Inebriation

I am currently slightly inebriated as I just saw some pretty lights which are commonly referred to as fireworks then proceeded to visit a friend's house with a large enough party of people to defeat a level 125 dragon and drank several bottles. Due to the fact that my metaphorical weight is light, that is to say that I have a low tolerance level for alcohol I was rather drunk but having got home, the home in which I am presently sitting and what a lovely home it is, and enjoyed a nice cup of tea I realize that I may have said things I should have not and done things perhaps better not done but the emphasis is firmly on the latter. I will definitely regret this in the morning when the nice fuzzy haze of alcohol induced happiness, like a lovely pink fog made of candy floss, slowly dissolves and fragments in the sharp rays of the morning sun.

 The fact that my currently intoxicated narrative voice is probably not that different to the speech mannerisms I employ when sober on this special little corner of the internet referred to by travelers as my blog is probably indicative of something but what it is I shall deduce and detect, as I am a detective and a very good one at that, in the morning because my mind will be sharper then. Although I did have a story idea (and i shall record it here in case i forget) about a detective who can solve murders when extremely drunk.

 potential extract: The body lay, cold and motionless in the center of the drawing room. "My god", said Detective Stephen Baxendale, as he cast his expert eye over the scene of the crime, "This is some serious shit." Quickly he turned to his assistant, the ever present butler whose name was Timothy Fendleweed, and ordered, "Timothy, get me two bottles of beer."
 "Yes sir," replied Timothy with much enthusiasm for he was a young sprightly creature eager to learn the tricks of the trade though he would not be learning anything with this particular detective since his methods were very specialized.
 Just as the butler was walking away, Stephen looked at the still corpse again and shook his head, "wait Timothy," he sighed suddenly, "This looks like a tough one to solve. Make it a bottle of vodka"
 "Yes sir," came the enthusiastic reply followed by the click of well polished shoes on rich marble tiles as the butler hurriedly exited the room.

 Wow, that looks like a bestseller. What would the title be? The drunk detective or the Pissed Private investigator or maybe the inebriated inspector. I am sending out these alliterations like a machine designed specifically to create catchy titles, an alliteration automaton. I'm not sure 75% of this post made sense but I'm sure even if it didn't the remaining 25% will be absolutely quality reading. Anyway no one reads my blog so its fine, for all anyone cares I could spill my deepest darkest secrets on here (like I did when drunk at the after party tonight, god dammit I will regret it in ten hours time.) and no one will be any the wiser. I love society. Peace out. I did not just say peace out. And if I did, it was meant ironically.

Personification

 Tonight I feel, in a word, cold. In two words very cold. In fact, I feel so cold that I could, if the opportunity were to present its self to me, simply go on a long and tenuous descriptive journey purely around the subject of how cold I am. To accurately convey the sheer coldness of my current being, imagine that you are eating a bucket of ground ice, while sitting in a fridge, which is its self situated atop a boat floating in the freezing Atlantic Ocean. Just nearby the Titanic is sinking and desperate survivors are swimming up to your boat for help but you kick them away, I currently feel as cold as your dark twisted heart as you mercilessly dislodge a dying child clinging desperately to the side of your vessel.

 If I were to demand to see the cruel individual responsible for my frosty fate, I would more than likely be directed  to a mirror since it is none other than my own mind that made the conscious decision to go out and see fireworks at a local park with companions despite the temperature. However what I require at the moment is not the rational analysis of my own poor judgment (especially in not taking my thick woolen trench coat purely for the reason that it still stank of alcohol and punch which would have been a minor draw back with hindsight considering the heavenly warmth it would have provided) but some figure at which to direct my, unfortunately all too metaphorically, burning anger.

 I would currently give anything, well, my entire present monetary fortune (which amounts to about three pounds and twenty six pence) for Jack Frost to appear before me, a personification of the natural phenomenon which caused my legs to feel like ready made fish fingers before defrosting and my arms like pain flavoured ice lollies. Though I am not usually the physically violent type, far preferring to psychologically wound the opponent with skillful verbal jousting, I would readily kick the chocolate flavoured soft ice out of Jack Frost to vent my sheer frustration at this bone biting, brain numbing, scrotum climbing cold.

 All I can do however is stamp my feet, rub my hands and curse the current climate as well as the rising cost of gas and electricity bills. Two other things I wouldn't particularly mind being personified to manifest themselves before me as a subject of my anger at the generally conceptual, the Price Rise Pig and the Bill Building Bird. Perhaps I could design them, little fable characters for the new age kids living through an economic down turn. Goodbye tooth fairy who takes childrens' teeth, hello the fat fairy who causes child obesity. So long Santa Clause who leaves you presents, welcome Pawnshop Pixie who takes your stuff at night but allows your family to eat for another few days.

 So the moral of the story is, its winter so wear a jacket when you go out, even if it does have the repugnant scent of stale alcohol wafting around it like vultures around a dying animal. God, its cold.

Mental Health

 I'm sure you have walked down the street one wind swept evening, shoes squelching wetly in the light drizzle, to see the ghostly pale form of a plastic bag, mutilated by some hungry urban fox somewhere, half drifting half rolling miserably across the road. Perhaps you, upon seeing it, put aside such environmental concerns as the biodegradability of plastic and stopped to look at the bag in order to briefly wonder what an apt metaphor for a tired and downcast state of mind the plastic bag could be. In which case I take this opportunity to humbly apologize to you for stealing your metaphor.
 However recently I had been feeling a little empty, lacking in confidence and an absence of general happiness, in short, I felt like a torn plastic bag. Of course I still had a certain amount of class and dignity in so far as being a torn plastic bag from Waitrose, not from Sainsbury's or Tesco's but my days of being a bag from Fortnum and Mason felt well and truly behind me.
 I'd been assaulted by a sudden torrent of doubts, I got the feeling that I wasn't as full of offensive witticism or snide remarks as I used to be, that I had become generally less amusing. Where was that verbose abusive flare with which I used to articulate statements designed only to irritate and upset? Where was the mind with which I had taken every opportunity to weave the most inappropriate and emotionally scarring of jokes into the conversation? Is this a mid-life crisis? In which case does that mean I only have sixteen more years to live? To put plainly, I felt like some spark that had burnt stubbornly in me for the last ten years or so had quite suddenly given up and vanished with a tired sigh, leaving behind only a fast dispersing smoke-like remnant of vaguely amusing cynicism.
 Even in the darkest of times however, there is light. On the very hour I was feeling least confident about myself, almost as if by fate, my school held a lunch time assembly on "Mental Health". An assembly there to cover lack of confidence, depression and other symptoms of teenage pubescent angst. With as much hope as someone mildly dejected can muster, I was, along with everyone else in my year group, shepherded into the assembly. Perhaps, just perhaps the talk would improve my mental health.
 As the chatter dies down, I wait in anticipation as the talk begins. The two women in charge walk onto the stage, armed with an optimistically colored power point behind them and a presumably helpful speech in their grasp. They open their mouths in preparation, I assume, of great enlightening words that will open my mind to the wonders of psychiatric treatment.
 "Hello," the first woman, let us call her Messiah One, announces while the second woman, Messiah Two, fiddles with the power point presentation, "We're here to talk to you about mental health. Do you know," a healthy pause as the power point changes slides, "That we all have different personality types."
 By which she of course means human beings are all, believe it or not, different and individual... my eyes are opened, not to new and enlightening facts about psychiatry as I had hoped but to the now painfully apparent fact that this talk is an irritatingly patronizing game of State the Obvious. With that comes the realization that I might as well replace the two women, Messiah one and two, with some suitably wizened looking bearded homeless man off the streets and he would fulfill the role of Messiah far better than the two on stage both in terms of appearance and genuine ability to enlighten.
 At that moment, fueled by vexation, my motivational spark rekindled and roared into a full blaze. And like the fallen warrior rising from amongst the corpse littered battle field to face the oncoming enemy or the limp fighter rising from amongst the graying bushes with the aid of Viagra to face the on coming...... I slowly raised my hand high into the air to make a contribution: an intelligent, malicious, needless, spiteful, cynical, provocative, irritating, misanthropic contribution to be articulated confidently and verbosely with a facetious grin across my lips.

The Case of the Anonymous Riddler

 It has been a few weeks since the sixth form term began and though initially the invasion of girls into what was previously an all male educational institution was seen with hostility and suspicion (like the landing of early pioneers in tribal lands), thanks partially to the continuous efforts by the school staff to valiantly yet awkwardly promote "Mingling" through school barbecues and tea parties, the gender barrier (which first seemed as damningly sinister as the Berlin wall and as colossal as the Great Wall of China) has been breached and so far (unlike early pioneers in tribal lands) none of the females have stolen our land, extorted our wealth, destroyed our culture or brought disease (though that may be left as an unpleasant surprise to discover when inter gender relations within sixth form penetrate new depths).

 I for one have acted as a friendly native welcoming these strangers into our lands and promptly integrating them into my personal culture (grown in a Petri dish labeled "weird and wonderful")by near forcibly converting them to my Detective Agency. With the exception of a few for whom I am yet to think of an underling name, such as Olivia (an extreme Lord of the Rings fan with whom I discuss youtube and Tolkien's work, often together), most new girls I have conversed with have gone through the initiation process of being given an underling name (by which they will be referred to for the rest of eternity... if I were to find some way to live eternally).

 Though some still refuse to accept their fate, such as Underling Salmon (an often bitingly sarcastic character, occasionally as cold in attitude as her native Iceland) most have passively joined the Detective Agency, such as Underling Spirit (A tall individual who gives off an atmosphere of gentle tranquility. Of a generous nature, so determined by myself as I borrow her Paperchase rubber every mathematics class) while some have even supported it enthusiastically, for example Underling Solo (An orange haired mistress of memory who appears to be able to remember even the slightest of personal details if mentioned once) and Underling Swirl (A french girl often adopting the appearance and attitude of a six year old with occasional glimpses of someone five times as mature).

 The incident, began last Saturday, when, with a sinister buzz heralding the arrival of a new message sent to my phone via the invisible cybernetic strings which seems to bind most of developed society today, I received a text message from an unknown number. Within the round friendly corn colored speech bubble were simply written in a collection of pitch black pixels "Only you can hear this". Ignoring the fact that it made little sense to claim anyone, not even me as suggested by the message, could actually "hear" a text, the message was quite obviously sinister (Positioned, in terms of the sinister scale, two notches above the dark and stormy night in a crumbling castle but three notches below the trench coated figure in a night time alley way).

 When I demanded the villainous sender's fiendish identity, several devious texts malevolently came flying my way, three enigmatic words:

"Ursus major perro"

 and two suspiciously traditional riddles, in which, the malicious sender claimed, menacingly, that his/her devilish identity could be discovered. Seeing this as a challenge to my not inconsiderable skills as a detective, I set to work.

 From the fact that it was an unknown number I swiftly worked out that, seeing as I updated my list of contacts roughly two weeks ago, the number could only belong to someone I had met recently or someone I had known for a while but not bothered to add to my contacts in which case they would be thoroughly dull people worthy of being disregarded by myself and thus not the sort of people to send me interesting messages, from this I immediately narrowed my list of suspects down to the new girls at the school. From there began the challenge.
 The first riddle went thus:

"A box without hinges, key or lid

 yet inside golden treasure is hid."

 After a moments thought I correctly deduced that the answer was "egg".

 However seeing as this proved no help at all, I progressed to the second riddle.

"Alive without breath,

 As cold as death;

Never thirsty; Ever drinking

All in mail never clinking"

 After a slightly longer period of thought I deduced the answer to the riddle was "fish". From there I considered all of my Underlings and the possible meaning of these questions and their respective yet equally mysterious answers. Soon I reached one conclusion, an Underling mildly malicious enough to attempt to harass me in this way whose number I didn't have and who was associated with "fish"... Underling Salmon. It seemed to make sense, the pieces falling into place, however I couldn't shake off the feeling that there was something more to these riddles. Ignoring this I continued with my hypothesis, perhaps "ursus major perro" was a constellation found in the general direction of Iceland?

 With this thought in mind I contacted Underling Butler (A snide but intelligent underling with a wide knowledge of astronomy and zoology who surrounds himself with too many books and too few friends). "Yes, what is it?" he questioned irritably upon answering the phone, his posh accent and upper class pronunciation galloping through the mobile phone connection like a polo pony through the town center.

 "It is I, Veritable Galanthus," I announced as per usual, "great detective and your immediate superior. I have a request, underling Butler."

 "What is it O' Great detective?" he muttered sarcastically, a mixture of mocking amusement clinging to his tone like stench of garlic to breath, the sort of insulting condescending manner of speech that will cause problems for him later in life. Ignoring his attitude, I gave the rough context, including the precise nature of the riddles and proceeded to inquire about the words "Ursus Major Perro".

 "I'm terribly sorry," he responded after a moment of thought, using the malignant tone of voice that has so permeated the core of his very being that nothing short of surgery could remove it, "But I can't say I know what that means beyond that it has something to do with a great bear. Whatever it is its not a constellation."

 "Well, you're useless," I concluded, "Farewell."

 "Oh," exclaimed Underling Butler a moment before I hung up, "the riddles you mentioned are both from the Hobbit though."

 As those words rang in my ear, the metaphorical penny began its slow earth bound journey, plummeting through many meters of air as cognitive gravity gradually but inevitably took hold. Then after a minute of silent vertical descent, it hit the ground of understanding with a reverberating metallic clink of comprehension. "Olivia!" I shouted.

 I later learned from her that "Ursus Major Perro" or "great bear perro" was a reference to the surreal animated youtube video, "Mr Ando of the Woods" which she showed me: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iqzt3T4R38c

Perhaps Underling Sinister would be a good name...