Welcome to My Blog

The cursor sat on the screen, throbbing like a digital migraine. It was waiting for a "Normal" sentence. I stared back, my brain a cluttered loft full of Victorian taxidermy. And a collection of half-eaten thoughts.

People ask me, "Andy, why is your writing so anarchic? Why can't you write a nice, linear story about a man who buys a loaf of bread and then goes home and eats it?"

Because, dear reader, I’ve seen what "Normal" looks like. Normal is madness that remembered to iron its trousers. And put on a tie to hide the fact that it’s actually three ferrets in a trench coat. I find the trousers a bit constricting; it's why I always wear shorts.

I’m currently wrestling with my fourth comedy novel. It’s a messy affair. The characters keep wandering off-script to look for missing socks. And the plot has the structural integrity of a damp meringue. But that’s the point. If the world refuses to make sense, why should I force my prose to wear a suit?

This blog will be much the same. Expect people to treat logic with the respect they give a stray cat in a thunderstorm. We will ignore the straight lines and take the scenic route through the hedge.

We need a name for this chaos. "A Quiet Understanding of the Impossible" is too sensible. "The Existential Waffle-Iron" sounds like a philosophy book nobody buys. We will call it the Unironed Truth.

The truth, as I see it, rarely wears ironed trousers. It runs around in mismatched socks. Drinks strong tea, and sometimes tries to fix small appliances with a butter knife. It’s messy. It’s glorious. It doesn't ask permission.

So, ditch your expectations of coherence. Toss the map out of the window. Grab a metaphorical trowel. We dig here. We look at the odd parts that make modern life feel like a badly translated spaceship manual. If you’re seeking life advice, here’s my tip: check your pockets for loose change. Also, always think the cat is watching you for a reason.