About me

how I got into holding a microphone

I know I said I’d post one free article a month but this is just more of a diary entry and you’re not actually the boss of me. I hate bosses. But not as much as they hated me. I got fired from almost every job I’ve ever had. I wasn’t inspired enough to rise and grind. So I roused and ground, and took nothing they said seriously. Especially if they said it too loud. Which they did. Let’s hope this Substack thing works out. I can’t go back to Eddie Rockets.

It feels a bit weird to talk about myself. But someone has to do it. And I think it should be me. No one knows me as long as I do. And I’m a writer, so I think I’ll do a good job. For someone who works online, is extroverted, and posts regular videos that are filmed in public— I’m surprisingly shy when it comes to being fully myself on the internet. It’s easier to slip into a persona, or a caricature of myself, reciting a script with a Rode microphone as armour, to protect myself against the feelings of rejection. So I’d rather be rejected for my character, than for my character. I’m very sensitive, which may come as a shock to some of you. Growing up, I felt embarrassed about writing. Even now, I feel embarrassed about talking about writing. It feels a little bit self-indulgent. It’s the same reason I rarely appear on podcasts. I don’t want people to ask me questions they don’t care about, only for me to give them answers they’re not listening to. If I wanted to talk to the wall, I would just go visit my granddad. He’s in a coma. I’m joking. He died when I was 3.

The age of 15 was a pivotal year for me. It was when I discovered my talent for writing. I never applied myself in school. I like to say that I dumbed down my intelligence. But maybe that’s what everyone says. A retrospective conclusion for the bored and misunderstood; to make it seem like we were fooling everyone all along. Either way, I was constantly distracted and couldn’t sit still. I was the class clown, and had dyspraxia that was yet to be diagnosed. So I didn’t really fit in, and I used to spill everything that fumbled into my hands. To go back to Eddie Rockets for a moment, I’m reminded of when I clocked in after going to a rave the night before, operating heavy machinery on no sleep. I carried a tray of drinks over to a table of American tourists, tripped over myself and drenched the pass in Coca-Cola and Sprite Zero. After readjusting my mandated-waiter bowtie, and swallowing what was left of my fragile pride, I brought another tray of drinks over, and tripped over the same wet patch again. I probably should’ve mopped it up first. I didn’t even put out a wet floor sign. But I believed in myself; what an error of judgement— I haven’t made that mistake since. I wasted so much product that day, the restaurant could’ve sued me for damages. I told the table it was my first shift. I wanted them to feel sorry for me. They did. I was two years there at that point. I used that line on a weekly basis. They still tipped me a fiver. Pity is a powerful aphrodisiac. They’d only arrived in Dublin two hours previously. I dispelled their misty-eyed dreams of shamrocks and leprechauns. Delivering a transnational dose of clumsy realism. That’s customer service.

Sorry for that brief disturbance, but I assume you were already disturbed. Anyway, my childhood— I grew up in a family of musicians and performers, and was lucky enough that my creativity was encouraged. I played the piano from a young age, and picked up the guitar soon after, often practising for 8 hours a day. My first venture into writing was through lyrics. I was inspired by artists like Eyedea and Sadistik, writers like Oscar Wilde, comedians like George Carlin, as well as a few spoken-word poets; Shane Koyczan, Andrea Gibson, Emmet Kirwan and Elayne Harrington to name a few. Although music was always in my blood, my love of words soon took over. Through writing, I found a new way to express myself. Creativity was a world I fell into whenever I got bored of the real one. Mr Walsh— my English teacher— a self-described misanthrope with a loud personality, and a voice dragged through nettles— is one of the main reasons I pursued a career in writing. He encouraged me when he didn’t have to. And he hated just about everything. So that meant something. I love consistency. And hatred. My parents have always been so supportive of me. To this day, my mam reads all my comments and texts me whenever a blue check-marked account follows my Instagram. And my dad watches all of my videos and pitches new ideas for topics. And while I’ll never take their encouragement for granted, to get support from someone who doesn’t have a dog in the race, or an offspring in the bloodline, felt a bit different.

I used to wait outside Mr Walsh’s classroom and stop him in the hallway when no one was around, to sheepishly hand him a crumpled sheet of my new scribbled poem. He would put on his glasses and read it in front of me, while I awkwardly awaited his appraisal. I always felt so validated by his reaction, he’d readjust, flip back his hip-length matted black hair, and in his trademark, growling sandpaper droll, he’d say— “Frankie, these poems are exceptional, you have to put them together and publish them, for fuck sake.” It would be really funny (to me) if I was lying about that. Funny, and twisted. The same way people on Instagram lie about profound things their kids say. Your kids are not profound, you are just insecure about your parenting skills, yours sincerely, a childless man. You’re welcome.