Here’s me, mastering the art of extreme sedentary activity, which is just a posh Morningside way of saying I’m glued to my sofa doing sweet F.A. It sneaks up like an Edinburgh haar, smothering me before I’ve even noticed. I don’t lift a finger until I’m neck-deep in a crisis so grim it’d make the Fringe’s worst comedian seem uplifting. Social exclusion and an apathy that could out-bore a Castle tour guide? That’s my personal purgatory, and I’m a VIP. My Edinburgh-bred grit—call it *tenacity* if you’re feeling fancy—is about as useful as a tram ticket during a festival shutdown. By the time I twig what’s happening, the dark dog of depression’s been skulking about for weeks, and I’ve neglected myself so thoroughly I could headline a tragedy at the Traverse.
Here’s the kicker: I *know* hauling myself up and tackling the absolute bin fire that is my life sparks improvement. Thirty odd years of this nonsense—I’m practically a PhD in misery. Am I sharp enough to act early, like a proper Edinburgh lad? Am I hell. I’d rather wallow, starring as the moody wee sod in my head’s endless one-man show, which always ends with the cheery verdict that the world’s neither better nor worse with me in it. Achievements? Goals? They’re as enticing as a flat Irn-Bru on a dreich August day—soggy and pointless. Compare that to the crisp, throat-zinging joy of a cold one fresh from a Leith corner shop. Same drink, different vibe. My brain’s a cunning wee git, wiping out every speck of joy like a Princes Street busker butchering “I would Walk 500 Miles.” Yet, at other times, I’m dead chuffed with the life I’ve scraped together. I’m living the dream here in Spain 15 years now I wanted before I shuffle off—fearless, unbound, tearing through life like a tourist dodging flyers on the Royal Mile. But depression, that sneaky bawbag, can make even the best bits feel like a cancelled Festival show. “This too shall pass,” I mutter, trying to convince myself I’m worth more than a footnote in Edinburgh’s history. Some of you lot will get this, I reckon.
Losing my mum just over three years ago proper gutted me. Still does. The last bastion of unconditional love, my fiercest advocate—gone. Cue the 53-year-old orphan, blubbering like a lost tourist in the Grassmarket, while most folk just shrugged. I bottled up the pain because, you know, I’m a stoic Edinburgh boy. No apologies for being utterly floored by the emotional car crash of losing your last parent. Age doesn’t matter. If you had a mum as cracking as mine, her absence is a bruise that doesn’t fade. Someone once said, “Grief’s just unused love with a sell-by date.” Sounds like something you’d hear at an overpriced Fringe poetry gig, but it’s bang on. Folk love to bang on about the “circle of life” or how my mum had a “good run” at 72. Oh, jog on. She was still sharper than half the academics at Edinburgh Uni and my daily blether. Some reckoned my grief was “too much” for a 50-year-old mourning a 72-year-old. Aye, cheers, mate—nothing says empathy like outing the neediest orphan at the wake.
Hang on, I’m not *always* a walking cloud. I’m a functioning misery guts, ta very much. By day, I’m the outlandish, tattooed comedian-slash-English-teacher, dishing out learning objectives with more flair than a Festival fire-juggler. I’m the guy who went and inked his *entire* body. Daft? Maybe. But when I say I’m doing something, you’d be daft to bet against me. The process was a weirdly cleansing palaver with my tattoo artist—part therapy, part endurance test. Call it masochistic or just pure Scottish stubbornness, but I grew through the pain, edging closer to whatever potential I’ve got left. A few thousand hours of needle-induced agony to offset the male menopause? Sorted. Receding hairline, fading libido—tattoos fix it all, aye? (Spoiler: they don’t, but I love them anyway. Still the roughest ride I’ve put my body through since climbing Arthur’s Seat hungover.) I’m the old-school gay guy who doesn’t quite fit in queer circles or straight ones—like trying to find a decent pint in a tourist trap pub. I’m a stand-up comic, dog obsessive, and a bit of a loner. Life lobbed a triple whammy—COVID, mum’s death, and the charming betrayal of her final wishes by family vultures mucking up the estate. Pure soap opera, but with worse lighting.
Writing’s my therapy, letting me untangle the mince in my head. Answers? Good one. Most days, it feels like I'm stood in the Meadows with my keks in one hand and the drawstring in the other, wondering how it all went pear-shaped. You’d think spotting the one big life event sparking my emotional meltdown would be easy, but it’s a cumulative pile-up. Picture a string of knackered fairy lights from an Old Town Christmas market—I’m the eejit checking each bulb, hoping to find the one that blew my circuit. Newsflash: it’s usually the whole fucking lot!
Lee Robert Ness
aka @inkedprofesoringles (Instagram)
+34 642728518 (WhatsApp)
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