Who Is Andrew Beattie?

Hello again,

It’s Monday and I’m at home, at my desk, on a small break from work during which I should have been going to Riga which I haven’t hence me being where I am, which is not in Riga. It’s reassuring that logic always prevails even in my tired and confused mind.

And so I didn’t go to Riga, the capital of Latvia and the home of many a fine whorehouse and cheap, cheap beer.  I suppose I should be a little bummed about this and not just because of the fine beer and cheap, cheap whorehouses. I mean I did state quite clearly that what I needed to do this year was get away and get a bit of travelling done but the reality is that I’m actually quite pleased that I’m exactly where I am at the moment, at home.

Which brings me quite nicely on to what I’m here to write about which is the subject that I’ve been putting off writing about for the past couple of weeks, home. I knew I’d need to write about home sooner rather than later which is probably why my desk is covered in post it notes with ‘home’ written on them and why when I woke up this morning I fucked around for a few hours and smoked several cigarettes outside to avoid sitting down at my laptop to write. Let me explain.

I’m moving out soon. At some point over the next few weeks I shall be boxing up all my worldly possessions, packing them off into an overpriced rental van with baldy tires and heading into the good city centre of Liverpool before depositing them into a small flat somewhere or other with my brother David and all his worldly possessions. The last Beattie family house is on the market.

I should be excited shouldn’t I? An opportunity to fly the nest, gain independence, and move into the city, a place that I love to be, with my brother who doubles up as my best friend. Late night coffee’s, art galleries, theatres, excellent restaurants, the place has all that I desire. The problem is that I’m not sure if I am even a little bit excited. In fact I’m pretty sure that I’m fucking terrified.

It’s not that I don’t want to move out; I’ve had the urge to move on for a couple of years, and moving in to a place with David sounds damn swell, especially in Liverpool. I think it’s the fact that it’s the end of an era that fills me with the most dread. Knowing that you have to move on is not the same as actually moving on and so despite my being certain that the day for me to leave would eventually come; I never even considered preparing myself for it.

But then how could I? How could you possibly prepare for moving on? Should one buy boxes and pack something away every week in preparation? But that would be fucking preposterous when you consider that the reason I have the stuff I have is because I tend to have a use for it, except for the stuff which is for decoration which is most of it, and anyway that would only prepare me for an easy move, not actually moving on. So how then could I have possibly have prepared? Christ, how does anyone ever actually move on?

I suppose they just don’t think about it. Maybe that’s the key to moving on; just doing it. I’ll have to give it a go as in a few weeks I’ll have no choice in the matter. Moving on, as far as I can see, will also require a great deal of another word that I’ve just found on a post it note next to my laptop: boldness.

Ah ha, I’ve just remembered why I wrote it. I should have in fact written cowardice, or rather giving it up, as this year I’ve given up cowardice for lent. This will not end well.

Cowardice, like most acts, is a habit and one that I, Andrew Beattie, have found very difficult to shake. I am also excellent at it. Cowardice is the reason that I find it very difficult to move on when I know that I should really just do it because it will ultimately be good for me in the long term. The way I see it though what I lose in cowardice this lent I gain in boldness. As I’ve been told many times, fortune favours the bold, and whilst I don’t particularly want fortune it would be nice to have the peace of mind that comes with telling someone that you think in fact that they are a total twat and speaking openly about how I feel about this or that.

The problem I have is that somewhere along the line and at some point in time that I no longer remember I seem to have misplaced my boldness. One minute it was there and I was shagging all the nice girls* and speaking openly about subjects and how I felt about this or that and then it was gone and I was masturbating furiously and letting my rage and unspoken words build into epic panic attacks. I know it’s here somewhere, most probably in a draw in my room, I just can’t for the life of me fucking find it which is why giving up cowardice is my only option here.

Or, have I been looking for something that wasn’t ever missing all along? You see I got my Tattoo done on Friday, without bleeding to death I might add, despite what people I know may have thought about it. I also got my website live despite genuinely having no idea what I was doing or more to the point being genuinely concerned how people would find what I had written. Maybe I’m not so much of a coward after all? Maybe this moving out business won’t be so bad either? Maybe, just maybe, I should just tell her that I love her? Maybe tomorrow. Shit.

Right, so I’m off to rub nappy rash ointment onto my arm like the big tattooed artist told me to and ponder what I should put in a box first. Myself maybe, that way I get to pretend that I’m in a castle for a while and put off any bold thinking for another time. Until next time,

Be bold for me.

Tatty Bye,

Andrew Beattie

 *Ok, so this may not have actually happened. I have a very active imagination which is why I also vividly remember going to the moon and being on board the Nautilus with George Harrison.

Dearest you who are about to read,

Its Monday evening, Monday bloody evening, and I’m at my desk listening to the light purring of my laptop to sooth my weary soul and with my T-shirt pulled up over my nose and mouth because I’m pretending to be a bandit. I’ve usually something in mind to write about before I sit down at my desk but this week my head appears to be empty, totally void of anything that even I’d find interesting, probably due to a weekend spent relaxing my mind on the couch in my smoking jacket pretending to be Noël Coward. Not writing at all last week clearly hasn’t helped matters either. I’m going to have to wing it here guys, so here goes.

So there’s this woman that I know. She’s a great old gal, a real sweet thing. We write letters to each other occasionally, she’s a pen pal of sorts, and we occasionally bump into one another at family parties and other random events throughout the year. I’ve long since stopped putting this down to coincidence. In her letters she goes by the name of Flavia which I’m sure is a cover up for some serious espionage, no doubt involving people smuggling rings in Crosby or ancient artefact trafficking from Southport or Wallasey. In fact I’m sure that this is the case, she told me so last time I seen her after she last broke surface yesterday afternoon and came in for debriefing in the cereal aisle at Sainsbury’s. She’s my Nan you see and yesterday was my Nan’s birthday and so today’s little wordy effort is for her.

Letters, I love ‘em. There is literally nothing better (ok so this isn’t strictly true but roll with me here) than sitting down with a piece of paper and writing down some nonsense or other or even just a little hello, font size 2 usually works for this, to family, friends or Simon Pegg. I thought I was the best at it. I even considered after one particular letter to my Nan from Wallace the cat that I had reached the very summit of the letter writing world. I vividly remember saying this to the cover of ‘The Groucho Letters’: “I have now reached the very summit of the letter writing world Groucho, in your fucking face.” I was of course so very wrong and it took just one piece of genius courtesy of Flavia, to convince me of this and beat me savagely back down to earth, belly laughing as I fell. I have also since apologised to ‘The Groucho Letters’. What follows is from the very mind of that very letter writing expert. I still have a lot to learn:

The Red Villa

Casablanca

01/09/09

Dear “Q”

Sorry I have to write anonymously again but I am once again being followed. I spotted the same guy twice recently as I boarded a bus is Crosby, 666 or what? He was dressed as a ticket collector would you believe but the likes of you and I are not fooled easily unlike D.A (David Attenborough). Need I say more.

I was in the Village last week when I saw him coming towards me. As you know I am getting a bit fed up with his attentions. The latest is he wants me to go underwater swimming in Siberia.

Anyway when I saw him approaching I quickly turned my coat inside out, donned a blonde wig and lit a small cheroot (between you and I it was a Capstan Full Strength) and he took me for a lady of the night and scuttled up the alley at the side of Age Concern Charity Shop and Satterthwaites. He’s funny that way.

Time to confess I’m weakening towards the fellow in the Alpen Advert on the telly who winks at me every night from the screen. I expect him to get in touch very shortly. Whilst I am waiting I have turned out a few cupboards and the volunteers at OXFAM eagerly await my visits.

I regret to say that the lottery folk have not yet knocked at C.C. You know of course that we ‘en famile’ would be off to the Bahamas poste haste if that call ever comes.

How is life with your dear self? Going to plan I hope.

I do not have any more to tell you and will be glad if you will dispose of this letter so that they will not get their hands on it. They would break the code in no time. May I suggest eating it. I have found in similar circumstances it goes down rather well with a light touch of Heinz Tasty Sandwich Pickle and a Pink Gin and Cyanide. Don’t overdo the Cyanide as it gives you a touch of indigestion.

Look after yourself ‘Q’. If you don’t hear from me you’ll know they’ve got me.

Much love,

FLAVIA

Flavia of course did evade capture and made it to her Birthday lunch yesterday. Flavia always evades capture.

For the first time this year I’m starting to think that I’ve taken too much on. I’m naturally a very lazy person, I’m built purely for comfort, and I’ve noticed a growing and annoying trend in my filofax. It’s starting to fill up. Take this week for instance, not only am I getting a tattoo done on Saturday I also have to go for coffee on Wednesday and meet up with friends on both Saturday and Sunday. Christ, is it too much to ask for a little me time?

Right, until I have something further to disclose I’ll be off to eat mints and read ‘Shades of Grey’, by Jasper Fforde. I’ll also have to fit work and life in at some point so that next time round hopefully I have a little story or two to tell. Thanks for stopping by again and until next time,

Laugh every day.

Take Care,

Andrew Beattie

P.S. for more information regarding Noël Coward please see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Noel_Coward

P.S. for more information regarding Groucho Marx you should probably Google ‘Groucho Marx’ or similar. Not to be confused with Karl.