Who Is Andrew Beattie?

Whoops,

It’s 10:39 on Monday morning and I’m unwashed and at my desk at home. It would appear that yesterday afternoon, without forewarning and sensible reasoning, I shaved all the hair from my rather large head.  I have checked several times this morning and unlike yesterdays morning stare into the mirror there was no happy, long haired, whimsical man looking back at me with sadness behind his puppy eyes. Now that I think about it, that wasn’t the scene at all yesterday morning, it was just me with long hair, but then that’s not the point at all. The point is that yesterday afternoon I, Andrew Beattie, did something totally spontaneous whilst sober and took a set of clippers to my head in a most savage act of barberism. Even as I sit here now I can’t for the life of me begin to imagine why I did it, I can’t remember wanting to do it and I didn’t seem to question what I was doing as I was doing it, but I clearly did it as my head is cold and I have no hair. What could that possibly mean?

Well for starters it means that I am a dickhead. I clearly harboured some unconscious urge to do something a bit radical and kooky and decided in a moment of madness to alter my appearance drastically. I mean I could have just gone out and bought a pink T-Shirt or even got a tattoo, now that’s kooky and spontaneous, a tattoo. But here’s the problem, I don’t even remember consciously deciding to shave my head at any point. Jesus, I might be losing my marbles. If that’s the case I’m glad I didn’t just go and get a tattoo because who knows what I might have walked out with. I may well be sat here with long hair and a big penis tattooed on my left forearm. But then that would mean that I have subconscious urge to draw a penis on me surely? I’m pretty sure that isn’t the case but then who knows what my subconscious is capable of anymore after yesterday’s sterling performance.

That still doesn’t answer the questions of why I did it. I have been a little under the weather over the weekend and so maybe in my fragile, wheezing and spluttering state I let, for just a moment, a deep urge to take over my physical being and shave my head. That is of course total bollocks, as an urge can’t shave a head, only a man with an urge can shave a head, although that reasoning defeats my initial argument doesn’t it? Or maybe, just maybe, that little cabal of theirs has been giving me subliminal messages, Derren Brown style. Wait a minute, I watched Derren Brown a couple of nights ago. This shit is deep. I can see their plan unfolding quite nicely now before my very eyes. It’s brilliant and as far as I can see it this is exactly how they did it:

1. ‘They who shall remain nameless’ enlisted Derren Brown to pass subliminal messages through his programme that only I could see, or not see, as the case may be.

2. Towards the start of last week I was fed meals that had been tainted with a form of flu virus, the AB strain, which would render me helpless to the power of Derren Browns mind.

3. A situation was engineered that would force me to watch Derren Brown on that fateful evening. Homemade Pizza was the bait and I took it, and chewed it down fiercely.

4. The plan was now set and whilst Derren fooled the nation into believing he could make them stick to the sofa he passed along some subliminal messages only to me. I’d have to watch it again but if I did I’d probably now notice him saying ‘shave’, ‘head’, ‘Andrew’ and ‘Beattie’  on several occasions. I’d surely have noticed the last one but he will have disguised it by making it sound like ‘meaty’ or similar. God he’s good.

5. Over the weekend the clippers were placed all around the house and in whatever room I was fucking around in. Meanwhile, I am getting sicker, coughing and sneezing and losing my last grip on my free mind. I’m also betting that comments like ‘hair today, gone tomorrow’ were made just within earshot of me.

6. The plan was now in its final stages and some key phrase or other was uttered to me. I’ll bet it was whilst the football was on as ‘that was a close shave’ seems a likely possibility.

7. I took the clippers out and shaved my head.

8. Somewhere in an underground layer the echoes of deep evil laughing reverberated around thick stone walls.

Well there that is, the plan in all its glory. Hats off to them, they have proven to be a highly resourceful and persistent foe indeed. If this writing business doesn’t work out I could always go into the private detective business hey?

Anyway, whatever the reason behind it, I now have a shaven head. I’m also at the end of my self-imposed drinking ban and so shall be having a couple of light ale’s over the next week with my £10 winnings in my pocket and a spring in my step, assuming I get rid of this damn cold that is. That is all from me today. It has been a pleasure sharing with you as always. Until next time,

Don’t be fooled by Derren Brown, it’s your hair he’s after.  

Tatty bye,

Andrew

Hey there,

Today is Saturday, it’s 20 minutes to 3, I am at my laptop in my room listening to The Thrills, drinking sweet coffee and outside the world, or at least this part of it, is currently experiencing an Indian summer. What a phrase that is: Indian summer. Whenever I hear it, and I can’t remember hearing it before this week although I must have done, I can’t help thinking that it is a very old saying and imagine two ladies sat in an immaculate garden under frilly brollies, drinking tea with Lemon and eating scones commenting to one another about the ‘Indian summer’ and memories of killing Tigers when they were last in the Punjab visiting Smith who has just been given a new position at the home of the Viceroy “don’t you know”. The large buggy that contains one of the Women’s children is running away from them down the path towards the steps leading to the beach. Why haven’t they noticed? The baby is crying and still they don’t notice as they fill their faces full of scone and laugh heartily whilst discussing Smith and his limp which is caused by his much shorter right leg. That’s pretty much exactly what I think when I hear the phrase Indian summer although I generally don’t get as far as the baby in the pram rolling away. Where does that even come from by the way?

This past week I have been reading over my previous ponderings. Ponderings which are still not live on a website I may or may not have previously mentioned. Pouring over my previous thoughts and notes I couldn’t help but notice a running theme. I am adding stuff to this little list of mine and not taking anything off, I mean I haven’t written a book, or hot air ballooned and so what on earth have I been doing with my time since I started writing these things of mine. Well the truth of the matter is, and mum always said that I should be an honest boy, that I have been generally fumbling my way forward since I began writing this a few months back. I do appear to have knocked the booze on the head which is good as I’ve had longer weekends to contemplate my not taking stuff off my list and I’m also still writing and so, not crossing stuff off the list aside, I can be pretty happy with myself at the moment. For that, I shall give myself a pat on the back. But wait, there’s more. I am also still working. Ok, it may be part time, here and there, but it’s still working and it is keeping me in chocolate, coffee and cigarettes and so another pat on the back for me thinks me. All this back patting may well be just a result of me listening to The Thrills summer sound at the moment but hey, erm, yes.

To round off a week of pondering quite nicely, whilst having coffee with a friend today and before I’d even had chance to have a sip I was asked  “What’s new with Andrew Beattie at the minute, how’s life?” It’s usually a question that I pose to myself and so I had to consider the answer for a moment whilst I took another sip of my coffee. Several silent moments passed. “Nothing” replied me several hours later, “nothing at all”. I’m still reading as usual, working part time, fumbling my way forward and so nothing is exactly ‘new’ but you know what I’m fucking well ecstatic with how life is at the moment even if it’s no different than life was last week or the week before that et cetera.

I took a while to consider this when I got home, obviously deeply concerned at the happiness and back slapping, and came up with the following possibilities to why I am currently deliriously happy:

1. I am actually very depressed and currently on the crest of a wave from which I will soon crash and burn severely. This is a possibility, albeit not a likely one, but I’m not totally ruling it out just yet.

2. I’m still writing. I’m writing this aren’t I? And I’m also attempting some fictional stuff on my own, in a darkened room, this darkened room to be precise, of an evening.

3. I’ve been given a new sense of perspective about life by some higher power. This is clearly utter bollocks.

4. I’m being drugged regularly through the day at meal times in an effort to stupefy me so that I can be held down with ease whilst my head is shaved. This is the most realistic possibility as far as I’m concerned.

5. I’m due to die shortly in a hilarious fashion. If this is true, I’d like it to be death by falling piano or death by funny joke however I have no wish to die just yet even if it is in a stampede of Donny Osmond fans.

6. I’ve still got no idea what the hell I’m doing but that’s actually ok.  

Unfortunately, shortly after writing this list Andrew Beattie was tragically killed in an unfortunate accident with a spud gun whilst on the toilet reading a vintage 1975 copy of Jackie, and wearing a dress. That didn’t really happen but I do have a copy of Jackie from 1975, and here’s why.

Browsing this week’s Guardian on Wednesday evening I noticed that, starting this very weekend, my buying of the Guardian would be rewarded, starting this very weekend, with a classic comic book. Now, the picture that accompanied this very caption showed, quite clearly, pictures of Beano’s, Dandy’s and other stuff that I remember enjoying immensely when I was a lad and subsequently fills me with sadness at my throwing it all away when I was an older lad, but still a lad. But on Wednesday my sadness turned to child like glee at the promise of a nostalgic weekend spent reading about the bash street kids in the heat of an Indian summer. You can only imagine my disappointment when, after tearing open the wrapper of today’s Guardian I was left clutching a copy of Jackie with a pin-up poster of David Essex inside. I mean for fucks sake Guardian, Jackie, really, is that it? Where’s the fucking Beano please? No Desperate Dan? Not even a little cow pie? I mean come on, at the risk of sounding like a broken record here, Jackie, really?

But alas, even this massive insult to my childhood couldn’t really darken my mood and so I’ll leave you now to happily skip outside into an Indian Summer, drink sweet coffee, listen to the Thrills, complete my ‘How romantic are you?’ quiz from yesteryear and try to avoid falling musical instruments.

Thank you, thank you, thank you,

With hazy summer love,

Andrew

Hello, come here often?

It is Sunday at half past three and I, Andrew Beattie, am at the centre of a growing conspiracy surrounding my hair, the hair that grows upon my head and above my face. I’m not sure exactly who is at the centre of this conspiracy but they are amassing a large number of agents, people of varying heights, of different genders and with various musical tastes. Most importantly these are all people that I know and Love, friends, family and colleagues. I’ll stop floating about the very edges of this dark and sinister plan and get straight to the nitty-gritty if I may.

I have long hair, long enough to cover my ears. It goes well with my beard, so I think at least. I’ve had long hair for the past few years after years of having a closely shaved bonce and before that I sported a large mass of yellow blonde hair shaped like a bowl when I was but a junior in short trousers and long before I could tell my mother that I thought that I looked like a twat and that I found it embarrassing that we shared matching haircuts. Anyway, as soon as I was able to make conscious decisions about the style of the hair on my head, off it went the lot of it.

Many years of cropped hair then passed until a couple of years ago and one fateful day when, whilst rummaging in the loft I stumbled across the music of my dad’s early years in the form of glistening vinyl’s from artists like James Taylor, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, Jim Croce to name but a few, and the hair grew,  grew and grew, along with a beard and a wish to have many unprotected sexual encounters and wait along with the rest of them for the dawning of the age of Aquarius. I have since stopped waiting but the hair has remained and I’ve grown quite fond of it. It would appear that others however have not grown as fond of it and a cabal of shaven headed fanatics have surfaced, infiltrating all aspects of my life with the aim of me shaving my head again. Maybe I’m like a God to these people and they are a cult who read from an ancient text which outlines the second coming of a shaven headed God who will arrive in the form of a 25 year old aspiring writer who fumbles his way through life and has a large penis. Well they obviously have me mistaken with some other schmuck, and not just because I have a small penis.

This sordid affair all started about 6 months ago when my cousin harmlessly, or so it appeared at the time, suggested that I get a haircut over coffee, “you suit short hair better” may well have been the comment. I agreed that I could probably do with a trim but forgot all about it instantly.  The months passed and during this time my mother got in with the act along with the mothers of both my parents and my boss, all dropping thinly veiled hints and all the while disguising their secret loathing of my head. This all came to a head, no joke, when on Friday in the public house after work two colleagues who have never before shown any interest in my hair, on separate occasions and without prompting, said: “you look cool with shaved hair; I think you should get it cut.”  Now, I am not a paranoid man by nature but as the words left their lips the past 6 months flashed across my mind and through a hazy smoke in my mind I recounted hundreds of similar instances of these random comments being made, usually mid conversation and to a backing tune of ‘Almost Cut my Hair’ by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young.

I’ll be honest with you at this point and say that I have considered the possibility that I do need a little trim. The problem I now have is who to trust. For all I know this little ‘corporation’ of theirs could have spread right through society and that right at this very moment there is a meeting at the local social club, hundreds of them, including many members of the hairdressing community, family members and maybe even the local MP. Christ, I’d have to leave the country. I’d almost certainly go to South America, they seem to embrace long hair down there and with a little practice on my Spanish I’m sure I would disappear into society, maybe even open a little bar called Andrew’s.  No, that wouldn’t work at all; I’d have to change my name, Juan Pedro Carlos maybe. I’d also have to take Wallace the cat with me; I couldn’t leave him here in case they torture him for information regarding my whereabouts. He’s strong willed, that much is certain, but I don’t know how far they’d go to get information from him and I couldn’t live with myself thinking of him strapped up with electrodes on his many nipples in a darkened shower room dripping with icy cold water shouting “you’ll never break me you bastards”, spitting blood and attempting to lick himself clean as my former friends, family and colleagues stand round in the dark with torches under their faces to make them look really scary.

I really don’t get why it is so important to people, I mean I really don’t care what other people do with their hair, not even a little bit. The fact that they are really concerned about my hair does bother me though. I’m not aware that I’ve become a different person with long hair and a beard. Maybe they just don’t like me anymore, and you know what, I could probably take that. It would be totally different if they said to me “you know what Andrew, you’ve turned into a real prick of late”, at least then I could keep my long hair and beard and just try and be a nicer person, buy a big issue every now and again or help an old lady across the street with her shopping. Well you know what, I’m sorry old lady but you can carry your own fucking bags.

As a result of all your scheming against my long hair I’ll not be getting it cut thank you very much. I did consider cutting it, just for a moment though and for the sake of my cat, but then during a period of soul searching I stopped and asked “what would Chuck Norris do?” If it’s good enough for Chuck then it’s good enough for me.

Right, I’m happy now that I’ve got this off my mind. Maybe now that they know that I’m on to them they’ll move on and leave me alone but probably not. Maybe, just maybe though, oh fuck it, forget it. Thank you for stopping by again to listen to the random outpouring of my mind and until next time remember,

You may take our lives, but you’ll never take John Freda.

Tally-Ho,

Andrew

Namaste,

Kahaang hai gusalkaanaa? Or to put it in a language that you might understand; Hello, where is the toilet? 

Andrew Beattie here, back again after only a day. Urge to write and all that jazz and so here I am back at the desk, drinking a cup of Darjeeling, which is delicious, and listening to Zee Avi, who is delicious, and pondering about the day, as is my way. Today, ladies and gentlemen, my old nemesis Karma found the weapon of Irony, and then beat me savagely and without mercy around the head with it. Let me explain.

As you can see from my use of local Indian dialect, yesterday I decided that I would be going to India next year and so I promptly dusted off my Lonely Planet guide bought the last time I decided that I would be going to India next year, which was 2008. I didn’t go to India this year but if I have to explain the reasons for this again I’ll kill a man and so let’s just say that I am not in fact the Messiah, I am a very naughty boy. That last sentence bears no resemblance to the actual reason that I didn’t go to India this year but I’m not changing it now. Anyhow, dusting off the book and getting the map back out, I became a determined man, a man that would next year be going to India, khaki shirts, Panama hat, the whole kit and caboodle. After spending a long night dreaming of India I arose this morning to the cold light of day and decided that today would be the day that I would begin to plan how the hell I would afford it.

You see, me saving money is almost like, but not really at all like, asking my cat to stop licking his balls; it might happen, but probably not. The whole money saving aspect of things isn’t helped by the fact that I work three weeks out of five with my current company, doing odd jobs, but then that fact that I do odd jobs is totally irrelevant. Let’s get back to Pot smoking hoodie Karma with his Irony baseball bat shall we. Over the past few weeks I have been doing little bits of content writing, here and there, which was just what I’d wanted, a bit of writing practice. In my utter short sightedness, knowing that there would be more content needing to be written I had a sneaking feeling that there would be more writing over the coming months for a good man, with a beard, long hair and a winning smile. Once Bill Oddie had pulled out at the last minute citing bird watching commitments I would be in the door and working away again meaning money for my trip, writing practice, kerblamo, wham bam, thank you mam.

Anyway, cut a long story short please Andrew. The end of the day arrived and my usual 3 weekly “can I have a chat at the end of the day please Andrew” conversations, the type that result in me being at home the next day not earning money, also arrived. ‘Its ok’ thought I, these conversations had also historically been followed by me being called back into work a couple of days later for another 3 weeks or so and so I swaggered over like Captain Morgan after a bottle of rum and fifty wenches. What I wasn’t at all prepared for however was the following, which is loosely based on the exact conversation that occurred only a few hours ago as I now write:

Boss: “Andy”

Andrew Beattie:”Yes Boss”

Boss: “I’m sure you overheard me talking earlier about the content writing. You see, the thing is I’ve found a company based in India who can do the content for a lot cheaper that you can and I obviously have to take a look at it.”

Andrew Beattie:”Erm, ok”

Boss: “I will call you tomorrow and we’ll sort something out as I maybe a few days coming up over the next month”

Andrew falls to his knees, tearing pages out of his lonely planet India guide before reaching his hands to the sky, crying.

Andrew Beattie:”Why, oh why, oh why. Why me, Karma, why do you beat me senselessly? Oh, damn you Karma, damn you.”

Boss:”Andrew?”

Andrew:”Sorry, drifted off there. Erm, ok”

It’s a good job that I possess both a sense of humour and sense of perspective but even I, for a moment at least, couldn’t get past the fact that the first bloody thing in the way of my holiday to India was the Indian version of me, the little rascal. Well, try this out Indian content writing Karma lover and see how it fits, erm, up your arse, “Fuck You”. I’ve just tried to find the Indian for ‘fuck you’ but Lonely Planet clearly doesn’t cater for the toilet mouths of this world. I wonder how tempting it must be though for a translator to throw the odd swear word in the book so that unsuspecting tourists when assuming that they are asking the way to the nearest train station are really saying “why don’t you go and take your big fat French face for a big shit you smelly bastard.”

Anyway, the whole thing hasn’t changed my situation a great deal other than I now need to look for another job to pay for the trips but then if I remember correctly, that was pretty much where I started out a couple of months ago. I also really knew this day would arrive soon and so didn’t cross getting a job off the list in the first place. That has nothing of course to do with forgetting to cross it off my list because I didn’t forget or take it off the list.

The tea is now cold and Zee Avi has stopped playing and so I’ll go for now. Thank you for being here to listen to my little story and sorry it wasn’t as interesting as the title would have you believe. Until next time,

Onwards and Upwards,

Namaste,

Andrew

P.S. White Rabbits