We’re coming up to a whole year of The Ledge Beyond the Edge. I started this shit on a whim after four beers, the fact it’s still motoring along after a whole year gives me all sorts of warm and fuzzies. I’m posting rookie numbers compared to some of the literary heavyweights on Substack, but it’s totally not about the numbers. It really is, love me internet strangers. The equation is painfully simple: regularly writing keeps my head from popping clean off my neck.
It’s natural to look back as an anniversary approaches. And so, in a fit of ego so monstrous Kurt Russell could play it in a Marvel movie, I decided to create awards for myself. Yes, just like Michael Scott in The Office. The Dundies are for losers though (does a finger L on his forehead. Shit, wrong hand. The Curse of the Lefty strikes again), while the Ledgies are cooler than Matthew McConoughey in a chest freezer.
Excuse me? How very dare you, sir! No, this is absolutely not like in sitcoms where they do a compilation episode rather than producing a new one, and you’re lucky I even let you into the ceremony after such an ourtageous slur. The cheek, the nerve, the gall, the audacity and the gumption.
Ladies and gentlemen, please don your finest (“Who are you wearing? You look fabulous!”), take your seats, and charge your glasses as we look back over the very best of the last 12 months.
The People’s Choice Award
I shot a message off to all those Ledgeheads out there (22 countries, 22 states) asking them for help with this one. Almost total radio silence. Did everyone just decide to stop using the chat function? Why didn’t anyone tell me? Now I look like a right twat, like that time when I was about seven, and my mum did me up as an evil wizard for a fancy dress party - complete with green face, grey hair, bloody talons and a goddamn binbag cape - and I arrived to be met by 27 other kids with sheets over the heads dressed as ghosts. “Well, I think Lewis has won best dressed,” said the host’s mum.
Going well this fake awards ceremony, isn’t it?
Thankfully,
chipped in and helped me out with three favourites. ADHD thoughts was the first thing I ever published on Substack, and is an attempt to make sense of, well, everything in my head post diagnosis. What’s in a Name? explains the thinking behind my Substack’s title; an immensely fun yet actually kind of personal thing to write. Lastly, Back to School is the tale of me and my idiot dog Peanut seeing a behaviourist to sort out reactivity (hers, not mine).The people have spoken. Stop moaning at the back, you had a chance to cast a vote and you did diddly squat.
The Stats Don’t Lie Award (with apologies to Shakira)
Brewelzebub was written because nothing else wanted to come forward and show its face that particular week. I didn’t really want to stick the boot into a place that so many people, including friends, seem to enjoy. I didn’t want to do the grumpy old man schtick that week. Then I remembered that BrewDog is run by terminally horrible pricks and the words spewed forth.
It’s got three times more views than the next most successful piece, and it snagged something like seven new subs. You lot really hate enforced capitalist fun with your fruity IPAs, don’t you? Of course, it’s since been completely eclipsed, like Cybertron in the deadly shadow of Unicron in the old Transformers movie, by a casually tossed out Note about a stranger’s dogs that is, I think, the first time I’ve gone viral. So really what the fuck do the stats even know anyway?
The Alright Don’t Cry About It Award
Heavy Petting was commissioned for The Muse. I say commissioned, she didn’t pay me or anything; I just straight up owed it to her for years of unflinching support. I’d be destitute in a ditch if not for that woman. When she suggested I chronicle the pets we’ve loved and, in some cases, lost together, I wasn’t sure I could get much out of it. However, it eventually came together and was an absolute doozy.
It has apparently made her cry several times (I had no idea that she frequently re-reads it), and has tempted a friend who is a chronic serial lurker to comment on my Substack. I didn’t even know I could render emotions other than rage into words until I wrote Heavy Petting.
Go fuck yourself Disney, I’m the daddy of traumatic animal tales now.
The Puntastic Title Award
I’m getting better with lists. I’m starting to get the hang of them. I expect this sort of basic executive function to kick into high gear once I start shoving legally prescribed stimulants down my gob later this year. Listless Listlessness was written a few months after diagnosis, when I was still deep in the What-the-fuck? whirlwind, and explains how when you say “Just make a list” to someone who has ADHD, you might as well advise them to skydive without a parachute. Given the choice, I would probably go with a different image on this one if I wrote it today, but I really enjoyed the wrestler metaphor and I waned to celebrate it.
The My Favourite Baby Award
If I had to save one of my bits from a burning house, it would be Coming of Age in Kentish Town. The tale of my first trip to a gig, it was so much fun to write and came together with remarkable ease. When I was done, I sat back all content like Richard Dreyfuss at the end of Stand By Me, a little melancholic smile on my face. Unlike his nameless Stephen King clone (yes, it’s blatantly grown up Gordie, but he’s credited as ‘The Writer’), I remembered to hit save before I turned my computer off.
Coming of Age… is the one that made me think I could write for an audience of more than just one and I’m immensely proud of it. I even contemplated a nostalgic, celebratory can of Red Stripe, then I came to my senses. It was a Wednesday night and no one needs that gutrot juice midweek. I had a cup of redbush instead. Rock and fucking roll, indeed.
Actually, wait, I’m not done yet. I’m also quite fond of Old Father Thames too, so I’m having two here. What? Yes I can! I’m having two! No, stop the music! Don’t cut my mic, motherfuckers! Old Father Thames is a really personal look into how the river soothes m…
Ahem.
The Out Of Nowhere Award
I’m Just a Creaking Dirtbag, Baby was another one that ended up getting written because I am utterly obsessed with hitting my Friday deadline. I didn’t even know I was going to talk about style - or, in my case, the lack there of - until I started writing it. Sometimes all it takes to set me off is a stray marketing email. This is a fun look back on my life as an outsider on the fringes of fashion, and how I’m gracefully stylistically morphing into a touring live musician with an elderly Grunge band.
The Martin Scoresese Pottymouth Award
I do at least one edit where I sweep for swear words and reduce their number by half. Swearing is just fun punctuation, it’s totally big and totally clever too. Buuuu-ut, dear old Mother Holmes reads everything I put out there, and I can hear her in my head saying “Excuse me, swearing!” so I show remarkable restraint and rein myself in more often than not. Sometimes though, the words just have to sit as they’re vomited forth. I had a right old cob on when I wrote Becoming the Bull and man does it show. This one was a fun little rant that was remarkably cathartic to get out.
The Laying Myself Bare Award
We wouldn’t be here at all if not for No More Boxes. Something I absolutely had to write, it showed itself very early doors but took a long time to come fully into the light, like a puppy that’s been abused its whole life. It was really tough to get out and I’m still not entirely comfortable with introspection and putting so much out there, but this one was like its own self contained therapy session. It’s something I’ve bottled up for nearly 30 years, getting it out onto the page was a great relief.
The Haha, Got You Sucker! Award
The Monks is a massive long shaggy dog story that once got me punched in the face. You should’ve seen me while I was writing it out here, I was consumed with a rather spiteful form of glee. Recording the audio was even more fun, I had to do multiple takes because I kept tripping up in my eagerness to land the knockout punchline. Technically this isn’t ‘mine’ - it’s just a joke that’s been around for ages and that I love dearly. If I’m ever asked if I have any last words, I’d like to think I had the nous to tell The Monks one last time.
“Has he gone? I think he’s finally gone.”
Beep. Beep. Beep.
*Faintly* “Then… he takes out a marble key… for the marble… door…”
That’s it, ladies and gentlemen, show’s over. Don’t forget your goody bags, they cost £5k each, there’s loads of good shit in there. Party at Elton’s place afterwards.
You didn’t get an invite? I’m sure it just got lost en route. Did you check your junk? No, your junk folder - Jesus man, we’re in public here. Okay, have your people talk to my people, they’ll sort it out. No, of course you weren’t forgotten, I love you the most.
Everyone else: ditch the paparazzi on the way out, we want to keep it low key. And for god’s sake don’t touch Elton’s piano when we get back to his gaff, he gets proper mardy about it.
Thanks for reading. My ego may be gigantic but it’s dead fragile so show some love before you go. Bang that like button before you scarper, or get involved in the comments if this piece landed well with you. If you’re feeling really flush, buy me a beer and I’ll love you forever. Cheers.
Congratulations, Lewis ! And to many, many more writing years ahead !
Your baby is one! Congratulations! This has been the best awards ceremony since Ricky Gervais hosted the Emmys. 5 stars 🤩