Zero Negativity

This habit of self-reflection was just what I needed. I’d go to school during the day, mix with the French kids, sit through all the lessons, then I’d come home and play in the den. It was almost as if I had two lives. On the one hand I was like a young Robinson Crusoe, running wild in the countryside, on the other I was receiving this really old-school French education.

And it worked. Back in England, school had never interested me and I never took lessons seriously. I didn’t play up in class; it was more that I was a daydreamer with the attention span of a gnat. But because I’d been plonked down in a French school, I picked the language up pretty quickly. I was surrounded by it, so I didn’t really have to try. Within three months I was holding perfect conversations without any trouble at all. Within six I might as well have been French. I had a Normandy accent. Some people refused to believe I was English. Years later, when I was in the military and doing work with the French Foreign Legion, the guys there thought I was some sort of undercover agent.

It was there, in France, as a lost and confused kid, that I began the process of really understanding myself and the world around me. I felt alone, and knew that I couldn’t rely on anybody else. I learned that everything starts with yourself. To begin with, that responsibility was daunting. Now, I realise how exciting and liberating it really is.

‘Ant, who are you?’

One thing I do sometimes when I give talks is get somebody up on stage and ask them, ‘Who are you?’ The answer is always something along the lines of, ‘I’m John. I’m a software engineer. I’ve got four kids and a wife.’

So I ask the same question again: ‘Who are you?’ They’ll be a bit less sure this time round. ‘I’m John, I’m a software engineer, and I’m a loving husband.’ At this point I flip it around.

‘Ask me who I am.’

‘Ant, who are you?’

‘I’m an emotionally connected, positive, driven individual. That’s who I am. What you told me are only the labels other people have given you. You’re John. Somebody has given you that name. Software engineer? That’s a job title, it’s not who you are. However, you saying you’re a loving husband; that’s closer to the truth. Are you an emotional person? Are you empathetic? Do you think positively? Who are you?’

Sometimes they’ll still struggle to articulate who they are outside of the names other people have given them. Others will be different. They’ll say, ‘Well, to be honest, I’m pretty negative. I worry I can be selfish.’

That’s when I know I’ve got them. Fucking hell. You’ve come to the right place. Most people don’t really know themselves. Worse than that, they’re not even interested in getting to know themselves. They’re perfectly happy just bobbing along on autopilot.

If you do that, you’re depriving yourself of the possibility of becoming the best possible version of yourself. It means you’ll never be able to be properly honest with yourself, and you’ll lose out on so many opportunities and possibilities. Life is just going to pass you by.

There’s so much about the world that you can’t control, it can feel overwhelming. That’s certainly how I felt on that shitty first day at the French school. What is in your hands, however, is your ability to look inside yourself. When you take the time to get to know yourself better than anybody else on the planet, you’ll be building the foundations of positivity. It’s not always easy, and it can sometimes involve ripping yourself to pieces in the most brutal way possible, but, fuck me, when you’ve done that you’ll know it will have been worthwhile. When you’ve identified your weakness and strengths, you can then begin to focus on the positive parts of your personality. And when you do this, everything else, all the negatives, will just get dragged along behind you.

CELEBRATE YOUR STRENGTHS

If you’ve taken the time to identify what your strengths are, then make the most of them. Don’t give in to doubt or fear. There’s no trait more positive than believing in your own abilities. If you’re good at something, then celebrate it. The confidence you gain from knowing that you have a particular skill, or excel at a particular sport, or are just adept at getting on with people, is a tangible force; it infuses everything you do, makes you more decisive, your movements more sure. The more confident you are in what you can do, the more likely you are to succeed.

When I was in the Special Forces I respected the enemy, but I also knew that I was a hundred times more dangerous than them. There weren’t many in the British armed forces who were better at their trade than me; what chance did an untrained insurgent – most likely a country boy – have? Most of the time it was like a duck shoot. Even the hardcore militants we sometimes came across, who had a bit more about them – the guys who knew how to move, who could aim their weapons – there was nothing they could do that I couldn’t do better. That’s not arrogance. It was a fact, backed up night after night, in operation after operation. That’s why, when I went out there, I genuinely never thought I’d get hit. Knowing my strengths, and being confident in them, made me a better soldier.

By contrast, if you’re plagued by doubts and don’t have faith in yourself, the chances are that things will go wrong. There was a guy in my unit who got shot every time he went into combat: his leg, his arm. He got blown out of his wagon one tour, and on another he got hit in the arse while trying to crawl behind cover. On one level, it was just rank bad luck. On another, I knew that he was a real worrier, enough to make me wonder whether he was attracting that negativity. It happened too often to be a coincidence, and finally reached the point where he simply didn’t want to go on tour anymore.

All of this is just as relevant in day-to-day life. If you’ve been offered a great new job, celebrate that fact. Use it as an opportunity to remind yourself that there’s a reason why that company chose you over all the other applicants. The moment you start telling yourself that you don’t deserve the job, or that they made a mistake giving it to you, is the moment that you allow negativity to become the dominant force in your head. When you convince yourself that you can’t do the job, you’re likely to make that fear a self-fulfilling prophecy. Almost before you know it, you’ll have turned a great positive into a crushing negative.

THE HAMMER OF THOR

I always get people asking me what’s the most frightening situation I’ve been in. I think they expect I’ll tell them about a time when I’ve been under fire, or in hand-to-hand combat. But it’s not.

Courage isn’t about walking through a door with bullets flying. That was just a question of top-level training and being good at a job that I loved. No, courage is the ability to be honest with yourself. The most frightening, exhilarating place anyone can be is a space in which they’re being entirely, brutally honest with themselves. It’s the hardest thing you can do. It’s also the best thing you can do.

If you’re honest with yourself, you can be honest with other people and about the situations you find yourself in. If you’re honest about the situation, you’ll be able to identify whether it’s a positive or negative. When you’re able to identify something as a negative situation, you should also be able to step back long enough to realise that the only way to deal with it is with a positive mindset.

Don’t get me wrong. Being open with yourself is tough – it involves ripping yourself to bits, pulling and pulling and pulling until you’ve found all of your weaknesses and insecurities. You might want to pretend that your weaknesses don’t exist, but that’s you. Do you want to be 60 per cent of yourself for the rest of your life? There might be 10 per cent of your personality that will remain forever negative. The rest, though? Isn’t it worth trying? If you don’t challenge your weaknesses, how will you ever find out whether it’s possible to turn them into strengths? You don’t want to be one of those people who just do what they’re good at until the day they die. That’s the equivalent of only eating McDonald’s; it’s easy, relatively cheap and immediately satisfying. Ultimately, however, it’s not as nutritious and satisfying as a meal you’ve spent hours preparing. Honesty is maybe the most powerful tool you have in your toolbox. It’s also unquestionably the hardest one to use. It’s such a direct way of confronting negativity.

So many people say to me, ‘My problems would be solved if only I could be honest with my wife’ … or my husband or my boss or my mother. They see the risk of offending people as outweighing the positivity that would come with actually fixing a negative situation.

Honesty is the skeleton key that can open so many doors, but people – and I can understand why – are unwilling to use it. They’d prefer to find other means to pick locks. My view is that you should see it like ripping a plaster off. It will be painful for a short while, but just do it.

Precisely because it’s so powerful, honesty can be detrimental in the wrong hands. There are some people who will try to use the truth to annihilate you. They have no intention of bringing you back up; all they want it to bring you down. It’s a bit like Thor – that hammer won’t come to him unless he’s using it for pure reasons. When he does get to wield it, though: wow, think of everything he can do!

EMBRACE CRITICISM

One of the challenges that wrongfoots a lot of the recruits on Who Dares Wins is when we invite them to identify the weakest members of the group. It’s a brutal exercise, one that’s as much of a shock to them as some of the gruelling physical tasks. We do it halfway through the course, so that they’re no longer strangers and have had the chance to assess each other’s weaknesses and strengths. Calling others out like that is something that most people aren’t used to. It’s almost a taboo. I watch incredibly carefully to see how they respond.

The negative contestants will find an excuse to block that criticism out. They’ll get back into the room and pretend to be untroubled by it. They’ll say, like Louise in Series 5, ‘Oh, I knew that it was going to be happen, it’s all part of the game. It doesn’t bother me. I know who I am.’

In my eyes, that’s a mistake. If you’ve got five or six rivals telling you that you’re weak, you should take it as a positive. If they’re saying they think you’ll be the one to let them down, why is that? If it were me, I’d want to know exactly why they’d picked me out. Is it because I get overwhelmed by nerves? Is it because I’m not mixing properly?

What they should do is, first off, not let that criticism overwhelm them. They’re in a really unfamiliar situation, one that they’re desperately trying to figure out as they go along, so of course they’re going to get things wrong – the whole point of the show is to put them under so much pressure that their fault lines emerge. Once they’ve done that, it’s time to be honest and take that criticism on board – no matter how harsh or hurtful it might be – and change themselves accordingly.

Now that I’m in the public eye, I’m exposed to a lot more criticism than I’ve previously been used to. For instance, I have to make decisions about whether, and how, I’ll respond to press stories about me, especially those that twist my words out of context. The first emotion I always experience on reading the nonsense that gets written is anger. This is followed very quickly by a strong desire to turn up at their offices and call them out for a bunch of lying twats. It’s entirely natural to want to do that. It would also be entirely counter-productive. It wouldn’t achieve anything apart from causing more trouble.

That’s why I’ve learned to listen to another voice. This one reminds me that while I know what I’ve done and what I’ve been through, and that I know who I am as a person, the people criticising me or twisting my words don’t. So why should I care what they think or say?

It’s the same for me with social media. If it’s some keyboard warrior who’s never met me, I don’t care what they say. It’s their negative thoughts, not mine. I’m not going to allow my mood to be dictated by the opinions of someone who knows they’re a safe distance away from me and therefore feels entitled to run their mouth off. If they’re somebody I used to know a long time ago but is no longer part of my circle, again I won’t let it trouble me. They’re probably right, I probably was a fucking nightmare back in the day. But why’s that relevant now? Is it who I am now? No. I ignore it. I don’t need another reminder of how many people are riddled with negativity. I went to prison because I tried to help out somebody I’d never met before, and where did that get me? Nowhere. So why would I ever rise to something that could potentially rile me up or put me into a negative headspace?

And yet when it’s somebody whom I do care about, who’s in my circle, then of course I listen. The people who love you will offer you constructive criticism, because they want you to be the best version of yourself that you can be. They know you’re better than that. They know what you’re worth. They’re not having a pop because they want to bring you down a peg or two. It’s also worth remembering that not only will they have a different set of life experiences to you – and so have a different way of approaching things. They’ll also have that little bit of distance that means they can give you a different perspective on your behaviour, or the way that you come across.

You owe it to yourself to be honest when those closest to you and those you most trust pick you up on something. My attitude on those occasions is, ‘Right, I need to fix this, need to concentrate on it, make sure I don’t do it again.’ You should see that sort of criticism as a positive thing, because it should lead to improvement.

LISTEN TO THE VOICE IN YOUR HEAD

The voice you hear in your head is the true ‘you’ ripping yourself to shreds. It never lies to you. If you’re already brutally honest with yourself, then nothing that this voice says will come as a surprise. Instead, you should treat it as motivation. It gains its own power when you use it as a spur to action. If I do something stupid at work and everybody else tells me not to worry, nothing that bad has happened. But the voice in my head is harsher – ‘Ant, I’m not sure about the way you behaved today. You could have approached this whole situation completely differently’ – then that’s the message I’m going to take away. Of course, it’s no good if you don’t follow through, because that’s when it will leave you feeling negative, or low.

There was a night at an awards ceremony recently when, without having made any conscious decision to do so, I found that I’d slipped into the role of ‘chief instructor’. I’d been a bit nervous beforehand, so I’d had a couple of drinks. Then, when the people around me started discussing the show, I responded by being loud and talking too much; boasting, talking about violence. I was trying to be the person that I thought that they wanted me to be. Even then, though, I could see a couple of people saying to themselves, ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ The next morning, when I looked back on it, I knew I hadn’t been myself. I knew I must have sounded like a right knobhead.

When I hear my conscience speaking to me, that’s my cue to say, ‘Fuck, right, I better do something about this. Why did I behave like that? Because you had too much to drink last night, Ant, and you hadn’t drunk for six months before that, so you acted like a twat. Next time, you’ll do things differently. You’ll be cool, calm and collected, the person you really are.’ Once I’ve been through that process, then that’s it, I don’t dwell on it. First, because the damage has been done, and there’s nothing I can do about it now. And second, because I’m using the cringeworthy memory of me behaving badly as motivation to make sure I’m never like that again.

The voices in your head are only saying what you already know. You don’t have another being living inside you; it’s you, and you’re the only person who can change the script that voice is reading from. It can be fucking horrible, but listen to it; it usually has a point.

WORK ON YOUR WEAKNESSES

If you’ve got a weakness that’s stopping you from getting to where you want to go, it’s up to you to work on it. Don’t just use its existence as an excuse.

There are lots of hard things about being a sniper, such as staying switched on and not falling asleep during the endless waiting, and the difficulty of calculating wind speed when you finally get your target in your sights. But the hardest thing for me was staying still. I’m a fidget and I’ve got an overactive mind. What’s next? What’s next? What’s next? I can’t sit still.

I’ve always been like that. Every basic training I’ve ever been through I’ve got into trouble at some point during the drill stages. I couldn’t stand still. I’d have to move, I’d have to look, I’d have to do something. Too. Much. Energy.

I remember when I was still a seventeen-year-old, nine-stone whippersnapper about to pass out through basic training. We were on the parade square going through the rehearsal for the following day’s ceremony and I’d just gone up to the front to pretend to accept the awards for best recruit and best PT. There was so much emphasis on the way we looked, the way we stood, even the expressions on our faces. For the NCOs who’d been tasked with bringing us up to scratch, anything other than a perfect performance was an outrage. And a perfect performance involved staying stock-still in those moments when we were supposed to be standing at attention.

It was during one of these moments when I was standing there, happy, thinking, ‘Tomorrow we pass out, this is fucking great. People are going to be really proud of me.’ That was when the drill corporal loomed over my shoulder. ‘Middleton, if you fucking move again, I’m going to march you to the fucking guardroom and you’ll spend the night in a fucking cell. And then you’ll go straight to the parade from the cell, looking like a fucking reprobate who has spent the night in a cell.’

I must have been moving some part of my body without realising it. Fuck. ‘Yes, corporal!’ What else could I say? I tried. I really tried, but I couldn’t help myself. I moved again. Just a tiny little flash of my eyes from one side to the other, but that was enough for the drill sergeant.

‘Fuuuuuucking Middleton, stand to attention! Left wheel! Follow me! You’re sleeping in the cell tonight.’

I stood to attention. Then marched off. That was when the troop sergeant spotted us, and called me and the corporal over. It was as if he couldn’t resist getting in on the ‘Shouting at Middleton’ game.

‘What the fuck are you doing? Why can’t you stand fucking still? If you weren’t such a good fucking soldier I fucking promise you that you’d spend the fucking night in that fucking cell. Don’t let yourself down, you’re a fucking fidget.’ At that point he stopped bellowing, and in a quieter, almost confiding voice, he carried on. ‘Fidgets are good in the military, just not on my parade square. File back in. You’ve got five minutes left. Do not. Fucking. Move.’

It was uncanny. Almost exactly the same thing happened during Royal Marine training. Once again I’d been awarded best recruit – they called it the King’s Badge – and we were having an inspection of our Lovats, one of the two uniforms we’d be wearing during the next day’s ceremony.

I was standing there, proud about the wings I’d earned during my time in the Paras and the diamond I’d been given during the course I was just about to complete, and as the CO stalked around the lines of Marines he kept looking at me. Couldn’t take his eyes off me, it seemed. I thought it was because he knew that I was going to be awarded the King’s Badge. Of course, it was because while every other Marine there was motionless, I was practically running on the spot. As my wife said to me later, ‘Ant, you might as well have been breakdancing.’

Then the CO came up to me. ‘Middleton, you’re the King’s Badge, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Are you excited?’

‘Not really, sir. I’m more proud, to be honest.’

‘So why are you moving so much? Every time I turn around you’re wriggling about. You cannot stand still.’

There are worse weaknesses to have. But it’s still a weakness, especially for somebody who wanted to train as a sniper. Sniping is hardcore soldiering, a lethal, physically and mentally demanding game of chess. A sniper who knows his trade can use the fear he inspires to stop an overwhelming force in its tracks. Yes please, I thought. This sounds cool. This sounds exciting.

When the course began it was clear that I was good at the bits that others found tricky. I loved the stalking and crawling around, because it meant I could move and be active. The fly in the ointment was that I was shit at the thing that the rest of the guys found pretty simple. Staying. Fucking. Still. I had to admit to myself that if I indulged in the temptation to keep moving at all times, I’d put my chances of being allowed to do a job I desperately wanted at risk. I’d put so much into getting to this point, I didn’t want to throw all that away.

So, in response, I was relentless in developing the discipline and willpower I needed to be able to lie still in an observation post. I told myself: Now is when the hard work starts. Make this count. I practised it over and over and over, until even the idea of being motionless made me feel sick. I’d get into my lay-up position, stay still for a couple of minutes, then my knee would jiggle or my arm would twitch. Caught again. Back into my lay-up position. Ten minutes this time, then the smallest movement of my head. Fuck, caught again. But I improved every time I tried. Eventually, after failing more times than I could count, I got there. What helped me do this was my mindset. I had a positive motivator, and this meant I could keep on pushing, even when, at the beginning, it seemed as if I might never get there.

But I knew there were limits to what discipline and will-power could achieve. When I got back from Afghanistan they wanted to send me on a course designed to transform me into a surveillance operator. I told them, ‘Sorry, no, I can’t do that.’

I knew myself well enough to be aware that I could summon up the brief stretches of discipline necessary to control myself every now and then on a sniper mission. I’d worked on it relentlessly and I could suck it up. But although it was a skill I’d trained myself to develop, it never came easy. Am I a door-kicker? Yes. Could I sit in a car and go unnoticed for days on end? Absolutely no fucking chance.

STEERING CLEAR

You don’t need to fix every flaw. I suffer from claustrophobia – not an ideal condition to have when you’re in the Special Forces.

It’s not a crippling problem. I’m OK in crowds, but could you put me into the boot of a car without me flipping out? No. Could I spend any meaningful time in a small caving tunnel? No.

A small lift is enough to bring me close to a panic attack – those moments when you find yourself taking long, deliberate breaths to try to keep yourself calm. I hate the lack of control. When I get into those situations, I’m immediately looking for the exit route. If I enter a lift and I know I’m completely locked in, that’s when I say to myself, ‘Fuck, if something goes wrong, I’m going to have to prise those doors open. Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe: whatever you do, don’t stop.’ If there’s a little cubby hole, something that gives me more space to escape, then I’m OK with it.

If I’m crawling through a tunnel and I can see a light at its end, I’m fine. I know there’ll be enough air. If it’s bendy and I can’t see the exit, then I’m in trouble and I know I’ll have to work really hard to calm myself down.