The Not-So-Nameless One

In a previous post (see Dec 07) I named a Mr C Smith as the one responsible for leading me into my, ultimately, ill-fated, alcohol experiments. These tests, it is now known, are responsible for all manner of psychological and physiological problems. Mr C Smith, whose name is known to be a pseudonym, is a singularly unscrupulous individual whose appearances in my life are associated, with a depressing degree of inevitability, with drunkenness and instability. He has, I am sorry to say, appeared again and has led me into a spiral of criminal (or at least outside government advice) behaviour. Today, for example, I _drove my car_ (heedless of the savage effect on the planet this would have) and then later I had _loads of booze_ (heedless of the disastrous effect on my blogging this would have). Mr C Smith is a shadow-figure, a metaphor: he is a vague character who lives in the sidelines and who prevents any serious activity from actually occurring. Instead he just snipes away at real endeavour and entices one into substitute activities (ie drinking, or listening to Tears for Fears, or both). He thinks that he can lure innocent humans to a timely end (all ends are timely to him, and he isn't even death) through asking them "Is it worth it? Is it really worth it?" and, do you know, eleven times out of ten, it isn't. He told me one late stormy night, while the December winds were pounding at the double glazing, that I should just jack it all in and go to Uttoxeter. Uttoxeter! I don't even know where that is, or what I would do if I got there. Nothing, I guess. Or not very much. Or maybe I was supposed to rent a room in a ghastly B&B and then walk the streets until I literally topped myself out of boredom. Probably that was it: Mr C Smith is a funny old guy, with a bizarre sense of humour: he wants you to laugh but doesn't really give a toss who you are or if he's met you. He often comes to me during a dull day at work, or rather, I go to him, as he's far too cool to approach me. He says encouraging things but you know he wants you to die, I think. Or maybe he doesn't; perhaps I've misjudged the stupid old bugger and he just wants you to do something, I mean really _do_ something, that'd give you validity for just a second at least.

I don't even know what the C stands for.