Who Is Andrew Beattie?

Andrew Calling, Andrew Calling….Andrew Calling.

Hello again, passersby. The date is Wednesday 29^th of July and the time 9:15pm and I, Andrew Beattie, have been in work. Yes, you heard me correct, work. I, in fact have been in work all week this week although I must point out to anyone that has followed my ramblings so far that I don’t have a new job as yet, I have been working this week for my previous employer, filling in, as only I know how. But it is work none the less and so a forward step it most certainly is. As such, I am looking forward to receiving some cash money for my work which I will squander on new books, beer, night time events that I can write about and, of course, cheap hookers.

In the time since I last took up far too much of your time I have been fulfilling the task set before me in my list, a task set by me, and heading out of an evening, on other peoples generosity of course as I have no cash, at all. I haven’t exactly been painting the town red, or painting it any other colour for that matter. Incidentally, who paints a town by the way, aside from painters? Why is going for a few beers with some pals, getting a little drunk, getting a little more drunk, getting your photograph taken with a policeman, getting more drunk until you can’t speak properly and ultimately going home alone, again, at the early hours of the morning to a pot noodle and loneliness, called painting the town red? Does it refer to vomiting? If so, why do so many people look forward to ‘painting the town’, I mean, I fucking well hate vomiting, particularly when drunk and so it hardly something I would look forward to or even plan for. And why do they plan to do it again, over and over, particularly when you consider that their vomit is red? What the fuck have these people been drinking? Jesus, I hope it’s not bloody vomit; I may never go out again. Or does it refer I wonder, to the nights out of graffiti or student artists. If so, with so many people going out painting the town of a weekend evening with red gang signs it’s a wonder the police can keep up.

Right, where was I? Vomit. No, that’s not it. Ah yes, my nights out. On Friday evening, after my first night back at this, my 6^th stint at work, I went to a restaurant in Liverpool. This wasn’t just any restaurant though; this was the remade version of my favourite childhood restaurant, What’s Cooking? at the Albert Dock, home of the best ribs in Liverpool. I swore to myself on the ten minute walk over to meet David and my Dad that I would order the ribs I have yearned for since the restaurant closed many years ago, and wallow in nostalgic sticky tangy happiness but upon entering totally forgot and ordered a fucking burger. I did however get to smell the sweet aroma of the ribs just as my meal arrived. The couple sat in the booth behind me clearly also yearned for the ribs that I crave even now as I sit here and they were kind enough to order so that their ribs arrived just before my burger, which despite being damn tasty, just wasn’t barbeque ribs. It’s a common fault amongst all burgers.

I have also been, twice this week, to see my cousins after work at rather cool establishment called Brew tea bar which is just off old hall street in the business district of Liverpool, for a pot of what is frankly the best earl grey, in the world, ever, in the world (so much so that the website has earned a spot in my links section, it’s that good) and a spot of reminiscing, taking in a wide range of subjects from Vikings to Cheese and even to Scottish Country Dancing. For those of you who don’t know, Scottish Country Dancing is the dance perfected by my dearest mother and involves kicking your right leg forward and upon this landing back to the ground, bending your other leg behind you in a bent kicking fashion. My mother professes to having been a national champion of this much maligned sport of Scottish greatness when she was seven, or nine, despite my Wee Granny’s protests that it is in fact total bollocks. It’s ok though Mum, if you’re reading this, which your clearly not, I believe you. I could go on and further dissect the conversation into smaller stories which although I would enjoy writing and reading them will only leave me saying, you had to be there, you ignorant bastard. Now the point of me telling you all of this rather drawn out chain of events, is to show you that I have been getting myself out, as the list said I ought to and yes before you say it, going for tea after work does fucking count as a night out, particularly for someone who didn’t leave the house more than 5 times in the preceding month.

Now, that’s just about enough of that. You may also notice, as you are a keen internet surfer of the highest order, that I have added a small wordy effort to my articles section. It’s the first chapter of a book that I’ll never write and if you haven’t already you should go and read it immediately, after I’ve finished with you here. My saying that this has just gone into the website is of course totally preposterous as my site, as I write this, isn’t live yet and so as usual I am really writing to myself. I’ll be interested to know what people think of the writing I have mustered so far in this rather empty section of one item as it’s my first effort and so lavish praise will be appreciated and expected and criticism, even of the positive variety, ignored.

I’ve rambled for far too long this evening and I’m tiring rapidly and so I’m off to dream of ribs and fall into a poor night’s sleep to prepare me mentally and physically for a day at a desk dreaming of Tallulah, the one that got away. Thank you for returning and please, please come back; my self esteem depends on it.

Goodbye,

Andrew