Who Is Andrew Beattie?

Hello and white rabbit’s you big cool bastard you.

So it’s Monday night and I’m at my desk in my room listening to a soundtrack I haven’t heard for many, many years, it’s 106 minutes till I’m in bed, I’ve got a full belly of gas, just eaten some homemade pizza, and three cigarettes, I had four until about 5 minutes ago when I smoked one in the garden, its dark and I need glasses, hit it. I love the Pulp Fiction soundtrack; I’ll listen to it more often I think.

As I may have mentioned on a previous little ramble here on my blog, I, Andrew Beattie, am a very remorseful drunk. It’s not the getting drunk part that’s strictly the issue, although it kind of is, as I show no remorse whatsoever as I drink myself into oblivion, a place where I am king of the world and can talk endless amounts of utter bollocks to whoever is unlucky enough to cast me even the most fleeting glance, it’s the following days that are the real problem, days in which nothing, literally nothing, happens as I deal with my hangover, some serious self loathing and deep regret. Taking anything positive out of last weekend then was going to be very difficult.

I had some plans man; I had some fucking plans last weekend. Nothing massively important, nothing that had to be done absolutely at the weekend, just plans, a very smug brown leather Filofax full of plans. And it started so well. Friday after work I specifically had to go and visit my cousin Jennifer and partner Marianne in Liverpool, I specifically had to eat Pizza and I specifically had to stay the night in the flat afterwards. It said this quite clearly in my Filofax under Friday, all except the specifically which is just taken as read once it’s in the Filofax. Nowhere in my Filofax did it say ‘Drink half a large bottle of Rum’ or even ‘Drink any amount of Rum’. I didn’t plan for this to happen but it did happen, oh it happened, and it happened right through till around 5 in the morning when I distinctly remember celebrating wildly as Canada won a gold medal because some crazy bastard threw himself down a snowy hill in Lycra and a helmet faster than some other crazy bastard wearing Lycra and a helmet who was presumably not from Canada.

The rest of the weekends plans, a little writing here, meeting up with a friend for coffee, reading, thinking, eating sensible adult portions of food, going to bed a reasonable time, liking myself, all now out the fucking window. The hangover I can deal with, that is entirely my fault; it’s the sheer weight of guilt about not doing the other stuff, the little things that I actually enjoy doing, that’s the real issue for me.

And so, today whilst walking to the shop to buy some lunch today I decided to give up alcohol for good. As of 5am on Saturday morning there will be no more booze for me ever again. Never more will I suffer from an epic hangover, the weekends shall be mine again and so I’ll take this opportunity to say a heartfelt; “Fuck off Whisky, Rum and all the other really tasty drinks that I’ve loved, thanks for the lack of memories, I’ll miss you but not the way you make me feel the following week.”

So maybe the weekend in a very strange way did have something in it after all and by not doing anything at all I actually did a great deal. I’m clutching at straws here guys but then if you think about it, in a roundabout way I have ticked one of my new year’s resolutions off haven’t I? Christ, this is amazing, the first new year’s resolution of the year and its only the end of February. Yes, yes I am clutching at straws, but I’m also right its right there, look:

8. Learn to drink or stop drinking.

I rule.

Right, I must go now as I promised myself I’d start The History of Mr Polly tonight before bed and it is way, way past my bedtime. Remind me next time to tell you about the time I got caught having sex with an ex-girlfriend by her Grandmother. Until then,  

Please don’t offer, I’ll just say no.

Speak soon,

Andrew Beattie