120310 – 31. The music that rocks the me
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
080310 – 30. De-cluttering behind my face
Hello you.
I assume that’s you anyway or else shit, this could get a tad awkward. Oh it is you, thank Christ for that. He gets thanked for a lot Christ doesn’t he? The big question is though, does he really deserve it? Please leave any comments regarding my eternal damnation at the bottom.
So, I’d best start with an apology and not for what I’m about to write, there is plenty of time for that. It’s an apology for not writing to you again yesterday as I said I would. The 4 visitors to my blog yesterday, of which you are no doubt one, deserve better. Good luck with that.
It’s high time I did a little clear out. I’d been pondering this all weekend as I flitted from one meaningless task to another and so I decided yesterday afternoon that I’d have a life de-clutter so that I can move forward, sideways, or whatever way one goes when he is without a map, with a spring in my step and as little baggage as possible. Purely metaphorical baggage of course, I carry all I need in a black leather satchel and I rarely require anything bigger than this to carry half a pack of cigarettes, 1 little smug filofax, a weeping diary and a bankrupt wallet. What I’m actually talking about then is. What I mean is. You know I have no idea. Right, into the mind we go.
Well I think I’ve taken too much on for a start this year; little writing projects, planned holidays et cetera, et cetera, and it is starting to burden heavy on me. I spend all my time at work trying to decide what I need to do, or want to do, after work only to be lodged firmly between two tasks stuffing my face full of mints and trying not to look my goading filofax in the eye. There is this one little project which excites a great deal though so maybe I should crack on with that but then what about the other projects, what will they think when I don’t strike them off my list. I could always burn the fucking list but then I’d forget what was on there and what if someone else does them because I’d forgotten to? I don’t want anyone else doing the stuff that I wanted to do but never did because I couldn’t think what of the stuff I wanted to, I wanted to do the most. So that makes me selfish. This has not worked out well so far.
You’ll have to also excuse my talking in strange tongues about the things that I have planned. It’s not that I don’t trust you with my little ideas and thoughts, it’s just that if I fully disclose ideas on here then I’m putting further pressure on myself to do them and in de-cluttering terms that would little use. And I don’t trust you. I will say that the thing I think I want to do the most is a screenplay and I’m co-writing it with a friend, it’s historical, and it’s not about Jesus, or his brother Julio. So it’s decided then, that’s the one I’ll do. The rest of the resolutions remain the same but in terms of my writing, this is a real breakthrough – blogging and a screenplay, that’ll do fucking nicely.
Right, I have nothing more to add to this as writing aside; everything has been going pretty much ok of late. I appear in some strange way to be moving ever so slowly forward and considering I’m coming off the back of a few years of work, life and personal regression I can’t really complain much. Cheers for popping by again. You must insist that next time round I tell you about my planned trip to visit family in Cheltenham and London at the start of next month and also explain what happened that time on the Orient Express in the Summer of Love. Until then,
Be kind.
Cheerio,
Andrew Beattie
050310 – 29. The books that made the me
Dearest people,
I hope you are just damn swell.
It’s Friday evening, I’m sober, and at home and my mind appears just about clear enough to get a smattering of words down onto this little blog/diary thing that I do every once in a while and so I’ll grab the bull by the horns, and pull its fucking head off. Jesus where did that come from? Where does any of this shit ever come from? Ole.
World book day, a day that before this year I never knew existed. A day that a couple of years back I’m not sure if I’d have cared existed. Evidently, a couple of years back I was a massively ignorant twat, because the way I see it now world book day is possibly the best day of all, after Christmas. I do love me a good book.
I don’t really remember reading a great deal, not nearly in the same ferocious manner in which I do presently, before around this time last year. I mean I read before then but only very occasionally, holiday times with my ex-girlfriend spring to mind but then that may have been just to fill the many hours of extreme tedium. Around this time last year though, at least that’s when I seem to remember it, something changed. I was suddenly transformed into a book whore, a hoarder of the bound works and words of great authors and some of the not so great also but most of which I’d never heard of at that point. I had changed and seemed to be spending money almost constantly on amazon.com to acquire new reading materials. I was suddenly doing, on average, about 2 new books in a week and I haven’t stopped. When will this stop? For the love of God, when will this madness stop?
So when I remembered that yesterday was world book day I decided almost immediately that I would dedicate my next little journey into the very depths of my fractured and cluttered mind to books. A website about me, and by me, literally would not be complete without it.
What follows from here then is a little list of the books that I truly, deeply love, the books that have changed my perception of literature with each reading, the books that have inspired me to write more than any others, and the books which I treasure the most amongst the others on my shelves. I’ve also included a little explanation and a link to amazon.com so that you can buy them immediately. Here we go:
1. Peter Pan – J. M. Barrie
This is my favourite book and story of all time. A boy who could fly and desired never to grow up, pirates and Indians are just a few of my favourite things. Buy this and you’ll read it cover to cover in a couple of days. Then buy Peter Pan in Scarlett and support Great Ormond Street Hospital.
2. On the Road – Jack Kerouac
I had been told by friends that I wouldn’t like this book and after reading the first 5 pages 20 or so times within a couple of months I was inclined to believe them. We were both so very wrong, I know this now. Pure prose and energetic poetic commentary follow Jack Kerouac’s Sal Paradise across 1950’s America along with Dean Moriarty (Neal Cassady) in a tale of Jazz, booze, sex, drugs, love and longing. I could write all day about it. I won’t. Just go buy it. See also Howl, Kaddish and other poems by Allen Ginsberg.
3. The Smoking Diaries – Simon Gray
The book that took my 24 year writing block away is an autobiographical, memoir, diary, and the first in a 4 part Series by Simon Gray. The thing I love about this book and series the most is Simon Gray’s absolute honesty to his story which make the book hilarious in parts and moving in others. This book is absolutely the reason that I do this blog at all and is a must buy for any collection.
4. Exploration Fawcett – Percy Fawcett
I read this book almost immediately after reading the Lost City of Z by David Grann which is an account of both the story of our hero Percy Fawcett’s pursuit of what he believed to be the centre of an ancient civilisation deep in the Amazon, Z, and the subsequent failed attempts to find it. Exploration Fawcett then is the actual diary kept by Percy Fawcett in the build up and during his failed adventure which cost both his life and the life of his Son Jack and his friend Raleigh. I’m not sure whether the book appealed mostly to my inner child’s sense of adventure or whether it’s the era and story that I find most interesting. Either way, it’s a ‘wonderful’ adventure story. A new version of this book was released this year but I’d strongly suggest buying an old copy as its both cheaper and its age, for me at least, adds a little something to the story.
5. The Rum Diary – Hunter S. Thompson
Hunter S. Thompson’s Paul Kemp, Puerto Rico, a failing newspaper, a few crazy journalists and a shit load of rum – I was always going to love this book long before I ever read it. The story is both twisted and fast paced and so I can almost guarantee that you will blast through it in minimum time on several occasions for the rest of your life. I will anyway. See also, me being super excited about 2010 The Rum Diary Film starring Johnny Depp as Thompson’s Paul Kemp.
6. I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell – Tucker Max
A guilty pleasure that I dip in and out of on a weekly basis and I consider myself very fortunate indeed to have picked up on the last day of a holiday in Canada a couple of years back. There are a million reasons why you or anyone shouldn’t like this book, or rather the stories it contains, but a million more why you will probably laugh out loud in between wincing at the Stories. The true stories are written by Tucker Max, about Tucker Max, and are probably best summed up by the product description found on Amazon. If you are easily offended then do not buy this book but I would strongly suggest that you get a fucking life then pick up a copy.
The books that never made it but were gosh darn close: Three men in a boat, The Vesuvius Club, 20,000 leagues under the sea, The Glass book of the dream eaters, McCarthy’s bar, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.
And so there it is guys my little list of books that I love. The thing I think that excites me the most about books is that there are a million more in existence, and even more unwritten in the minds of the world, that could, would and will make this list in future. The reality, for me at least, is that I’d love to write one myself that make’s someone else’s. In fact, I’m going to.
And so, what’s left in store for me this weekend. We’ll I’m going to try and make the most of the sober head and mind and get some more writing done. I’ve one or two little projects on that I will reveal to you in fullness of time that will require my mostly complete dedication. As such, I will sleep now, then have a fry up and go to the cinema to watch Alice in Wonderland before I start tomorrow. I am nothing if not dedicated to my cause.
Thank you for stopping in again to read. I promise I’ll be back before the weekends out. Do check back as I’m going to attack religion and politics next time and tell you a story about a polar bear in a trilby. Most probably anyway. Until then,
Go read, and do it every day.
Yours,
Andrew Beattie
P.S. I make no money from you clicking the above amazon links and buying the books so if you find them cheaper elsewhere then get them there. The amazon comments I’ve found to be pretty useful though in the past although not always 100% accurate.
010310 – 28. Drunk no more
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
220210 – 27. Boldly going?
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.
080210 – 26. The Flavia letter
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.
310110 – 25. Poetry, me and a red bloody rag
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 13th 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
250110 – 24.5 Toilet habits and a lonely hearts ad
Hello, still here?
Thanks for stopping by again so soon. If you’re expecting a jaunty little number about a time in my life when something remotely humorous happened then look away now. If you are still reading at this point I must warn you, very bad things are about to happen.
I had a sleepless night last night, partially reciting what I had written yesterday and the rest of the time wondering why I had chosen to put Wu-Tang clan on to help me sleep. The last part is neither here nor there although it is quite the odd choice of bed-time music right? Anyway, so yesterday’s spurious Love rambling and questioning conundrum stuck with me all day in work today and whilst sat on the toilet pondering this I decided that I must put this Love debacle to bed once and for all for the sake of my plans for the year.
Before I go on with my solution to the love problem I would just like to address, if I may, the fact that I was pondering whilst on the toilet. Everyone has their own particular toilet habits; some will read and indeed have a stack of magazines by the side of the loo ready and waiting when the urge strikes to turn the bowels over. Some like to be in and out quick, my brother for instance who has a 5 second record that still baffles me to this day. Others like me, take a more varied approach to the loo, it really depends what mood I’m in. If I’m aware that I’m rushed, I have a meeting to attend for instance, I can be in and out like a flash, not in 5 seconds, but quick enough so that I’m punctual, empty and with clean hands on arrival. Other times, I’ll have a scan on my blackberry, the latest transfer rumours or maybe even a quick hand of poker. Today, I decided that I wanted some me time and in times like this I will purposely leave the blackberry or newspaper at the desk, I never answer calls from the loo, so that I can enjoy some alone time, ponder a while, count the tiles, maybe even whistle some Beatles whilst reflecting about the rigours of daily life and in the case of today, make a plan.
So, the plan. I decided that as I am basically putting my life onto my blog/diary I will let my blog and fate do the whole Love thing for me from here on in. Then I don’t have to worry about it at all, see? Here then follows Andrew Beattie’s lonely hearts ad and I really shouldn’t have written about toilet habits above.
25 year old Bill Oddie lookalike, over-weight, beard wearing, smoker, seeks opposite. Likes reading and actually prefers books to people, except you? Will entertain walking but only in short bursts and wears comfortable and loose clothing, not necessarily matching, at all times. Likes to eat out but hates restaurants and will not eat raw tomatoes, not even for money. Hates your music and dislikes Morris Dancers, Andrew Beattie, he’s a real catch. Also, owns filofax.
Ok so I may be a novice at this and whilst I understand that my being honest about the smoking might put a few thousand people off I’m sure that this will work just fine, a giant first step towards happiness. Christ, I can feel the waves of relief washing over me already. I’m glad I came back here to write tonight, I can almost feel the tremendous slumber I will enjoy after shedding the heavy burden of Love onto the broad welcoming shoulders of fate.
Right, totally oblivious to my own rubbish I’ll be off now to look forward to the rest of my week. I won’t even consider for one moment how this one post could totally ruin my chances of ever finding Love and happiness and destroy one of my main aims for the year, in January.
Sorry that you had to witness this. Until next time,
Get some new magazines by the loo please.
Cheerio,
Andrew Beattie
240110 – 24. Love and a small moment for reflection
Ahoy there,
It’s Sunday, I’m here, you’re there and so there that is, done, dusted and out the way.
The weekend has been and is nearly gone and my lofty plans and ambitions were on the receiving end of a small kick in the nether regions courtesy of a wasted Saturday spent nursing a headache, the result of several pint measures of foggy European beer chased down with pint measures of Japanese whiskey. If I had been last year’s Andrew Beattie, sans filofax and a plan to take over a small section of the world, the resulting panic attack would have been a biggie, but I’m not and so, it isn’t.
I have however been left with one question this week which has been bugging me all day today as I’ve poured over my plans for the year; a mixture of dates in my diary and scribbles in my notepad. What the hell am I actually doing? I have plans alright, trips almost booked, next week’s tattoo, a book to write to name but a few but what is the end goal? Does there even have to be an end goal? What will I achieve as a result of the plans that I make, of the stuff that I will/will not do? So it’s actually several questions isn’t it? Shit. Now follows a small moment for reflection.
A small moment for reflection.
Right, so fuck the questions, the doing will be enough for now and wherever I am at the end of the year so long as I’ve done the stuff I’ve set out to do I’ll be happy with it. Thank Christ for that as the resolution to my questions because I have no answers, I have no God damn answers.
Love, it’s a very strong word. I have been guilty of falling deeply in Love at the drop of a hat in my time. There have been times when I have thought that I was deeply, deeply in Love for it to turn out to be something totally different, infatuation maybe, a small crush most likely. You see the problem I have is that I don’t have a very good handle on my feelings; they almost always get the better of me. This also isn’t helped by the fact that I tend to over think situations, I worry pretty much constantly about the things that I say and do and so whenever challenged by what appears to be strong feelings of love or even on rare occasions hate, I am turned into a gibbering wreck of nerves, huge awkward movements, heavy sweating and am generally left looking like a bit of a tit in all honesty. So have I been a little premature in looking for Love on my list of things that I desire to do this year? How will I react when faced with real, all consuming, Love? I’m totally fucked aren’t I? Or am I? Who knows? Who fucking cares?
But why should Love concern me so much now? I’ve no idea where that even came from and so I’ll leave it there for now to see, with intrigue, just how fucked I truly am when and if it manifests itself this year, or any other year for that matter. Exciting hey? No, no its not.
I’ll leave you now, on that rather obscure note of Love, undefined and terrifying. Next week promises to be an interesting one, I’ll be getting a tattoo, going to a magazine launch in Liverpool, going to the theatre with my dad and doing a little writing in between. I only know this because my filofax states quite clearly that this is what I have to do, the worrying thing is that I don’t remember writing any of it. I am Andrew Beattie?
Until next time,
Take good care and please don’t write in my filofax again.
Bye for now,
Andrew Beattie
The first chapter of a book I'll never write
He crunched the last of his cigarette with a hiss into remaining empty spot in the now brimming crystal ashtray on the bar, and loosened his grey knitted woollen tie as he sank back into the high backed leather barstool which had been his for the past two hours, and indeed as he now reminisced on and off for the past 20, or so, years. He looked around and saw the same faces that had tired somewhat over the years. The same men for 20, years, the same whores, mistresses and their ‘dates’ who never came more than once, married men of various ages with wives and children at home and lives that they hated enough to frequent this particular high class bar in Central London with its philandering businessmen drunks, seemingly always laughing at one another’s jokes whilst spending all of their money on very old and very expensive Champagne, women of the night and him. It seemed to him at that moment like theirs where the only new faces that ever arrived as he sat there over the years at his spot at the end of the bar facing the door, smoking and drinking, the same drink, doubles of whiskey, and on this occasion a 30 year old Laphroaig and more often than not a whole bottle over a long evening. He reached across the now sticky old mahogany surface of the bar to pick up a ragged looking copy of today’s Times which his most recent drinking companion of an hour ago had thoughtfully left behind for him to read.
He had drunk with this gentleman on many occasions although he didn’t know his name and didn’t care to know. He imagined this middle aged man to be writer, probably a scholar of some sort, with his smart but shabby appearance, the same green blazer and horn rimmed glasses, his long shabby hair and once expensive but now tatty shoes. He always talked about music, art and books in his rambling and often mumbling middle-class way and indeed always had a small hardback book of some variety with him in which he would scribble notes with a stubby pencil when not glugging his way through several expensive bottles of French Red. He took the glass to his lips and drained the last of the whiskey into his mouth and gulped, eyes watering as the peaty fumes immersed his face and throat burning as the last of the smoky whiskey eased its way down his throat. Maybe just one more he thought and laughed to himself.
He looked over at his green bottle, still two thirds full and behind the bar in the high mahogany cabinet and he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He couldn’t remember the last time he last looked at himself in a mirror and he pushed his hand through his greying hair, taking it back from his long brown face and then moved it over the grey stubble on his long jaw. His was the face of a Man who had lived 100 lives over, wrinkles on his forehead around his eyes and his ripe, browned skin was the only sign of his recent trip abroad to warmer climates. He stared into his eyes, grey and black and glazed, although he noted that sharpness remained despite this and the deep reddening around the lids. He looked and indeed felt tired for the first time in years. He quickly rubbed his now watery eyes and averted his gaze from the mirror and that man he no longer recognised as himself and reached into the pocket of his black rain coat on the back of the chair to his right to find his sterling silver cigarette case and lighter and threw them to the bar after lighting another of his strong American brand cigarettes for his next drink. He watched as the grey smoke swirled slowly above his head from the tip of his cigarette and clouded to make long elegant shapes in the light from the vulgar chandelier to his right. He had started to drift away in the moment, following the clouds of smoke, and hadn’t noticed that the barmaid had re-filled his glass.
She had been serving him the same drink, at the same spot since he could remember but he couldn’t recollect her saying more than two words to him at any one time, generally a polite nod on his arrival and a nod and insincere smile when he stumbled away at the end of the evening but he often undressed her down to her naked athletic frame in his mind and on many occasions considered the possibility of staying until the last person had left one evening to fuck her on the wide mahogany tables dotted around the bar or in one of the burgundy leather diner booths by the high, wooden framed and shuttered windows on the far side of the room. He would, of course, have to ask her name before hand, which of course was not going to happen although he had a vague memory of hearing it once or twice. Maybe he would come back tomorrow and would feel different, maybe tomorrow he would feel, but he very much doubted it, he remembered thinking that same thing every time he was in here over the past 20 years as he took another long draw from his glass.
He looked at his watch, 10:30, too early to go home to his empty apartment around the corner he thought and leaned across to pick up the newspaper from the bar. He squinted as he attempted to read the columns of words but soon threw the paper back down on the bar, rubbing the side of his head in an attempt to rub away the first signs of headache. He stood for a moment to stretch his tired legs, which retaliated with creaks and groans as he edged slowly from his seat and he coughed heavily upon standing into his handkerchief, the result of 40 years of chain smoking. He shook the ash from his black polished brogues which contained his swollen, blistered and aching feet, swore under his breath and returned the handkerchief to his pocket, straightening his expensive charcoal grey suit jacket before settling back down to his seat and another cigarette.
It was 11:00 before he looked again at his watch. He had spent the last 30 minutes watching a couple in the last of the booths at the far side of the room whispering in to one another ears and groping openly under the table. Despite their age, he guessed around 40; theirs, on the face of things seemed to be a new love. For one, she giggled constantly and fingered her chestnut curls, flirting constantly in between bouts of kissing and fondling. She was a real pro and if this wasn’t the same bar that he had spent the last 20 years frequenting when back in London he would assume them to be a couple but it was quite clear that this fool was currently spending thousands on a girl he never knew, his fidgeting and looking around the room when not fondling and whispering gave him away. He laughed to himself and reached to his right to check the inside pockets of his rain coat. He reached inside and felt the cold metal of his pistol against his hand, releasing a thousand memories at once in his mind before shuddering down his spine, and next to it the creased folder containing his final report, crumpled paperwork of words that he would hand over tomorrow and wash his hands of. He took out another cigarette and looked over at his glass which was full again. He allowed himself a moment of emotion and smiled to himself, he liked this place, the place of faces with no names, where he came, smoked and drank and left to return again when he was home but with no questions to greet him about his time away. He would certainly miss it although he was sure he would be back, probably tomorrow, after his final day at the office to celebrate alone with a new bottle and to get one last look at the place and maybe even after tomorrow was over he would feel different, different enough to ask her name. He shook his head, he was drunk. He re-corked the bottle, which for ease had now been placed on the bar next to his cigarette case, and put it in the pocket of his rain coat so that he could have a night cap alone at home and placed the money on the bar with a tip, and took up his lighter and cigarette case.
It was 11:30 and he stood with a groan to put on his still damp raincoat and to replace the pistol to its holster under is left arm at his seat and in full view of the people of the bar who didn’t stir and remained focused on their half empty glasses and morose conversation. No one bode him farewell as he strode across the bar and as he looked over his shoulder his barmaid was busy emptying his overflowing ashtray into today’s Times. He stumbled past the booths on the right and nodded his head, smiling contemptuously to the couple who were still in place in the last booth before the door, her hands now working under the table at his crotch and his head looking around for witnesses as soon as he heard the footsteps, sweat gathering on his brow and pulse visibly racing in his neck. He lit another cigarette as he reached the large dark blue double doors and turned his collar up before opening the door to the street and turning left into the night and towards home.
As he strode along the road he was glad of the rain beating down on his face. It was a fairly warm summer evening and although the night sky was dark and grey with cloud he was sure that the rain would lift for tomorrow and the sun would be back out. Not that it mattered, he had one more week of this, maximum, and then he would be on his way although he wasn’t quite sure where. As he was half way down the road he noted that the rain had stopped being refreshing and he quickened his pace so as to cut down the time it would take him to walk the mile trip to his empty flat. He looked the houses on either side up and down; he liked this part of London. The Georgian town houses, tall and elegant, lid dimly by the street lights and towering over the shadow-less street, continuous and uniform with their black railings along the pavement, the only difference between them being the colour of the doors although at this time of evening, his time of evening, the colours where not easily distinguishable. He picked up his pace again and looked forward to getting home so that he could light another cigarette as he tightened his raincoat and flicked the rain from the collar. The street was quiet, aside from the rattling of rain on the luxury cars around him and not a soul stirred. He looked over his shoulder and glanced back him down the road out of habit, nothing. He laughed as he reached the corner of the road; he looked forward to the day he didn’t have to check if he was being followed, the day after tomorrow, and turned again to the left and crossed to the gated park across the way which would offer some shelter against the rain for remaining half mile or so of his walk home
He crossed the road again and could see his apartment in the distance, the top floor of a town house at the end of the row, giving him an extra view into the city across the busy high street. As he crossed the road he stumbled up the kerb splashing rain onto his shoes and swore. The throbbing in his feet was relentless and he was now looking forward to ripping the top of the bottle off the whiskey with his teeth which was generally followed by his passing out in his favourite chair in his office. He was nearing the front door and so reached in his pocket and past his money clip for his key when he heard the first crack that broke the silence of the night. He dived straight towards his front door tripping on the step and barging the door with his shoulder before landing with a thud. Before he had hit the floor his hand had reached towards his pistol but remembering the whiskey in his pocket he had forsaken the need for self defence to save the bottle. He looked around quickly and laughed out loud as he noted that the crack had come from a starting car on the high street 100 yards to his left. He staggered to his feet and replaced the bottle in his coat pocket reaching down, joints creaking, into the road where his key had landed in the confusion. He laughed again as he straightened himself out and was headed back to the door when he heard the second loud crack that crunched around the buildings of the street.
He knew moments before the bottle smashed in his pocket that he had been shot. He knew before he reached his hand down to the gushing, gaping hole underneath his ribs that is was a mortal wound and that at that exact moment, shards of blazing hot metal where currently moving at high speed through his vital organs. He staggered against the railings, stopping to put his hand the wound again and then to his face to wipe the blood from his mouth. He had often thought of this moment, of what he would feel, if his life would flash before his eyes. He hit the floor hard but his body was numbed and his head swirled, his agony masked by the whiskey working through his system and ebbing out onto the pavement easing his pain. He groped for a cigarette in his pocket but his arms would not move and then he remembered the report in his pocket, his last report and laughed spitting bloody bile across his face. As he looked up to the dark grey night sky the rain beat down heavily on his face and he noted the warmness of the blood pooling around his body on the hard, cold paving slabs. He reached again for the cigarettes in his pocket but as soon as he had reached down he felt a crunching blow on his forearm pressing it hard against the ground. He spat out a line of blood into the air with the impact and swore again as it landed across his eyes.
She looked down at him, her jet black sodden and no longer wavy hair now stuck flat either side of her face. Her pale features stern and her eyes cold, a reflection of his own, dark and empty. She smiled down at him but did not speak. He spat a clot of deep purple blood on the pavement and attempted to speak but she shook her head and made a hushing noise that reminded him of the hiss of a snake, as she reached down to the pocket of his raincoat retrieving both his report and his cigarette case and then he felt her hand, cold against his beating chest where she let it linger for a moment against his soaked shirt. She placed the report in the inside pocket of her long black waxed cape and took two cigarettes from the tin, lighting them as she reached down to replace it in his pocket and to place one between his bloody trembling lips. Her eyes narrowed as she took a drag from the cigarette between her bright rouge lips, before blowing it into the dark night, the rain instantly dispelling the smoke. Even now he imagined himself fucking her as his cigarette lay limp across his mouth and he was unable to draw smoke. He looked into her lifeless eyes as she leaned towards him blowing a thin line of smoke directly into his face making his eyes burn. And then she spoke, her soft tone being replaced by a harshness he could never have imagined.
“Your government would like to take this opportunity to thank you for your 35 years of service for your country and wish you a most pleasant retirement.”
She stepped away and lingered before turning her head with a shrill laugh.
“Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry. Thank you for the tip.”
She walked quickly away, replacing the hood from her cape onto her head, and across the road towards the park and into the darkness.
The warmth of the summer night and his gaping wound quickly turned cold and a million thoughts raced though his mind as his eyes shuddered and rolled back into his skull and there he lay after 35 years of service, a day from retirement, 5 feet from home, and quite dead.