Sinister: My Inner Turmoil

[Hopkins T]

So anyway, I arrived In Edinburgh, looking forward to meeting friends and
associates at the annual convention of the Scottish Presbyterian Temperance
Society, of which I am an enthusiastic honorary member.

The fellow at my hotel had recommended a quiet and respectable tea room at
which to lunch, by the name of Berts, and had suggested I try their unusual
form of decaffeinated tea, which is served by the pint and is named Deuchars
IPA. He had a strange and twisted smile on his face, I remember. I am not
sure why.

The tea was uncommonly good, and I was enjoying my third or fourth cup when
I was accosted by all manner of unruly youths, who spoke in an argot I could
barely comprehend. They seemed to be addressing each other as 'Paul',
'Linda' and 'Keith'. This latter individual had a strange tan on his neck,
as if he would ordinarily wear some form of roll-necked garment during his
daily trawl around the parks and public spaces of Scotland's capital,
searching for half-smoked cigarette ends to satisfy his craving.

I must own at this point that I was beginning to feel mightily peculiar, a
fact which I can only attribute to a mild case of food poisoning, or perhaps
the beginnings of a mild influenza due to the inclement Caledonian climate.

The rest of the day is something of a blur. I have nightmarish memories of
faces mouthing words like 'Amon Duul II' and 'Rod Stewart catsuit', but have
no recall of context or, indeed, what these words might mean. I seem to
remember being on some form of low-life emporium, where the owner was
advising dubious looking types on music for porn films and something about
French ladies. The denizens called him 'Professor', although I cannot
believe that I was in any normal kind of educational establishment.

I awoke on Sunday morning to the confirmation that I was indeed subject to a
bout of the 'flu, so incapacitated did I feel. I had not only missed the
convention with my fellow abstainers, but had also missed morning prayer.
Next to my makeshift parkbench bed was a pile of foul-smelling vomit and a
bag of popular music records.

I wonder if you friendly and godly chaps on this mailing list might help me
to work out where I have been, what happened to me and who the young
ruffians I met might be, by analysing the names of the records? 

They were by the folowing artists: Nathan Abshire, Tricky (an unpleasant
ditty called 'Polygram Is A Nigger', whatever that might mean), The Gaylads,
George Jones, Irma Thomas, Starbound, Volume 10, Oliver Sain and Ninjaman.

I also appear to have been relieved of a rather large quantity of money
during the hours of my unfortunate incapacity.

I would appreciate any help you may be able to give me on what may have
happened during my 'lost' hours, or why my influenza appeared to clear up so
very quickly (within the day, indeed).

Yours hopefully

Hopkins


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