By Alexander Taylor

Why I wake up at 4am.

What do elite Navy SEAL commanders and I have in common?

When the clock strikes 4am, we’re up.

We’re fucking up.

4:05. Out of bed, downstairs. The Navy SEAL thunders to the kitchen. He knocks out a hundred press-ups on the cold stone floor. He drips with sweat as the coffee drips through the filter. He sips, swallows a banana, and bangs out some sit-ups because he’s alive, goddammit.

I am also in the kitchen, staring at the window at an unimpressed bloke in the garden. Unfortunately, it’s a reflection.

We’re fucking up.

4:25. The SEAL makes a warm-up through the chilly November air. His breath steams before him. He’s an engine. The Flying Scotsman. Coal is his fire. He pounds through the gym doors and heads to the squat rack. The bar takes more pounds than a weekend weatherspoons. Muscles like an angry michelangelo. Chiseled in stone. Stormy tides of muscle rippling in the cold. Bang bang bang. The bar slaps the floor, crying in pain.

Around this time I’m looking at things on the internet. This morning’s curiosity: lighthouses. Do you need GCSEs to be a lighthouse keeper? Click click click. Clickety click. I’ve found my way onto Chris Pratt’s wikipedia.

We’re fucking up.

6:00. SEAL downs seven raw eggs cracked with a pinch of his fingers. There’s a crunch of shell in his teeth as he leans in to kiss the kids good morning. SEAL powers through work on his laptop. It doesn’t need charge, it’s powered by his scowl. The Mac delicately balanced on his thunderous thighs. He clears the emails. He scans a project proposal. He forehand’s his notes back over the net. It’s a fantastic dropshot. Game. Set. Match.

I’m staring at the clock. It’s a little like watching paint dry, but with added self-loathing.

We’re fucking up.

6:55. SEAL is out. Bike tyres screech as pedestrians duck for cover. Dawn isn’t breaking, he is breaking dawn. The sun glows an amber orange, embarrassed to be the second one up. SEAL’s teeth grit. Molars of a greenland shark. A bulbous bastard, weather-worn like the rocks of Dover. There’s eating a frog, and then there’s consuming a colony. He’s out-swallowing the combined cuisine of restaurants in France. He’s wiping a species off the face of the earth before the clock strikes 7.

The milk’s off, but I’ve made a coffee. A café de la instant. Oof. Rough to the tongue. Rough to the throat. In summary, rough.

We’re fucking up.

Well, he is. I’m just fucking up.