rocks and boulders; the resultant crash leaving me covered in a oily and slimy substance. The baguettes in my pocket may have cushioned the fall but the salmon had also escaped its cling-film wrapper and was making it's way into every crevice of my jacket. For the rest of the day I smelt like a travelling fishmonger... and was frightfully hungry.

But bruised buttocks aside, winter getaways are just as much about what happens off the slopes as on them. The holiday reps had decided to break us in gently the first evening with a pub crawl that featured free shots at each stop along the way; much to the delight of the four lads from Stoke. We made drinking buddies with them straight off the bat and carnage quickly ensued, culminating in myself being the sole occupant of dingy nightclub's deserted dance-floor whilst Twiggy was being violently sick all down the hotel stairwell. Not only was this place I found myself completely void of almost any other human presence, but it was also of questionable legality due to – and I kid you not – a secret knock having to be given on a steel shutter before the bouncers let us inside.

You're probably now thinking: "Ahh Crobs, that doesn't seem like an ideal scenario to be in. Did you decide to immediately leave this Andorran Underworld and go assist your friend in need?"

I'd like to say "yes", but that would be (a) far too sensible, and (b) not make a great story.

Instead I found myself standing at the bar hitting rounds of Jaeger bombs with the lead singer of a local cover band whilst making absurd additions to their future set-lists until I blacked-out.

Needless to say the drinking over the next couple of evenings was taken a little more feebly, despite our Irish waitress’ best efforts to switch out starters for vodka-jelly shots each meal-time. She apparently didn't get commission for serving just bruschetta. Then, instead of occupying the seemingly male-only bars until the early hours of the morning, Twiggy and myself became somewhat experts on the Egyptian political crisis that was gripping the world. BBC News was the only channel that broadcast in English, and having failing to grasp the Spanish version of ‘Deal or No Deal’ we settled down for marathon runs of Tim Wilcox's commentary on the Cairo uprising whilst stuffing our faces with potato chips. To this day it would probably still be my niche topic of selection on Mastermind; that looped footage of a man being dragged on a rope by a camel through Tahir Square etched on my brain.

Friday night rib night soon came around and entering a room that had been set up in the form of a school dining hall we were ordered to sit ourselves in teams of twenty along the wooden benched that lined tables groaning under the weight of meat and beer. International drinking rules applied and it seemed that every resident in town had turned out with the sole goal of getting as drunk as physically possible.

This was none more-so than the Stoke lad who was celebrating his birthday that day and whose party trick was to down a pint in under three seconds flat. As the band came on stage, the lead singer giving me a cheeky wink, Chris was singled out by the compère to do dirty pint after dirty pint until he was staggering about like a toddler learning to walk.

Standing on those rickety benches, stuffed to the brim with meat and belting out drinking songs with strangers equally-clueless as to the true lyrics really sums up Andorra’s apres-ski in a nutshell. And in a way this is what my Bucket List is really about; not just conquering the ‘things I want to do before I die’ but acting as a platform reminding me to go out there and do cool shit, to experience new things, and to meet some amazing people I otherwise wouldn't.

...and the band never did play the Geto Boys' hit 'Damn It Feels Good To Be A Gangsta'.

Address To A Haggis (Bucket List #129)

Glasgow, Scotland, UK • January 2015 • Length of Video: 144 Seconds

The poetry of Robert Burns, Scotland's favourite son, is celebrated every January 25th in the form of a Burns' Supper.  On the anniversary of The Bard's birthday millions of people gather together to recite some of his most famous work whilst tucking into a traditional Scottish dish of 'haggis, neeps, and tatties' and drinking large quantities of whisky.

As is custom at these events the haggis, which is effectively a bag containing a sheep's heart, liver and lungs, is marched into the room under the accompaniment of a piper before being  by seduced Burns' 1786 spoken-word poem 'An Address To A Haggis'; an act of pre-dinner foreplay.

This year I took it upon myself to do the honours so invited some friends around for an extremely 'ghetto version' of this celebration and to cross #129 off the bucket list.

Solve A Rubik's Cube (Bucket List #27)

Glasgow, Scotland, UK • November 2012 • Length of Read: 1 Minute

The Rubik’s cube originated in Hungary in 1977 as the ‘Magic Cube’, but not until a name change to that of its inventor in 1980 did it become an international success. It is now the best selling puzzle game of all time and was also the puzzle that plagued me as a child; causing numerous frustrated tantrums. The closest I got to ever finishing it was peeling the stickers off and replacing them on the correct sides, and was determined to redeem my younger self by conquering this little piece of plastic once and for all. To complete this challenge I would have to use logic and algorithms; thankfully the internet was there to answer my call and lend a helping hand.

I purchased a brand new cube from Amazon and breaking open the packaging on its arrival immediately went to Youtube for a lesson or two. Here I stumbled across Dan Brown (unfortunately not the author of the Da Vinci Code) who has amassed over 40 million views from his ‘how to solve a Rubik’s cube’ tutorials. With this step by step guide and the Solutions manual from the official Rubik’s Cube website it took me only a couple of hours to unscramble a whole childhood of anger.

However I felt somewhat unfulfilled from this experience. After all, the game is designed to test your logic and by following the tutorial felt like sitting an exam having seen the answers. I can now tick this off my list, but lure of the puzzle and the satisfaction of it’s completion have unfortunately been lost.

Skydive (Bucket List #50)

Mission Beach, Queensland, Australia • July 2010 • Length of Read: 4 Minutes

Before we start - YES that was my haircut five years ago, and NO I did not truly understand how bad it actually was until I began flicking back through my archive of photos from that summer spent on Australia's East Coast. I hesitated momentarily whether to even include it in this post at all, but hey - that's how I used to roll and I'm going to embrace the mop-head to its fullest.

Situated 150km south of Cairns, Mission Beach is a quiet, picturesque little town that emits a chilled-out and relaxed vibe… until your hostel receptionist drops into conversation that it also offers thrill-seekers the chance to skydive over the corals of The Great Barrier Reef before coming to land on its golden coastal sands.

"Tell me more" I pleaded; heart already beating  faster than a military bandsman's snare drum just from the thought.

"Well there are three packages available. The first is a 9,000ft dive with 25 seconds of free-fall, and the second an 11,000ft dive with a 40 seconds free-fall."

"What about the third?"

"The third is a 14,000ft dive with a minute-long free-fall."

"We're doing that one!" I belted at my bewildered companions, a group of predominantly English backpackers Fry and I had met further down the coast. Priced at AUS$299 it was going to blow the budget, but these opportunities don't come around very often. We paid-up on the spot, having managed to wrangle a free t-shirt out of it each by making a group booking. I retired to bed that night a very very nervous little boy.

Turning up at the aptly named Australia Skydive Company the following morning we were first asked to fill-out a liability form that contained the not-so encouraging clause: “In the event of my death I do not hold the company responsible”. Signing the dotted line, with a now wavering confidence, gave us each a 2 month Student Parachutist Licence and a very unlikely chance of getting any travel insurance payout if things were to go tits-up... or down as the case would be.

We then had to a participate in a weigh-in that was not to dissimilar to those at professional boxing matches. The maximum weight limit allowed was 100kg and coming in at a featherweight 70kg I was cleared to jump. The poor fast food diet we had been shoe-stringing on over the past month however must have caught up Fry, who tipped the scales at a mighty 102kg. Never worry however, he had a bulletproof solution.

Emptying his pockets of loose change, keys, wallet, and phone, he then proceeded to remove his socks and shoes to stand proudly on the scales at a mere 98.2kg. Perhaps it wasn't the most accurate device ever used but we didn't care. With a sigh of relief he to was now ready to meet the professional skydivers whom we were putting our lives in the hands of.

Imagine if you can the type of person that would stereotypically be doing this job as a living and you’ll probably not be far off from the bunch of eight happy-go-lucky guys that bounced into our lives. Spready, my instructor, nattered away in whirlwind fashion as he tightened and twisted my harness straps into place. By the time we were briefed on the safety regulations I felt like I had heard his life story twice, however this gave me the comfort of knowing I wasn't strapped to the chest of a complete stranger.

"How many jumps have you done?" I asked.

"This is my second day at work", he responded with a wry smile.

Not the time for jokes Spready. Not a good time.

After the above group photo was snapped we marched to the plane that would be taking us up to the magic 14000ft, and never in my life have I been more glad to be wearing a harness. On the tarmac in front of us sat the most haggard looking piece of machinery I had ever seen. Even the Wright brothers would have considered  sending this aviation to the scrapyard. We boarded in the blazing heat and watched as the pilot, who couldn't have been long out of kindergarten, went through the pre-flight checks. Everything was given the OK and within minutes the tin-box was miraculously climbing over some of the most beautiful scenery on planet earth.

The door was flung open once we reached peak altitude and a gust of wind shot into the plane, sucking us all towards the exit. I was third in line to jump, and as my feet dangled over the edge Spready uttering some final words of encouragement that were hopelessly blown away by the bursting noise of the propellers.

And then we were falling….. falling at a speed of 200km/hr through rain clouds that cut my t-shirt with an icy vapour; the next sixty seconds a blur of fear, exhilaration, and struggled breaths.

Breaking through the clouds Spready released the parachute and as the multi-coloured canopy bloomed out above we gradually began to  slow. He told me that I could now remove my goggles and enjoy the view… and what a view it was. The myriad blues and greens of the Great Barrier Reef glimmered from the surface below and as we circled around I got a panoramic of the densely vegetated islands that stippled the landscape. It was a shame that the moment had to be interrupted by a harness ripping through the groin and bursting the testes.

We spiralled for another couple of minutes and the ant sized figures of my comrades landing safely on the beach below came slowly into vision. Before long my arse was then planting itself on terra firma and joining them. In the words of my brilliant instructor: I had “successfully jumped out of a perfectly good plane”. A plane certainly, but the ‘perfectly good’ part is  up for debate.