Who Is Andrew Beattie?

To whom this may concern, and the rest of you,

Here’s Andrew, and he’s back at the laptop in his room, listening to a little music, and doing a little dance, as he prepares to write something or other about this or that. Spurious indeed but then it is Sunday and well, there that is, after all. On we go with today’s feature presentation.

As this is my 19^th little effort at writing something for my soon to be no longer website I thought I would take this little story back to the beginning and strip the whole thing down to the fleshy bastard point – who is Andrew Beattie? I’m not prepared to go back into the depths of time for fear of what I might turn up from the vault of my mind. Who knows what painful memories I have decided to lock away to burden my weary soul. I mean I can’t remember murdering a hooker but then again if I’d decided to forget it?

Right, so who is this Andrew Beattie character that I keep rambling on about incessantly and without remorse? Well good folk of the world, you are most certainly in luck today as I have him here with me, right next to me, and so let’s ask him shall we in the form of probing questions that shall cut to the very core of him.

Me: Hello Andrew. How are you today?

Andrew Beattie: Fine thanks, a little cold but fine. I may have to dash off at any point to visit the loo so you’ll have to bear with me.

Me: Erm, ok. So who is Andrew Beattie?

Andrew Beattie: Well I’m just me, Andrew Beattie. I’ll not hang around long with questions of this quality.

Me: Ok, clever dick. What have you been up to recently?

Andrew Beattie: Well I’ve worked and then as it’s the weekend I’ve been at home relaxing with the family, eating, drinking rum, read, listened to music etc etc.

Me: Have you not been out and about? It is the weekend after all and a time for recreation and catching up with friends.

Andrew Beattie: Well no I haven’t, I don’t usually get out and about at the weekend if I’m honest, just usually hang about the house and erm, hang about the house.

Me: So, when was the last time you, say, left the house at the weekend?

Andrew Beattie: Yesterday actually, for work. Where are you going with this?

Me: I’ll ask the questions, you just fucking answer alright? I’ll ask this another way shall I, when did you last leave the house at the weekend for anything other than work, to visit friends for example?

Andrew Beattie: I can’t remember, I haven’t seen my friends for a while, 6 months say.

Me: 6 months since you last saw your friends or 6 months since you last left the house of a weekend?

Andrew Beattie: Both probably.

Me: 6 months hey, very interesting, hmmm. How does that make you feel?

Andrew Beattie: How does what make me feel you little prat? You’re not much of a fucking interviewer are you, in your shorts and T-Shirt? What do you think this is, fucking amateur hour at the, at the, amateur interviewer fest at the erm, beach?

Me: Sorry if I caused any offence but you’re avoiding the subject and that last question didn’t make any sense at all.

Andrew Beattie: Ah, now that’s interesting, very interesting. Do you say sorry a lot?

Me: Yes, I do actually.

Andrew Beattie: Why, are you scared of causing offence by voicing your own opinion and have to say sorry first?

Me: Oh how the tables have turned Andrew, how the table have turned.

Andrew Beattie: Answer the fucking question.  

Me: I’m not sure sorry. At a guess, probably twice a day, maybe even thrice.

Andrew Beattie: You did it again, said sorry for no apparent reason. I’m going to have a wild guess here Me, and call me brash if you like, but you don’t voice your opinion a great deal do you?

Me: No I don’t and I don’t like where this is going.

Andrew Beattie: Well I do and so, why? Why don’t you voice your opinion?

Me: I don’t know, I guess I just don’t get asked a lot and I don’t give it freely. Can you move on please?

Andrew Beattie: Coward.

Me: You’re a coward.

Andrew Beattie: No I’m fucking well not, and if you’re not a coward then why did you let me turn into the interviewer so freely.

Me: Because I don’t like confrontation and you seemed as if you where enjoying yourself so I just let you continue.

Andrew Beattie: You truly are a strange, strange little man. So ok, I don’t like to go out of a weekend and haven’t seen my friends for a while and you’re a coward who doesn’t voice his own opinion and says sorry a lot, but here’s the question, are you happy?

Me: Yes, I fucking well am happy and I’m happy despite the fact that on Thursday the following happened.

It all began with my waking late after sleeping through my alarm. I did the usual waking late for work thing and jumped straight up, all my senses suddenly alerted, and headed straight out into the garden for a cigarette to wake me up some more. If you are going to be late for work, an extra 10 minutes really isn’t going to make a whole load of difference despite what they may say. I fucking well hate they. Anyway, I’m in the garden smoking and hear a rustling sound behind me coming from the overflowing bin at the side of our house. I immediately creep up on the bin to find out what the hell is happening with my rubbish and before I reach the bin a fucking big ginger cat crawls out of the bin and jumps to the floor staring at me the whole time as if to say: “what the fuck are you looking at hey, never seen a cat sleep in a bin?”. We stared at one another for at least 5 minutes and then he turned and paced away. I’m not sure there is any significance to this event or not but I can’t help but think that this little ginger cat was a messenger of some sort, a little ginger bin cat messenger. It’s troubled me ever since and there are literally a hundred and one possibilities as to what the message was he was bringing but I mean cats don’t just crawl out of your bin every day do they, particularly not big ginger ones. I wonder if he’s my Joe Black? Christ, I hope not but I’ll kick him to death next time I see him to make sure.

So what can be taken from this week’s rambling? Well, I’m going to visit my friends over the next week for a start. I will also speak openly about my feelings regarding changing water temperatures in the local duck pond and if I see that little ginger bin cat again I’ll shake him till he tells me what the fuck he wants with me, or his head falls off.

See you around.

Andrew

Welcome,

The day is Thursday, and the time is 19:55. I’m at my laptop in my dimly lit room listening to the a little Jefferson Airplane, it’s bitterly cold outside and at present, as it stands at the moment, Andrew Beattie wants a new PSP. He also wants some new jeans, 2 pairs to be precise, a couple of pairs of shoes, a new coat and some new CD’s. Books, he would like lots of them also and at least 2 new shirts, and a cardigan, a blue cardigan. No no no, Andrew Beattie doesn’t merely want these things, oh no. Andrew Beattie lusts after these material goods like a child lusts over a sherbet dip and a muddy garden. Andrew Beattie has no idea why he wants these things. He hasn’t wanted anything in this pathetic manner for a good while, other than books which he always wants and indeed has always wanted. He realises how daft his lusting for these things is because a) he has no money, not two beans to rub together (ill return to this in a little while), b) he doesn’t need any of it and c) the last time he had a PSP he didn’t use it and sold it to a friend for some change, a bag of jellies and a left-handed screwdriver. So why does he want it now? Why is he talking about himself in the third person? He just did it again, why is this?

And now for something completely different: Why would someone rub beans together? For what purpose other than wearing the beans down no little nubs of beans could rubbing them together possibly serve? What would someone want with nubby beans?

Right, back to my wanting stuff, it really makes no sense at all. I have considered the above points and came to the conclusion that I really, really shouldn’t get any of the stuff I don’t need but you know what, I’m pretty sure that I’ll buy myself most of it, including the PSP, which for reasons that I’ve already explained will be about as much use to me as a titty bar would be in the Vatican. I could have opted for strippers or even gentleman’s club there but titty bar just felt right and so I apologise for any offence caused – bloody prude.

I fear that I’ll never get to the bottom of my wanting stuff, knowing I can’t have it, knowing that I don’t need it, yet still wanting it badly fiasco and so I’ll just settle for not having any of it for now and waiting for this little crazy phase to pass. There, all better now and in the time that I’m waiting I’ll console myself by playing games on the PSP that I’m going to order tonight. Oh, shit.

On a much brighter note you will have noted as I have, with glee, excitement and bed wetting that the mornings and evenings are getting darker. This can only mean one thing Ladies and Gentlemen and that it is, as it stands at the moment it is, if my calculations are correct, 12 weeks till Christmas. Now you might think that it’s a little early for me to be getting exited and prepared for Christmas and you’d be right, absolutely bloody spot on. It is ridiculously early to be getting excited about Christmas and so someone please fucking explain to me why I am currently uploading 5 Christmas albums, all of them double albums, to my iTunes. I mean come on, Little Saint Nick, in October, sheesh, who does that? Did I just pretend to be upset by this behaviour? Well I’m not, not a fucking jot, I fucking well love Christmas and I like, no, I love, to get mentally prepared as early as possible.

It all starts around now when the nights get shorter and my journeys home from work are made using only the stars to guide me, on the train. In around a week I will begin to comment about how I’ve just noticed that my breath is beginning to fog after leaving my mouth to everyone that I meet which includes strangers in the street. I will pass this behaviour off as ‘making small talk’. In the first week of November I will go for my first Gingerbread coffee in Starbucks with my cousin. I look forward to this day for 10 months of the year and whilst I am aware that this wouldn’t generally be classed as normal behaviour, they do taste delicious, very delicious. About a week or so later I will start worrying about what I’m going to get people for Christmas presents. I will draw up a list of items that I would like and put a line through the ones that I couldn’t possibly pass off as a gift. I will then buy these items for myself and begin to worry about how the hell I’m going to afford to buy presents after treating myself so lavishly. During the first week of December I will buy all of the presents for family and friends and will have officially switched from work mode into Christmas enjoyment mode. This will annoy colleagues who will resent my not trying or even pretending to try but at this point I will be totally oblivious as their tutting and heavy sighing will be drowned out my constant recital of ‘holidays are coming, holidays are coming’. From here the real Christmas starts and that story really is for another day.

As much as I hate to make love and then dash off, or should that be as much as I’d like to make love and then dash off, I’m dashing off, literally running away. I’m not really, but I am going to settle into the evening with a glass of mulled wine, a mince pie, a little hand-held games console lusting and a cheap 70’s porno.

Until next time my friend,

Be happy.

Bye for now,

Andrew

Dearest You,

I hope you are wonderful, swell, brilliant and blasé. It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m back in my room at my laptop and about to willingly divulge a little something from my thoughts again and so it’s time for you to put on a comfortable pair of slacks, re-fill your pipe and settle down. Comfortable? Excellent, then here I go.

I nearly shit myself this week. Really, I actually nearly shit myself, twice, on separate days. Just so we are clear on this, I am talking about actual shit, me, clenching cheeks, heavy sweating, the lot. I’ll come back to this in a little while but first have a read of a small sample from my notepad so as to add some context to what will follow, through.

25/09 – Got excessively drunk on what can only be described as a ‘falling off the wagon’ binge of epic proportions – I am weak and have failed you.  

26/09 – Am I dying? I think I might actually be dying. I hope to god that this day ends soon as I feel like I am actually dying. As opposed to what, pretend dying? Pull yourself together Beattie.

27/09 – The first signs of real illness appear leaving me shaky and sweating heavily.

28/09 – Day off work ill with virus that has me shitting, shivering and sweating almost constantly and in unison.

29/09 – Start new full time position on less money than I have been on for a long time. This is how Andrew Beattie’s life works but I am feeling much better today.

30/09 – Very nearly shit myself in cab on way to work. Have to turn back 5 minutes into journey to avoid soiling myself and cab.

31/09 – Nearly shit myself again in cab on way to work. Manage to compose myself enough to cork it until the office. Evidently I am still ill.

02/10 – Shaved off my beard for the first time in many years leaving me looking like a very chubby version of my younger self. I dislike my bald face immensely.

There is literally nothing quite like that moment when you realise that if you are not sat quivering on a toilet seat within minutes, at the most, that you will be covered in your own shit. What would have happened if I’d been on the train? Well obviously I would have actually shit myself wouldn’t I. Christ, what would I have done afterwards? At 7:30 in the morning there would be nowhere open to go and clean up. I couldn’t just have headed to work regardless or even headed back home covered in watery shit so I suppose I’d have just gotten off the train and stood on the platform for a while crying and covered in watery shit. I think this is actually my worst nightmare. You can throw all the fucking spiders and snakes at me you like and even throw in a very tall building or two but shitting yourself in public is 110%, the worst situation that you could possibly find yourself in. It would be impossible to remain composed. For starters, there’s the shit on the back of your trousers that will almost certainly run and seep wherever possible. Then there’s the smell. Shit smells – fact, and should you have just shit in your trousers you are likely to smell pretty bad, in fact, you will smell very, very bad. Then there are the witnesses and if you are unlucky enough to have just shit yourself in public, you are likely to see a whole range of different reactions. Teenagers will almost certainly laugh, point and take photos and record videos on their phones that will eventually end up on your facebook page and Youtube under the title ‘Smelly bastard’, and the majority of other people will just look at you with utter disgust whilst holding their noses and making a big deal about the smell. At least one person will offer help but this will be futile as at that point it will be too late; you will smell really badly and will have just shit yourself. If this ever happens to me I am leaving the country and if it happens to you you should too, there will be nothing left here but ridicule and nicknames like Smelly McShittypants or Soiled Trouser Boy. I’m going to move on now.

So, a new job hey? Take that list. Well, it’s not so much a new job as much a new full time job within the same company that I have been at for the past 4 and a bit years. I mentioned in my diary that I took a pay cut but the reality is that it is a sales position and so the commission, should I earn it, should mean that I am earning more than before. If I believe that I really am a fool. It actually doesn’t matter much as I was at the stage where  I just needed to get back to work full time and earn regularly again, I have two holidays to pay for next year remember? Hang on a minute, does that mean that I can actually take something off my list for the first time. You know what, I think it does. 

3. Get full time work, preferably doing something creative with people to meet, but a job that pays money will do. No Andrew, you can’t be a pirate. TICK

Well I’m spent, truly fucking cream-crackered, and so I’ll be going now for an evening of light reading, Uncle Joe’s mint balls and hip-hop dancing. Thank you for visiting me again and until next time please,

Be careful not to shit yourself as I’d hate to see you leave.

Sayonara,

Andrew