Like all true super heroes, the real identity of the Geordie Motivator is unknown. Many theories have been suggested and even more sightings have been reported, but as of yet he has not seen fit to reveal who he truly is.
Despite the secrecy though, we do know some things about our hero and so here we have detailed the little we do know about the background of the man behind the blue megaphone.
Like all true Geordies, the Geordie Motivator was born in sight of the Tyne...or at least so it is believed. No one is one hundred percent sure if he was born in Newcastle or not as he was found floating down the Tyne in a basket one foggy morning in the spring of 1980.
Following this very inauspicious start to his life he was moved between a couple of foster homes, learning the ways of the north and refining his fine Geordie accent. From an early age he fell in love with football and often made his way up the hill to cheer on The Magpies and it was on the terraces of St. James's Park that he first began to see the power of the shouted motivation. Watching on as a small boy, he was awestruck by the power and passion of thousands of black and white clad fans bawling at the players. He watched, dumbstruck, as the influence of the crowd seemed to lift the players, inspiring them to win a game simply by haranguing and swearing at great volume. A new world was beginning to reveal itself to him and as he grew he began to dream of having special powers, the power to motivate people.
Inspired by what he had seen, the Geordie Motivator felt an urgent need to try and motivate people. He began to seek out opportunities to offer encouragement to people, to see if he could hone his own motivating powers. His first attempt was with the other kids at the foster home, most of whom were much younger than he was, and so fell on deaf ears. Being ignored at home, he went out into the streets to find people to motivate. Having seen the power of the shouting on the terraces, his first target was a bunch of teenagers playing in the street. Unfortunately, his suggestions that "you can do better than that" and "my baby brother could have scored that one" weren't as well received on the streets as they were at the football ground and he was left perplexed as those older kids decided to use him as their new ball rather than heed his advice.
The Geordie Motivator realised in that moment, as the feet of older boys showed their respect for his motivations, that he wasn't destined to be a great motivator after all and from that moment disappears from the history books. It is almost certain things would have stayed that way if it hadn't been for a fortuitous event that occurred some years later when he was a young man backpacking around Europe.
Receiving a good kicking from those older boys had a big effect on the young Geordie. His boyhood sporty figure was replaced with that of a chubby, junk food loving geek. The posters of footballers on his wall had been replaced with Back to the Future and Ghost Busters, the books on his shelves were no longer football annuals, instead The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy held pride of place. His rosy cheeked complexion had faded to a pasty white, pock marked with zits. Thick black rimmed spectacles perched on his nose and a mop of unruly black hair gave him the air of a young dark haired Boris Johnson. His confidence knocked at that young age, he had disappeared into himself so that the man that had emerged was more of a hermit than a hero.
By the time he had finished school all he wanted to do was get away from Newcastle and see the world. He lacked any ambition, he didn't know what he wanted to become and he hadn't excelled in his education. Despite his teacher assuring him that perfectly good careers could be found with a D grade in Mathematics and a U in English, he was unconvinced. Somehow spending the next twenty years flipping burgers didn't seem like fun and so he packed up a rucksack and headed off on the first boat to Europe.
Speaking no other languages than English, and even this he struggled with according to his exam results, he relied on the traditional English approach of raising his voice in order to try and communicate with the locals. Surviving on Coca-Cola and Big Macs, the only universally understood words he knew, he bumbled his way through western Europe. In true Hitchhiker style he hadn't planned a route and so through various means found himself in Croatia with no money left and no idea where he was or how to get home. Standing in a government office that he hoped was the consulate, trying to communicate by shouting at the uncomprehending woman behind the desk, he was handed a form. His hopes of a trip back to England raised, he filled it in with gusto. No sooner had he handed it back to the woman than she stamped it and made a phone call. He was going home, or at least he thought. Ten minutes later he found himself in the back of a military van thinking happily that he was on his way to Zagreb airport. Little did he know he was being taken to the nearest army recruitment centre to be enlisted for his national service in the Croatian army.
National service in the Croatian army wasn't exactly a walk in the park for the Geordie Motivator. Maybe it was because he was the only one who didn't speak Croatian. And on the odd occasions when he did at least attempt to speak it, his delivery was in an unfamiliar accent that the Croatians thought sounded strange. He soon realised that the rest of the soldiers simply thought he was simple because he couldn't speak the way they did. Or maybe it was because his commanding officer had it in for him. At least, that is what the Geordie Motivator suspected. He wasn't quite sure why it was necessary for him to do latrine duty every day, when no one else seemed to have to do it. And he was fairly sure that the most conducive time to do undertake this duty was not at two in the morning in the pitch black. But that was when his commanding officer would come bounding into the dorm, night after night, beating a wooden spoon on a pan right in his ear and shouting at him. This nightly alarm call seemed to be something that the rest of the recruits were less than happy about. In fact it seemed to be spurring them on to eat as much as they could at dinner, so that his night time duties left him in deep shit – literally!
His protestations that there had been some sort of mistake and that he shouldn't be there at all seemed to fall on deaf ears, or ears that didn't care anyway. Every morning after inspection, he would make his way to the commanding officers office and make his plea. And every morning he received the same response. "Why don't you speak properly!" was yelled at him in Croatian. Of course our hero didn't understand a word of it and after a few weeks he realised that the only way out of his predicament was to make do and shut up.
Sergeant Tomić was his commanding officer during this time and he had a very specific view on how soldiers should be trained. As well as using kitchen implements as a form of alarm clock he was the kind of man who firmly believed that volume was the key to a good command. The more important the command, the louder it should be delivered and as he had an unwavering belief that everything he said was of the utmost importance, it was always delivered at a volume that could shatter windows. And our hero wasn't the only one on the receiving end; every soldier quaked in their boots whenever the elephant like frame of Tomić was pacing around the training grounds. They tried as best they could to hide in plain sight, for fear that he would launch into a tirade.
Over the weeks that passed, the Geordie began to understand some of the language those around him spoke and even tried to speak it himself, although his soft Geordie tones didn't relate well to the pronunciation of their words. But soon he began to become 'one of the lads', in a sort of fashion, and they all shared a common fear of their sergeant. Another fear they all shared was the assault course, designed by Tomić himself, which had become known as 'the killer'. Just to look at it would inspire fear in the heart of even the strongest of men, and the soldiers around the Geordie weren't exactly towering specimens of men. They would actively try to avoid having to do the course, feigning injury or skipping parts of it when Tomić wasn't looking. Anything to avoid the mud soaked hell hole that was 'the killer'.
But the Geordie Motivator began to notice something strange happening. It triggered something deep inside him from his childhood, reigniting a passion. He noticed that no matter how scared a soldier was to undertake 'the killer', they were more scared of their sergeant winding up his vocal chords and letting rip at them. The more he shouted, the more motivated they seemed to get the job done and get away from him.
It was like a lightbulb moment for the Geordie Motivator. Like those times on the terraces at the football in Newcastle, he again saw the light shining down upon him. It was as if, in that moment, he saw Sergeant Tomić bathed in celestial golden light and he was once again inspired by what that shouting was achieving. He resolved in that moment to test the power of this shouting and so he thought of all the things he dreaded most about camp and started to put himself in those situations and then try not to do what he was supposed to do simply to wind up the sergeant. Sure enough, Tomić would bark at him like a rabid dog and, through fear alone, the Geordie would hop to it. He even found himself beginning to enjoy being shouted at. He was amazed at what Sergeant Tomić could achieve with his abnormally large mouth and boomingly loud voice.
The Geordie Motivator scraped through his six months of national service, in a nation of which he wasn't even a citizen, and came out of the other side a changed man. He entered a zit covered boy and emerged a mud covered man with partially damaged ear drums and a mild case of tinnitus. But his outlook on the world was refreshed, he had seen something miraculous and that was the power of motivation. His fellow soldiers were all now burly men, with honed bodies and the skills of an elite force and for the Geordie this was all because of one thing, Sergeant Tomić and his shouting.
In that moment he resolved to become a force for motivation. Whenever someone was down and feeling out, he would be there to buoy them up. Whenever a fatty needed saving from a hotdog, he would be the person doing the saving. Never again would a dog go un-walked, never again would a pint go unfilled. He had a calling, he would become a motivator!
First he knew he must hone his motivational skills so he travelled some more. First he travelled to China, to the Tiantai Temple on Mount Jiuhuashan to seek the guidance of the Buddhist monks there. He learned from them the art of inner tranquility and in return he offered to share what he had learned about motivating. However, he spent only a few days with them before being asked to leave. His shouting during daily reflection was not quite the atmosphere they wanted.
He then travelled on to Nepal, into the foothills of Mount Everest, where he met the local Sherpa people and their groups of mountaineers from all over the world. He marvelled at the way his voice would echo through the mountainous valleys and heights. Despite being asked many times to 'shut his cake hole' for risk of causing an avalanche, he took satisfaction in seeing the mountaineers scoot past a great speed, no doubt due to his encouraging motivations and not at all to do with the impending risk of being buried alive.
After a few weeks of this the Geordie Motivator was finally encouraged, not least by the many gifts from the locals and assurances that he had indeed been very helpful, to move on and help others. They suggested that in order to help as many people as possible he should aim to travel far and wide, starting with somewhere very far away from Nepal, perhaps the United States of America. To their relief, this idea appealed greatly to the Geordie, so he hopped on to the first plane bound for the United States, keen to help as many people as possible.
It was in America that he realised it was everyday people, and not already motivated adventurers, who needed his help. But how to get his message out to so many? He was walking past a baseball stadium when a game was on and he saw a ticket tout using a megaphone to get attention. In the heat of the day, overweight people were wobbling towards him as fast as they could, sweat running down their brows from the exertion. Some were even keeling over, their tiny legs unable to struggle on under the intense strain, their half-eaten hotdogs strewn around them where they fell. Like a light bulb turning on above his head, an idea was born. In the rich and fertile land of America he had millions of overweight, lazy and disinterested people literally falling at his feet who needed his help. He had found his mecca.
With his new blue megaphone acquired, he began to motivate the people of America, building up his repartee of helpful motivations as he travelled the country. In Washington, in the run up to the election, he stood outside the voting booths, cheering on people to vote Obama, and was pretty sure he had a key part in getting him the presidency. In 2004 he shouted until he lost his voice at the World Series, but he was pretty sure it was down to him that the Boston Red Sox won the World Series for the first time in 86 years. And despite the fact that most of America couldn't understand a word he was saying, he knew he was making a difference.
But the pull of the old country was too much for him and, reading in the news about the state of the economy in the UK, he knew he had a new challenge. He must return home to his roots to help his fellow countrymen. So the Geordie Motivator boarded another plane and headed back home, ready to save the United Kingdom from itself, one lazy git at a time.
The Geordie Motivator has landed, he is here to help and he is ready to motivate. The next chapter is still to be written, but he is pretty sure that the economic recovery is proof of his powers of motivation!