Category: society & culture

The Importance of Leaving your Bed

so, I do this thing.
And the thing I do is that I will wake up quite early but refuse to admit that i’m awake and try and sleep more. Because life is so much less anquish when you are asleep. Everybody knows this. Everybody does this. But with me it has gotten compulsive and damaging.
I’m trying to be better. To do better. I used to think if I talked more about this stuff it would help. Maybe it does. Maybe I’m starting to annoy myself though.  Maybe i’m annoying other people. Maybe in some peoples eyes I’ve become a pantomime of a very real and serious thing. Maybe i’ve tarnished myself too much with the ‘mentally ill’ brush.  I’m honestly a lot more interesting than that. Maybe i’m doing myself a disservice talking about these things in public. I wanted dialogue and support but maybe all I’m getting is pity.
I don’t need your fucking pity. It is of no use to me.

Maybe i’m not being pitied. Maybe that’s all in my head. Everything is all in my head. I’m not a hardcore solipist but the fact that remains that our conception of reality and the physical world is filtered through our bodies and our minds. We may not make reality every time we open our eyes but we certainly percieve it in a way that is unique to human beings.  And due to various enviromental, biological, historical and psychological factors I don’t percieve in the way most human beings do. That can be real lonely. That’s why I try and talk about this stuff. So i can be less alone. Maybe.

But i don’t know if I do a very good job of talking about it.

An over-riding feature of this cross I bear is the fact that I think a lot. Too much. Which can be very useful. I’m pretty smart. This is probably because I think too much and have read a bunch of books and i’m quite good at synthesising and connecting up concepts and thoughts (probably because i think too much). Unfortunately, it gets to the point where the thoughts begin to pull myself to pieces and start breaking things and doing damage. Running out of other material, or perhaps simply because i have a self-destructive streak, the mind turns its attention to its damaged psyche and begins poking holes.

I have spent my life at the mercy of a million thoughts and undertaking very little action to bring those thoughts into some kind of concrete reality outside of my head. Because what worth can any idea you have possibly have Adam? Little to none.

But that’s faulty thinking. I know it is because I’ve spent the past couple of years thinking and then doing. I’ve seen the outcome.  I have honestly inspired so many people and deep down it freaks me out. I have given opportunities to people to get up in front of a mic and do their thing and watched them catch as if kindling and become luminescent and go on and do more things and inspire other people. It is fucking beautiful and it is hard for me to think that I have had any kind of hand in that. Me. Worthless Little Me.

But i can’t be worthless, can I? If i’ve done these things. If i’ve inspired those people. But still the mind insists. It cajoles. it takes bites out of itself.

I want to do more. I AM doing more. Many a cool thing on the horizon. But they’re only happening because i’m ignoring my fucking head and just doing. Unfortunately that doesn’t stop the head from doing what my head does. It’s fucking painful. I cry it hurts so much, randomly, for brief moments.  tears run down my face. And then it’s gone and I dry my eyes, the feeling subsides a little but remains.

I wonder how different things could of been if someone or something had interveined in my past. Had set me right a bit in my faulty compulsive thinking. The provision for mental health on the NHS is fucking laughable, especially in Glasgow. If you aren’t a physical risk to yourself or others you aren’t going to be taken seriously. I have experienced this a lot. The amount of times I’ve gone down to the mental health unit on Florence street aching for help and pretty much had demonstrated to me that i’m wasting their time… well, it has been numerous times.

I’ve been referred to outlier organisations, non-NHS non-profits, for councelling only for the councelor to turn around and say “your problems are much bigger than what we are outfitted with to deal with”. And then i become disheartened. And then i give up. I carry on until it becomes too much again and I reach out for help, hoping against hope that things will go differently this time. That I will get the help I need.  But previous experience indicates otherwise.

I’m dimly aware that it is mental health awareness week. A large part of me is like Fuck Mental Health Awareness Week. It’s fucking lip service. It will change nothing. Things like this, x y awareness <arbitrary measurement of time> are like little morally superior holidays people can choose to take. Just perfect for our bite-sized, social-media-driven lives. A badge they can add to their symbolic scout uniform – “I has virtue signalling”.
Still, I have woken up on a tuesday morning and written this thing about my mental illness. Perhaps I should jump on this bandwagon. Maybe loosen the wheel nuts a little whilst nobody is looking.

I’ve written this to get it out of my head. I’ve written this because I hope it will help me in some way to express these things. This level of honesty concerning your vunerability is hard to sustain. To strip yourself naked in public is not something most people will ever feel the need to do.  Maybe it will help you to understand, maybe it will inspire others who suffer to be able to stand up and say “Me Too!”. Maybe it’ll disappear below the surface of the internet and be read by nobody.

Regardless, I’m gonna eat this frozen pizza for breakfast, greedily, hungrily, because I didn’t feed myself lunch or dinner yesterday and Today I’m Going To Do Better. I Am Going To Be Better. I am going to rise above those nagging voices that don’t want me to ever leave my bed and Do Things.
Until it all becomes too much and I let them take control again. It doesn’t usually take very long.
But before that happens I just want to say Thank You. I want to thank everyone i’ve befriended since I got to glasgow, all the poets and writers and musicians and rappers and artists and activists and just good cunts that I have met. If it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t doing nearly as well as I am and despite my complaining and venting and nay-saying I am doing pretty well. It just doesn’t feel like that a lot of the time.

Maybe it’s always darkest before the dawn.
Maybe that’s just a trite metaphor thought up by a greeting card company.
Maybe both are true.


It is the insignificance of the human race that allows me to get out of bed in the morning.
Knowing that we’re only hurting ourselves somehow soothes that
frantic butterfly aneurysm
that sticks like shit to the walls and drips and collects in pools.

Brings a skip to my step to realise
Nothing really means anything
And that we’re just the setup of a racist joke
With no punch line.

Feels fine inside to know
no matter
how many books I read
I’m still just a waste product of time.

Line ‘em up boys,
I’ll watch them fall
and when it comes I’ll greet oblivion like an old friend.

It pleases me no end this knowledge that no matter what we do;
Declare war as an excuse to pillage, condone rape with silence,
or even condemnation towards victims,
Profit in cashmoney
from inflicting severed limbs and misery
on Islamic children,
Acting father knows best to those that won’t bend the knee
to the International Monetary Fund for a loan designed
to stripmine public assets for corporate interests
and leave people recycling their own feces

– we’re barely a blip on the radar of the cosmos.

It pleases me that all we seem to do is suck each other dry
And leave behind stumblebum husks of one another.

Doesn’t bother me in the slightest that each day is more empty
Than the one it proceeds.

The fact that the whole of human knowledge is the intellectual equivalent of a 2 dollar handjob down the greasy alley next to the library causes me to stifle a chuckle.

Fuck All Belief.
Just bed time stories we tell ourselves to give the illusion of autonomy.
Freedom is a myth
Invented in the 1950s by Levi jeans and constructed from the yolk of Jack Keuroac’s wet dreams.

The awareness that we belittle and degrade
50% of the entire population
For having tits and giving birth to
Every single soul on earth
To the point where we got them thinking they’re worth less
Than some prick with a penis
Is really an impressive feat of irony.

And when the surface water is so polluted from Hydraulic fracturing
That it burns your throat and makes children blind
And when the roving gangs of UKIP voters beat
The shit right out of you because of your country of origin
And when bigotry becomes national unity
And Well being is replaced with misery
And the source of your next meal is a mystery
Handed out from food banks built out of desperate necessity
And when the government sells out what few rights we have left
To a company that promises to make poverty profitable
And when it all becomes too much to take
And when we are left to drown
In our parents mistakes
And in the moments before we finally break

I’ll know deep in my heart
That being human is great.

Recently purchased from Poundland.

Loki, Glasgow Hip Hop’s prodigal son, shows us the way.

::::The Final Solution::::

The war
of parasitic ideologies was the major front
of what would eventually become known as
the real Final Solution;
the complete annihilation of civilisation



The archetype of the lonely midnight diner is a distinctly north American image, a romantic thought form tangled up in art and culture; from Hopper to hard boiled literature, making a distinct home for itself also in cinema. It’s a specific, if multi-faceted and fragmented, semiotic tied up in melancholy, insomnia and alienation – all hallmarks of the underbelly of the American dream. A place where people go to be alone with other people. It’s also a place of chance encounters.

In Paul Auster’s ‘new York trilogy’ it fills all these roles and in New York, “a city which never sleeps”, it’s presence and purpose is woven into the very fabric of its mythology – perhaps into that of America itself. The U.S. is such an expansive, wide open land that the idea of an atomised pseudo-social arena carries a dissonance and irony that speaks of submerged truths which go all the way to the bedrock of he nation’s psyche.

::::The Crawl::::

Last night I decided, due to certain skull fucking circumstance, to go and get wasted. Wanting the process to be in some way produce apposed to purely destructive I decided to make it a bit crawl and write a bit about each place. Below you will find those impressions. Shit gets a bit random.


Oh dear. The first place. I’ve walked into has all the life of a 2am kebab. I don’t think I can stay in Maryhill. I don’t think I can even go to the west end as I am completely sick of byres road. In the back of my head I knew this would be a failure but a maryhill pub crawl did present a certain wayward charm; plus I could visit every pub around and at least pick a favourite. But, no. I crave more meaningful noise than naff celebrity tv reminiscing. The odd look I got from the barmaid should l tipped me off really. A kinda “what the fuck are you doing here?” expressed performed exclusively with her eyes. Still, the price was right. £2.60 for a pint of san miguel. Framptons on maryhill road. Don’t tell them i sent you. Time to finish this pint and fuck off.


Sauchiehall street. Just past nine. Entering budda bar I note the misspelling and consider how much cooler it would of been if they’d called it bubba bar instead. Reminds me of the bill hicks joke. At the door I get my first random, who shakes my hand and calls me Ian, because apparently he meets a lot of Ian’s on a Wednesday. I have my doubts. Later, whilst I’m drinking and writing in my booth, he comes over and asks me if I’m okay. I explain that I’m on a mini crawl but have nobody to drink with so I’m writing instead. Glancing at my notebook and seeing the name of the bar he asks me if I’m writing my life story. Seems like a nice guy. He points to a woman and says “there’s one for you!” I tell him i have a girlfriend to which he replies “that doesn’t matter”. Again, I have my doubts. Music leans towards chart R&B. At least it has a beat. Sky sports on the TVs. Time to drink up and fuck off.


Nicos cafe bar now. House on the sound system. No televisions thankfuck. Middle aged men line the bar. Not much life here, made all the more apparent by the bright lighting. Have turned to the lowest common denominator in the form of a pint of Tennents. They do jäger bombs here for £1.80 so I may have to indulge, minus the red bull because I actually like the taste of Jagermeister. A man and a woman sit at the bar and argue about movies, each trying to convince the other to watch a particular film, the ones in question being Brick and Drive. I stand up from my able and tell the. They each have to watch what the other is trying to convince them to see. For the record Brick is the better movie. The house music continues.

Oh, shit. I think that was Craig David just now. Time to leave.


The Box now; not to be confused with the shitty music tv channel. A pint of thorntons for £2.80. I’ve even here before; a friend’s hip hop crew got signed to a small edinburgh label and they threw a gig here to celebrate. Was a good night. Tonight, bands play for edification. Right now though it’s all CDs… Or mp3s. Whatever. I doubt I’ll stay for the next band. There is a bit of a wait and I am in no mood to stay still. Also, I think this guy is giving me the eye and I’d like to avoid confusion.


Okay, I’m still at The Box. I went out for a cigarette whilst the next band were tuning up and got into a conversation with a guy who started out by mocking my “where the fuck?” English accent before we descended into a discussion about he whole Catholic/Protestant Celtic/Rangers thing. Something to do with he Irish potato famine. He ave me a cigarette then I went in and ordered a shot o something cheap and nasty for a quid and a pint of tennants. Came to four quid. This and are all over the place. A little rocky. A little indie. They have no concrete identity. I must make a note of their name because despite of that they do not suck. Like, someday, maybe. Whatever.

I returned to the same table and that guy is still giving me the eye. If I was single and gay I’d be well in there. Time to down this and keep moving.

I am surrounded by rutting. Men and woman and lust. I feel it. I have no desire to take part. The screens wake themselves from a sate of No Signal and a WWF DVD flickers into florescent half life. Definitely time to leave.


The band were called Alavano. They have a couple of tracks on soundcloud. They sounded a lot more varied on stage and told me that they are in the middle of writing and recording some new stuff.


A wetherspoons. £2.15 for a pint of carlsberg. The fact that tennents is not a cheapest points to the lack of local soul in chains. In ASDA or Tescos you will pay more for 2 litres of irn-bru than you will in a shop run by Pakistani immigrants. Legal immigrants, I might add. Not that I give a fuck about the whole immigration debate. Please, come to the UK on and all. Piss off the natives. It amuses me greatly.

Two men creep up to he puggie machine in front of me. The one watching as the other presses the flashing buttons couldn’t look more out place. He leans and tuts in the right places but you can tell his heart ain’t in it. Behind and to the right a middle aged man drinks alone.


This is the second time I’ve run up against apologetic bouncers. I tried to go into Firewater because I heard they played rock music and I crave the loud and abrasive. There is a policy against the individual in certain locales on sauchiehall street. Basically, if you ain’t in a couple you are fucked. Guess they cause less trouble. Us losers drinking on our own cause nothing but pain which begs the question of when exactly did nightclubs develop feelings? Also, this tendency towards the reinforcing of he heteronormative is somewhat disturbing.


I’m in a pub, A pub pub, just off sauchiehall street. It’s called The State and wonder to which state it might be referring. The word has several contexts it could be used in. A pint of tennents costs £3.05. I don’t even like tennents really. Is a pissy lager on par with carling which is often seen declaring itself to be probably the best lager in world, or some such shit. At the bar some Polish are in deep conversation with at least one Scot – now they are gone. I just caught last orders and now they are gone. Guess they know when to escape. Still, two guys at the bar speak Polish to each other. Several other people make to leave as Daft Punk’s latest single plays. Ten minutes to drink this and move on.


I think I may be done. Time to go home.


I guess I’m not done. Those Polish people turned out to be Russian. They don’t want to stop and I end up following them down the street in an amused fashion as they carry on all raucous. I try to lead them elsewhere but there’s something about a mass of Russians that puts bouncers off. They bailed on me whilst I took a piss in a lane and took the advantage to sneak past them nto a bar called Bloc whilst they tried to argue their case. I find it a little, not ironic, but perhaps cognitively dissonant (okay, that might be the definition of irony) that a bar which pretends at a sense of solidarity with the soviet union (and whose website domain is registered in Russia) won’t let a bunch of drunken Russians in. Maybe it’s the fact that, as I was told by a barmaid on a previous visit, it’s just bullshit posturing and pretension.

I seem to have stripped a table of its occupants. What is it about a guy alone in a bar that causes such revulsion? In younger, less confident days, this might of troubled me. Now I’m just glad of the space. Aaaaaah.

A guy from a different table comes and asks me if I’m okay. Jesus fucking Christ. I know I shouldn’t complain about people showing concern but I really need to make some more friends to drink with. Still, I’ve enjoyed the experience of writing of my misadventures and I wouldn’t of been able to do that if I’d been being all social and shit. So, anyway, I get talking to this guy and his friends. I don’t notice someone slipping in behind me and start flicking through my notebook. When I do suddenly become aware of their presence I turn around to see an alternative looking girl in a trilby.

“It’s okay. I’m a lesbian.”

This counts as one of the best random introductions in a bar I have ever experienced and we end up chatting. We go to swap numbers and it is at this point I notice that my phone has been stolen. This is quite annoying but not the end of the world as it was a piece of shit pre-android pseudo-smartphone hand-me-down and gives me the excuse to get something that a wired individual such as myself could do with to do my thing with maximum efficiency. I write her number down in my notebook, designating it under KT, because that’s what she told me to do. KT, if youe reading this, I’ll call you as soon as I get a new one. Like I said, I need to make some new friends.

Things get a bit murky after this so I’m just gonna stop here.

::::This status is my status::::

and my status is that I am homeless and broken around the heart area. Whilst EITHER/OR/BORED goes on a little break why not follow my adventures on the Glaswegian Death Trip which I will be updating from a feature phone and the post-via-email setting.

A friend of mine and his band have a new album out and it’s a skullthumping mix of mad piano and darkwave synthy beatiness.

Now, when I say friend I mean “guy i know through facebook through a guy I used to know in Cardiff” – but we’ve had some cool conversations so I’m definitely leaning more towards friend than acquaintance. Still, it’s not like we hang out playing GTA and getting wasted. For starters, with him in London and me in the darklands of Scotland, the commute would be a motherfucker.

To celebrate the new album they’ve made their first two releases pay-what-you-like on bandcamp. Why not go grab yourself a download link? Also, if you like their page on facebook absolutely nothing of consequence will happen, although it does make it easier to keep up with their antics.

The album isn’t actually released till the 28th of June but it’s available to stream right now on bandcamp and I’m really quite fond of it. The lyrics and vocals avoid the cliches of darkwave (Deathboy, I’m looking at you) and the piano work keeps things fresh and manic. Its official release will be followed by a UK tour which promises such mad hedonism that entire town centers may be closed down in a state of emergency. You may well be seeing his face, makeup streaked with sweat and blood, on a forthcoming episode of Crime Watch.

Don’t believe what the powers that be tell you. He’s really a lovely guy.

Concerning the tour: The Nottingham date will be at The Maze, not at the Britannia Boat Club.

Cat Hepburn

scriptwriter | spoken word & voice over artist | arts facilitator


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