Who Is Andrew Beattie?

Hello All,

Well didn’t November go quickly, hey, well didn’t it? Yes it did, yes it fucking well did, and don’t get me started on this year. No, really don’t please, for the love of god don’t it.

Right, it’s Friday evening and I’m sat comfortably in my ass grooves in the couch, listening to the Beatles, Yesterday, over and over, and over, and determined to write a word or two about what’s happening in “Andrew World”, the “World of Andrew”, or some other such bollocks. Confused? You don’t know the half of it, and I really don’t know what that means.

So, my feeling like I’m dying, that seems like a good starting point. I may have told you on a previous little dirge that I suffer from the odd panic attack, now and again, which usually lands me in hospital, every 6 months or so. Well I’ve had a two week panic attack since I last wrote, a two week panic attack and whilst I don’t want to sound like I’m repeating myself here, I have had, a two week panic attack. So I go to the doctor’s right? Pretty sure that I’m actually, really dying right? And the doctor takes some blood right? And I go to see him like 3 times right? And all the while I feel like I’m actually, really dying right, right, right? Well, unsurprisingly I’m not dying, not even close apparently and guess what? Even less surprisingly, after the diagnosis of you are a big, silly, nothing wrong with you face, I actually feel bloody great again, which is a little surprising when you consider that early last week I was actually, really, literally, right there, at any moment now, I was literally about to, get a fucking grip. As you can see I am very sympathetic to my plight, very sympathetic indeed. I think this sympathy comes from the fact that in the 6 or so years that I’ve been having panic attacks I haven’t died once, not even a little die, not even a half die, which gets me thinking; is it all just in my head?

So I’ve moved upstairs again to my desk after a failed attempt at writing on the couch. I had a feeling it wouldn’t work. I mean it’s hard enough to write at the best of times but when P.S I love you is on its damn near impossible. P.S. I love you, that gets me thinking, why am I still getting cabs into work? You won’t have noticed that smooth transition, but it was there.

I get a cab to work every day. I live 5 minutes walk from the train station where I can pay £2.40 for a return ticket for a 20 minute train journey into Liverpool City Centre for a 1.5 minute walk to the office but I don’t. I pay £10, every day for a cab to take me there, door to door, in 20 minutes which means that for the sake of around 10 minutes, I pay a premium of exactly £7.60, every day. Why do I do this? I mean I don’t mind walking, if I have to, and well the train journey isn’t that troublesome so why do I do it? I had considered this every day on my way in to work for the past 18 months, 18 months of £10 taxi journeys and it had troubled me until I met a friend last week for a coffee, my attempt at not being lonely, and it worked by the way, it has fucking well worked, and when discussing the problem with said friend it suddenly dawned on me. Morris Dancers, that’s the reason I subconsciously avoid getting the train journey, it’s the fucking Morris Dancers. Let me explain.

About 6 years ago I was returning from University in Manchester to Liverpool for the weekend. It was a Friday evening and it was late. After a quick dash across Liverpool City Centre I manage to get to Liverpool Central Station just in time to get the last train on the Northern Line to Southport, destination Crosby, and home. I find an empty carriage and sit, breathless from my little jog and many years of smoking and I put my feet up on the seat in protest. Its quiet and I’m thankful for the silence. The train then reaches is next stop and my evening was to take a turn towards the surreal as a group of 15-ish drunk Morris Dancers get onto my carriage. The next 5 minutes are fine, I smile at them in acknowledgement that they are really kooky and are all wearing bells on their ankles. Then a fiddle comes out followed moments later by a flute and a drum. The fiddle starts and I now don’t know where to look. They begin to sing, I die inside. One of the men gets up to dance. They all then get up to dance and this has all happened with 6 stops remaining on my journey. I am not best pleased as they begin to assemble a large star shaped object out of swords. They have fucking swords. They dance around the swords in the direct path of the door, my only exit. I stand and smile at the fiddler. The swords are over my head. The swords are over my fucking head. The tempo of the music picks up. The fucking Morris Dancers are dancing around me and my head is in the middle of the star made of swords. I’m now certain that I’m going to die. I make my excuses for not wishing to die at their hands and apologise for being such a square. I get off the train sweating heavily. No one ever believes the story. I get taxis to work.

The above is a true story and, whilst it’s hardly a doozie, it does go some way to explaining why I might get a cab to work every day. It’s much more likely to be the Morris Dancers than my laziness isn’t it?

Jesus, is that that the time? I really must go this instant, if only to save you from another moment of this rambling nonsense about panic attacks and Morris Dancing. Until next time,

Take good care of me.

Cheerio,

Andrew

You There,

Me here, in my room listening to some Bob Dylan on a cold and very rainy Friday evening in November and about to do whatever it is that I do when I’m here and for the 21^st time. Not much of a landmark I know but believe me when I say that it’s the only thing that I’ve ever set out to do and reached 21 separate attempts at in my 25, and a bit, years. Guitar lessons spring to mind, driving lessons also, as do Karate and boxing. I didn’t even make it to the fucking gym for the boxing but then I did wet myself at Karate and so that probably had quite a lot to do with me not continuing with that particular hobby. Wetting myself at 24 years old, I should be ashamed.

If there was one certainty of the last week it was that once the dust had settled from the weekend just gone that I would feel like a crappy version of my good feeling self. 21^st Birthday parties will do that to you and particularly the 21^st Birthday of your little brother, in your own house, where it is safe to act like a bit of a twat for several hours and only have a few stumbling steps and a quick crawl to end the madness and go to bed. The fact that I don’t actually remember acting like a twat at any point in the evening counts for little anymore as video and photographic evidence will eventually appear and out me as the swine that I am. If you happen to stumble across any of these pictures or videos please remember that camera adds pounds and pounds of soft flesh particularly under my chin, around my torso, and neck and back, and head, I have a big fat head, in photos, but in real life I’m like a racing snake.

Who races snakes? Which total fucking madman races snakes? Do they race of their own accord or does someone have to ride them? How the fuck can you ride a snake without annoying it into a death strike to the eyes or face? Jesus, imagine if you can, anaconda racing, with a human attached to a track being taken, at speed and against his will, around and around until he is caught and eaten whole. Bastards, the fucking bastards. I digress and shall return to the story promptly and without a moments delay, not another moment shall I waste talking about racing snakes. Seriously, where does that shit even come from, racing snakes?

As I was saying, once the dust had settled I was feeling a tad worse for wear which is to be expected as on the odd occasion and given the right set of circumstances, and an easterly breeze, I have been known to drink to excess, but what I wasn’t expecting to feel this week, not even a little bit, was lonely. “What does he have to be lonely about?” they exclaimed in unison, “He has his film star looks. He has his youth. He has his youthful film star looks. Surely he, Andrew Beattie, cannot possibly be lonely!” Well there is no need to be patronising is there now.

It’s not that I have a shortage of people to talk to and I have a super set of friendly friends, fantastical family and don’t get me started on my colleagues, erm, because I’d be here, for hours? What I think I’m really missing is a little companionship, someone to fall back to and an ever present ally who is also a sexual partner, a dirty, dirty sexual partner. I didn’t actually mean that last bit, honestly I didn’t. Take my brother for instance, let me finish, and his girlfriend Siobhan, see I told you to let me finish. They were reading one of my ramblings a couple of weeks ago on the couch in the living room, sharing a bottle of wine, locked in a loving embrace, and laughing in unison. Laughing in unison, I shall repeat that for effect, laughing in unison. They share hangovers, they occasionally fall out, and then make back up, they go for meals, they go to the pictures, they eat in, they occasionally eat halfway out and in, and I very much envy it. Ok, the laughing in unison is a little creepy but I envy everything else. Who am I trying to kid here, I love the laughing in unison, it’s the best part.

At the moment what I need is companionship, I know I do. Hookers serve a purpose but most of the ones I’ve met can’t read and so don’t share my love of books and writing and as for that Pretty Woman film and the whole “I’ll pay you to stay with me but we can’t have sex please” nonsense. Have you ever met a hooker? No, of course you haven’t, but try to imagine one anyway. Got it? Now picture Julia Roberts. Polar fucking opposites aren’t they? Yes they are, yes they are. How did I get onto hookers? Ah yes, my brother and his girlfriend Siobhan.

Right, its going on the bloody list, I’ll have to stick to it then. No more of this lonely nonsense for me, companionship from here on in. Not constant companionship you understand, this isn’t a documentary and I’m certainly no penguin, but just someone to share things with, things except for my chips and other food items from my plate and quite possibly my toothbrush but everything else.

15. Find a companion, that isn’t a hooker. Julia Roberts is, however, most certainly allowed.

On a much brighter note guys and girls, I did go to the theatre on Monday evening with my good friend and incredibly talented writer, Robin, to see Spike Milligan’s Adolf Hitler: My Part in His Downfall. I hadn’t been to the theatre for a long time before this week and it may have just been the fact that the play was incredibly well put together and very amusing but I enjoyed myself a great deal. By the time this is live on the internet the play will of course have finished and so my recommending it may be a tad late in the day but if not, it’s well worth a watch and I can’t recommend it enough. I’d also like to take this opportunity to say how incredibly good looking Robin is just on the off chance he gets more tickets for future plays or events and has a spare.

Now I’ve wasted just about enough of your time for one sitting and so I’ll be off now do drink the can of Guinness that is staring at me from across the desk and continue to read A Confederacy of Dunces which was recommended to me and has so far proven to be one of the best books I have ever read even if the similarities with my life are a tad frightening. Until next time friends,

Keep away from the pervy looking guy with the beard.

Cheers,

Andrew

P.S. I don’t really pay for sex

Hello All,

It’s a blustery Tuesday evening in November and I’m back and at my desk listening to a little Paolo Nutini to create the mood, the mood for my writing which is what I’m hoping to now do. The reason I need to create the write mood for my writing is that it has been a while and the reason that it has been a while ladies and gentlemen, well the main one anyway, is that since my little period of abstinence a few weeks back I have well and truly, unceremoniously and with all the grace of a shitting hippo, fallen off the wagon. Let me explain.

I suffer with hangovers badly. I know this to be true as I can’t honestly remember the last time I didn’t spend the day after having a drink, or ten, on the couch in the living room of my parent’s house, lying horizontal and in last night’s undies. I have even been known to spend both Saturday and Sunday pretty much in the same position for the large majority of the time and in the same undies, I repeat the same undies. I will vary the day between snoozing with my head stuffed into the cushions in a pathetic attempt to stave off a piercing headache and watching re-runs of Friends, which if I’m being totally honest, I don’t really find that amusing anymore.

The issue here is that I’m pretty sure that it’s not the hangovers which are the crux of the problem. The real problem is almost certainly the self destructive manner in which I have drunk the night before. These evenings seem to follow a very similar pattern and all start with one or two pints which are drunk in record time and without remorse. The following events then generally happen:

1. Pint 3 – I am aware that I should slow down considerably and proceed to take much smaller mouthfuls from my pint of beer. I take more mouthfuls per minute so that I am still drinking with the same effectiveness as the first two beers.  

2. Pint 4, 5 and 6. These pints happen quickly and without me noticing. For a brief period after pint 4 I have already decided that there is nothing left for me to go home to and that I am exceedingly good company. My friends stop laughing all together at my ‘jokes’ midway through pint 5. I continue to tell ‘jokes’, chasing lost laughs.

3. Pint 7 and Rum 1. I am talking incessantly at whoever will listen to me about almost every topic that I know little about. I rarely pause for breath between topics and don’t let anyone else talk in between resulting in deep resentment amongst my friends.  

4. Rum 2. I begin to approach people that I think I may know. They move around the bar in a bid to escape me. As my friends have recently left to go home I follow them regardless as I can’t very well stand at the bar on my own now can I?

5. I stand at the bar on my own.

6. More stuff happens that I will remember vaguely throughout the next week or so. This generally happens when I am just about feeling upbeat and is my subconscious telling me that it hates me and reminding me that I should have stayed in university.

Before I go on, please don’t think that I am championing this twattish behaviour because I’m not but this has been happening with greater regularity in recent weeks and so I feel it only right for me to document it. This little nasty cycle ultimately kills just about enough brain cells at a time to render me incapable of speech for a couple of days which makes writing completely out of the question. This leaves me then with a bit of a quandary as I’d been enjoying my writing and during my time away from the tasty poison I was writing regularly and with vigour but then again I am trying to be a little more social and meet up with friends and foes as much as possible so that I don’t die alone. I think there is pretty obvious conclusion to this whole affair, and I won’t write one more fucking word.

Ok that’s a lie. The real conclusion is that I either need to limit my nights out to once in a fucking blue moon or stop drinking at all. Just in case you are wondering, a fucking blue moon is very similar to a blue moon but unlike a blue moon it involves no fucking, which makes the whole thing ironic and quite confusing if you read it really quickly. Once in a fucking blue moon it is then, after all rum is really, really tasty.

Well once in a fucking blue moon will be arriving sooner than anticipated as it’s my little brother, David’s, 21^st birthday at the weekend. I’m excited, proud and broke, in equal measures and if I hadn’t just had a painful flashback from last weekend’s debauchery I’m sure I would be wiping away a small tear at present at the thought of how quickly he has grown up et cetera. The reality is that I’m totally fucking envious of him. The chances of him being spoiled rotten are extremely high and being the centre of attention even for a day is bloody marvellous and whilst he deserves it all in massive heaps because I love him immeasurably, I wish it was me all over again. As a little extra birthday gift for David I will now lead us all in a sweet rendition of “happy fuck day ass-wipe” to the tune of “Killing me softly” by the Fugees.

That is about as much as this little tired mind of mine can manage this evening and so I’m off to read a little more of The Rum Diary, is there any fucking escape, and listen to some more Paolo before bed. Thank you for stopping in again after all this time and until next time,

No thank you, I’ve had enough.

With Love,

Andrew