By Martin Bishop, relapsed depressive
BEGIN 2026 with a delightful stroll to and from a pub with the absolute guvnor and a solid group of lads? That’ll sort out my mental health. Bosh, trademark Thomas Skinner!
Cause life can seem like a bleak, thankless slog. And I thought a walk around the Brentwood countryside with a mattress salesman who lost both The Apprentice and Strictly Come Dancing would cheer me up for reasons that currently escape me.
I gave old Thomas Skinner the benefit of the doubt. Men’s mental health is important and not given the time it deserves. He’s doing this to heal us. Two-and-a-half hours of self-proclaimed geezers yelling ‘Bosh!’ later, I feel men deserve to live lives of quiet despair.
After all there’s mental health and there’s grovelling to a man with Z-level fame who provably believes himself far more popular than he is. Which is pretty rough company when he’s planned a walk which ends before the pub even opens.
When I asked him if the loneliness ever goes away, he punched me on the arm and laughed. It was at around this point that I began to suspect he might not be a mental health professional.
Conversation with other walkers was also limited. I tried to open up about my woes but the chat was steered back to pints and where to buy dodgy Fire Sticks to stream Championship games.
Far from lifting my mood, my spirits sank. The Peaky Blinders caps and North Face jackets were pushing me closer to the abyss and a yawning vortex of darkness looked like an inviting release.
Saying goodbye to these twats after enduring their company for a few miles cheered me briefly, but now I’m lower than I’ve ever felt. In all seriousness, bosh.
