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.