Today is the day my alter ego steps out from behind the curtain.

Welcome to the dark, fucked-up world of Richie Malone.

This blog is the prequel to my novel, ‘Losing the Plot’.

Amigos, I’d like this to be an interactive exercise, so if you have any ideas or suggestions about characterization, narrative or relevant personal experience you’d like to share, please feel free to correspond in the ‘comments’ section, beneath the blog.

So we together can construct a collaborative novel?I can’t offer you much in the way of reward for your input, but I’ll try and think of something.

So here we go…

Over to you, Richie Malone.

I leave the Moet Bar feeling mildly pleased with myself.

And why not?

I have a new nickname — ‘Belfast Boy’ — which carries a certain gravitas, swinging precariously between intrigue and decadence.

I can’t remember exactly who it was that gave me this name but I didn’t sleep with her, which for me is quite unusual.

I’d been double-parking shitty Spanish beer with tequila for several hours, and truth be told, the prospect of sex somehow got shunted down the to do list.

But I do remember she had the deepest green eyes you could swim in without drowning, long, tanned legs that you would gladly die between and an accent that located her somewhere near Belgrade.

I know these things; don’t ask me why. There’s the intrigue bit coming out.

Anyway, the point is that despite the fact that I would gladly have swum up the Lagan to hand wash her underwear, there were too many other attractive women in my backfield. To cop off with one would have diluted my chances of riding the others at a future opportunity.

Tip number one: sometimes, amigos, it’s necessary to take a strategic ‘Did Not Bat,’ in the interest of the bigger picture.

Anyway, in addition to being a stunner, she had one of those quirky names. I’m pretty good at getting a bird’s name, but I’m struggling here; I’m thinking it’s Attila. The first and last letters were definitely ‘As’ so — I’m guessing here — Attila would definitely be in the ballpark. Birds love it when you get their name, when you admire it, and show you’ve remembered but don’t overuse it because that’s just tacky, like sending flowers after the first shag.

Okay, so this is how things finished up:

I insulted a waitress (who turns out to be the owner’s daughter) but repaired the situation to the extent that I was given a drink ‘on the house.’

I called a man with a small, bemused looking dog a drug-dealing homosexual, and he also offered me a drink.

I told the doorman (who intervened after I had insulted the waitress) that if he continued to look at me in the disdainful manner appropriate for the English tourist, he would have to surgically remove my glass from his anus. Maybe a little of this was lost in translation, but he also bought me a drink.

And so, all in all, things could have turned out a whole lot worse.

So what is it about me?

You see, I can’t go anywhere where I have an audience and behave anything other than badly.

Especially when my ego is scaffolded by young, attractive women. They accelerate this fucked-up mentality that pushes the ‘twat’ button in my psyche. It’s like a drug — I have attention, but I crave more.

*

So let me tell you a bit about myself, that is if you don’t already know me.

I’m fifty-one years old.

I’m incredibly good looking (think George Clooney-stroke-Richard Gere here) despite thirty years of heavy drinking, smoking, minor narcotic abuse and exercise avoidance.

I’m a writer and a sex addict.

Fuck, that was harder to say than I’d expected; the writer bit.

Reason being, I’ve had three novels published but you’ve probably never even heard of them. No Costa Book Awards yet.

And the best book I’ve never written is still buzzing around in my head.

I lived with a woman for fifteen years until last November when she decided to become a lesbian and moved in with her lover. No great loss; it kind of liberated me. Thanks Mandy, if you’re reading this.

So then I moved to Spain, not because I have a love of bull fighting and the peel of church bells, but because even a total imbecilic fuck-wit can pull beautiful women. Which is pretty much all I’ve been doing for the last nine months; I can’t beat them off with a shitty stick.

Until, that is, something went terribly wrong.

But that’s a story for another day.

Now you know me.

Remember the name: Richie Malone.

Belfast Boy.