Meeting Mr. Welsh
The urge to set up a web page documenting the psychological stalking of Mr. Welsh is phenomenal. Some bald headed cunt, who isn't Mr. Welsh, walks past the window. I shall interpret this as the universe conspiring to have this page created. Is it Mr. Welsh or is it not Mr. Welsh?





Mr. Welsh moved onto our street recently. I read in the papers that he had been around town, getting into scuffles with a certain Mr. McGowan.

One day, when I was out pruning the roses and making adjustments to the elephant trap, Mr Welsh walked past. I thought I should take on the role of friendly neighbour and I decided to take a risk and introduce myself. I am no starfucker, believe me, but I certainly enjoyed his novel 'Trainspotting' and think it a modern masterpiece. The idea appealed to me to have Mr. Welsh over for tea occasionally, to discuss literature, Joyce, Gogarty and drugs.

Mr. Welsh? - I enquired. He acknowledged that indeed it was he, adjusting a heavy gym bag on his shoulder, so as to be able to shake my outstretched hand - I think we are neighbours.

Och Aye, he said - Sew whits et like living on Groove Park?

Now I like having Ugandans on one side and Muslims on the other because I feel more like I am living in Shepherds Bush, or the East Village, rather than the Rathmines Road Lower - I gave my stock answer.

Aye, yiv goat Be-emdubyas an shoapin kerts oan the one Street.

Parked outside the flat is my white 1990 318i BMW Estate, nearly 15 years old admittedly but not yet one hundred thousand k on the clock and almost paid for. In the garden next door, where six Muslim lads live, is a shopping cart from Dunnes Stores.

This got me thinking. If Mr. Welsh has moved to this country, onto this street, to find his muse, to write his new novel, perhaps a worthy successor to 'Trainspotting' and is keenly aware of his surroundings. He is using the immediate area, people and objects as the raw material from which he will construct his new novel, perhaps it could be possible to inveigle objects into his consciousness. The horrific thought dawned on me; could I garden my way into Mr Welsh's consciousness and hence into his novel.

He noticed the BMW and the shopping cart. He walks past the garden every morning, half-asleep, his gym bag over his shoulder. I often spy him whilst I am half asleep in bed or working at my desk.

Is it possible or not? This journal will document the attempt.