Here we go…

Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Bobby Morgue. Or R!. Or Robert Morgan. Or Rob, Robbie, Bob, Bobo, Booby, The Boaby, BooBoo or whatever else you know me as.

I used to have a website called The Church which I used as a blog, somewhere to post poems or unused lyrics, general thoughts or just to complain about stuff. It was quite popular at a time but the more important part was what it did to help my mental health. Which was a bit. Not a lot but sometimes a tiny bit is enough. Right now I need all the help I can get.

My mental state, it seems, is the worst it’s been in a long time. Not sure if I can say ever, since I’ve been in some states, but it’s low. I feel like if I articulate my thoughts or worries or whatever, that it might give me something. I need to do something. I need something. Anything. So here goes.

Normally, when I get down, it’s due to a chemical imbalance in my brain. Nothing I can do about that except take my tablets and plough on, right? I’d love to believe that looking after myself, eating right, exercise and all that other shit would do something but I’ve never felt any results from those things. Not that I’ve given them much of a chance if I’m being fair. But this time there’s a lot of other existential things and situations either out of my control or that I feel have been removed from my control. I’m used to feeling low or feeling frustrated or feeling helpless or feeling angry or feeling sad. What I’m not used to is feeling all of these feelings in one go.

Right now, honest truth; I don’t feel like I can cope for much longer.

Work is a strange thing at the minute. I’ve been a chef for a long time and, having fallen out of love with it to then falling into hate with it, to sometimes getting the urges back and the joy of creating weird shit, most of the time I just hate what I do. Another thankless task. When I was a child I’d be a goalkeeper, wicketkeeper, as I grew I became a drummer and it seems like most of the rolls I choose are this backbone type affair which is important and sometimes thrilling, sometimes even fulfilling, quite a lot of the time the good or amazing things you do go unnoticed. The mistakes though - thrown in your face. Not just noticed, pointed out or commented on. Used to make you feel tiny. Particularly in hospitality. When I was learning and coming up the ranks I was one of the last generations of those that were made better through abuse. Now, don’t get me wrong, this approach makes better chefs. Look at the military and how they get spoken to. Used to. No one in this society is allowed to say anything derogatory to anyone ever - and yet it’s the loneliest, moodiest, most offendable time to be alive. I digress. Being made a cunt of in work made me good at my job. And I am. Very good. Not masterchef winning calibre but reliable. But no matter how good or loyal or reliable - I get treated like a twat. I became the chef at Babushka in Portrush and genuinely loved it. Chilled out environment, creative menu and all around good times. But then Big Lee (La Barba) and I opened up our own takeaway.

Our burger joint, Bird And Herd, is great. It really is. Dirty wee menu and working with Lee is always a joy to me, couple that with the idea of finally being my own boss and you’re on to a winning formula. However, since we started on our own, I’ve had to cut my hours in Babushka and it’s got to the point now that my days have been shifted to the other place the guy runs called Arcadia, also in Portrush. The polar fucking opposite of Babs, this is one shithole. Lovely building, good menu for where it is, but the staff in there are a special breed. I hate them. I try really hard to engage in conversation with them, try to get friendly so that the day can pass a bit better but I may as well try to wrestle craic out of a cum rag than these fucking plebians. Zero banter. Zero brainpower or common sense. I don’t want to work a second in my life, pure bone idle slag that I am, but when I’m in work I perform my tasks. Now I’m getting passive aggressive posts in the work group chat that try to force me to clean the place head to toe, prep the entire menu for weeks, so that the cunt that cooks in it when I’m not there can stand there and do, what exactly I’m not sure, since every time I come in the place is fucking stinking and my prep is still there. Long story short - I’d rather eat shit than work there.

So the days I’m not trying to help my own place prosper I’m digging that useless bitch out of holes she likely doesn’t even know she’s in. Then there’s B&H that’s based in a bar called the Glensway in Martinstown. Nice wee pub, nice bar staff. But I get the impression that it’s not doing so well financially so there’s a chance we’ll have to find a new spot and, I guarantee you, nowhere is going to work out as cheap for us. Frustratingly we’ve been making slow progress and every report or bit of feed back I get is positive but I’ve never been good with money so should I ever actually get any from our own place I haven’t a clue if I’m supposed to be logging details or whatever. And there’s always the thought that no matter how hard I try, I’ll fuck it up somehow.

Any other free minute I have at the minute is spent on BourbonGun. I’m spent. Totally shattered mentally and physically and I just want to quit everything and hide.

Zero time to myself, hating one work, worrying about the other work and feeling like none of my input is good enough to the band and that I’m not talented enough, driven enough or good enough in any way along with every other hope or dream I’ve ever allowed myself to have disappearing at an alarming rate stacked on top of a broken brain that tells me that even if this stuff wasn’t going on, I’d still be a miserable fucker.

There are friends of mine I haven’t seen in ages and some have tried to get to see me. Then, two weeks after I was supposed to work something out with them is when I remember and it’s too late. So I’m abandoning my loved ones during all of this too.

Currently, and for the past three hours, I’ve been shaking and trying not to cry.

Maybe I’ll cry later.