Awake

You know them there rock 'n' roll deities with the screaming legions of lady fans? The screaming legions of lady fans who done want nothing more than to violently hump the ever-loving shit out of their barely breathing, coked out torsos? The coked out torsos that are now little more than a shrine to years of debauched lady legion humping? Yeah? Well then you know that there exists a cliché of song dedication such as:

"This one goes out to all the ladies out there."

Well, I know my audience. I'm a bar working, festival whoring, occasional blog writer with an ever-developing penchant for self destruction. I dress like a drummer with delusions of becoming the front man. My screaming legion of lady fans is actually a silent group of people sitting at desks, with time to kill and low standards of entertainment that may be the death of them. And the only humps we may eventually share are our matching hunchbacks, developed from poor typing posture.

This one goes out to all the bored people out there, who really should know better.

So you've woken up in last night's shreds. You're not immediately certain of what state you can class yourself as being in. You've opened your eyes ever so slowly, as if to delay the potential horror from registering. There are a few ways this could go. It's time for some self-diagnosis.

The lucky few, a number of which I can usually count myself as being, emerge unscathed, whether through careful moderation of your indulgence, or mindless good fortune. You were pleasantly behaved throughout the preceding night's meandering course and have your dignity to show for it. You will be happily lording it over your fallen comrades for some time to come. Open those eyes wide, cartwheel out of bed and treat yourself to as bright and productive a day as you see fit.

You are fine.

Alternatively, you awake with confusion. You're not entirely sure how you ended up back in your own bed. Hell, you're not entirely sure that this is your bed. It's not? Hearty, post-coital self-congratulation time. It is your bed? You're sure you're alone? Oh well, at least you still have every necessary limb attached. Check to be sure. Yep, they're all there, and none of these loyal body parts seem to hate you. In fact, you know in that moment that, even though you may not remember the minutiae of last night, this is going to be one of the best days you have ever had.

You're still drunk, my friend. You're not out of the woods yet, In fact, those woods are going to come looking for you later.

Then there is that other circle of hell. Your eyes don't respond to your commands. Lying there you realise too late, that maybe, just maybe, they're trying to protect you from what awaits. You have no idea what you got up to last night. Your hands are coloured and deformed by the many tiny cuts of origins unknown. Judging by their number, size and cluster you either clawed your way out of a shallow grave, provoked a midget into a fistfight (....again) or your bottle opening skills are truly sub-par. This is of particular concern if you've just recently been employed to work in a bar (any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental). That cigarette burn on your stomach is a new addition, and you're not sure how well it matches the aesthetic you were aiming for. With every fresh recollection of the night before your body contorts in horrified spasm. Yes, you did do all those things. The story you accidentally managed to spin about killing a fictional dog? Yep. And you know that that was actually the high point of proceedings. You know it because there's that gnawing, clawing, prowling and vicious sensation bubbling up in your grey matter. This may be a hangover. You can't yet be certain. You're unsure of how to proceed. This is Schrödinger's Hangover. Do not open that box.

No.

Sudden.

Movements.

You've had it with this purgatory; you need to know! You're still too frightened to endanger your desired future of having a functioning head atop your shoulders to do anything in a fashion other than can be described as "gingerly". This may not be a hangover. This could be general malaise brought about by a lack of sleep. For the avoidance of all doubt, there is one inescapable litmus test:

Know where to turn in Edinburgh (I cannot stress how fictional this scenario could be) and you can find a bagpipe player....a bagpiper....a bagpipist....a dude with a big sack of air and tubes that legend deems an instrument. It will remove any uncertainty. If only you could summon up the courage to crawl from your bed/safety nest to seek out this resolution. This will determine whether you spend your day seeking out ducks to feed or seeking out ducks to shout at for illogical reasons while sobbing uncontrollably.

Then you hear them. They're outside your window. No, not a brace of mallards finally giving you your longed for justification to take them to task for refusing to wear the paper hats you made them, but people. They're arguing with such ferocity as to render anything other than inevitable murder as a preposterous outcome. Either that or they're old friends exchanging regular pleasantries. They're Scottish; differences are frequently incomprehensible to the naked ear....and the very suggestion of clothed ears would be enough to make you giggle.

AND RIGHT NOW GIGGLING WILL MOST LIKELY ATTRACT THE IRE/FRIENDSHIP OF THE PEOPLE OUTSIDE THE WINDOW WHICH WILL CAUSE THEM TO MURDER-HUG YOU IN YOUR SAFETY NEST!

Congratulations, you are in that grey little place between living and death that we call "a hangover". You will yearn for the latter, and convince yourself you had imagined the former. Nobody has ever suffered before as you are suffering now. You will never touch a drop of alcohol again so long as you walk this earth.

You're drinking as you type this.

Blackboard Jungle

In these modern, enlightened times in which we live, it seems common place for people to attempt to add gravitas to their musings or lamentations through the butchering of quotes from supposedly inspirational people. Let me be clear by saying that the majority of those people are devoid of anything resembling sense, intelligence or original thought. They are using the ideas of others as a parasite may use a host. Now that's out of the way, I would like to quote a person who played a profoundly important role in shaping me into the person I am today:

"Hold onto your butts."

Ray Arnold (Jurassic Park)

Things are about to get a bit experimental in tonight's episode of "What The Fuck Am I Reading!?", as I employ the use of visual aids. Use of these visual aids are a somewhat inevitable progression from my recent use of pictures which we shall term as "visual HIV". Thus, there shall be a decreased emphasis on words and coherency, It begins....

I've been giving some consideration to the way in which I am viewed by others. In the last few weeks, as a sample time span, I've been introduced to many new people. Reactions upon making my acquaintance have fallen into simple categories.

In Dublin
Their reaction: "Oh I've heard about Deebs. We all have."
My reaction: Instant terror
What they see/hear: "Oh fuck!" -insert foolish behaviour-

In Edinburgh

Their reaction: "Oh you're Irish? Are you from the north or south?."

My reaction: "They're going to make naive assumptions about my being Irish, aren't they?"

What they see/hear: "Potato. Potato. Potato. Leprechaun. Potato."

One unified characteristic across the board, however, has been in the comparisons drawn between your beloved blog writer and a whiny musician with a penchant for crap lyrics and curious naming practices. And so, in that regard, I would like to set things straight.

I was moseying down the street on my way back to the flat a couple of weeks ago, minding my own business and generally being the innocent sage that I am, when a young lady stopped me to ask for directions. Being the gentleman I am, I advised as best I could.

"Has anyone ever told you that you look like Chris Martin?"

She did not reach her destination. She is deceased.

I do not look like Chris Martin.

Now that I've got that out of the way, it's time for the picture round. You see, while all the other kids in Edinburgh were out drinking, debauching and desecrating the idea of being Irish in the name of Paddy's Day this past Saturday, I was enjoying an altogether different type of evening in our flat. Seeing as I couldn't engage in the profane abuse of my liver, owing to the impending onset of my shift at work (oh yeah, I work in a bar now), one flatmate was too broke to see the world beyond our door, and the other had just arrived back with beer and his girlfriend in tow, we got to thinking. Our thoughts led to us making use of The Board of Truth which hangs in our kitchen. We set to drawing each other like many of our French girls. I present:

Portraits of Deebs

First up, we have Dave's interesting perspective of a gigantic, half-sasquatch who may be more beard than man.

Next we see the continuation of an original Barton series entitled "Sad Deebs in a Top Hat". The obscenely accurate speech bubble dwarfing the character proving to be a touch of undeniable genius.

And so we arrived at the inscrutable work of Phil. Many minutes were spent trying to decipher the chaotic, abstract works of Mr Kelly, before we just settled on it being beyond mortal comprehension.

Finally comes the self-portrait which I just etched a few minutes ago.

Interestingly, there does seem to be a story when all these images are laid out in chronological order, as above. A tale of how I progressed from unkempt vagabond, to discovering a fondness for hats and self deprecation before my mind exploded and I became Jack the Ripper*.

(*citation needed)

Enjoy waking up to that one, boys. I'll see you in your nightmares.

An Office Worker And A Gentleman

As I prepare to reintroduce my body to the concept of work outside of festivals tonight, I look back upon the last time I tried to do so. It went a little bit like this....

My tale of woe began with signing up to a recruitment agency. I didn't particularly need the money, I just rather enjoyed the prospective glamour that lay ahead. You know how FBI agents get to waltz in (I'd imagine they waltz, whereas the CIA opt for the foxtrot) and say "I'm with the Bureau"- flash a badge. I got to stroll in and announce "I'm with the agency"- flash a smile. Not quite as exciting as I'd hoped, but I persevered, and they came through with the offer of short-term employment.

So one day, as I was stuffing envelopes (trust me, it's not nearly as sexy as one could imply with well placed innuendo and a solitary raised eyebrow), I wondered what would ultimately be my primary form of passing the time. A succession of paper-cuts? Or the fact that I'd been left in a small room with sellotape, scissors, stickers, a child's inquisitive temperament/natural propensity for mischief and no adult supervision? One of these was likely to prove my undoing, and I was looking forward to finding out which.

Hours passed. Envelopes were stuffed, sealed and labelled. Quite surprisingly, the paper-cuts remained a rare and minor inconvenience. I was beginning to think I may get through the day unscathed. I was curiously numbed by this. However, as it turned out, the mystery of what would bring about my downfall was soon to be resolved, and it was to be a dark horse competitor that won out.

The complete structural failure of my box-fort was, in hindsight, not so shocking. Its trapping me underneath, however, was not entirely expected. Perhaps a more physically gifted soul may have had the tools to fashion an escape, yet for me this was, I feared, to be my tomb. As time passed, I reluctantly resigned myself to my fate. I befriended a rogue envelope whom I named "Wilson", and, in time, grew to love my prison. I attempted to integrate myself into the native society, hoping to woo a pretty piece of paper I had caught sight of across the room. Nervous glances and one-sided small talk were the order of the day. Alas, it was not to be. I could sense her interest- that much was not for debate- yet she was the child of the paper king, and fated to be with another. I graciously held my tongue and accepted that I would forever be an outsider in my new land. Wilson eased my turmoil with his rapier wit and calming demeanour. He had grown to be a valued companion, and I believe his presence allowed for my survival as long as this.

Yet now, some 79 minutes later, I must leave you. Whoever you are that has found this journal, I thank you. Sadly, I know that much of my writings perished in the great draft breeze of 28 minutes ago. Wilson only survived as I held him close to my breast. It brought some curious new feelings to the surface for us both I believe, and caused a few awkward moments in our relationship, but we're past that now. I fear my time is running short, as the ink in my pen appears to be running dry. I trust you shall see to it that my remains are dealt with appropriately. Treat Wilson kindly. He has been a loyal confidante to me, and I'm sure my passing will have been hard for him to bear. If I can leave you, and indeed the world (should they serialise my tale in extracts in The Guardian, as stipulated by my last will and testament, contained within Wilson), it is the knowledge th....