Who Is Andrew Beattie?

Lie – a false statement made with deliberate intent to deceive; an intentional untruth; a falsehood.

Hello again,

It occurred to me today that most people nowadays appear to be big fat fucking liars, me included. Harsh perhaps, particularly on those that don’t, but after the fifth time of writing an ‘I did this’ and ‘I did that’ statement in my CV whilst listening to the BBC news channel in the distance it occurred to me that it is in fact all total bullshit, all of it, without exception.

Let’s start then with my soon to be completed CV/resume/sales pitch. It’s not that I didn’t do this or that at all in any of my previous roles but the very fact that I am writing them now after leaving my previous job because I didn’t care to do most of these things again struck me as kind of an odd thing to do. What I should in fact be saying is, ‘these are the things that I have done but really don’t want to go again.’ Creating reports is a good example of this. I never want to create another fucking report as long as I live. I may in fact just send a naked picture of me reading and smoking a cigarette, that’ll learn ‘em but I digress.

But it’s far from just me who’s not telling the whole truth today, there are examples of it everywhere I look, the media and politics strike me as two fine examples of places containing many fine liars presently and they don’t stop with small creating reports type lies either. Let me give you one fine example that has troubled my soul recently.

There is a movement in America towards a total Anti-Islam stance; ‘Islamaphobia’ is the name they’ve given to the big fat liars lie. Like any phobia it’s based on stuff that could potentially happen, exactly like arachnophobia which is of course being scared of spiders. Unless you are actually bitten by a spider or die from a spider bite it’s quite literally all in your head, nonsensical and fabricated (a lie even) by your mind to fuck you over good style.

The difference of course with the fear of spiders and the fear of Islam is that whilst a spider could actually potentially bite you, Islam can’t – a religion can’t literally do that – because it’s just not the point of religion, however dangerous people suspect religion may or may not be. That’s where the lie comes in then, and in this instance it’s a biggie.

I read an article last week with the title ‘Obama is literally Hitler’ which is also the name of a whole website and which also spouted copious amounts of bollocks, lies, about Obama being a secret Muslim just like Hitler was a secret ‘godless atheist’ (actual quote) and that a major part of his master plan and yes, apparently he does have a master plan, is to rid the US of evangelical Christians and impose Sharia law in the US. I’d have to question whether ridding the world of any group that call themselves evangelical would be a bad thing but that’s beside the point. My point is that any argument of this type is based entirely on lies, not even small half truths like my excellent ‘report creating’. Take this statement for example taken straight from the ‘Obama is literally Hitler’ website:

“Just like what Nazi Germany did to the Jews, so liberal America is now doing to the evangelical Christians. It’s no different. It is the same thing. It is happening all over again. It is the Democratic Congress, the liberal-based media and the homosexuals who want to destroy the Christians. Wholesale abuse and discrimination and the worst bigotry directed toward any group in America today. More terrible than anything suffered by any minority in history.”

I obviously needn’t tell you why the above is utter horseshit and I’ll not dissect the article to discredit every single phrase or sentence because well, it’s all obviously complete bollocks, and offensive in the extreme to those with any real sense. But what is genuinely scary is that this isn’t an isolated incident, far from it.

A big piece of ‘news’ coming out of the US presently is the uproar that’s happening over the ‘Ground Zero Mosque’ that is to be built in New York. Several political commentators/bloggers/rich people with major mental issues have publicly denounced the decision to build this ‘Mosque’ on the site stating that its offensive to the people who died in the September 11^th 2001 World Trade Centre attacks and their families and the US as a whole and not to mention the whole world and universe et cetera, and some even go on to say that it’s a further example of the really crafty religion, Islam’s, attempts to infiltrate the US psyche and enforce total Sharia law on America and all its peoples. Christ alive, is it just me that gets annoyed by this utter nonsense?

For a start, the ‘Mosque’ isn’t a mosque at all, it’s an inter-faith meeting centre, and it’s not even at Ground Zero, it’s not that far away, but far away enough to judge it not near at all. Whilst I understand that this is an extremely emotive issue for a lot of people who lost loved ones at the World Trade Centre to have it referred as ‘exactly the same as building a Nazi shrine next to a synagogue’ is completely fucking nonsense, and that’s another direct quote I read somewhere recently. So more lies then, pretty big lies and lies that ultimately, media fanned, are attempting to influence a whole nation of people, enough of them anyhow, into doing some ultra radical scary shit.

‘Enough of them’ clearly includes a Church in Gainesville Florida which will, according to a report I’ve read today, burn Korans on Church grounds to mark the anniversary of September 11^th this year. So a direct reaction to the lies then – cause and effect in clear and visible action.

But it’s quite serious though isn’t it? And it’s happening the world over and is far from an isolated incident – the recent English Defense League (EDL) riot in Bradford springs to mind. Now extremely stupid people do exist in the world, I was quite aware of this, but stupid people effectively lied to, with the lies being spread and fanned by the media, are absolutely fucking terrifying, particularly in this instance.

The question I have begun to ask myself as a result of this little nugget of thought which eventually has filled me with terror as I worked at my CV is; is there any real difference between my half truths on my CV and the lies told in these instances that fan the flames and emotions of racial hatred? There is the obvious difference, race hate in this particular example, but a lie is a lie no?

So, I should make a stand by telling only the truth from here on in? Is that even possible? After all my favourite part of storytelling is re-dressing the fact’s to suit the audience? So then is selective lying the answer as long as it doesn’t influence someone on an emotive issue? But who am I to decide who could and could not be effected by my little half truth?

And then there’s always the possibility that I’ve made a huge deal out of this today for no reason but it really doesn’t seem or feel that way. So then, there is only one possible resolution to today’s thought and one that I’ve had to come to so that I can get back to my CV writing and find a writing job.

No more lies, and no more media until I’m certain that there will be no more there either, which will be never, and whilst that isn’t a great resolution it’ll do for today, and it instantly rules out a whole job sector that I’d have applied for jobs in.

Christ.

Andrew Beattie

P.S. I have not listed any sources to any of the claims, statements made above by others simply because I didn’t want to link to them from my website. If you want to see them, simply copy and paste them into google and Bob’s your uncle. I must warn you though that each and every one is written by a complete fucking lunatic, and if you’re like me, it may spoil your tea.

Ahoy there.

I could have probably picked a better time to quit my job. When I had money would have been an example of such a time. When the UK wasn’t pretty much fucked job wise would be another. But I have quit my job, nearly a week ago now, and as I sit here in the front room of my spacious family home living room I’m starting to wonder just what the fucking hell I think I’m doing.

It came to me pretty suddenly, the urge to quit, without obvious thought or motivation, but all of a sudden I had to move, get out, run, run and run and so acting purely on impulse I did just that, ran, ran and ran and from there I moved quickly and with uncharacteristic pace from having a job on the Friday, to writing a polite notice letter on the Sunday, to having a coffee, clutching the notice letter and trying not to spit my coffee over the table in the Starbucks around the corner from the office whilst spluttering my way through a perfectly practiced “Sorry to fuck you over for reasons I haven’t exactly thought through properly” explanation. An explanation I might add that was taken remarkably well by the recipients despite them being covered in spluttered coffee and for a while at least, an explanation that offered me a little mental solace and a feeling of freedom lost since my little trip to London and before that a point in time that I no longer remember.

Solace that lasted roughly a day, or enough time for me to realise that given the choice of drinking beer, playing with my balls, reading, smoking and generally fucking around looking for ‘inspiration’ or actually sitting down to write, sharpen up my CV or do anything remotely meaningful in say, a ‘I really don’t have a fucking job anymore and I quit my last one to write didn’t I?’ sense I would choose any of the former. And this was all well and good for a while and it was sunny and I had no cares and all was well until….

Until today, when the last of a three day beer nightmare ended, my own fear and loathing episode of sprinting to and from the edge of insanity finally subsided and I was left suddenly without a mobile phone, stolen, and further from any sort of path to cash or writing heaven, also stolen, and all because of an inevitable crash into the realms of madness and lunacy on Friday evening when after week of ‘inspiration’ and after having had some beers and food in Liverpool with friends I completely lost a few hours. Gone. No more hours.

I should have gone home. I should always just go home. When the rest of the evening decides to disperse and leave towards home and loving pets, lovers, friends and family I should do just the same, call it a night, leave with my tail up, and head off stumbling into the night. But I didn’t. Good God I didn’t. At least I think I didn’t. I definitely didn’t. What I did do was head to a bar to meet another old friend and then wander around Liverpool from late night bar to early hours bar seeking more booze, someone to listen to, someone to listen to me, someone. Christ. I did it again didn’t I? A pretty big bad? Or did I?

I have no real idea except for a few real hazy and very sketchy memories but I did lose my phone and that’s enough. Couple losing a relatively expensive piece of technology with an epic binge on my own whilst devoid of any sense other than relentless madness and epic whowherewhyandwhen stupidity and you have enough to send me right to the fucking edge of reason and pretty damn close to looking over the precipice of my mind shouting ‘hello, erm, hello’ back across to my rational mind on the other side and sweating heavily – always sweating heavily for some reason.

And so then, here I am, pretty rational again, recovered, at a little after 7pm on a Monday evening, in the front room of my house looking for writing work on the internet, writing this little update for here, jobless, phoneless, broke and not reading, playing with balls, drinking beer or smoking but actually finally ready to crack on, jump back into the path of writing brilliance and towards the personal Mecca of creative content city, ready to tell little stories perhaps and maybe even write a smattering of words about this and that and hopefully, somewhere along the line, I’ll learn the ability to just fucking go home.

Until next time then,

Selah.

Andrew Beattie

Hello there old friend,

And so I’m back, a little later than usual, but back none the less and so I’ll start somewhere or other from sometime or other since I was last here doing whatever it is that I did when I was last here. Spurious? Exactly.

Falling, drinking, eating, rising, drinking, working, loving, lying, smiling, laughing, drinking, crying, reading, dreaming and all very slowly and slowly until it all seems exactly the same and exactly the same, and somewhere along the line I totally forgot my own voice and so stopped writing and beat myself up about not writing and then took a job with my company writing only to forget to come back here to write and how to write when I did come back here to begin to write which was generally of an evening when I’d start to write only to delete the words and leave again, not writing.

And that’s pretty much my time spent in summary and so as you can see my time spent away from here has been not been time spent at all really because I seem to remember being onto something last time I was here and even as I read my last posts I could clearly see what it was and where I was going but I was unable to even begin to follow it on and then it dawned on me that I remembered where I’d last had it last, my voice, which is actually just a frame of mind, in London,  and so all of a sudden I had a purpose and a desire to break the cycle of (please see above, I really don’t have it in me to write it all again) and get back to London to do whatever it is I desperately needed to do there.

You see London was the last place other than the place in which I existed daily since then and now where I last seem to have my voice, certainly the one I’ve read and not understood since last I was here to write and not read. I wrote subsequently maybe but not with the same vim and vigour and thought and mindset as before I last took a trip to London and so I returned, not just on a voice finding expedition but almost precisely to find my voice, get away from the things that had resulted in me not writing and find whatever it is that I no longer obviously possessed in order to come here and write again.

I’ve always loved London. As I explained to a friend when I got back to Liverpool on Thursday this week, it’s the sensory attack that London provides that I’ve found nowhere else I’ve ever been. Sat on a roof top terrace in east London looking out over a small part of the world and a clear blue sky, the heat of the late afternoon prickling at the skin on my arms, looking at groups of people conversing over beers and cigarettes and in the distance hearing the bubble and toil of a city, distant traffic and sirens and life and almost smelling the activity of a bursting city just over the horizon, quite wonderful, and being sat on the tube heading into the British Library to go and look at books and history and time lost and watching people watching people smelling the sweat from the morning heat and hearing chatter over the click, click, whine, click, click, whine of the speeding tube transporting people all over the city or walking, head up for 3 hours from crazily busy hub to hub past beggars and businessmen all working and working and working and rushing and noise and noise and noise, amazing, and amongst it all I felt quiet and alone and peaceful and somewhere amongst 4 days of the same invasion of noise and sights and smells all different I felt, for the first time since I can remember, blissfully fucking happy, deliriously so.

And so with a smile on my face, needing but not wanting to come home, I had to suddenly return on Thursday, instantly deciding to get the very next train out back here to process the contentment and the thoughts so I could return here today to write this all down despite it probably not making much sense but still making perfect sense to me because its already over 700 words more that I’d been able to write since I last wrote and so it feels like a start and I’m starting to go on now so will start to wind this up in a bid to contain my own excitement.

So where then from here, will I be back soon? Will I be able to write clearly and precisely next time around? Probably not, but I am back and ready to write it all down as it happens from here on in maybe regularly but certainly kind of frequently and I’m starting again so I’ll go right bloody now.

Thanks for popping in again.

With a great deal of peace, and love,

Andrew Beattie

Hello there,

I hope you are extremely well, in the extreme.

Its Saturday morning and whilst pondering my life over a cup of coffee and listening to a bit of morning Parisian Swing, in Crosby and in bed, it dawned on me that my life seems as uncertain as the current state of British politics, hung, and unfortunately not hung in the sense that I’d hoped. My life then is a hung life?

You see in my usual manner I have been pondering, pondering what to write on here, pondering why I write on here, pondering what path my life is taking and pondering if I’ll ever do the stuff I set out to do, pondering the cost of living the life I want to live, which is just life, or so I’ve pondered.

Take this website for instance, who is Andrew Beattie? What was I hoping to achieve by it? I mean I charged myself with writing little snippets from my life, an online diary, revealing my inner most thoughts to the world, or at least a small corner of it, but to what effect? I’ve been doing it for nearly a year now and I’d kind of hoped that by writing this kind of shit down I could stop, for a moment, the million thoughts of Rocket Ships, Time Travelling Men with old dusty arm chairs and Love stories, usually involving me and any female I come into contact with at any given moment even the ones I don’t speak to which is most of them, all racing through my mind at the speed of light or much much faster and colliding a million million times a second, and allow myself a moment to get stuff done, live a life.

I don’t feel that I’ve achieved this, not in the slightest. For a start I don’t come here to write enough, there are large gaps where I allow the thoughts to race and even larger gaps in my little rambling updates where I miss out the things that I have done. As such I have left a really shitty patchwork blanket effect of experiences over the year with large gaping holes and worst of all I still have no idea who the hell Andrew Beattie is which is rather troubling considering I’m him, he is me and we are one.

So, taking this website of mine and piecing together its fragments and snippets of me I am left with several pieces key of insight. Like a really crappy detective I have pieced these together with a little sellotape and I can now say for certain that I am pretty sure Andrew Beattie, at this present moment, is:

1. A list maker

I see two clear lists here involving things that I hope to do. I will either forget these lists ever exist shortly after making them or in most cases I will beat myself up, both literally and metaphorically, for not doing the things on the lists that I have made to try and make some sense and add some direction, any direction, to my life. See Writing and Travelling.

The list

The other list

2. A writer who does not write, except very occasionally

This could have easily been ‘the chief procrastinator’ as that in reality is the reason I write so infrequently. I dream of writing, I long to write, I long for the days when I can sit and just write, all day, about things that I have entirely made up, I long for that day to be today and whilst doing this longing and dreaming I never actually write. This, in terms of being a writer, or an aspiring writer, is a problem, albeit a pretty simple one to overcome, which I won’t, but I must as I fully intend to….what?

Am I a writer?

The first chapter of a book I’ll never write

3. A traveller, who has travelled but once

I long, there’s that word again, to travel, and I’ve almost certainly mentioned this. I long to take myself off with a little bag, a pad and a pen, a camera, which I won’t use, and wander around this planet we call home to meet, eat, see, smell, feel and ponder. It’s a dream, a wonderful, wonderful dream of unparalleled happiness. In terms of making and breaking plans it would appear that this is pretty high up the list. Will I ever wander?

Sober and in need of adventure

The Cheltenham-London Express

4. Lonely

It would appear as I look back through the depths of a year that I am, or at least feel, quite alone. It’s clearly not the case, I am very rarely actually alone although I do my best to be, but I do feel in a sense, and every waking hour, that I’m missing out on the biggest prize that life can offer, the L word. Like everything, my constant pondering often leaves me, well pondering, whilst missing the living part, the travelling part, the life part, that allows this prize to be given, earned and won. A pattern is emerging.

One is the loneliest number

Love and a small moment for reflection and a lonely hearts ad

5. Quite possibly an alcoholic

Or, almost certainly, quite definitely and without doubt an alcoholic. See, a huge gap where December should have been and the following:

Remorse

Abstinence

Only once in a while

Never again

6. Panicking

I have no wish to tempt fate with this one as I haven’t had a massive, hospitalising massive, panic attack for a while. The evidence of this in just one year of writing is startling.

Panic attack hospital trip

The two week panic attack of the morris dancers

7. A dreamer

See, “the million thoughts of Rocket Ships, Time Travelling Men with old dusty arm chairs and Love stories, usually involving me and any female I come into contact with at any given moment even the ones I don’t speak to which is most of them” and just about every other possible scenario and situation possible, impossible, unfathomable and downright ludicrous. See also, writing to aliens.

Happy thoughts from an Indian Summer

Dreamer

Letters to space

If there are any conclusions to be drawn from this it’s that, there aren’t any conclusions. You see, the one key issue here is that whilst I ponder the stuff I want, aspire and long to do, I never actually bloody go and do them. I wonder why I should do them, I ponder how I should do them and I consider when I should do them. The answers are simple: that I should do them because I’ve set out to do them in the first place, that I should just bloody well do them and that I should fucking well just go and do them right bloody now, this instance and without another moments delay.

There it is, there it bloody well is, its part of the answer, it’s the key to it all. It is isn’t it?                         

On that rather pondering note, I’ll be off now to go and visit some friends for lunch and then go to a party in Liverpool in which she could be there and they almost certainly will. Why am I doing this, because…why I am I doing this?

Thank you for your infinite patience and until next time,

Be great.

Tally Ho,

Andrew Beattie

Hello Reader,

Thank you.

It’s almost half past seven on a bank holiday Sunday weekend and it’s taken me this long to write again, precisely the amount of time between the last time I wrote to you and now, whatever period of time that is, exactly. I’ve been putting it off all weekend to be totally honest, inventing small tasks like making tea, drinking tea, smoking and moving items around my desk, so as to avoid sitting down to write to you about something or other. This however is neither here nor there as here I am and on I’ll go.

I’m growing to hate politics. I’ve never actually liked politics, it’s not my cup of tea at all, but up until around two weeks ago I had lived my life with complete indifference to politics, politicians and their policies. It was a wonderful arrangement that politics and I had and in return for my indifference I asked or wanted for nothing.

I was however totally aware that they, politicians, were and still are massive liars. I was also aware that they, the current lot in charge, were also guilty of murder on a large scale and that they were all, the lot of them, thieves. A great big load of villains, all of them, without exception, except for the good ones, who I’m not sure exist. So I was totally aware of the villainy then, but still totally indifferent. Shame on me.

I didn’t like the fact that these people with whom we freely give power are all villains but then for the most part they never impacted on my life in any way whatsoever, that I was openly aware of anyhow. They didn’t influence my choices, they didn’t change the way I thought, and they most certainly did not shape the path of my life. So why then should I have been anything other than indifferent. Well I shouldn’t should I?

Why is it then that a once totally politically indifferent person like me should be in any way hateful of a subject that I care to know so little about? Well its election time at present (I write in this manner so that my future politically active self can read this back and chortle with a little perspective on what is happening right around now) here in the UK, a time when we pick the latest lot of liars to lead our country into the next major conflict in the middle or far east and take us valiantly, waving flags as we go, into a huge implosion of the European markets, another matter of which I am proudly indifferent, and for at least the next four years. As such I cannot read the newspapers, watch the TV or live a normal human life without seeing Gordon Brown and Nick Clegg’s face and David Cameron’s ‘face’ and hear their shallow promises about health reform and nonsense regarding immigration, which in my opinion isn’t an issue at all, in the UK and worst of all I have to suffer as people that I have come to love and respect also talk about these very same ‘issues’ whilst guarding themselves from my limited respect. 

What is usually a massive lot of bollocks then has now been reduced to a massive lot of bollocks in which 3 grown adult men call each other and everyone else nasty names in front of the world via the media. They are hair pulling and happy slapping away from being the type of twat I hate the most in the world although I suspect at least one of them will make it into the higher echelons of this list within hours, possibly even before I finish writing.

But why do I care? Why, for the love of all that is sacred to me, do I give a flying fuck? Well you see I feel that I have to vote now and I can’t think who I should vote for and why the fuck they deserve a) my vote and more importantly, b) the time it will take me to vote. There is only one reason I’m even considering voting, but it is a biggie.

The BNP, what a massive bunch of cunts those guys are. For those of you who are not aware the BNP, or British National Party, are a band of politically charged racist thugs who because of the complete stupidity and endless ignorance of a selection of the UK’s population have received the slightest power in the UK and Europe. In some people’s eyes they are presently a credible political force. PAUSE FOR LAUGHTER. I use the word people loosely here as the only people who feel this way are clearly complete fucking fruit loops or/and inbred to within an inch of their cousins. These guys are Nazi’s by the way, I shouldn’t really have forgot to mention that, although they systematically deny it much in the same way I suspect that they would systematically have invaded Poland and so on and so forth had they been in power in Germany in the 1930’s. They are however in my opinion extremely dangerous, Nazi’s are dangerous, history has shown us this, and for that reason a vote for anyone else is a vote against the potential ramifications of giving these horrible bastards anything more than their currently limited power.

I probably should have taken a more active interest in politics, I am aware of this now. At present I have not a fucking clue who to vote for, or despite what I’ve written above whether or not I should vote at all. Maybe indifference was the answer after all.

So, who is it going to be? Well I’ll have to leave you in suspense good citizens of the world because I have no idea. I’d really rather hoped to have fitted in a little today about literature, what I have been up to, and what really happened that time I was at the circus. Next time maybe. Until then,

Look left, and right.

Cheerio,

Andrew Beattie

P.S. If it appears that I never found a reasonable conclusion with this week’s little rambling effort then you should really remember two things;

a) With politics and elections there is no reasonable conclusion

b) I never, ever, reach a reasonable conclusion, with anything

Dearest wonderful you,

Have some good tidings and I absolutely insist that you take them all.

So here I is on a bright and breezy Wednesday afternoon, back at my laptop, and void of any ideas whatsoever on how I should start today’s little update so I’ll just take off all my clothes and jump straight into the naked jelly wrestling.

I’ve found myself in a bit of a quandary recently which isn’t that huge a surprise as I spend most of my waking life in one quandary or another but this one is most odd and snuck up on me in the dead of night like a giant praying mantis. It suddenly dawned on me last week that I need to buy some new clothes. A lot of new clothes.

I’m aware that for any normal person this wouldn’t be a huge issue or even an issue at all but then I am not that normal a person, I came to terms with this a long time ago and I suggest that you do to, it’s much easier this way. Before I go on with the very moment that this moment of fashion conscience struck me I’ll tell you exactly how I feel about clothes.

Nothing, nothing at all.

For me, clothes are not a good investment and in fact I’m almost certain that they are a terrible, terrible investment. Clothes wear out, it’s absolutely unavoidable and so given a choice between some new books which I can potentially read forever or that must have pair of skinny jeans and tie-dye T-Shirt I will absolutely pick the books – Sorry Paul Smith, but you’re no Jules Verne.

I do however have lots of ‘casual’ clothes, jeans, t-shirts, trainers, jumpers et cetera but then that’s purely because they are comfortable and when you have the kind of lifestyle that I have, which is to say not much of a lifestyle at all, comfort is king. As such I pick clothes that look comfortable, and for that reason alone. If I do cobble together something that matches, or heaven forbid looks in any way ‘stylish’, it is purely by some hugely freak event that happened as I was stood in towel deciding which mode of comfort suited best my impending day.  

So why then should I be at all bothered by clothes and why the need to rush out and buy some new ones? Well it happened exactly like this:

I was asked by a friend recently if I wouldn’t mind attending an event that he was going somewhere or other one evening after work. I immediately said yes before my brain registered what I had in fact committed to do and so there I was suddenly going to an event with a friend somewhere or other one evening after work. No huge problem so far. The day before this particular event I thought that I should ask out of politeness what the dress code for the evening was to be so that I could pick out the most appropriate ‘style’ of extreme comfort clothing to pass me through the evening with the right amount of ‘god damn it I’m comfortable’ and general good feeling, to which my friend replied, “The dress code is ‘Smart Casual’ Andy”.

What the fuck is Smart Casual? I thought. Is it even possible to be both smart and casual at the same time? Mused I. Have I entirely missed a whole genre of fashion that has somehow managed to combine Jeans, T-Shirts and Trainers with the suit? Considered Andrew? These were just a small selection of the questions that I posed myself afterwards before I realised that I was entirely the wrong person to be asking in the first place for reasons that I’ve already discussed.

I then decided to stop worrying immediately about this and decided that I would be absolutely fine at this event if I just wore what I wear to work, everyone is a little smart for work, and then followed at least  5 minutes of blissful peace; wonderful, blissful, peace. I needed only to look down to wreck this most tranquil moment and that is because I was in fact sat in work wearing what I wear every day for work which not at all smart, not in the slightest and is in fact, 2 year old chinos, hugely comfortable, an old school type jumper with one of two un-ironed shirts underneath, relatively comfortable, and a pair slip on trainers, once very comfortable now falling apart. Cue mass hysteria.

And so there it was, my moment of fashion reckoning, and I was suddenly in need of some new clothes, a great deal of new clothes at that, a great deal of new smart casual clothes. I’m really banking on this smart casual clothing being clearly identifiable in the first men’s clothes shop I happen to pass when I can finally muster the energy to go and buy them. If all else fails I’ll go for comfort, leave my job and never go to another ‘Smart Casual’ event ever again.

I will add that the evening passed without incident or massive embarrassment due to my lack of suitable clothing and despite the fact that upon entering the event with my friend, who was wearing a suit, I noticed that the invitation advised that the appropriate dress was ‘Lounge suits’. I don’t even know where to begin with that one.

Right, I’ll be off now to carefully consider the future wardrobe of my life and Google ‘Smart Casual’ before bed. The next time I write I may well be the Smartest Casual person you’ve never laid your eyes on but I very much doubt it. Until then,

Stay casual, 

With love,

Andrew Beattie

Hello You,

I hope you are flying pretty fucking high.

So, I promised I’d be back and I suppose I owe you a bit of an update now, like a 3 week update, whoops. I’ll not make an excuse although I did prepare several on a small list that included one cracker, even by my very high excuse making standards, just in case you demanded one. I’ll not make it though, I am just rubbish and the weeks have flown by on me, but I will say that this particular excuse included Japan, Lady GaGa, a fast car, a dragon and the biggest firework in the world. It was also a lie.

But I am back and so here is a list, with notes, of the major events that have happened over the past 3 weeks. I must warn you. I must always warn you.

1. Liverpool Twestival

What do you get when you put a load of social media type people, twitter users, a group of Doctor Who fans, Liverpool Echo and Daily Post workers, one aspiring politician, a very loud band and me in a very expensive bar in Liverpool’s Albert Dock? Well I’ve already given you the answer; it’s in the fucking title, Christ, if you got that wrong? It was a great evening spent in the company of like minded people of all ages and whilst I usually hate any gatherings of people of any sort they stocked a great bar and after an hour or so I was pissed enough to hold conversations with people that I didn’t know with relative ease. That’s the beauty of alcohol. If the truth be known I’d not have needed it anyway as the attendees where a great bunch. I just wish someone would have told me that before I spent 12.32 weeks wages on a round of rums.

2. My Birthday, the big 26

I’m 26 and that is all I really have to say about that. In reality I have my little plan to stick to with my writing et cetera and the last few months of my 25^th year were all bloody marvellous. If I stick to it, and write a screenplay, in my 26^th as well as the other stuff that’ll happen along the way, I’ll be as happy as a pig in shit.

3.  The Cheltenham-London Weekend Express trip and festival of aceness

Ah ha! Travelling! It was on the list of stuff I needed to do and I’ve done it so fuck you world, take that. It all started on a Friday morning on the 8:30am train to Cheltenham and finished at 11:30pm the following Monday, 4 days, 2 towns, and one fat guy, me, with a bag, a pen and a pad, and a sense of adventure, the likes of which the world may never see again. The pen and pad remained largely unused and the book unread and as a result, this is all mainly from memory. Good job it was only a week ago hey.

Cheltenham is most lovely and I arrived to be greeted by my cousin, Julia, just as the heavens opened. Despite the rain and heavy grey skies Cheltenham looked beautiful, a little too beautiful for me I seem to remember thinking, as we drove through on a mini tour of the town before heading to my cousin’s lovely new house. Another thing worth mentioning is the French architecture, it’s all over the fucking place on account of some bloke called Montpellier who built a load of buildings there shortly after they realised they had a shit load of fresh water. The next thing to note is that I got really pissed on my first evening there and effectively cut a 3 day stay down by half. I’d have much more to tell but I don’t. An evening of Rum drinking took this away from me. It was days before I forgave it. So to sum up, Cheltenham is beautiful, very leafy and if I hadn’t have been so fucking catastrophically drunk, as in going for a walk at 5:30 in the morning drunk, I’d have much more to tell you, like a day out in the Cotswolds, which I missed.

London has always had kind of a pull on me in that I’ve only been there a handful of times but every time I go it seems strangely familiar, homely and wonderful, like a good pair of boxer shorts or Fern Britton’s face. 24 hours is also not enough time to see London, even if like me, you decide to get the best view in town from the London Eye.

For those who are massively ignorant, the London Eye is a big fuck-off wheel, right next to the Thames in London. I’d say that it was a Ferris wheel but that really wouldn’t be doing this thing justice, it is fucking colossal. I am terrified of heights, suffering permanently from extreme vertigo, and so to say that my arse was twitching slightly on the slow walk up to the mega spinning death wheel right next to a huge body of water, is a bit of an understatement. That being said, once I was up there, and glued to the seat in the middle of the shared stranger pod the views across London just blew me away. Whilst in London I also did an immense amount of walking and visited the Southbank book market, visit old Liz in her palace, chilled in Trafalgar square with my Cousin, walked by the corridors of power and refused to pay £25 to go around on a bus, I hate the bus, and just about got the hang of the tube system and all in time to be on the last train home to Liverpool wishing.

Wishing that I’d have taken a camera to snap some pictures for you. Wishing that I’d have made some notes about the sights and smells of Cheltenham and London, the little things that I noticed along the way, the conversations that I overheard on the tube, the people, and the moments my family made me laugh. Wishing that I could do it for a living but mostly wishing that you could have been there man, it was bloody super.

But now I’m back in business, the post holiday blues have subsided, and I am finally refreshed and ready to resume life, my life to be precise, and crack on with that bloody list of mine, a screenplay and all the other shit I have to do in between. Thanks for coming back once again and until next time peeps,

Be happy,

With peace and love,

Andrew Beattie

p.s. You will have noticed that I mentioned that I am drinking again. That is all I have to say about that for now.

“Hello Again” Andrew said sheepishly, attempting to avert his eyes from the many staring faces,

I hope you are all super cool and ace.

So, I’m back and in an attempt to hide my complete guilt for taking almost 3 weeks to write to you I will move straight on to today’s feature presentation: The films that sex my senses. It’s a spurious title to say the least but I’m going to stick with it as it’s a) relevant to what I’m about to write about and b) much better than my only other title option: Films that I do like. So go and grab some popcorn, hold on to your hotdogs, slurp from that vat of pop, salsa up them there nachos and please, for the love of god, turn your fucking mobiles off, Jesus.

I love films, there, said it. I love good films, I love poor films, God damn it I just love all them bloody films from vomit inducing rom coms to gritty tear jerking war epics, Harry Potter to man eating sharks, Swaggering aliens to big scary Cowboys, Tarantino to Holly Golightly, I love them them all, but not equally. If I loved them all equally I’d not be able to do what I’m about to do which is pick a list of my favourite films and then I’d really be in the shit wouldn’t I?

Well I still may be in the shit guys; I’ll leave you in suspense. I will reveal one massive spoiler (Spoiler Alert) and that is, at present, I still haven’t picked my list, whoops. I do have a list, but it has around 30 films on it, and I’m picking five, my five favourite. I’m like the directors of Lost, and just like the viewers, I have no fucking clue what comes next. I’ll just get on with it then shall I? Roll film:

The following feature presentation has been rated ‘B’ for ‘Bollocks’ and may contain words, phrases, sentences and paragraphs that most readers will find grammatically offensive.

1. Rio Bravo – 1959 – John Wayne, Dean Martin and Ricky Nelson

I’m certainly not the biggest fan of Westerns as a genre. I mean I like them and when they are on, I’ll watch them, and gladly, but only after searching through the channels for alternative flicks. Rio Bravo is the exception to this rule, and a big exception at that; there is not another film that I’d turn it off for, not one. It may be the swaggering sheriff played by John Wayne or the drunk deputy played by Dean Martin. It’s not however; it’s all of it, every character and every scene. As for that little song routine Ricky and Dean, a guitar and a harmonica, that Sweet County sound, yes siree. Don’t just take my word for it however, watch this:

Just beautiful.

2. Jaws – 1975 – Roy Scheider, Robert Shaw, Richard Dreyfuss

I love sharks. Sharks scare me to within 4.5mm of my life. I also like the 1970’s American small town beach type scene. I love the film poster for Jaws; it sits proudly on my wall. I Love Chief Martin Brody, his booze and his shitty old pickup truck. I Love Matt Hooper, he knows sharks. I Love Sam Quint, he hunts sharks. I could have told them all that they would need a bigger boat but they’d have not listened and anyway if they had I’d have never heard my most favourite of all film lines: “Smile you son of a…”

Show me the way to go home indeed.

3. Forrest Gump – 1994 – Tom Hanks, Robin Wright Penn, Gary Sinise

The fact that this film covers so many different periods of history, famous companies, famous people, includes a war, Elvis, Cool Nike Trainers, a love story, American football and Tom Hanks, makes it quite astonishing. I mean it is isn’t it? It just keeps romping from one major event and key period in history to the next and all with a central character that is just about as loveable as a character can get. Life is like a box of chocolates and if this film was a chocolate it’d be the one’s I eat first and quickly before my mother eat them and ruins the whole fucking box for me every time by leaving me the Strawberry Creams and Turkish Delight which represent ‘Are we there yet’ and ‘Driving Miss Daisy’ et al.

See also the Forrest Gump Soundtrack as it’s equally astonishing.

4. Back to the Future – 1985 – Michael J. Fox, Christopher Lloyd, Lea Thompson

As a concept there is no better than a teenager befriending a mad scientist who owns a time travelling Delorian and a dog named Einstein. The unlikely pair then travel back to the past, the teenager gets stuck, shit, and we all know what happens from here. You do know what happens from here right? Christ, this film is fucking awesome and the box set is quite simply a must have in any DVD collection and if you haven’t got a collection already then start it with this.

Time Travelling is awesome; time travelling to the ‘Power of Love’ by Huey Lewis and the News is fucking spectacular.

5. Notting Hill – 1999 – Julia Roberts, Hugh Grant, Richard McCabe

I have a soft spot for the characters that Hugh Grant plays; that lovable twat, a bumbling British idiot, with floppy hair who always gets the good looking leading lady, and Renee Zellweger. But Julia Fucking Roberts? Christ. For me this film is wonderful and more so for having the idiot Welsh housemate of Grant, Spike, played by Rhys Ifans who delivers one of my favourite film lines in a way that never fails to make my ‘balls shrink to the size of raisins’ (another great spike quote): “I knew a girl at school called Pandora. Never got to see her box, though.” 

Notting Hill: Great British comedy, instantly watchable and endlessly endearing.

Those that never made it but came damn close: Dr. No, Life of Brian, The Godfather, Indiana Jones, Love Happy, Duck Soup, Space Jam, Toy Story, Once Upon a Time in America, Nightmare before Christmas, Full Metal Jacket and The Hudsucker Proxy.

THE END

So there it is film fans. I’m actually quite happy with how my list turned out there considering I chose as I wrote but it seems to make sense to me now, they are my go to films of choice when nothing else will do. A strong conclusion there then without a cliffhanger in sight, sequels are almost always a disappointment anyhow.

On that Zombie bloodbath guys I’ll be off now so you can take off the 3D specs and file out over half chewed popcorn into the cold light of day. I’ll be back before the weekends out to tell you a tale of Birthdays, Twitter gatherings, London, Cheltenham and 3 back to booze weeks in my life. Until then,

This is Andrew Beattie’s life: Take 26.

Cheerio,

Andrew Beattie

Dearest her, the one that got away,

And the rest of you,

I hope all is truly spectacular.

It’s Friday evening and I’m at my little desk, in my little room, listening to the very soothing Dan in Real Life soundtrack and about to write a smattering of words about dreams, my dreams, and the things that happen between my ears and behind my glazed eyes when I’m talking, talking to you, but mostly to them. Here goes.

Someone I know called me a ‘dreamer’ recently. Before this incident I’d always imagined, or rather dreamt, that I’d be extremely impressed if faced with this almighty compliment, like my life’s work was finally being recognised, almost like winning a Nobel Peace Prize but without the cheque or anything relating to a prize, except in my mind. It wasn’t though. It wasn’t meant as a compliment at all. No recognition, no cheque, no peace, no mind prize, just a massive fat reality slap to the kisser for dreamers everywhere.

But is it such a bad thing to dream? I mean Martin Luther King Jr had a dream didn’t he? And Supertramp, they dedicated a whole song to one particular dreamer, surely a first rate dreamer. Shit, Mama Cass wanted me to Dream a little Dream of her for fucks sake, and that’s Mama Cass. With so much good dreaming in the world how could being called a ‘Dreamer’ possibly be a bad thing?

You see, it’s hard for me not to dream. I spend most of my waking hours off in Fiji, killing zombie’s in the last great Liverpool resistance, zapping big green aliens with my trusty ray gun or smoking a cigarette at the bar next to some dusky maiden, who is also a Russian spy. The bitch, and she doesn’t think I’m on to her, ah ha!

Alright so none of the above is strictly true. What I do dream about is my future, scenarios that haven’t happened yet, acted out in my mind with the characters from my life that are likely to be there at the time of these imaginary scenarios. I guess you could say that I spend most of my life living in an imaginary future in my mind. Shit, that is a little weird isn’t it?

Well no. It isn’t weird at all. I like to day dream, it makes reality bearable. Ok, so maybe I could apply myself a little more to tasks that matter in the present but I’ll always have a little day-dream as I’m doing it. Asking me not to day-dream is after all, asking me not to think, at all, and if I didn’t think at all, I’d never be a pirate ever again.

I mean it’s not like I’m totally fucking oblivious to the things that happen around me on a daily basis and I’m not in a permanent psychosis as I suspect Derren Brown’s wife is. I know for instance that the world that I make up in my mind, although very similar in many respects to the one I live in, is a damn site better. Where I live, there is no need to label anyone a ‘dreamer’, or label anyone anything for that matter. Where I live its ok for me, and you, to just sit and read of an evening and not be in the local boozer trying desperately to get balls deep in someone or other because that’s what men my age do. Where I live, money doesn’t really matter, or at least not as much as say, anything else. Where I live, it’s ok to think, even if like me, ‘You’re not paid to think’. In my world, it’s acceptable to say a big ‘fuck off’ to reality and dream of a better one.

I also know for instance that I really, really want to be a proper writer, and I’m fully aware that if I don’t just get on with it, keep dreaming, ignore the labels, and make it happen, I risk being called a ‘dreamer’ for the rest of my life, and not in the good way of my world.

With that in mind I’ve decided to reach far into the future world my mind has created and write the following Oscar acceptance speech for my successful screen play project which I’m yet to write. It’s much more fun in my world. Right, Oscars, me winning, surprised face, hugs and high fives, up to the stand to collect my Oscar, a wave, a small pretend trip up the stairs, laughter and applause, a funny with a long roll of paper after I mention that “I really didn’t prepare a speech”, and then:

I really didn’t expect this. Pause for laughter as I look down at the pretend 20 foot roll of pretend speech again. So, who to thank? Who to bloody thank. Well I’ll start with my parents, and brother, and family, and friends, and cat, and all the authors that write books of any sort, and musicians who make any music, and artists, and film-makers, and poets, and playwrights, and actors, and everyone else. I’d particularly like to thank that bloke who called me a ‘dreamer’ for making me realise that my reality is better that any other reality because its mine. Pause for laughter as my trousers fall down and I trip over them trying to pick them up. Note to self: don’t wear belt but please for the love of god wear underwear. Pretend to be embarrassed. Run of stage pretend crying. Run back on to pick up Oscar. ENDS.

Right, on that dreamy note folks I’ll be off now to do a little dream, have a read, listen to some more dreamy music and enjoy what’s left of my Friday evening before a weekend of screenplay research, more reading, more dreaming and more dreamy music. I’ll return soon with a list of the films that made the me. Until then, thanks for stopping by to visit and remember,

Dreams are nothing more than wishes and a wish is just a dream, wished to come true.

Take the good care,

Andrew Beattie

To you who is right there,

I hope you, specifically you, are mighty fine, comfortable and ready to read with vigour and diligence. You are after all, nothing if not vigorous and diligent. I have always said this about you.

And so, why the hell am I here? Well I decided last week after writing about the good books of my life, which you have surely perused, that I should really follow up with a little piece about music and more specifically, the music that I love.

Music is my chief aid during a good writing session. Take tonight for example, I am currently writing these very words, at 8:30 on a Friday evening at my desk, whilst singing along to Rocky Racoon. It’s a pretty poor example as I’ll not be able to concentrate in around 5 seconds. And there it is guys, a jaunty little bar room piano piece. Hang on a minute. Right, that’s much better, a little pleasant background noise provided by The Mamas and Papas, wonderful. Now where was I?

There are times when I can’t bear to listen to music as I actually write/type the words, those infrequent moments do exist. I’ll always have music on standby though because once I totally lose my trail of thought, become extremely frustrated and need to smoke, I’ll usually take 5 to relax with a little happy song by, well Mamas and Papas or similar, then I’m right back at it and the endless bullshit just flows and flows.

I’ll stop now before I describe every song that I’ve ever listened to and you leave me here talking to myself and instead write you a little list of my go to music, a selection of albums that I love above all others and the music that when all else fails, no other music excites me and I am ready for the proverbial crack pipe of life, I can reach out to safe in the knowledge that it will either a) sooth my weary soul and mind or b) pick me up and shake me back into some form of life. Ready? Onwards then to the list:

1. James Taylor Greatest Hits Volume 1 – James Taylor

It’s not difficult for me to see how my Dad could have fallen in Love whilst listening to the songs on this album. The soft guitar picking, James Taylor’s gentle and subtle tones, some quite astonishing lyrics and effortless delivery in the likes of ‘Something in the Way She Moves’ and ‘Fire and Rain’ are quite simply unbelievable. There are words to describe how I feel about this album, I just can’t think of any good enough. Love will have to suffice.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/James-Taylor-Greatest-Hits/dp/B000002KHY/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=music&qid=1268434892&sr=8-1

2. All Things Must Pass – George Harrison

As far as I’m concerned All Things Must Pass is one of the greatest albums ever written. There I’ve said it. I’ll also say, just because I’m here and you’re listening, that I firmly believe George Harrison to be the best melody writer of all time and I await your comments on that one with interest. There isn’t a song that I don’t like on this double album but ‘All Things Must Pass’, ‘What is Life’ and ‘Ballad of Sir Frankie Crisp’ stand out as my favourites. I’ll listen to this in the morning with a cup of tea and a cigarette in the Garden whilst I contemplate life. Let it roll.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Things-Must-Pass-George-Harrison/dp/B00005214X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=music&qid=1268434940&sr=1-1

3. Djangology – Django Reinhardt

My go to album when I need inspiration and nothing else. I have been but a husk before listening to this double album of genius at times only to be transported into the corner booth at a smoky Parisian nightclub on a balmy summer night in the early 1930’s, in my mind of course, by the incredible dancing Guitar of Reinhardt and irresistible Violin of Stéphane Grappelli and I always come out the other side with my mind refreshed and with a head dancing with ideas and thoughts – Wonderful music, wonderful artists, wonderful album.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Djangology-Django-Reinhardt/dp/B00004WMYI/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=music&qid=1268434976&sr=1-1

4. Dylan – Bob Dylan

Bob Dylan: Wilbury, Poet, Wordsmith and Genius. Anyone who doesn’t like or rate Bob Dylan, in my opinion, is a fool. I’ll not go into detail as to why this 3-CD, self named, collection of his greatest works is, well a collection of Great Works as I’d not do it justice. Instead I’ll listen to ‘A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall’ and then possibly ‘Hurricane’, smug in the knowledge that I am right whilst I wonder again if it’s actually possible for one man to write lyrics like this – Bob Dylan: Force of Nature.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Dylan-3CD-Deluxe-Bob/dp/B000V1Z01M/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&s=music&qid=1268435014&sr=1-4

5. Rumours – Fleetwood Mac

A faultless album from start to finish and the album I’ll generally listen to in bed as I arise on Sunday morning with a cup of tea, watching the light creep into my room gradually through the blinds, wishing that every morning could be like this. I actually think this way as I listen to this album, Fleetwood Mac will do that to a man, and I’m glad of it. Don’t stop.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Rumours-Expanded-Remastered-Fleetwood-Mac/dp/B00009RAJI/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=music&qid=1268435070&sr=1-1

6. Aerial Pandemonium Ballet – Harry Nilsson

I’m a big fan of Harry Nilsson’s work and there is very little that he ever recorded that I don’t like. I think it’s the fact that the songs of this album swing so drastically from the random crazy lyrics and upbeat big-top circus type music of ‘Daddy’s Song’ into the classic ‘Everybody’s Talkin’’ with twists and turns around every corner that makes this one stand out for me. None of the songs match but the albums seen to flow perfectly, and all of them are like this – its crazy happy brilliantness and one is the loneliest number.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Pandemonium-Shadow-Show-Aerial-Ballet/dp/B00004VXG8/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=music&qid=1268435105&sr=1-1

Those that never made it but came damn close: Abbey Road – The Beatles, Buena Vista Social Club – Buena Vista Social Club, Travelling Wilburys – The Travelling Wilburys, The Jim Croce Collection – Jim Croce, Forrest Gump Soundtrack – Various, Déjà Vu – Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young.

It’s a very difficult task to pick just albums and one of my key selection criteria and yes, I did have selection criteria, was that I had to be able to listen to the albums from start to finish on a regular basis, which is tough on some of the other nearly men and women that will no doubt be horrified to have missed out on the list. There are literally hundreds of songs that I love from albums that never made the list and hundreds of artists that I listen to regularly who are also absent from the big-bad 6. Paul Simon for example is absolutely nowhere to be fucking seen despite me now listening to, and enjoying immeasurably, ‘Me and Julio down by the school yard’ from the impressive Negotiations and Love Songs. The problem is that I’ll almost certainly turn over before the next song and am just as likely to put on some tracks from the Reservoir Dogs soundtrack as I am to listen to Louis Armstrong or De La Soul next time round. At some point this weekend though, I will listen to one of my top 6 picks from beginning to end and that Ladies and Gentlemen stands them head and shoulders above the rest.

I’m eternally grateful every day that I have music. There is not a day that goes by that I don’t kneel by my bed at night in my Green Day Pyjamas throwing up a small prayer to the Gods of Rock and Goddesses of Roll, for my ears. On that Leona Lewis-esque high note I’m off to listen to the albums and songs from artists that never made it so that I can torture my sleep with ‘I can’t believe that never made it’ dreams in which I am beaten to death by Ray Charles, Ravi Shankar, Johnny Cash, Buddy Holly and The Beach Boys. Until next time,

Remember ‘Dream’ for me, I’ll mention why when I return.

Stay lucky,

Andrew Beattie