My Name IS Frank T Bird

Dear Reader (If that IS your name)

It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, whatever that means. 

I suppose you have clicked on this ABOUT section because you want to know something about this barely edible, half-hearted walking corpse known as Frank.

 

And yes, I know the self-loathing is so 2003, but once you get to know me, you will understand that I'm always trying to get the clocks to go backwards. And look, that's probably a mistake. If I'm honest, I recall the 1980s being a time of mostly boredom. The nineties, not so much because I was busy trying to drink and get laid. 

I'm glad the kids don't have to go through that these days — the shite of just wanting to get wasted to ease the boredom — the shite of not understanding the opposite sex and having nowhere to learn — the shite of having to leave the house to get food. Fuck it.
Anyway, I should say something about something because that's what an about section is. 

I grew up in the North of England. It's a shite place to live when you are young. I aimed to join the RAF as a Tornado pilot, so I spent a few years in the Air Cadets, although for someone like me who rocked up on parade night with dog hairs on his beret, the writing was on the wall. At some stage, I discovered alcohol and cigarettes, and my RAF pilot fantasy went tits up. 

When I left school, I joined the army as an infantry soldier instead. I did three months of freezing my knackers off during basic training in Penicuik, near Edinburgh, mid-winter. Then I went to Infantry School in York. I'm not telling you this because I'm some ex-military war hero. I'm the opposite of that. When I found out I would be going straight to Northern Ireland after Infantry school, I decided to fuck off because I liked the romantic idea of being a soldier, but I never wanted to fight the Irish since I consider myself one of them.

So I left and worked for a construction company as a Labourer in Liverpool instead. And a couple of years later, I got a call from my Mum, who said she and my dad were off to Australia cos they were sick of the cold. So I went with them cos I thought Australia was just like Neighbours. And it turned out that it was precisely like Neighbours. 

I lived in Perth, Western Australia, for a while, where I worked in several bars, played in some bands and did some more Army training involving basic training in a place called Kapooka and another infantry school, this time in a place called Singleton. I also had a child with a woman there. 

Later I moved to Melbourne, got into crystal meth and MDMA for a while, smoked a lot of weed and got heavily into Buddhism. I read Buddhist texts for the next two decades, did meditation retreats, and regretted many things. Then I got married and wrote a couple of books.

And here we are. 

I can't be fucked writing any more. I'm not even sure how I got this far. It's like we are drunk in a bar, and I've been whining about my biography while you snore in the corner. 

Fuck it. Love is the answer, my friends. And that's not a fucking hippy thing to say. Among all this capitalism, torture, and greed, it sits there, watching us with a non-judgmental loving gaze from behind our eyes, waiting for the day we roll our ocular bollocks back far enough to realise that we are that love and nothing else. 

I will leave you with one clip from my favourite comedian of all time, Bill Hicks, who I wish more than anything was still alive and who inspired me more than every writer that has ever lived (much to the dismay of my fellow writers.)

So fuck you all, and here's Bill.
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Muchos Love.