Spitelords Sticks & Stones for the Mind

Herbal Infusions and the Fall of Things Being Metal

About 14 years ago I had the fairly effective method of deciding major events in my life by the filter of “is it metal?” and damning the consequences.  You see, for a metal-head of 17 years or younger phrases like septic shock and frontal lobe damage are simply terms to direct a Johnny Rotten formatted sneer at, they were no different to me than an accusation of ‘you drink too much’ or a request like ‘please try to vomit into the toilet’.  Metal.  It was my Occam’s Razor.

But then I was made to age, mentally, because life does that to you.  And although I do not mean this to sound like a slight against my own people it is fair and truthful to say that when we are young we are lacking the experiences of life that help us make accurate choices.  Words like sepsis no longer elicit a sneer so much as an urgent limping trip to the doctor.  After several years of removing ingrown toenail with needle-nose pliers and laughing at the spine shattering pain it was now the doctor who sneered.  Because what idiot really waits that long to see a medical professional?

One who decided it was fucking metal, that’s who.  Me.  That’s who.

I tend to fly off the handle over the oddest topics and often they are the most un-provocative topics known to man-kind.  Seriously, you wait until I get onto the topic of seals and their podgy offspring.  All I see there is unjustified love towards what is essentially a mouldy lard filled sausage with big black orbs on one end and poo stuck to the fluff on the other.  Wankers, that’s what they are.

But in this case it was the word Infusion.

If I asked you if you would like an infusion and you were not suddenly questioning your current fill level on vital liquid then I think you need to re-assess your life and the places in it for futons and pine kitchen surfaces.  Because apparently Infusions are also tea.

Really?  Do we need more than one word for Tea?

And let’s look at Tea while we are here.  It’s just bad soup when you are blunt about it.  It’s just dirty water.

If I was to take a couple of twigs, put them into a cup of hot water then place it neatly before you, you would probably not be wondering how long to wait before removing them to achieve the best taste.  Probably you would be wondering why I had just presented you with a cup of boiling water with some sticks in it.

You would not be enjoying the invigorating Aroma.

You would probably also thank me by reflex of upbringing.  And although no child is usually mentally prepared to be offered floor soup from a scary looking man they are somehow still aware that the situation can only go to one of two places in the end so it’s better to chance being polite.

But I digress.

Some people might comment that their honey, vanilla & camomile infusion (which I am drinking right now) actually does have a wonderful aroma to it but if someone said that to me I might scowl and ask them if they meant it smells nice, an awkward moment would follow without fail.  Aroma is a word that should never need to be used in any situation, it’s one of those words that is chosen because there is a void in the worth of the sentence and it needs a shot in the arm.  It is one of those words like Infusion.  When you mean tea.

“You have a lot of different tea, not an eclectic selection of infusions you fucking yuppie.”

All outward appearances and tastes aside are we really so different that we need to make common communication such a diabolical process?  Sure, I listen to Leftöver Crack, they listen to Black Eyed Peas, my dad listens to Pink Floyd but when it comes down to it we all enjoy a Jammy Dodger or a Jaffa Cake and there is no need to be wordy about it.

So how is it that despite the frequently shared social niceties we manage to have such violently disparate methods for addressing them?  If you offered the average street-punk or a head-banger the opportunity to accompany you to a patisserie for some confectionary you may expect a number of confused and potentially threatening responses.  If however you had asked if they wanted to go to the cake shop for some sweets…

Now, I may be taking things too far here.  Words are inoffensive by nature and I do like to point and laugh at people who tell me that they are offended by specific words.  So I think the real problem is with the user of the words and their apparent belief that in doing so they are going to confound you, which must increase their pseudo-toff status on some arbitrary score board only their kind have access to.

Perhaps they win something made of cashmere.

Nothing good can come from this needless assignment of stupid names to simple things.  I realise it is readily apparent that I assess these situations with no clear goal or logic but I do base these irrational outbursts on facts & events.  For example I have it on the good authority of an equally unsettled friend that there is a cake shop in his local London train station called Paul.  Not Paul’s.  Paul.  The cake shop is called Paul.  And his observations have been that the primary demographic for Paul are fat drunkards returning from watching football.  This has got to be socially awkward for the..  well not the fat drunk football fan but perhaps the staff who already have to work inside Paul.

Similar social awkwardness may be had at coffee shops and other places with silly names.  Such an event happened at Frankfurt Main International Airport while I was trying to buy coffee from one of their resident Starbucks.  Having asked for A Large Iced Coffee the initial blank stare was followed up with a pensive correction to my request; ‘You want a Grande Frappuccino?’.  I returned the blank stare.

No, I would like a large iced coffee, please.  This exchange continued for longer than I was comfortable with but as the more stubborn person I ended up with the starting request.  Perhaps the situation would of been easier had I not been so insensitive with my illicit coffee terminology.

There exists between many of us an intangible barrier that stems not from social status or education so much as the want of being better than somebody else.  When race or sex are no longer acceptable reasons for exclusion from some gated community the current hot raw material used to build these fences has apparently become ridiculous language, named clothes and shops that sell imported furniture.

Except the gated community is not real.  And there is no need to try to elevate your place in life with make believe and fancy words.  That Swedish book-shelf is still going to be missing a screw or a wheel whether it’s called Billy or not.  And that’s just fine.  No one will judge you for that.

So although I was set off by a word on a box (a common occurrence) you might see that I have no quarrel with language on the whole.  A varied mental thesaurus only makes conversation more interesting and to be honest I sometimes just use words that sound right despite their actual meaning.  Sometimes just the sound of the word conveys my meaning more effectively than the the correct word would of.

As with many tirades of mine there is a fine thread that connects things and inevitably it will come into focus, allowing the reticle of my mind to stop weaving around like a drunken dervish and realise it was trying to shoot down society the whole time.

I suppose it can be said by now then that if you choose to be wordy for the sake of variety there is no reason you should ever stop.  But if you believe that verbally browbeating people with nonsense will actually improve your standing in the world I have some low brow bad news.

It ain’t Metal.