March 7


Bloke added me as a contact on LinkedIn yesterday, then sent me a message:

Jon, thank you for connecting, great to be connected - have been watching your films/videos - great stuff! I need to grow some balls. I think I am just too bloody nice... Stay well and thanks again, D.

And I replied:

You already have the balls.

You just need to give yourself permission to swing them.

And it’s true.

Over the years it’s been said to me often enough for it to be more than coincidence, “You give [us] permission to be ourselves”.

Um… well… 

No. I don’t.

I can’t.

And you don’t need me to.

The only person you need permission from is yourself.

But, hey… if it helps…

I, the EBG, herewith give you, [insert your name], permission to be yourself.

Does that feel better?


Now man up.

So… why do people feel this way?

Probably lack of confidence.

Case in point: D. goes on to say:

Love it! Thanks. I am the kid that grew up with a stammer. I still stammer. But I get on, need to just keep going! Keep sharing your vids ! Thank you again, D.

Feh. We all have our crosses to bear.

If they have a problem with it... fuck 'em. 

With a dried cactus…

But I get it. Some shit grates and wears you down.

Take me, for instance.

For various reasons — not least the work we’re doing and have planned in The Operationmeans I’ll be doing a fuckton more travelling and Peopleing in the next year or so and that’s a challenge in and of itself — I’ve recently been doing a lot of introspection and looking deeply at how my Asperger’s actually affects me and my life. 

And I won’t lie: it’s a lot more than I imagined it to be, and while it doesn’t get me down it does make me wince at times.

Thing is, I don’t whine about it. Like D., I just get on.

I don’t want or expect the world to change for me, and I’m really not the type to go clamouring to government to ask them to force others to accommodate me and my fucked-up ways at the point of a gun.

But, that said, I have changed in the last 18 months or so and have stopped fighting it all so damned hard, and, instead, shamelessly and, without apology, explanation, or even a shred of embarrassment, ask for help whenever I need it.

It was tough at first because… 

… men just don’t do that, right?


Showing any kind of vulnerability is typically perceived by men — and, yes, I just assumed my own fucking gender — as showing weakness.

And when you’ve gone through 52 years of your life being as stubborn and cantankerous as a geriatric mule with haemorrhoids, it tends to be fairly deeply ingrained. 

But I came to realise it makes no sense. 

Why the fuck should I make myself ill — and I did — when I can just ask others for help when I need it?

So that’s what I do now. I have no qualms about walking through a busy airport with a sunflower lanyard around my neck proclaiming loudly to the world, “this man is a fucking retard”. 

I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks. It’s none of my business what anyone thinks. 

All I care about is slipping through the airport without anaesthetising myself with alcohol, getting overwhelmed, or being incapacitated by sensory overload (and if anyone has a problem with that… there’s a dried cactus in my Ryanair-approved carry-on. Alas, I couldn’t get the lube through Security, so it’s gonna make your eyes water. Either that or you can suck my hairy balls; a salt-lick is supposed to be good for the digestion.) 

And you know what’s happened to my cock, balls, and masculinity?

Nothing… unless they’ve actually grown because showing vulnerability takes confidence, courage, and integrity in and of itself. 

And we all know bitches love confidence, integrity, and courage, right?


So now I have a bunch close friends and clients — Vicki, Michelle, Kev, and Kat (my much-missed BFF), in particular — who watch out for and, if necessary, look after me when things are getting too much. 

Even Connor, my business partner, does it.

He thought I hadn’t noticed until I mentioned it to him the other day, but I did. When we’re at Elite he’s always making sure I’m OK. How he imagined I’d not pick up on this is bizarre. Sure, I fail to see (and do) all this “being a nice human being” shit all the time, but thisparticular circumstance – staying safe in the presence of potential overwhelm – has been a full-time occupation for my whole life. Of course I see it, you fucking muppet.

Does he — or any of the others, including the women – think any less of me? Respect me less? Look up to me less? Think I’m any less manly or masculine?

Can’t read their minds, but I know the answer’s no, of course not. Why the fuck would they?

Bottom line… hitherto I’d have struggled through all this, which is one reason I burned out so spectacularly a couple of years ago.


I can relax, knowing they have my back. That makes life easier for me and probably more relaxing for them (because I can focus on what we’re doing without wasting energy trying to cope with the myriad things we Aspies struggle with, every minute of every waking hour we’re not alone).

And you know what else has happened to my cock, balls, and masculinity?

Nothing… unless they’ve actually grown because showing vulnerability takes confidence, courage, and integrity in and of itself. 

What’s this got to do with business in general and Ground Zero in particular?


You don’t need to grow a pair of balls because you have them already.

But you do need the confidence, courage, and integrity to swing them high and wide and declare to the world these are MY balls and I’m swinging ’em. Suck ‘em or ignore ‘em.

Join us for the Ground Zero initiative, and I swear we’re gonna share with you some of the most epic ball-swinging secrets you can possibly imagine (and quite a few you can’t).

Click here for Ground Zero details

Look, you need help with your business. 

You know it. And I know it.

And there’s no shame in admitting it and asking for it, especially as helping businesses just like yours is what I do.

Click here for Ground Zero details

Besides… do you really wanna be out-swung by a short, bald, autistic old curmudgeon with anxiety?

Man… that would suck, wouldn’t it? 

Fuck. Can you just imagine it?

Bitches wouldn’t like that. Bitches don’t like anyone who can be out-swung by a short, bald, autistic old curmudgeon with anxiety.

Only one thing for it, you sad fuck:

Click here for Ground Zero details


P.S. Today is also a special day…

… it’s my mate, Tom. It’s his 54th birthday.

Tom and I have been mates for 50 years now, ever since we met on the Open Day at the local school.

I haven’t seen him for years, but we email fairly regularly. And, as it is with old friends, we can pick up old conversations mid-sentence, even years later, and they still make sense.


Half a century of being best mates, and I still think he’s a wanker. And he knows I am (get me in the bar and I’ll recount some of the Stupid Shit we allegedly did when we were younger — ain’t gonna post it here because much of it was illegal).

Hope you have a fabulous day, mate. And loads more to come.

Love you.


… fuck off. I’m Mr Strong. I don’t DO soft and syrupy.

And under this harsh, obnoxious exterior, there’s a right bastard struggling to get out.

You’ll see that for yourself when you join us for the Ground Zero initiative.

Click here for Ground Zero details


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