Who Is Andrew Beattie?

Bonjour,

Sunday, Sunday so good to me. I hope you are well and have enjoyed a most pleasant weekend, week or whatever period of time is most relevant to you as you are reading this.

It’s been a funny old week this week, a nice week to round off the month, a week of poetry as I’ve been reading Howl, Kaddish and Other Poems by Allen Ginsberg, a week of work and little writing and a week that I’ve enjoyed for the most part and felt indifferent about the rest of the time. That was my attempt at being a little poetic. I won’t try it again for a long time for both our sakes.

Poetry, not something that has ever appealed to me for whatever reason but after reading Kerouac’s On the Road during my pre-Christmas blues I didn’t think twice about snapping up the first available copy of this particular book on the basis that I thought if I read it enough I would be instantly transformed into a cool Beat poet/writer and that everything would be ace as a result. As it happened the year started out in pretty fantastic fashion of its own accord thanks to the filofax and so the book was left gathering a smattering of dust on my desk as I tore into 6 consecutive James Bond novels, a gift from my Dad, and patiently waiting for me to open its cover, quite smug in the knowledge that it would touch my soul with its words instantly upon my opening it.

That being said, I still don’t fully understand it. I’ve enjoyed it no doubt about it and the fact that the poems still seem very relevant today over 30 years after they were penned, personal  and, in some cases, as if written just for me mean that I will almost certainly be dipping in and out of them again, for the foreseeable future at least. I’ll leave poetry alone for now if I may before my inferior knowledge of the subject leaves me looking like a right twat but before I move on I’ll leave you with a little excerpt for you to enjoy from ‘America’. Or not but I’m leaving it regardless.

‘When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?’ – A question I’ve been asking all my life.

I booked in to get a Tattoo done yesterday. On the 13^th of February at 10am, at 13 Ink in Liverpool, I shall have a peace symbol, or ban the bomb if you prefer, sketched onto my right forearm forever and ever. It’s all booked in, I’ve paid a deposit and I’ve put the date into the Filofax. Why am I suddenly unsure if I want to get it done then? I mean I was excited yesterday; I almost tripped over my own feet climbing the stairs at pace to hand over my deposit money. It might have something to do with the fact that today whilst discussing Tattoo’s with friends the following phrase was uttered, “Red bloody rag”. ‘That’s very funny because for a moment there it sounded very much like you just said, red bloody rag’ was my precise thought shortly before I felt a bead of sweat roll down my forehead.

Was I so naive that I’d have expected anything else other than a little blood? I was well aware that needles would be involved; I mean how else would they be able to put me to sleep during the procedure? and whilst I recognised the receptionists warning that I shouldn’t drink the night before and have something sugary to eat in the morning as a sign that there would be potential for collapsing spinney head Andrew, was I really expecting to have to contend with a red bloody rag? Should anyone, under any circumstance, have to deal with a red bloody rag?

Christ I might die. What if the red bloody rag is essential to stem the flow of bleeding from my artistic peace loving wound and they don’t have one? I should phone ahead and check and rethink the whole Tattoo thing if not. What kind of self respecting Tattoo parlour doesn’t have a plethora of red bloody rags on hand? I could always take my own I suppose but I’d almost certainly take the wrong one and my dearest mother wouldn’t be best pleased if I got blood one of her best white towels, especially not after that time with the dead hooker. I shall have to go and visit them tomorrow to share my concerns, I’m sure they deal with this regularly and if they fail to quash my very real and reasonable fears I shall ask them to draw it on in black biro.

It is of course far too late for me to back out now, and if the truth be known I don’t really intend to. If January has proven anything to me it’s that just getting it done because it’s what I want to do is proving to be a pretty effective strategy for me to get through the year with the maximum enjoyment and as little stress as possible. Oh shit, my phone bill.

Until next time,

Enjoy.

 Au revoir,

 Andrew Beattie

Hello, still here?

Thanks for stopping by again so soon. If you’re expecting a jaunty little number about a time in my life when something remotely humorous happened then look away now. If you are still reading at this point I must warn you, very bad things are about to happen.

I had a sleepless night last night, partially reciting what I had written yesterday and the rest of the time wondering why I had chosen to put Wu-Tang clan on to help me sleep. The last part is neither here nor there although it is quite the odd choice of bed-time music right? Anyway, so yesterday’s spurious Love rambling and questioning conundrum stuck with me all day in work today and whilst sat on the toilet pondering this I decided that I must put this Love debacle to bed once and for all for the sake of my plans for the year.

Before I go on with my solution to the love problem I would just like to address, if I may, the fact that I was pondering whilst on the toilet. Everyone has their own particular toilet habits; some will read and indeed have a stack of magazines by the side of the loo ready and waiting when the urge strikes to turn the bowels over. Some like to be in and out quick, my brother for instance who has a 5 second record that still baffles me to this day. Others like me, take a more varied approach to the loo, it really depends what mood I’m in. If I’m aware that I’m rushed, I have a meeting to attend for instance, I can be in and out like a flash, not in 5 seconds, but quick enough so that I’m punctual, empty and with clean hands on arrival. Other times, I’ll have a scan on my blackberry, the latest transfer rumours or maybe even a quick hand of poker. Today, I decided that I wanted some me time and in times like this I will purposely leave the blackberry or newspaper at the desk, I never answer calls from the loo, so that I can enjoy some alone time, ponder a while, count the tiles, maybe even whistle some Beatles whilst reflecting about the rigours of daily life and in the case of today, make a plan.

So, the plan. I decided that as I am basically putting my life onto my blog/diary I will let my blog and fate do the whole Love thing for me from here on in. Then I don’t have to worry about it at all, see? Here then follows Andrew Beattie’s lonely hearts ad and I really shouldn’t have written about toilet habits above.

25 year old Bill Oddie lookalike, over-weight, beard wearing, smoker, seeks opposite. Likes reading and actually prefers books to people, except you? Will entertain walking but only in short bursts and wears comfortable and loose clothing, not necessarily matching, at all times. Likes to eat out but hates restaurants and will not eat raw tomatoes, not even for money. Hates your music and dislikes Morris Dancers, Andrew Beattie, he’s a real catch. Also, owns filofax.

Ok so I may be a novice at this and whilst I understand that my being honest about the smoking might put a few thousand people off I’m sure that this will work just fine, a giant first step towards happiness. Christ, I can feel the waves of relief washing over me already. I’m glad I came back here to write tonight, I can almost feel the tremendous slumber I will enjoy after shedding the heavy burden of Love onto the broad welcoming shoulders of fate.

Right, totally oblivious to my own rubbish I’ll be off now to look forward to the rest of my week. I won’t even consider for one moment how this one post could totally ruin my chances of ever finding Love and happiness and destroy one of my main aims for the year, in January.

Sorry that you had to witness this. Until next time,

Get some new magazines by the loo please.

Cheerio,

Andrew Beattie

Ahoy there,

It’s Sunday, I’m here, you’re there and so there that is, done, dusted and out the way.

The weekend has been and is nearly gone and my lofty plans and ambitions were on the receiving end of a small kick in the nether regions courtesy of a wasted Saturday spent nursing a headache, the result of several pint measures of foggy European beer chased down with pint measures of Japanese whiskey. If I had been last year’s Andrew Beattie, sans filofax and a plan to take over a small section of the world, the resulting panic attack would have been a biggie, but I’m not and so, it isn’t.

I have however been left with one question this week which has been bugging me all day today as I’ve poured over my plans for the year; a mixture of dates in my diary and scribbles in my notepad. What the hell am I actually doing? I have plans alright, trips almost booked, next week’s tattoo, a book to write to name but a few but what is the end goal? Does there even have to be an end goal? What will I achieve as a result of the plans that I make, of the stuff that I will/will not do? So it’s actually several questions isn’t it? Shit. Now follows a small moment for reflection.

A small moment for reflection.

Right, so fuck the questions, the doing will be enough for now and wherever I am at the end of the year so long as I’ve done the stuff I’ve set out to do I’ll be happy with it. Thank Christ for that as the resolution to my questions because I have no answers, I have no God damn answers.

Love, it’s a very strong word. I have been guilty of falling deeply in Love at the drop of a hat in my time. There have been times when I have thought that I was deeply, deeply in Love for it to turn out to be something totally different, infatuation maybe, a small crush most likely. You see the problem I have is that I don’t have a very good handle on my feelings; they almost always get the better of me. This also isn’t helped by the fact that I tend to over think situations, I worry pretty much constantly about the things that I say and do and so whenever challenged by what appears to be strong feelings of love or even on rare occasions hate, I am turned into a gibbering wreck of nerves, huge awkward movements, heavy sweating and am generally left looking like a bit of a tit in all honesty. So have I been a little premature in looking for Love on my list of things that I desire to do this year? How will I react when faced with real, all consuming, Love? I’m totally fucked aren’t I? Or am I? Who knows? Who fucking cares?

But why should Love concern me so much now? I’ve no idea where that even came from and so I’ll leave it there for now to see, with intrigue, just how fucked I truly am when and if it manifests itself this year, or any other year for that matter. Exciting hey? No, no its not.

I’ll leave you now, on that rather obscure note of Love, undefined and terrifying. Next week promises to be an interesting one, I’ll be getting a tattoo, going to a magazine launch in Liverpool, going to the theatre with my dad and doing a little writing in between. I only know this because my filofax states quite clearly that this is what I have to do, the worrying thing is that I don’t remember writing any of it. I am Andrew Beattie?

Until next time,

Take good care and please don’t write in my filofax again.

Bye for now,

Andrew Beattie

He crunched the last of his cigarette with a hiss into remaining empty spot in the now brimming crystal ashtray on the bar, and loosened his grey knitted woollen tie as he sank back into the high backed leather barstool which had been his for the past two hours, and indeed as he now reminisced on and off for the past 20, or so, years. He looked around and saw the same faces that had tired somewhat over the years. The same men for 20, years, the same whores, mistresses and their ‘dates’ who never came more than once, married men of various ages with wives and children at home and lives that they hated enough to frequent this particular high class bar in Central London with its philandering businessmen drunks, seemingly always laughing at one another’s jokes whilst spending all of their money on very old and very expensive Champagne, women of the night and him. It seemed to him at that moment like theirs where the only new faces that ever arrived as he sat there over the years at his spot at the end of the bar facing the door, smoking and drinking, the same drink, doubles of whiskey, and on this occasion a 30 year old Laphroaig and more often than not a whole bottle over a long evening. He reached across the now sticky old mahogany surface of the bar to pick up a ragged looking copy of today’s Times which his most recent drinking companion of an hour ago had thoughtfully left behind for him to read.

He had drunk with this gentleman on many occasions although he didn’t know his name and didn’t care to know. He imagined this middle aged man to be writer, probably a scholar of some sort, with his smart but shabby appearance, the same green blazer and horn rimmed glasses, his long shabby hair and once expensive but now tatty shoes. He always talked about music, art and books in his rambling and often mumbling middle-class way and indeed always had a small hardback book of some variety with him in which he would scribble notes with a stubby pencil when not glugging his way through several expensive bottles of French Red. He took the glass to his lips and drained the last of the whiskey into his mouth and gulped, eyes watering as the peaty fumes immersed his face and throat burning as the last of the smoky whiskey eased its way down his throat. Maybe just one more he thought and laughed to himself.

He looked over at his green bottle, still two thirds full and behind the bar in the high mahogany cabinet and he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He couldn’t remember the last time he last looked at himself in a mirror and he pushed his hand through his greying hair, taking it back from his long brown face and then moved it over the grey stubble on his long jaw. His was the face of a Man who had lived 100 lives over, wrinkles on his forehead around his eyes and his ripe, browned skin was the only sign of his recent trip abroad to warmer climates. He stared into his eyes, grey and black and glazed, although he noted that sharpness remained despite this and the deep reddening around the lids. He looked and indeed felt tired for the first time in years. He quickly rubbed his now watery eyes and averted his gaze from the mirror and that man he no longer recognised as himself and reached into the pocket of his black rain coat on the back of the chair to his right to find his sterling silver cigarette case and lighter and threw them to the bar after lighting another of his strong American brand cigarettes for his next drink. He watched as the grey smoke swirled slowly above his head from the tip of his cigarette and clouded to make long elegant shapes in the light from the vulgar chandelier to his right. He had started to drift away in the moment, following the clouds of smoke, and hadn’t noticed that the barmaid had re-filled his glass.

She had been serving him the same drink, at the same spot since he could remember but he couldn’t recollect her saying more than two words to him at any one time, generally a polite nod on his arrival and a nod and insincere smile when he stumbled away at the end of the evening but he often undressed her down to her naked athletic frame in his mind and on many occasions considered the possibility of staying until the last person had left one evening to fuck her on the wide mahogany tables dotted around the bar or in one of the burgundy leather diner booths by the high, wooden framed and shuttered windows on the far side of the room. He would, of course, have to ask her name before hand, which of course was not going to happen although he had a vague memory of hearing it once or twice. Maybe he would come back tomorrow and would feel different, maybe tomorrow he would feel, but he very much doubted it, he remembered thinking that same thing every time he was in here over the past 20 years as he took another long draw from his glass.

He looked at his watch, 10:30, too early to go home to his empty apartment around the corner he thought and leaned across to pick up the newspaper from the bar. He squinted as he attempted to read the columns of words but soon threw the paper back down on the bar, rubbing the side of his head in an attempt to rub away the first signs of headache. He stood for a moment to stretch his tired legs, which retaliated with creaks and groans as he edged slowly from his seat and he coughed heavily upon standing into his handkerchief, the result of 40 years of chain smoking. He shook the ash from his black polished brogues which contained his swollen, blistered and aching feet, swore under his breath and returned the handkerchief to his pocket, straightening his expensive charcoal grey suit jacket before settling back down to his seat and another cigarette.

It was 11:00 before he looked again at his watch. He had spent the last 30 minutes watching a couple in the last of the booths at the far side of the room whispering in to one another ears and groping openly under the table. Despite their age, he guessed around 40; theirs, on the face of things seemed to be a new love. For one, she giggled constantly and fingered her chestnut curls, flirting constantly in between bouts of kissing and fondling. She was a real pro and if this wasn’t the same bar that he had spent the last 20 years frequenting when back in London he would assume them to be a couple but it was quite clear that this fool was currently spending thousands on a girl he never knew, his fidgeting and looking around the room when not fondling and whispering gave him away. He laughed to himself and reached to his right to check the inside pockets of his rain coat. He reached inside and felt the cold metal of his pistol against his hand, releasing a thousand memories at once in his mind before shuddering down his spine, and next to it the creased folder containing his final report, crumpled paperwork of words that he would hand over tomorrow and wash his hands of. He took out another cigarette and looked over at his glass which was full again. He allowed himself a moment of emotion and smiled to himself, he liked this place, the place of faces with no names, where he came, smoked and drank and left to return again when he was home but with no questions to greet him about his time away. He would certainly miss it although he was sure he would be back, probably tomorrow, after his final day at the office to celebrate alone with a new bottle and to get one last look at the place and maybe even after tomorrow was over he would feel different, different enough to ask her name. He shook his head, he was drunk. He re-corked the bottle, which for ease had now been placed on the bar next to his cigarette case, and put it in the pocket of his rain coat so that he could have a night cap alone at home and placed the money on the bar with a tip, and took up his lighter and cigarette case.

It was 11:30 and he stood with a groan to put on his still damp raincoat and to replace the pistol to its holster under is left arm at his seat and in full view of the people of the bar who didn’t stir and remained focused on their half empty glasses and morose conversation. No one bode him farewell as he strode across the bar and as he looked over his shoulder his barmaid was busy emptying his overflowing ashtray into today’s Times. He stumbled past the booths on the right and nodded his head, smiling contemptuously to the couple who were still in place in the last booth before the door, her hands now working under the table at his crotch and his head looking around for witnesses as soon as he heard the footsteps, sweat gathering on his brow and pulse visibly racing in his neck. He lit another cigarette as he reached the large dark blue double doors and turned his collar up before opening the door to the street and turning left into the night and towards home.

As he strode along the road he was glad of the rain beating down on his face. It was a fairly warm summer evening and although the night sky was dark and grey with cloud he was sure that the rain would lift for tomorrow and the sun would be back out. Not that it mattered, he had one more week of this, maximum, and then he would be on his way although he wasn’t quite sure where. As he was half way down the road he noted that the rain had stopped being refreshing and he quickened his pace so as to cut down the time it would take him to walk the mile trip to his empty flat. He looked the houses on either side up and down; he liked this part of London. The Georgian town houses, tall and elegant, lid dimly by the street lights and towering over the shadow-less street, continuous and uniform with their black railings along the pavement, the only difference between them being the colour of the doors although at this time of evening, his time of evening, the colours where not easily distinguishable. He picked up his pace again and looked forward to getting home so that he could light another cigarette as he tightened his raincoat and flicked the rain from the collar. The street was quiet, aside from the rattling of rain on the luxury cars around him and not a soul stirred. He looked over his shoulder and glanced back him down the road out of habit, nothing. He laughed as he reached the corner of the road; he looked forward to the day he didn’t have to check if he was being followed, the day after tomorrow, and turned again to the left and crossed to the gated park across the way which would offer some shelter against the rain for remaining half mile or so of his walk home

He crossed the road again and could see his apartment in the distance, the top floor of a town house at the end of the row, giving him an extra view into the city across the busy high street. As he crossed the road he stumbled up the kerb splashing rain onto his shoes and swore. The throbbing in his feet was relentless and he was now looking forward to ripping the top of the bottle off the whiskey with his teeth which was generally followed by his passing out in his favourite chair in his office. He was nearing the front door and so reached in his pocket and past his money clip for his key when he heard the first crack that broke the silence of the night. He dived straight towards his front door tripping on the step and barging the door with his shoulder before landing with a thud. Before he had hit the floor his hand had reached towards his pistol but remembering the whiskey in his pocket he had forsaken the need for self defence to save the bottle. He looked around quickly and laughed out loud as he noted that the crack had come from a starting car on the high street 100 yards to his left. He staggered to his feet and replaced the bottle in his coat pocket reaching down, joints creaking, into the road where his key had landed in the confusion. He laughed again as he straightened himself out and was headed back to the door when he heard the second loud crack that crunched around the buildings of the street.

He knew moments before the bottle smashed in his pocket that he had been shot. He knew before he reached his hand down to the gushing, gaping hole underneath his ribs that is was a mortal wound and that at that exact moment, shards of blazing hot metal where currently moving at high speed through his vital organs. He staggered against the railings, stopping to put his hand the wound again and then to his face to wipe the blood from his mouth. He had often thought of this moment, of what he would feel, if his life would flash before his eyes. He hit the floor hard but his body was numbed and his head swirled, his agony masked by the whiskey working through his system and ebbing out onto the pavement easing his pain. He groped for a cigarette in his pocket but his arms would not move and then he remembered the report in his pocket, his last report and laughed spitting bloody bile across his face. As he looked up to the dark grey night sky the rain beat down heavily on his face and he noted the warmness of the blood pooling around his body on the hard, cold paving slabs. He reached again for the cigarettes in his pocket but as soon as he had reached down he felt a crunching blow on his forearm pressing it hard against the ground. He spat out a line of blood into the air with the impact and swore again as it landed across his eyes.

She looked down at him, her jet black sodden and no longer wavy hair now stuck flat either side of her face. Her pale features stern and her eyes cold, a reflection of his own, dark and empty. She smiled down at him but did not speak. He spat a clot of deep purple blood on the pavement and attempted to speak but she shook her head and made a hushing noise that reminded him of the hiss of a snake, as she reached down to the pocket of his raincoat retrieving both his report and his cigarette case and then he felt her hand, cold against his beating chest where she let it linger for a moment against his soaked shirt. She placed the report in the inside pocket of her long black waxed cape and took two cigarettes from the tin, lighting them as she reached down to replace it in his pocket and to place one between his bloody trembling lips. Her eyes narrowed as she took a drag from the cigarette between her bright rouge lips, before blowing it into the dark night, the rain instantly dispelling the smoke. Even now he imagined himself fucking her as his cigarette lay limp across his mouth and he was unable to draw smoke. He looked into her lifeless eyes as she leaned towards him blowing a thin line of smoke directly into his face making his eyes burn. And then she spoke, her soft tone being replaced by a harshness he could never have imagined.

“Your government would like to take this opportunity to thank you for your 35 years of service for your country and wish you a most pleasant retirement.”

She stepped away and lingered before turning her head with a shrill laugh.

“Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry. Thank you for the tip.”

She walked quickly away, replacing the hood from her cape onto her head, and across the road towards the park and into the darkness.

The warmth of the summer night and his gaping wound quickly turned cold and a million thoughts raced though his mind as his eyes shuddered and rolled back into his skull and there he lay after 35 years of service, a day from retirement, 5 feet from home, and quite dead.

Hello, hello again and Happy New Year,

It’s been a little while since I’ve sat here, the end of November being the last I wrote, but here I am back at my desk and I feel like I’ve never been away. That is my way of apologising for not writing which in itself is me saying how disappointed I am that I’ve not been back sooner to write for my website which as it stands still isn’t live which in turn also disappoints me. You’ll be delighted to hear that the disappointment ends there as I am at present a new and renewed man, full of the vigour of life and excited about what the New Year has in store. Exciting hey?

Christmas came and went in its usual romping fashion, not stopping to ask me whether or not I’d had my fill and was ready for it to be over and although I’d had nearly a month off in total during December when the New Year started I was a little sad to wave it goodbye for another year. That being said 2010 excited me, a fresh start, many new plans and my list, that bloody list to get stuck into with the knowledge that as yet, I’d only ticked off one of its smaller aims.

During December I’d had a small mental breakdown of epic proportions which had me signed off work for a couple of weeks heavily subdued by anti-depressants and in a lull which rendered me incapable of words in either the spoken or written form. Before I knew it however Christmas was upon me and shook me heavily by the shoulders and out of the sedated world of deep and meaningful thoughts and into a world of tinsel, family, food and frivolity. After a week of family filled fun, laughter and more turkey than is ever necessary in all its festive forms I was feeling a damn sight better, the veil of deep dark thought had been lifted from me and so I promptly stopped taking the pills, cancelled my follow up appointment with the doctor and looked forward over the jagged precipice of 2009 and into the wide empty canvas like plains of 2010. Deep shit hey?

So, 2010, what does it have in store? Well it’s impossible to answer that question isn’t it? Who knows is the only possible answer. I do however know one thing for certain and that is that the following is my resolution list, a list that I’m hoping will shape my future, drive my list and lead me to a place where panic attacks are but a distant memory, the rum is plentiful, happiness and love are mine and the writing flows and flows and flows. It goes a little something like this:

1. Be happy and do the things that make me happy.

2. Say no when I mean no and yes the rest of the time.

3. Meet with family and friends more often and whenever possible.

4. Get myself in tune with what is going on in Liverpool; get on the invitation lists and go.

5. Travel.

6. Write, write and write.

7. Feel uncomfortable more and learn to like it.

8. Learn to drink or stop drinking.

9. Quit smoking.

10. Find Love.

11. Move forward.

There are some very, very spurious entries to this year’s resolution list, number 7 being the one I understand the least, but as it stands at the moment I am more confident of doing it than I have been for as long as I can remember. Being happy seems like a very real possibility and I know that all it takes is for me to just fucking go for it with the mindset that I need to take a hold and just get it, nobody else will give me it freely, why would they? With that in mind, my Dad probably bought me the most appropriate Christmas present imaginable using what appears to have been incredible foresight and vision, the one tool that will allow me to throw myself into this year with vim and vigour and come out the other side shouting “take that fuckers”, naked except for winged sandals and a flat cap and holding a portable typewriter which I am using to thrash Karma who is depicted in the form of a baby panda. I am now the proud owner of a filofax.

The filofax, 80’s Wall Street’s Blackberry and the era’s must have personal organisation fashion accessory. Before Christmas I’d never dreamed of owning one, I lived my life blissfully unaware of the sheer power of organisation and all that could be mine by simply filing away my scraps of paper in a leather bound file in which I could also store as many birthdays and addresses as I wish in an easily accessible format, with tabs. “Any fool can be organised” I would chortle and “Don’t be organised you damn square”, would be a common place remark to my friends. It would appear that I was the fool all along. Not only do I now have a new sense of perspective for the year and a list of key guidelines, I also have a place to store them. Take this week for instance, had I not written it down, how on earth would I have remembered to go to work on Monday and without the gentle reminder of my writing ‘Riga’ into every day last week, how else could I possibly of known that I might be going to Riga next month for a few days? I mean it’s no wonder I had a little breakdown in December, I had nowhere to remind me that I shouldn’t.

And so, 2010 is here. I have a plan, I have desire and I have a filofax so look out Love and Happiness, watch your back Riga, Karma and my list, Andrew Beattie is here in his winged sandals and flat cap and whilst I’m pretty sure that I still have no idea what the hell I’m doing, I’m certain 2010 is going to be a fucking cracker. Thanks for stopping by again and until next time,

Watch out for the filofax, it’ll get you.

Cheerio,

Andrew Beattie

p.s. I will almost certainly wear more than winged sandals and a flat cap; I don’t even own winged sandals for Pete’s sake. I will not however totally rule it out when the summer arrives.