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