Mental ‘ealth. Oi’ve got trouble wif me mental ‘elf. There is a crazed elf that sometimes becomes me, and when within his possession, I am prone to committing silly, and sometimes dangerous, acts. You can’t kill the elf. He’s sort of impermeable. It’s better just to befriend him. The Elf. We’ve all got one.

I find it strange that people say, when talking about someone who suffers from depression, anxiety, what have you, ‘Aw, he’s got mental health he does. Leave that boy alone, he’s got mental health.’ Shouldn’t it be that we all have a degree of mental health, as we do physically? And that it would be more proper to say, ‘Oh, he has bad mental health. He’s been having trouble with his mental health.’? Am I being pedantic here?

I think it used to be that in days of olde they said, ‘ Aw Jaysus, oul Bernie’s bad with her nerves.’ Or something like that. Now everybody’s dying of depression, anxiety, and anything else that’s going, seemingly. I was once told in a class I was forced to take that Bi-polar had become a ‘fashionable diagnosis.’ Muddled-up folk clogging the doctor’s corridors waiting to get their badge. It’s a bit of drag, to have it for real, sometimes; but it can also be pretty cool.

When the Elf comes to town you can attempt to steal a bus and get away with it. You can spend three hundred pounds on a penpal service with non-existent Russian beauties. You can sometimes penetrate the previously impermeable and get in touch with things quite exclusive, at a price.

But all that means nothing when the dark times come, and come they do. This isn’t so fashionable, or even all that exclusive. It’s a shame is what it is. And it’s killing people all around us very slowly everyday. Mightn’t know to look at them. But if you do happen to notice the life draining slowly out of somebody, then please do something for them. We need each other. We all need help. We all need to talk. Each person’s problem is peculiar to them, therefore we need a treatment that caters to that person’s needs. And love. I think just plenty of love, really. A good starting point.

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Probably there will be some teenagers and twenty-somethings amongst us, who are just getting into their relationship with mental illness, and who maybe don’t see how things can get any better. I think there are some of us who are just born into this shit. They’ll have trouble with alcohol and substances, their emotions and trauma their whole lives. What can you say? All I know is that a man that I trusted sat me down and explained to me very gently that ten, twenty years from where I was at the time, I would be a much happier person. And he was right. For the most part. Mind yor ‘ead!

I’m dog tired. Dead tired. Dying of tiredness. Dear Deirdre, I seem to be decomposing at a rate not compatible with my life-expectancy. I’ve tried washing and replacing old body parts but nothing seems to be solving the problem. Can you please offer your ever-sterling advice to this one devoted reader. P.s Loved last week’s diatribe on DIY Exorcisms, looking forward to hearing more on these much-neglected phenomena in future issues.

Dat Deidre did nothing for me. Nada thing. Not so much as a letter of acknowledgement. Bitch. I begin to think that if her name wasn’t Deirdre she wouldn’t be in the job atall. But enough about her. Seen some jazz last night. Jazz. It was…well, jazz. Pretty incomprehensible for the most part. I lie. It was a joy. Comprehend I did, in small portions at least. Hard to digest the whole thing with one swallow. Need breathers. I tend to sway my head a bit, some kind of pendulum effect. I don’t know what it is, helps me get the feeling.

So yeah, we were down at The Ballyhackamore Working Men’s Club. Yeah. Just run that through your head again. The Ball-y. Hack-a-More. Workingmen’sClub. Sounds kind of dangerous, what? Hardly a suitable venue for a jazz gig, one would think; but nothing could be further from the truth. Because we were enclosed, you see, in an upstairs partition, where laser-lights shining amongst shadows set the scene for a high-society rumble-off. Is jazz high-society? Strictly speaking? I can’t really say. I mean, I’m not at liberty to divulge. But I can enjoy the music, so let’s talk a little more about that.

Mr Scott Flanigan on organ discarded the boot from his foot and sprang toes upon a plethora of pedals. The tones he withdrew with strange bodily contortions owed much to the shade of his socks(a light-blue bordering on turquoise.) It’s been a good five years since I’ve seen this man in action, and a happy coalescence involving the development of my own powers of perception with what I can only speculate to be a great shift in his capabilities as a player, has led me to a happy, happy place. He is by turns melodic, spacey and complex, and very, very groovy. It was a great thing to see the organ manipulated so, I had no idea the satisfaction one could derive from hearing the crunch of some crumpled tones, endless in variation and potential it would seem. Nyes, yes, lovely stuff indeed.

The man who did stand with guitar in hand was one Mister Matt Dowie. I do believe. I’ve been pestering him with these little articles for some time now, and he has been kind enough to reply on occassion. It was through our brief correspondence that I heard about the gig, and I’m glad that I decided to land down. Being a musician myself, with guitar as my primary instrument, I was especially intrigued to see what this guy could do. Though I can barely remember the names of the tunes, I do recall him picking ably, growing in confidence as the night grew on, and shining especially in the spots where there was space and time, the perfect, eh, blanket, for him to lay out choice phrases. Simple melodic parts that seemed to lift the music into a higher place. For me, it brought to mind Peter Green. Trace it back through influence and we have BB King, Django Reinhardt, Charlie Christian…Something in the tone, those crystal notes. A beautiful thing. When the band started swinging I thought I felt some room for improvement, but then again, I suppose a sense of swing is something that is developed through time. And at times, he caught the rhythm, in those moments, with repeating licks, maybe something chromatic, and he caught it just right. I suppose sometimes it catches you.

On drums was bandleader and compere for the night Rebecca Montgomery. Bah. What can you say? She’s just fantastic. I watched her operate towards the end of the first set and was mesmerised, caught between tuning into the music, and marvelling at the art of her technique as a thing in itself. She recognised me from some long-ago bandstand opportunity when I butchered an old Van tune at the John Hewitt. I thought it was very nice of her to come over and talk, sort of blustered that I thought her playing was very ‘Japanese.’ Eejit! Into the second set she’d acquired a glass of wine and her compering skills were on the up, as was the music. Some of the numbers I remember were, let’s see, an unlikely uptempo ‘A Nightingale Sang in Barkley Square.’ Ehh, A Thelonious Monk tune. Annnnnd the one about which I was just about to write…

Yes, so, last couple songs of the night, our compere announces the guest appearance of ‘one of the best sax players in the country.’ Quite a cheer went up, and yes, I was whooping and wriggling in my seat. Bring it on. So yeah, this fella gets up, and sort of straddles the tenor horn, they kick into a tune, something familiar. Self-assured, I turn, somewhat smug, and mouth to my friend ‘Mini-Mama'(It was later announced that the tune they played was ‘Mercy, Mercy, Mercy.’ Egg on my face.) Regardless, the tune kicked in and man, I’ve never had a feeling like it. I really felt like I was in a jazz club. I mean, I was. I was in Scott’s Jazz Club. Yeah sure, in my phantasmagoria I thought it was New York or something, but it wasn’t. It doesn’t have to be. We have this right here, on our doorstep, if you know where to go. But look anyway, I’m getting’ tired. The sax player’s back on the 29^th. He blew my crazy head off. Ballyhackamore Working Men’s Club. Dave Howell. I recommend it.

My sense of smell is being put to the test. I smell people now. It’s hard. Guy in front of me in the shop the other night… stinkin’. He wore sandals and a Nike knapsack, 20 years old by my guessing. His hair was greased black, and the collective stench, of cheap emollients, was made only more offensive by the fact that it was masking what must’ve been weeks of untended body odour.

 Usually, you might get intrigued by the sight of some colourful nobody passing you in the street, and maybe wonder for a moment what their life consists of, filling out the details with your imagination perhaps? In this instance, it was the stench, the fucking stench of this greasy fuckin’ bastard that set the whole thing off, for the most part. – -Trading in cheap perfumes, illicit hand-luggage, cheap knock-off gear, klobber, better than the real thing, believe me.- – I mean I shouldn’t be judgemental, but this was one horrid cunt. At least have the decency to spare a stranger the insult. A torrent of thick fermented scents. And it’s not like the guy didn’t know any better, or was homeless or something. He was just a dirty fucking bastard. That’s all.

 But anyway, I sat down on this bus, today, to eat my foil-wrapped sausages when I got assailed by the pungent foot odour of an oul crabbie knacker. Stewartstown son, as it turned out. Seemed like a dead on enough fella, holes in his joggers, but fuck me the smell of him. See, I’d let him away with it, he was decent. But see that other? A smarmy bastard. Ye could just tell. But here, gonna have to wait to change buses before tuckin’ in to these sausages, be lucky to get a good breather in between times too.

The driver was a stickler for mask-wear-age. I told him mine was in my bag, he insisted that I put it on. So I had to go through the whole rigamarole of hokin’ through my own wee khaki knapsack, sausages and all, looking for this imaginary mask. He eventually let me go on, but not without a stern warning. Jobsworth bastard. Or maybe he just cares about the COVID. Nah, I think He cares about THE RULES! Know to look at him. It’s a lovely mild rainy evening. Kinda nice and blue. Yeah, don’t give up smoking, keep them nostrils blocked up to fuck.

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Right so I’ve had a wee sausage now and I feel a bit better about the whole affair. Crazy what an empty stomach will do to ye. Hang on till I have another bite here. Yeah, quality meats. Finely butchered meats. Haha. The choice cuts!

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Got a clean clear mind today. Clear clean water for to quench your thirst. Let the tap run a little longer baby. A chirping quartet of busy-minded schoolgirls alight. Peace. Glad to see the back of them. Not in that way. The peace, I mean. The Peace. Where are The Peace Police? Night and day now the difference.

The Peace Police are a loosely-banded, er, band, of bland bandits. Their chief concern is the commissioning of finely engineered works of subtle psychic defence. Defence against what? Why the pie-eyed dour-lords of remorse of course! They communicate mostly through the rolling of eyes. This is not a force you can join voluntarily. They sweep you up and in you see, long before you’ve chosen your GSCEs. These golden-wigged, goose-fed God-pimps pick you out at birth, or before. You know the score.

Achieving promotion within the branch entails dredging the details of your entire shameful past, and bringing it before the committee, who sit at times undecided in a tree-fort awaiting. They say a great weight is lifted once you’ve let go this compile. What they fail to inform you of is that a weight ten times the size of what you previously hefted will soon replace it. Good luck, my friend. Love and Light.

Bumguzzlers beware. This is a goof. This is private goofage. Not for the faint-hearted, heinous, or inwardly-crippled. Little story I wanna tell, about a fella named K—– K—. Strange man come searchin’ in the midnight he dances out on the street, three stowaways and a couple of hobbits. He was a pimp, I guess. Two fine fillies in his care of which the one later ran off with a cripple(outward.) He appeared in the papers today y’see you see alright. Stole a bunch of Cannabis gummy bears, a claim to save the pain of a severe beating, punishment style. Not a bone left in his hand fit for fiddlin’.  Alls I know is the time I spent with him he was a true gentleman. Had him back at my gaff, I was in his. He played trumpet pretty good for a first-timer. Kicked football like a nonchalant could’ve-been pro, a street-baller, stolen doorstep morning cold milk for the drinking. He was teaching us, myself and my co-hobbiter. Teaching us little street tricks and how to get our kicks in simple nice easy ways. Sold us steaks at a discount, offered us all sorts of 2^nd hand goods. I met him once again in a hospital, he’d punched a would-be mugger in the mouth, taking a tooth in his knuckle for the trouble. They gave him the wrong medicine by mistake and so the claim was on, he told me. Liked to jeg coke. Mad craic. But a nice fella. And one I hope to run into again soon. Like I said, he taught me things. I was going to write a song about him, but I’d need a bit more time to think about that. This is a good start. It doesn’t hurt to write you know. Just get it out. Yeah.

It is so much harder to write on a bus than it is a train. Wobble wobble boom boom bounce. Scenery’s not as good down here either, seen it all before. Shared that other thing last night, always fucks ye up. Marty wants me to write of mentalness, more in a certain kind of way, so I guess I’d better do it. (I do hold strong reservations about using the word ‘guess’ instead of the more geographically correct ‘suppose,’ but the cultures are all interchangeable now and mixed-up so fuck it.)

So yeah, me go mental. Me go cwazy in tha woodwoods. Me kick the fuck out of bitches that took advantage of my nature so gullible in days gone past, so criminal, so…euk. And the cheek, to come around afterwards with glazen smiles. Fuck ‘em. So yeah, I was always trying to go insane, trying to become a genius. I mean, some kind of spiritual lift. I got tastes most summers when the surge would come, what with writing and songs and stuff, but I was on a quest to find unfiltered access to this sacred stream. And I was so young! Little was my understanding of the laws of nature, those laws so simple, with every up a down. Makes perfect sense now of course, but sure.

So yeah, I broke up with a much too beautiful girlfriend to kick things off with. Could feel the pull in my guts, y’see, saying, ‘Eject.’ Yes, my creative instincts said, ‘Time to go!’ and so I went. Had just moved into a new house, East Belfast, was nice then. They’d recently switched my meds to something benign and sort of cosy, I can’t mind the name of the drug. But yeah, at that time it was plenty of drink, the occasional night’s partying, but not much more than that. I suspect that my consumption of alcohol then was not much beyond the average person’s, but given my mental and emotional frailties I was left pretty much dysfunctional from the intake. Also, I should include, two years previous to the period now being recorded, I had suffered a bad injury to my left arm, one that ended a more-than promising career as a guitar player. This may or may not have had a bearing on what was to follow. (I am glad to report that at the current time of writing I am a little more loose in my approach to near everything that I do and so have found myself able to fiddle with the ole six string every now and then, much to my surprise, and delight.)

But yes, here I was, late summer, early autumn, the life leaping up inside of me, a call to something. I think I may have smoked DMT once or twice in and around the period…They called it a drug-induced psychosis at first. The first of many diagnoses. The fellow I lived with at the time is one of the strangest people you’d ever be likely to meet. And I don’t mean in that self-consciously eccentric sort of way. He didn’t dress strange, or act off-the-wall or anything of that kind. He was just a strange guy. Still is. Good guy. Conroy. He had to put up with a lot, eventually, by the time I’d gone full blown. But it was a slow burn to begin with. Daily rituals when I felt the onset, praying with my eyes to the sun, reading six or seven different books at any one time, revelling in the accelerated brain function than I seemed to be experiencing. Deep spiritual truths raining down upon my head, seeping into my consciousness. Everything was a blessing, everything a gift. ‘I must hold onto this blessing. I must not let this go!’ I clutched. I held the bloody gift too tight and thwarted thus its golden light. I went mad, man. I went real crazy. And I enjoyed it. You remember in On the Road where Moriarty talks about letting go of the steering wheel and having faith that he wouldn’t crash? That’s how I felt. Cycling full-pelt down the Ravenhill road with my eyes closed. What a rush! Peddling flat out downhill in the dark on the grass in around Elm’s Village. What business did I have being there? None.

I went to a gig at some warehouse, skatepark type thing. There were some rabid hippie types there gathered. I went a bit nuts. Rab McCullough on stage, man that knew me well, a mentor of sorts. I spoke in tongues and he said between songs, quietly into the mic ‘Listen to that man.’ Standing buck naked in my living room chanting at a wall, Conroy’s remembrance. Concerned friends gathered by candlelight as I talk to them Christ-like.(delusion?) Ambulance men arrive, they see my eyes and disappear. Eventually the gig was up. I was speaking in a strange Scottish brogue, ‘ah to my bones I felt it.’ Friends a-many alarmed alacrity and so on. One night out at Lavery’s, drinking Watermelon Sunsets (A drink I had invented) speaking my strange Scottish to the patrons and doing little articulated dances. A bouncer let me go after a while with a smile, strange to say it. Little shaman boy comes a hustlin’. I was fascinated with shamans then, but it was only the start. I would say just a peek, but it was the real thing, strong stuff, 100 proof. The whole of it. I ran from Stevie and Mike that night. Stevie near cried I loved him. Emmy was in dire straits abroad. Mike seemed to understand, he knew I was striving to cry out finally in a voice that was my own. I had many miles to walk.

Some night soon after I wheeled a little girl’s bike to the Sunflower Bar with some brown earmuffs on my head. Kinda crazy yeah I know but that’s psychosis. When ‘spiritual awakening’ turns to crazed delusion. Conroy called my family and they all landed down in a van smiling in the doorway. He then took the bike home and met us for tea that I insisted on serving. I insisted also on espousing the many spiritual lessons that I had learned, somewhat ludicrously. Strange satirical Conroy standing in the shadows with crawed-open smile. Bless the man. I can’t remember how I got to hospital, a doctor’s visit first? Maybe. It wasn’t long anyhow. Anyway, that’ll do for now.

Mad ass craic that be’s happening. Southern voices. Southern faces. Nice to see some different faces. Features. The pinched cheeks of the ladies of the north have lost their appeal. There used to be a word that I had to describe the peculiarity of an East Belfast girl’s noise but I cannot remember it. English voices now mixed about the place, back towards the end of the carriage. Foreign voices. I belong on this train. More trains more travelling more thought more observation more of everything I need it and it’s mine. My right. I owe it to myself. But it will come. In it’s own time.

I’m an observationalist. A skilled observationalist. Nada thing eludes the keen eye of this poor feel-it-all! And as for my ears? Well, they’re pretty much unfaultable. I mean you couldn’t fault them. Not if you were to apply scientifical tests. From the government. You couldn’t. I have good ears. Out of the window I see trees trees houses trees houses, I see blind men red men yellow men, green men especially, that’s my speciality. A thousand thoughts and not one pen to piss through. Urethra injection. Stool sample pending.

When there’s people on the train you’ll write better, he said, and he said it fine fucking rightfully. The bastard. The successful fucking bastard. It’s a darn good thing he isn’t goodlooking as-well or I’d have to murder him. Lush trees pylon please. Don’t miss the trees for the pylons. This country’s like a golf course. Bout time I seen this side of it. Skies grey but not too bad to the point of a deathwish. Fuck the intelligent. We must procreate. Crossbreed the intelligent with the coarse, it’s the only way forward. Or bring them up in poverty. We’re trying to rear a country of writers here for fuck’s sake. Jesus I’m repeating myself, but who’s counting. I’m on a streak. I’m on a streak and the handsome bastard two seats across from me is beat. He too has long hair, but rugged, now loping sideways as he mopes. Enjoy your frown, you fuck.

There’s a nice pylon, pity about the cows. A big pile of gravel. In and amongst the fields of green and gold. Good Jesus. Tomato in this two pound sandwich. It’s a baggy sandwich you see for it was only two pound. It was sold me by the Germans. There goes a lorry bearing the name of the man I avoided in the street earlier. Stopped in a puddle. They’ve stopped until this puddle dries up. Four men out to fix it. Bushes gravel bottles stones sticks berries flowers. An oul bit of yellow piping all worn and broke. Sewerage.

There’s a man and woman sitting next to me and every time I write something funny they cheer in a quiet sort of way. He’s Irish her a brit. She dims her voice just a little to shamefully ask a biscuit. –I am an insane person. I am admittedly insane. I am high functioning insane.– Now I feel the same as I slobber my sandwich cause it’s all quiet just before this train starts up again. Fuck it, go full Christy. That is, feel none. ‘These are the hands of the tired man.’ Yep, here they are. ‘This is the old man’s shroud.’ Here it is, somewhat visible. ‘These are the eyes of the blood crazed tiger, staring at the maddening crowd.’ Yes. Yep. Mnnhmm. That’s him alright, there he is. Good talker, Christy D, hope to get a chat with him someday.

So, aye. People say this’ll be the making of me. Good people. The bastards that are living in my head rent-free insist otherwise. It does change the head a little bit. Time to man up. Just happens. Good thing. There’s one cunt lives in my head and I’d love to kill him. Well, not all the way kill him, but just embarrass him a bit. He’s probably dying on the inside anyway. Like me. He’s got to be. The cunt. Pleasing to the eye are the sloping green hills of Killarney. Though we’re on the way to Newry I like the way that sounds. Old tin roofs. Rusting iron roofs. Enjoy them while you can. Never neglect to consider a taxi driver’s counsel. Blurry trees, yellow sometimes.

The Gaelic games. The finest athletes on earth. All gone to waste. Portydown station. The brakes make a big ‘woooo’-ing ghost’s sound, dragged out to fuck of course, in true Portadown town style. Jesus, everything’s so brown. The stainless steel is brown in Portadown. All art is a collaboration. Is there any truth in the preceding statement? No, you imbecile! It’s a one man drag, baby. Dig in your heels, next stop, Portadown! One of the porters appears to be wielding some sort of electronic tabletennis bat. Madman. –Hi, my name’s Declan Corr and I’ve just had a baby. Thank you for the continued facebook likes and support. P.s if you want you can take a quick read at my literary thesis consisting of dumbfounding insights and chin-tickling intrigue, only sixty cents a centimetre, ye sap!– Nothing like a birthday or anniversary to sail your crappy art boat upon. Take the fuckers for all they’re worth. Nice big field of rushes. Green n’ gold. Splodge of muckpuddle. Looks cow-dungish. This is an excerpt. You are now reading an excerpt.

No, look. This is just a bit of banter. A bit of banter with the boys, eh? I was once a promising young chap, once upon a time ago. Before I got the working-class hero treatment. Eh? Can’t win. Now I’m just going to write in this and fuck be to the lot of ye. If you like it you like it and if you don’t you can go and hang yourself by your tiny wee dick. And pray to the good lord Satan for it to grow, ye fuckin horse’s ballacks! Oh it’s all coming out today. Yes, indeed it is. Cryptocurrency. I’m into cryptocurrency. Playing the markets, you know? Yes, I’ve always been a bit savvy that way. Never one to pass up a well-confided tip. Striding the streets in my pinstripe, wagging the brolly at likely codgers. Yes, one of the boys. Always. A big brown field. Jesus there’s a big brown field. With a load of birds flying over it. Useless bastards, eating all our crops. Tin shack, Mississippi style. Will attend later and fill with hobos. Woah ho! Plastic covered haystack! Sitting, in the corner of a field. Woohoo! Whimpering Wolf. Ole Johnny Whimpers. A farm. An unremarkable farm. No charm that farm. Winding stream amongst the hills, sheep dotted about, fucking around not knowing what they’re at really. Me drawing brainpower from the whole lot of them. ‘Let’s collaborate!’

Drugdealer on the train yesterday, would love to hear another one today. A stony cottage, many years have you braved the stormy colds. Bushes trees forestry…