An Exercise in Self-Deprecation

I am depressed, self-centred, unmotivated and underhanded. I make snide comments at respectable people to gage reactions which I in turn can not deal with.

I am an alcoholic, and despite knowing this I feel no need to make an effort to tackle this.

I am extremely arrogant and cynical to the point of hubris, and hold the natural assumption that everyone should be party to my opinions, yet I will simultaneously chide opinions I do not agree with while lambasting those that state opinion as fact, a habit I'm guilty of more than most.

I feel anger and resent at those who are professionally more successful than me, and try to internally justify my own lack of success with self-righteous, stock ideologies that, if I am honest with myself, I only profess to believe in.

I scold myself for not progressing professionally, yet I make no effort to set the ball in motion for this progression.

In my free time, whilst boasting to others that I am a writer, I seldom participate in anything productive. I would sooner watch television for hours on end than pursue my claims.

I get murky and angry at my friends when they appear to not show me any support, yet in truth I know that if this is the case, it is most likely due to my chronic inability to make any kind of effort on their behalf. Despite knowledge of this irony, I remain too self righteous to relent and pity my friends.

I rarely visit my family, even those that live close to me.

I am extremely vocal about my heroes, be they living, dead, fictional or factual, yet I never attempt to emulate their ideals and deeds, with the exception of Charles Dickens, who I most arrogantly consider myself to be his literary successor despite having nothing remotely credible to my name.

I seek undeserved sympathy for my misery that is derived from my selfishness and rash actions.

I feel self-deprecation is a form of entertainment and that my own cynicism should be enjoyed by my blog readers.

I start far too many sentences with 'I', a much frowned-upon grammatical flaw.

Whenever things don't go my way, or when the good people in my life criticise my actions or opinions, I run away and descend into anger and jealousy that lasts for days.

My bad feelings are often internal and I seldom vent healthily, which makes matters worse.

Although I do make a pretty awesome cappuccino.

Every cloud has a silver lining, Merry Christmas! xxxx

Coppervid Dafield (abridged)

I'm a quarter of a century old today. This is that quarter. Although some events may be out of sequence.

Whether or not I am being the hero of my own life, I should have paid more attention. When I was twenty-five my novel, 'The Life and Loves of Jet Tea', was more or less finished. I became prolific in writing almost at the cost of my own well being. My typed-up tantrums and rants were the product of constant alcohol abuse as I would drink constantly and turn to Facebook or my blog to vent what would be my bottled-up sober thoughts in libellous, spiteful yet somewhat comical outbursts. These were always at either the amusement or annoyance of my friends.

I took residence in what is essentially the attic of a Soho pub after eventually leaving and becoming a successful writer, and I preceded to use what little free time I had to try and become a writer. My days (and nights) were spent dispensing beer to tourists, actors, perverts and businessmen and whenever I could fit it in, I would write my blog. This would continue unchanged until I eventually opened the blog.

Having acquired the job in the Soho pub, I eventually moved out of the flat in Finchley, North London, where I lived with my girlfriend and her chum from university. It was a lovely place, newly built only some years before and sitting pleasantly in one of those rare pockets of suburban London that can be walked around in at all hours without need to feel fear. Here I lived for two years, strolling the alleys and woodlands of Highgate and Barnet in my free time and keeping track of my thoughts in a little notebook I always kept on my person.

During this time, I found myself not yet having started the job in Soho and on the dole. This was a most depressing time for me and, despite always having been supportive of the work-shy (I was myself more creative when unemployed so I always assumed the benefit classes are prolific purveyors of fine art and literature), I did everything in my power to end it.

The inevitability of being on the dole came from my ill-advised decision to leave my job in Uxbridge, West London due to the painfully-long daily commute I had to put up with to get back to Finchley. Daily I would travel upwards of two hours on the Metropolitan and Northern lines just to get to and from work. Although as the old adage attests, every cloud has a silver lining and during these journeys I found myself able to read more than ever before. I worked in Uxbridge for almost three long, dull years and in the second of those years I moved into the flat in Finchley with my girlfriend and started working on a novel, tentatively titled 'The Life and Loves of Jet Tea'. It was to be about my best friend, who has a tendency to fall in love with every girl he meets.

My welcome home party, upon my return from New York, was cut short when an airborne, drunk teenager accidentally kicked my girlfriend in the face. She lost the feeling in her head and received a scar above her eye. I accompanied her to the hospital, during which time the attending doctor shot me funny look after funny look, silently accusing me of domestic violence.

Before long, I graduated from university with a 2:1 in English literature and film studies. By now my girlfriend was, for all intents and purposes, living with me in my parents' house in Hayes. Shortly before that, I met my girlfriend while playing guitar in a friend's band. We spent many evenings drinking various spirits from my parents' cupboard and watching obscure sci fi programmes and films until the small hours of the morning. She was brought in as a session violinist and we found the two of us had myriad common interests in uncommon things. The band, being the roster of musicians it was during my involvement, existed for, I suppose, a year and a half. We played lots of fun gigs all around London, many of which had hilarious drunken consequences, and I joined shortly after moving out of my house in Reading due to a nasty falling out with my friend and housemate.

University was a strange time for me. Shortly before the commencement of my third year, I broke up with my girlfriend of four years and towards the end of the second year we were spending less and less time together, despite living in the same town and both being students. Once upon a time, when I was older and worked full time, I used to realise how lucky I would have it when I was a student, complaining about having to be at school from 9am until 11am and spending the remainder of the afternoon in bed watching illegally-downloaded 'Robot Chicken' episodes until the evening when I would go into town with my friends and make short work of a bottle of After-Shock.

In my second year I moved into a house in Reading with eight other students. I wasn't there long, and before that I spent my first summer back home in Hayes crawling around London with my friends Maurice, Jet Tea and Wilhelm Neuf. It was a blurry affair, and both the passage of time and consumption of alcohol have left me with only snippets of recollection. We would trawl across London, attending gigs and open mic nights and watching each other get into various kinds of trouble with promoters, members of the audience and occasionally the police.

Eventually I began university. I moved away from Hayes, West London, for the first time in my life at the age of twenty and settled quickly into a grotty halls of residence in a rather remote part of Reading, Berkshire. I began studying English and soon decided that I'd like to be a writer of fiction. The nights out in Reading were, at that time of my life, the most incredible and intense I had ever experienced. We drank like good and true students and danced like charlatans with no self awareness.

University was preceded by a gap year, part of which I spent travelling by myself around Western Europe and gradually beginning to shape the person I was when I lived in Soho at the age of twenty-five. The reflective, mood-swinging alcoholic scribbler who enjoys his own company. I finished my travels in Paris, and prior to that travelled through Spain, Italy, Germany, Austria, Hungary, Holland, Belgium and eventually started in France, full circle.

Before leaving for Europe I began a relationship my first girlfriend in sixth form. I had known her for seven years before this. My school years were more-or-less par for the course of any teenage English boy. My small group of friends existed outside of school social circles and we would roam the school grounds looking for ghosts, getting into mild trouble with teachers and musing upon and observing our experiences with attitudes far beyond our years. I no longer wished to be a writer, instead I wanted to be an illustrator and I missed out on many a better grade for the multitude of cartoons and comics I would draw of my teachers and friends, safe in the modest knowledge that they weren't lifelike enough for them to notice.

We played gigs after school at a local youth centre to a crowd of alternative teenagers who hated us and threw chairs at us. In their defence we were terrible. I joined my first band. I began learning guitar. My mum bought me my first guitar for my fifteenth birthday.

I began feeling a funny change during my early teens in which I would feel awkward around the opposite sex and think about them more and more. This didn't last much longer and eventually I didn't really care and was just happy playing with toys and computer games.

I grew smaller and began wanting everything and being unwilling to contribute or realise how fortunate I was. I could care less about how hard my parents would have to work to give me the comfortable childhood I had. Even so, I still wrote. I would spend all my time sitting at the dining table with piles of blank paper, writing stories and comics until my hand was sore.

One summer afternoon I was climbing a tree outside my house when suddenly the branch I clung to snapped off and I fell hard onto the concrete, breaking my nose and tearing my upper lip apart. The scar would be there forevermore.

Eventually I lost the ability to write and draw. Before long I could no longer even spell my own name. All I had were vague traces of what would be my voice, and then that was gone.

I found myself invalided, scared of the world and completely unaware of what was going on. I cried all the time and lost control of my bodily functions entirely. I couldn't move, I couldn't tell anyone what I needed. Everything seemed so big, so scary and yet still it intrigued me. I wanted to learn about everything. Despite the despair I was constantly enduring, I knew this cold, bright place was a place to be explored and I'm sure I will have a lot of great adventures here.

Today I was born.

"When Can You Start?"

'And this is the office.'
Derrick peered through the door window. It was most definitely the smallest office he'd seen. Not that pub offices were particularly renowned for being roomy. He nodded meekly.
'If you want to have a look inside I'll just run back upstairs and grab your paperwork' said Derrick's new manager, before bounding back down the corridor and up the stairs.
Derrick sat down. He hated being shown round a new place of work. He never really knew what to say or what questions to ask, if any. Although the job was in the bag, Derrick still felt as though he was in the interview stage until he properly began work.
Staring at nothing in particular, Derrick slowly swivveled and turned on the office chair waiting for his new manager to return. He turned over appropriate questions and comments in his mind, and decided against all of them. It didn't matter.
Then Derrick noticed the screen on his right. The CCTV screen that showed all possible angles in the pub. He stood up out of his chair and looked at it.
Boredom and curiosity curdled in Derrick's idle brain as he decided to grab the mouse and select a single screen for closer view. He selected the small, jittery image of the main bar and clicked. The image enlarged and filled the screen instantly. Then Derrick noticed the first odd thing he'd notice that evening.
The pub was empty.
How strange, he thought. It was more than plausible that the solitary bartender who greeted him when he arrived had just nipped out the back for a moment (as a long time bar manager Derrick was all too familiar with that most irritating habit), but there were at least thirty customers in the space that this CCTV camera was covering before he left. There was no way that they'd all leave at the same moment.
Then Derrick felt silly. Of course, he thought, it must be old footage. The time and date begged to differ. The footage of the deserted pub was completely live. He wondered where his manager had gotten to.
Then the second odd thing happened.
He didn't immediately notice what it was about the footage that was wrong, but after a moment of scrutiny Derrick saw it. The empty pint glass that stood on the bar had moved. No, was moving. As clear as these words are to you, Derrick would swear, that glass moved. It slid unsettlingly slowly across the bar. Painfully slowly, almost like it knew it shouldn't be allowed to do that. The jumpy, jittery pixelated footage occasionally distorted its journey and at times the glass appeared to jump suddenly upon its route. Then it reached the edge of the bar. And it kept going.
Derrick was rigid with morbid amazement as he watched the animated glass tumble over the edge of the bar and off the screen. The next odd thing made him jump.
With unbelievable coincidence, a loud smash startled Derrick into a chill and broke his gaze. He darted over to the office door and opened it.
There was a broken pint glass at his feet.
All manner of dread and foreboding lined Derrick's stomach as he considered the impossible. He slammed the door shut and went back to the CCTV screen, his heart pounding.
'Christ' he failed not to say aloud.
He wished he could see the whereabouts of the wayward glass on screen, just to put his mind at ease. The screen was no barer of relief.
The fourth odd thing happened. A door swung open, and nobody emerged. The fifth. Another glass tumbled off the bar. The sixth, the seventh. Eighth. Ninth. Beer pumps turned on by themselves, the beer flowing onto the ground and causing rapidly spreading puddles. That blasted door did not relent in its animation. Things flew by, too blurred by the mediocre camera quality for Derrick to work out what they were. Shadows. Large, ominous things that allowed for no quality or clarity. Something stood in the centre of all the chaos, the smashing glasses and swinging doors, it stood and it stared at Derrick. It stared malevolently. It wasn't actually there, but Derrick could feel it, staring and grinning. Grinning like it wanted to do evil things, grinning like it wanted Derrick to be there when it did them. Its invisible stare was more horrible and more intense than could be achieved by any worldly eyes.
Derrick gasped for breath and stumbled back, almost tripping over the chair as he did. He did not feel safe in the lonely office. He headed for the door.
It was open. Derrick thought he'd closed it, but he wasn't exactly at the height of concentration at this moment in time. He wanted to run away back down the corridor that he and his boss (where had he gotten to?) had came from, but the corridor was no longer there. How could that be? There was a wall in its place, a grey brick wall that looked like it had been there for decades, yet Derrick stepped freely through the space that wall now occupied just minutes before. On the opposing wall there was a door. The only door now, save for the one into the office, that Derrick could escape through. He took it without hesitation.
Breathing heavily and shaking like a dog in the snow, Derrick found himself in the pub. It should have been upstairs. The office was in the basement and Derrick had climbed no stairs. He had taken the door out of the office and somehow he was upstairs. The windows revealing the street outside attested to that. He was horrified and for a moment he shut his eyes tight, unwilling to see in front of him what the CCTV screen had shown.
He opened his eyes.
No activity was to be beheld. The bar remained empty, like it shouldn't have been, but there was no swinging door, no chaotic glasswear and no puddles of beer flowing out from behind the bar.
It wasn't a relief.
As Derrick slowly gazed around the cold, empty pub, taking in the dusty, abandoned wooden tables and old weathered chairs that should have been the carriers of cheer and liveliness but instead acted as a terrible display of isolation and darkness, Derrick still didn't feel alone. He felt as though that thing that he sensed in the middle of the room from the CCTV was still there. He sensed it pacing gleefully around its domain, he felt it staring accusingly at Derrick's intrusion. He didn't know what it wanted but he knew it was close. Facing him. Approaching him. Next to him. Those eyes! They weren't there, but, those eyes!
Derrick breathed deeply and started to move. The pub was so dark, so empty. He realised how big it seemed when uninhabited and the front door felt like it was a world away. He trod with caution slowly toward it. He would not look behind him, for Derrick had convinced himself that the invisible thing had taken form and trod in his shadow, claws outstretched, waiting for him to turn around and see the most horrific face he would ever see again.
Derrick reached the front door. He placed his hands on the cold wood and pushed. The door swung open and he rushed outside into the cold. He was out. It was as dark and lonely outside as it was in the pub but it felt safe and good. Derrick let the double doors swing behind him as he breathed a sigh of relief.
Then a voice from behind him said

Remembrance

Albert awoke one morning and decided his life was pointless and boring. Sure, he'd raised a beautiful son thanks largely in part to his relationship and marriage to his beautiful wife Emma. But even so, he felt empty and felt his grasp on the world was ghost-like, with no contact or solidarity. He felt small. He felt his impact should reach beyond people that knew him and he hated the foreboding idea that once all of his contemporaries had passed on, there would be nobody on the planet who would remember him.

Albert looked into possible opportunities to prolong his posthumous influence on the world. He considered music, but recalled his angry, compulsory music lessons as a child. He never could immediately master the instruments he was most interested in and, despite his teachers telling him that this was completely normal, for even they were no good when they started out, Albert would refuse to believe it and burst into violent, frustrated outbursts. These outbursts became increasingly more commonplace at school and were the main factor in his eventual expulsion at the age of 15. Since then Albert came to resent education and, ultimately, to resent those who remained in education beyond the mandatory school years. He would regard students as detestable vermin, and with their regular gatherings and protests against what they called 'social wrongdoings', Albert would grow to hate them intensely, to the point where he would turn violent upon seeing a student. He loathed hearing their voices and deeply resented that they were given exposure just because they remained in education longer than he did. The stress Albert felt upon hearing a student speak led to him concluding that students enrage everyone and should not be allowed an opinion.

Recalling this anger, Albert decided against trying to take on the world by becoming a famous musician. Perhaps, instead, he could write a novel. A classic novel, he thought, like all the dusty old books in the library. Dusty, boring and intimidating though they appeared, he'd read somewhere that the authors of those books were all dead yet still celebrated hundreds of years since. Albert wanted to be like that.

He sat down at his computer and began to type a story about a man looking for a killer. He started off well, coming up with a title and vague outline all by himself, but when it came to typing the novel, Albert began feeling stressed and shaky. He thought back to his last couple of school years before expulsion. He and his friends were playing football, when Albert spotted a boy off to the side, sitting on a bench reading. Sweaty, light-headed and pumped up from the game, Albert rushed over to the boy, laughing. He then began to verbally attack the boy with violent incoherences that terrified him. Eventually becoming restless and frustrated with the boy's lack of response, Albert turned physically violent and pushed the boy to the ground. He then proceeded to beat his unresponsive victim to near-unconsciousness. Drops of blood flew enthusiastically hither and thither with each pull of Albert's fist, and the child waved his hands in terror and useless defence, squealing with pain. Albert punched the boy in the chin repeatedly, causing him to bite into his tongue and dribble blood onto his muddied shirt. Growing tired of punching, Albert then began to kick the boy all over his body, revelling in the crunches and cracks about the bones that his football boots produced. No fatigue pacified Albert, and eventually two alarmed teachers had to tear the two apart, dragging Albert swinging and snarling away from his battered victim.

As he was removed from the scene, the boy sat up and shouted 'Just because you can't read, you big idiot! Just because you can't read!'

That afternoon, Albert sat gloomily in his parents' living room while they were out. He was happy that he hurt the boy, but gradually the boy's words began to eat into him. It was true, at that age Albert couldn't read as well as all the others. He picked up the nearest book to him and opened it, promising he would read a whole page. He struggled with most words and tossed the book aside in anger. He decided to try something simpler. The Sun newspaper, which was mostly pictures and only featured a few words, so that not only clever people could read it, was on the armchair. He tried that. He did indeed get further through the article about 'evil Muslims' in The Sun than he did with the novel, but it was still difficult so he gave up.

Recalling that grim memory, Albert decided to put the novel writing idea to bed and think of something else.

Eventually, Albert confided in Emma about how he was feeling. Emma reassured him that he will always live on, through their son and future generations. But Albert felt angry at this and called her stupid for missing his point. Emma cried and pleaded with her husband to cheer up, but Albert became irate with her increasing the stress in the environment and her attempts at reassurance reminded him of the boy that goaded him for not being able to read. A violent rage clouded everything around Albert's head and when it cleared, Emma was cowered on the sofa, her hands covering her face, weeping intensely. Albert quickly realised what he had done as he saw a line of deep red blood trickle through Emma's rigid fingers. Disgusted with himself, he went for a walk.

On his walk he thought deeply. He thought about how much angrier he was as a child and wondered if he would have made something of himself by now if only he had listened to his teachers and councillors and their offers to work so much harder to help him get better. Albert sadly concluded that this was not the time of his life to change who he was as a person. He would always be violent and good at nothing. But he still wanted to be adored and remembered. It was at this moment that Albert decided to join the army.

One thing Albert always had been was physically healthy. He spent many years at school playing football and beating up small children and that had given him a well-toned body and a lot of stamina. He also, despite his violent past, managed to avoid ever receiving a criminal record. As such, entry into the army was easy for him.

Albert thought back to all those pioneers and independent thinkers that have achieved legendary status beyond their deaths, and how he always ultimately wanted to be one. He punished himself for not realising sooner that he could achieve similar levels of immortality just by being strong and willing to do as someone told him to.

He soon went to war. He wasn't quite sure what the war was all about, but he'd read many stories of soldiers coming back from war and being celebrated as heroes. He wanted that so much. Albert soon gained the respect of a lot of well-wishers and friends he didn't know he had. Even Emma forgave him. All he had to do was spend some time in the desert, equipped with armour and a rifle, and he was achieving hero status. Even all those dusty old novelists were never referred to as 'heroes'. One day, while home for a while, Albert came across a group of what looked like students protesting against something he didn't understand. Muttering with venom and disdain, Albert began to walk on. That is until he spotted the words 'NO WAR' scrawled on a creased white sheet above the crowd. Albert angrily accosted the nearest student and asked what was going on. The student replied that an ill war was being fought and innocent lives were being lost. Albert replied that he was fighting in that war and the student, despite being half Albert's size, defiantly looked him in the eye and told Albert that he was fighting for a corrupt government and the presence of armed forces only exacerbates the conflict because all nations are too laden with angry testosterone to back down from a fight. The student went on to say that many years ago, men of Britain were conscripted against their will to go into Europe and fight off an evil fascist war machine that stood to demolish all freedom throughout the world and bend it to its own fascist will. He said that these men were heroes. People that willingly sign up to fight for the benefit of greedy politicians are not heroes, in his eyes. It was the first time that Albert had experienced this deviant attitude. Violence overcame him and he punched the student in the face, breaking his nose and loosening at least one tooth. The student cried out in pain and a good number of the others rushed over to aid him. In doing so, they realised that a large man had attacked the student so they fought off the large man.

The next day, The Sun told the story of a group of feral protesters that brutally attacked a passing soldier during an anti-war protest. With this story, Albert became adored and admired as a living martyr. His letterbox was flooded with letters of appreciation, strangers shook his hand in the street and he had never heard the word 'hero' so much in his life.

Albert always had violent anger issues. He had also always had a desire to be admired on a massive scale. By joining the army he had finally found a way to appease both of these things without sacrificing the other. He could feed his complex by walking around with a gun, demanding everyone call him 'hero' and turning violently against any who refused to. But the greatest thing about this was that almost everyone, wherever he went, unquestionably agreed with him.

Soho is my Gotham: Prologue

So I got this screwed up piece of paper shoved through the letterbox at work this morning. It had my name on it. This was also written on it:

Ghost Rules in the Theoretical World:

Each Ghost is preset with time energy. Time energy allows for the continued existence on Earth after death. When time energy is used up Ghosts are automatically transported to Darkspace, then their eternal whereabouts from then on is decided. They have no choice in the matter. Time energy burns relatively quickly, which is why genuine Ghost sightings are quite rare. There is, however, a way to extend time indefinitely.

Ghosts also possess 'fear' energy. This is burnt up by extracting fear from the living, through direct encounters. When fear energy is burnt up, time energy increases.

Unlike time energy, fear energy is readily available and can be replenished in 'Ghost Tower', a tower wherein time does not exist so extended time spent there is not threatening to a Ghost as time energy can only be spent where a passage of time is present. The reason time is still in Ghost Tower (which you no doubt know as 'Centre Point' near Tottenham Court Road station) is because it hangs directly below an entrance to Darkspace and can draw power from there in the manner of a person using their neighbour's unsecured wi fi network. When fear energy is replenished, Ghosts can endure hours of scaring the living before having to 'refuel'.

All living beings are born with this information, but there is a mental firewall around it and the info can not be accessed until the moment of death, at which point it feels retroactively like an old memory. This is how Ghosts are not driven insane at their own existence and also how they can instantly get on with maintaining their time energy. Some Ghosts have been known to remain on Earth for up to 2000 years, although the average endurance time is only 4 years.

I'll tell you about the Theoretical World at a later date.

In six months this won't be gibberish. Be ready.

What the fuck???

The Adventure of the Regular Customer

My Attempt at a Sherlock Holmes Short Story




'Yes Watson', remarked my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes on one particularly warm Saturday afternoon, 'I would very much like to go to the public house for a drink with you.


I started up, astonished. 'Holmes' I gasped, 'how on Earth did you know that was my desire?'


'I beg pardon?' replied Holmes, 'did you not just ask?'

'I certainly did not. I haven't spoken a word these last ten minutes!'

'Forgive me Watson' said Holmes. 'I must have just read the question and imagined myself hearing it. That is certainly feasible at times when my mind is so idly starved of work. I perceived that you have glanced longingly at that empty brandy decanter no fewer than three times in the last half-hour. Add to that your rather restless sitting posture, the long stare at the blue sky through the window and that quiet sigh you uttered just now that I was not meant to hear but heard all the same, then I can safely deduce that you desire to leave our dwellings for an afternoon. Am I not correct?'

'In every detail' I replied, somewhat begrudgingly.

'Well fortunately for you I would like nothing more than a pleasant walk to somewhere with more human activity than our little home is presently offering. I know just the place, collect your hat and we shall leave immediately.'

Before long we were taking a pleasant stroll away from Baker Street and into Regent's Park, which was alive with Holmes' much-desired human activity. Through the park we carried on northwards toward the Charing Cross Road. On the way Holmes described to me the public house which we were headed to.

'It is a terrific place, Watson' he exclaimed, 'newly built this past year on an excellent spot on Cambridge Circus. Unfortunately business has slipped in these last few days, they will be grateful of our custom I do not doubt.'

Considering the wonderful weather, I asked how business could possibly have been poor at a time like this.

'The discovery of a murdered corpse not ten feet from the entrance has rather put the fear into a lot of its regulars. It is completely absurd that one incident could have such a profound effect on so many not connected to it.'

I winced at Holmes' coldness and statistical manner toward the deceased. 'How was the murder committed?' I asked. 'Strange that I have not heard of so local a crime from the press.'

'Such a crime affords little publicity' Holmes replied. 'A drunken disagreement gone too far, no doubt. A little column on an insignificant page that no doubt you would have overlooked, or even read and forgotten about. Either way, I make it my endeavor not to miss these things.'

We arrived at the public house, which was indeed as pleasant as my friend had promised. Unfortunately its sparseness of custom also lived up to Holmes' descriptions. There was but one drinker in the building, and even he was leaving as we arrived.

As we approached the bar Holmes took me by the arm and hissed an excited whisper in my ear; 'That was the murderer' he said, glancing toward the table of the man who had just left.

I raised an eyebrow. 'How could you have deduced that?' I asked in reply.

Holmes did not reply. Instead he darted over to the man's former table, which held an empty ale glass and a copy of the Times, and stared at it intently for a number of seconds. He then strode over to the bartender.

'Who was that?' Holmes asked. 'The gentleman who left just now?'

'Simons' the barkeep replied. 'He's always here.'

Holmes returned to my side. 'I am correct' he said with some affirmation.

'Explain' said I.

Grabbing me firmly by the arm, Holmes escorted me to the departed gentleman's table with the intention of showing me exactly how he reached this seemingly unattainable conclusion.

'Notice the marks on the table' he said, gesturing.

I squinted at the marks. There were two circular glass marks, close to each other. 'What do you find remarkable about these?' I asked, defeated by the baffling scenario.

Holmes sighed. 'Watson' he groaned, 'I am continually astonished by your inability to see something so clearly embedded in your eyeline. What do you find interesting about the stains on the table that you have no less than admitted to seeing?'

I shrugged. Holmes continued. 'There are two marks' he said. 'Only two. You and I both know that ale is not a drink easily finished in two gulps. The man only placed his glass on the table twice since purchasing it, which means he must have finished it in two attempts.'

'Okay' said I, 'but how could you possibly know that it wasn't his original intention to drink hurriedly?'

'I don't know for certain' replied my friend, 'but do you believe he would have chosen a table so far from the bar, assuming he would bother choosing a table at all, if he intended to leave straight away? Add to that the mere presence of a newspaper and we can safely assume that he planned on staying a while, that is until he saw me coming through the window.'

Though admittedly impressed by Holmes' deductions thus far, one rather significant element still left me in doubt. 'What makes you so sure that it was your arrival that prompted him to leave?' I asked.

'The newspaper' Holmes replied with confidence. 'It is The Times, the daily which commonly, often against my better desires, reports my successes in the field of criminal detection. A man who regularly reads this paper would not fail to recognise me, and I am sure that our fellow is a regular reader of The Times because of these thumb markings.'

Holmes lifted the paper and, showing it to me, flicked briefly through it. 'Notice how these thumbprints (still damp in case you were doubting this man's ownership of the paper) only appear on every few pages, rather than every page. A regular reader eventually knows where his particular articles of interest lie, and is able to skip past the pages he does not wish to read. So we can faithfully conclude that the departed gentleman is indeed a regular reader of the times.'

'Remarkable!' I exclaimed. 'From little more than an empty glass and a discarded newspaper you have deduced that, upon seeing you, who he could not fail to recognise from the pages of The Times, our man quickly finished his drink and rushed off against his original intentions, having mistaken your visit for one of detection into his crime. My friend, you continue to astound me.'

'It is all there' Holmes replied, dismissing my compliments with a wave, 'I just endeavour to ensure that I see it. I have often told you, Watson, that you also possess my powers. You just need to make the extra effort to actually access them.'

'One thing remains though' I said, 'why on Earth would a murderer return to the place where the crime was comitted, knowing full well that it would be under investigation?'

'A commendable question Watson' replied Holmes with a smile. 'Though you have answered it yourself.'

'I'm sorry?'

'The man finished his drink in two gulps. He could have more easily left it unfinished. What does the fact that he drank to the last drop before fleeing tell you?'

'That he is addicted to the drink' said I.

'Precisely. He is a regular here, and an alcoholic. So much so that he would jeapordise his safety and freedom for another drink. One other thing, the murder was comitted outside of a public house opening hours, so only a regular, who would be invited to remain in the pub after closing, could have comitted the crime. The bruises on the body were all over the place, so the crime was clearly perpetrated by a drunken man. I have not been entirely honest with you Watson, I came here not simply to have a drink with you, but to investigate this murder, and it seems I have solved the case remarkably quicker than I anticipated. An intoxicated man is not difficult to follow, I shall apprehend him and you shall get us two pints of their finest ale, which we shall not finish in a hurry!'

In 10 years they'll all have mortgages...

Saturday, May 26, 2011

Trent: "Mate, we're pretty much out of 'Red Stripe' "

Phil: "Really? Fucking arse wank."

Trent: "Yeah, man, fuck fucking up banks sober."

Phil: "Well just buy some more you cunt"

Trent: "Yeah fucking eh. Ahhhhhh bollocks"

Phil: "What?"

Trent: "I aint got no notes, eh"

Phil: "So? Go to the fucking cashpoint you dick"

Trent: "Mate, we fucked all the cashpoints"

Phil: "Aaaaaaah, gay"

Signs

'Papa' says boy.

'Yes?' says man.

'I have made a mess, I was stirring icing and covered my hands. I wiped it all off onto a towel. Is that okay?'

Man scratches his chin. 'There is no mess? For we must be conscious of germs spreading.'

Boy shows his hands, 'they are clean.'

Man breathes a sigh of relief, but out of the corner of his eye he spies a sign;

NOW WASH YOUR HANDS

'My son!' He exclaims. 'The sign!'

Boy spins around in alarm. 'What sign?'

'Observe' cries man pointing with the utmost fervour.

Boy's lips silently speak the words of the sign. 'Must I wash my hands? They are clean.'

'You must!' Speaks man. Regard the sign!

Boy waddles intently to the washbasin and turns the tap on. His eyes glance down. His face turns to one of horror. 'Papa, there is no soap!' he says.

Man pauses, and raises his rigid claws toward his face. 'My word' he whispers. 'We must not delay. The sign. We must purchase soap!'

Within seconds they have slammed their front door behind them are bounding with intent down the quiet street. Man uses their journey to express the importance of signs. 'They are in place all over' he says. 'They explain to us exactly what we should do in absolutely every situation. As a result, of course, we must not look for ways around not being able to honour them. We must honour them.'

'All of them?' asks boy.

'All of them. Keep calm and carry on. Turn left here, stop. Here is the road.'

The two of them stand by the empty road. There is danger on neither side, but man has observed the pedestrian traffic light and the red, motionless man glares back at him, silently urging them to remain still.

'Can we carry on?' Asks boy, who has noted the road's emptiness.

'No' replies man watching the unpopulated concrete. 'Do not cross, for the man is red. The sign'.

And thus they wait. Then the man on the sign turns green, indicating movement, as in the distance a curious rumbling becomes the shape of a truck, helmed by a suicidal drunk driver, hurtling toward them.

'Now it is okay' says man, as they step blissfully into the path of the relentless vehicle and end their journey for ever after.

Suicide Day Backfires

Thousands take own lives in 'whoopsy' act of societal recursion

Last Monday was, officially, the most depressing day of the year based upon a collected selection of factors ranging from winter blues, holiday weight-gain and accumulated debts. The so-called 'suicide day' falls annually upon the third Monday in January and is calculated as being the pinnacle point of the year in which all of these depressing factors overlap.

By Tuesday morning, however, the after-effects were looking slightly more startling than usual.

Police records have shown that suicide death rates in Britain were up by approximately eight and a half thousand on last year's toll, which in fact totalled around thirty-nine. Frantic research was undertaken immediately to determine the cause of this dramatic rise and results published on Wednesday seem to have deduced the reason for this.

Speaking at the University College School of Psychology, London, Professor Greg Eastwick said, 'sometimes people do things because they're told to.'

Elaborating further, the esteemed head of the department explained 'you know when you say "don't think of pink elephants", and then people think of pink elephants? Like that.'

When asked what Professor Eastwick actually meant, he responded 'I think everyone commited suicide because they were told they were going to. So whether or not they actually had any overwhelming personal problems, their subconscious told them they should be honouring the day. Its similar to how people caused a recession just by believing that there was a recession, becuase they stopped spending money. Monday was the most depressing day of the year because we were told it was going to be. Society can have its off days.'

Sales and Marketing clerk James Avon, 32, who survived an attempted suicide on Monday, said 'I just couldn't pay the rent. Because everyone at the bank had killed themselves.' When asked if there were any long term problems that he had been suffering from, Avon replied 'No.'

Sarah Gayton, a barmaid living in Hornsey whose assistant manager Irene was found dead on Tuesday morning, said 'we were behind the bar, it was a quiet Monday lunchtime so we were chatting to the regulars. Suddenly someone said "did you know today is the most depressing day of the year?" suddenly Irene stormed out without saying a word. The next day I heard she had killed herself. I didn't understand it, she seemed fine. I wanted to die too, which is wierd because I usually want to live.'

This phenomenon is known as 'Recursion', when an event causes itself.

The government has revealed that 'serious plans' are being made to prepare for the next Friday the 13th.

In light of Monday's tragedy, society is considering not telling people when to be miserable.