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