David Hadley's Blog, page 100

The Superhero Saves the Day... Probably

Then… suddenly…!
No… hang on….
Then with all the haste and alacrity of a Public Inquiry she strolled into action.
He trembled in terror. Well, there was a frisson of irritation. ‘Yet again,’ the supervillain, Upstart Naughtyman, snorted, looking down. ‘Yet again have you thwarted my plans for world domination. Curses!’
Fixed-Penalty Notice Woman stood for a moment, arms crossed, as she glared down upon Naughtyman as he tried to find something in the sub-clauses of the fixed Penalty that would enable him to evade justice yet again. ‘It says here I have to pay a fine for attempting world domination without the necessary permits?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled to see him cower and tremble in the face of the notice. ‘There are…’ she added, ‘also some concerns about the health and safety standards at your secret volcanic island lair.’
‘What? How did you discover all this?’ Naughtyman felt his plans crumbling all around him.
‘You had to apply for planing permission for your secret island, didn’t you?’
‘Curses, foiled again.’ Naughtyman knew there must be some way he could complete his plans for world domination without some interfering superhero thwarting him. Last time it had been VATInspectorman and his sidekick PAYEboy who stopped him. Thwarting his plans to build a secret nuclear-missile submarine base in Tewkesbury, when they discovered inconsistencies in his VAT returns. Also that he’d been paying his horde of devoted minions less than the minimum wage. But, now this…. He looked up into the uncompromising eyes of Fixed-Penalty Notice woman and he knew he’d failed again.
‘My job here is done!’ Fixed-Penalty Notice woman said. ‘So, if you’d just countersign this receipt for my legitimately-incurred expenses. I can be on my way to fight for truth, justice and the bureaucratic way!’

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Something for the Weekend – Free Kindle Humour: Sex, Pies and Sticky Tape

Sex, Pies and Sticky Tape
Free for the next five days here (UK) or here (US)

Here we are back, once again, in Little Frigging in the Wold: England’s most perverse, erotic and excitingly-moist village, for some more tales of rural life, with more adventures and tales featuring Grand Uncle Stagnant, Old Feebletrousers, Strom Thighhammer, the cake shop manageress and many more of Little Frigging’s residents. 

This book includes over one hundred stories involving inter-village competitive orgies, the erotic use of foodstuffs, how to extract as much money from tourists as possible, the naked pogo-stick steeplechase, mid-air and deep-sea perversions, the use of the fetish unicycle, medieval woodland perversions, the erotic use of cardigans, achieving match fitness in an inter-village orgy squad, accountancy fetish night in the village hall, and – of course – the best way of sellotaping a Cornish pasty to an assistant librarian for erotic purposes and much, much more.

Sex, Pies and Sticky Tape
Free for the next five days here (UK) or here (US)

Some comments on David Hadley’s writing:

“Wonderfully weird.”

“brilliantly funny story. I love it.”

“good god, I haven’t laughed so much in ages. “

“very funny, I had a good laugh at this story”

“Clever, and very funny.”

“really funny, had a right good old laugh at this

story.”

“This made me laugh so much, tears came into my eyes….”

“I just sprayed barely masticated tomato all over my keyboard from laughing too hard”

“highly creative and hilarious as always”

“lol this is so funny.”

“another one of yours I truly enjoyed, “Old Feebletrousers” love it!”

“This is a very funny story, it made me laugh.”

“Absolutely brilliant. Thank you”

“This piece produced a lot of giggles!”

“Yep! This was a real funny piece, it had me laughing….”

Sex, Pies and Sticky Tape
Free for the next five days here (UK) or here (US)

Something for the Weekend – Free Kindle Humour: Sex, Pies and Sticky Tape

Sex, Pies and Sticky Tape Free for the next five days here(UK) or here(US)
Here we are back, once again, in Little Frigging in the Wold: England’s most perverse, erotic and excitingly-moist village, for some more tales of rural life, with more adventures and tales featuring Grand Uncle Stagnant, Old Feebletrousers, Strom Thighhammer, the cake shop manageress and many more of Little Frigging’s residents. 
This book includes over one hundred stories involving inter-village competitive orgies, the erotic use of foodstuffs, how to extract as much money from tourists as possible, the naked pogo-stick steeplechase, mid-air and deep-sea perversions, the use of the fetish unicycle, medieval woodland perversions, the erotic use of cardigans, achieving match fitness in an inter-village orgy squad, accountancy fetish night in the village hall, and – of course – the best way of sellotaping a Cornish pasty to an assistant librarian for erotic purposes and much, much more.

Sex, Pies and Sticky Tape Free for the next five days here(UK) or here(US)
Some comments on David Hadley’s writing:
“Wonderfully weird.”“brilliantly funny story. I love it.”“good god, I haven’t laughed so much in ages. ““very funny, I had a good laugh at this story”“Clever, and very funny.”“really funny, had a right good old laugh at thisstory.”“This made me laugh so much, tears came into my eyes….”“I just sprayed barely masticated tomato all over my keyboard from laughing too hard”“highly creative and hilarious as always”“lol this is so funny.”“another one of yours I truly enjoyed, “Old Feebletrousers” love it!”“This is a very funny story, it made me laugh.”“Absolutely brilliant. Thank you”“This piece produced a lot of giggles!”“Yep! This was a real funny piece, it had me laughing….”

Sex, Pies and Sticky Tape
Free for the next five days here(UK) or here(US)
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Undercover Policing and its Drawbacks

Of course, those that first met PC Splank Horology off-duty, knew little of his secret life as an undercover policeman. The persona he adopted, of Hotwire Treehugger, was part of an attempt by the police to infiltrate one of the UK’s most notorious extremist environmentalist organisations. The first such operation since PC ‘Stan’ Nark had posed as a dandelion to gain entry to the nascent underground Free Festival scene back in the early 1970s.
As the police eventually realised, many extreme environmentalist movements are far from being the benign force for good that a naïve glance at what they claims to be true would suggest.
Therefore the decision was taken to insert an undercover police agent into one of the more extreme sects of this proto-religion. A group then known as the Eco-Taliban. An extremest sect that even refused to walk on the ground in case they traumatised an earthworm. Only making an exception – of course – for their compulsory treks to the dole office.
Many of the sect’s activists attempted to overcome the crisis of conscience caused by the walk to the dole office by attempting to master the art of levitation. Something that even their shaky grasp of science and/or reality should have told them was doomed. Especially when one of their leading lights, Daisy Birchkisser, failed to levitate off the White Cliffs of Dover. Thus becoming a substantial source of nourishment for those very imperilled earthworms she’d sought to save.
This irony was not entirely lost on her followers. Two of whom also lost their lives whilst trying to erect a sustainable shrine to her in the very spot - just a few feet from the cliffs - where she’d failed to levitate above. They and their shrine did the same as Birchkisser, also failing to levitate. All much to the delight of all the - now morbidly-obese - earthworms in the vicinity of the area they plummeted to.
It was at this point that Hotwire Treehugger appeared on the scene. Arriving just as the Eco-Taliban were about to stage their most spectacular protest. They wanted to attempt to stop several local gardeners from mulching their allotments and thus – they believed - upset the karma of the local earthworms.
Treehugger warned against this action, knowing, though his experience as a local bobby, how handy several of the allotment-holders could be with a well-aimed dibber.
However, Treehugger’s reluctance was put down to cowardice and he was sent for re-education with one of the group’s wise philosophers and activists, Geoff Monobrow. Monobrow explained to Treehugger just why bunnies were so fluffy. Also explaining how everything would be eternal summer and wonderfulness as soon as the group assassinated every Briton with a car. Then they would turn the motorways back into ley-lines. Every motorway services would then become a place of sanctuary for local wildlife. A place where the birds and earthworms, the foxes and the newly-liberated domestic fowl could all live together in universal peace and harmony.
As this vision of bucolic nature living in harmony unfolded before him Treehugger broke down. He confessed that he was really PC Splank Horology and he would be resigning from the force the very next day to become a member of the Eco-Taliban as soon as possible. Thus enabling the worldwide eco-revolution to take the western capitalist world back to its rightful place in the Middle-Ages.
Later, in a press conference, the Metropolitan Police denied all knowledge of either PC Splank Horology, or his alleged undercover pseudonym of Hotwire Treehugger. The fact that several lorryloads of documents had been shredded as soon as the news broke was, as the chief constable said, ‘Just one of those things.’
Meanwhile, it can now be exclusively revealed that Hotwire Treehugger is now living with a female rabbit and their kits in a hole just off the ley-line formerly known as the M6.


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Into the Storms

She came back to me through the rain that night, looking like someone who’d just come back from a war. Like someone who had just survived some great catastrophe. We hung on to each other through that dark and stormy night like two storm-tossed survivors of some great wreck. Around us the world we knew tore from the reality we understood and set adrift on these wilder waters of some stranger possibility.
Until that night, I was sure of reality. I felt the great weight of it anchoring us to this world around us. That night, though, we clung to each other as we saw the world outside our window slip, break, crack and fall. The world we knew became this new, strange place we could not understand or even name.
For a while afterwards, neither of us was sure if we were alive or dead. We did not know whether we had slipped through some crack in what we once regarded as the real. Or, if – somehow – we had slipped free of the living world altogether.
Each night, from then on, as we searched these twisted, changed streets for some sign of the familiar. Seeking somewhere where we could be safe as we dodged and evaded those strange creatures that had merged from the cracks in all that was once real. All while we wondered if we would ever see our familiar old world ever again.


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Smoke on the Breeze

Shirena was weary; she'd been up late the night before with the old woman, treating a sickly calf. Now she'd been out wandering the woods since it had been light enough, searching for the herbs to replace the ones they'd used treating the calf.
Shirena dropped her basket to the ground and slumped back against a tree trunk. No doubt, she thought, the calf will be snuggled up against its mother, while she was out here in the morning-cold woods.
It had taken Shirena hours longer than she'd hoped to find the plants the old woman needed. There were none in the usual place, so she'd had to go deeper into the woods, further than she'd ever been before.
Now, she wanted to rest for a while before going back to the village.
She awoke, she didn't know how long later, smelling smoke on the breeze. She wondered if any of the men had ventured into the woods to hunt or gather building wood.
Sighing, she got to her feet, picked up her basket and headed back to the path that led to the village.
There was smoke and... well, little else of the village left when she tuned the corner out of the woods. Shirena just stared, her basket dropped and forgotten.
She ran for the village, stumbling over something, which turned out to be old Toma, the oldest man in her village. She had treated his cut hand a few weeks ago, and now as she looked down, a silent scream caught in her throat. She could see he was beyond her healing ability, beyond the healing ability of even Beena the old woman.
Nothing remained, except smoke and bodies, the bodies of the men and of Beena too. Shirena half-smiled to see the old woman had died with her knife in her hand, its blade bloodied.
There were a few strange bodies too, wild-haired men, their hair as pale as that of hers and her fellow-villagers was dark, lying where their drying blood soaked into the ground.
Then a hand grabbed her by the hair and dragged her away, screaming past more of the strange pale-haired men, laughing gangs of them, all taking turns picking out which ones they wanted from the women of the village.

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Politics in the UK

Pembroke Doolaly is probably best known to the UK population as one of the foremost exponents of riding the British political gravy train. He has been at the top of British politics now for almost forty years. Thereby surprising a great many of those who take an interest in politics by still being alive.
In his early days, as the son of the Earl of Doolaly, Pembroke, of course, joined the Labour party, anxious to be seen as one of the people. Providing of course, none of those people got too close.
He inherited the seat of Puddletown South in that great Labour tradition of nepotism from his uncle Bacillus Troutcock, who gave up the seat when he became Lord Troutcock. Troutcock entered the Lords pledging to work tirelessly to bring about the end of inherited wealth and privilege.
After serving in the Labour government as Secretary of State for Cabinet Meeting Chocolate Biscuit Provision, Doolaly saw the writing on the wall. He crossed the floor of the house to join the Conservative party in time for the rise of Margaret Thatcher. His constituents all bought their own council houses with money provided by Doolaly - which although technically illegal was covered by parliamentary privilege - and Doolaly’s natural aptitude for political blackmail.
In the Conservative party he rose to Chairman’s assistant in charge of buying stamps.
For a while when the Tory party waned through the Major years, Doolaly did consider joining the Liberal Democrats.
Instead, in a crisis of conscience and cash flow he rejoined the Labour party under Tony Blair.
While out canvassing in his seat, Doolaly saw real poverty for the first time. Pembroke was aghast to discover there were some households, after living for three or more work-less generations on benefits, who had TVs with screens that did not fill up an entire room. Some of them had been forced to choose between pay TV subscriptions and feeding their children. With some of those children reduced to eating as little as seven packets of crisps, and less than the national minimum of 14 litres of fizzy drinks, a day. ‘Some of the children weren’t even obese,’ a shocked Doolaly said on leaving one house where the woman and her 46 children had barely enough benefits to keep them comatose through ingesting cheap lager by the bucketful. The woman had even confessed she was forced to give her new born baby milk ‘like some savage in darkest France… y’know where the giraffes come from?’
Once more entering cabinet, where he claims he hid in a cupboard during the Iraq war discussions. He claimed he was out of the room fetching Gordon Brown a new mobile phone when all the wrong decisions were taken.
After that, he thought about joining the Conservative party again, but decided it wasn’t worth the bother of having to rejoin Labour at the next election after that. So, he decided to stay on the Labour backbenches in opposition and continue making money, where he remains to this day. He is almost as rich, wealthy and privileged as those on his front bench who taunt the Tories opposite for being rich, privileged and out of touch. Something that could never be said about Doolaly after his impressive parliamentary career, and his herd of libel solicitors held on retainer. He has promised to step down at the next election with his safe Labour seat democratically awarded to his own son, Trainshed Doolaly.
Truly, a fitting end to a glittering career in politics.


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More or Less

I don’t know.
There was a time back long ago when I thought I did know. I looked out on the world, out there, and I thought I understood it. I thought it made sense to me. I knew – at least, enough to get by – how the world worked. I understood, as much as anyone can, why people did what they did.
More or less… of course.
None of us really knows enough about the world, or about other people. But – somehow – we get by. That’s what I knew: enough to get by and that’s what I did – I just got by.
I had no great theory of the world, or the people in it. I just thought it more or less made sense, and the people – more or less – did sensible things. Although, any glance at the Evening News programme will bring some doubt about the latter.
Mostly though, even those people on the News in faraway places – more or less – lived lives like mine. They got up, went to work, looked after who they needed to look after and tried to do the right thing. Most of them did, anyway. They seemed just as bewildered to be on the News because of some catastrophe or cock-up as I would if I were in their place.
Then, though, she – Jeanette - came into my life. Then everything changed and things no longer made sense. I wasn’t even sure if those people I saw each day were human, not any more.


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One from Shelter 15

Everyone said those from shelter 15 were the best. I’d worked hard, got my promotions and saved every single penny from working as many extra shifts as I could. I knew I deserved the best, so only one from Shelter 15 would be good enough for me.
A lot of those on my shift, first when I was just another worker, and then as I rose up the supervisor ranks said I was a fool waiting so long. Others though, those who knew, said I was doing the right thing and one from Shelter 15 would be ideal for me.
Then I heard market day had been put back for a month. Even when I had the money and I could afford – finally – one from Shelter 15, it seemed the fates conspired against me.
I thought maybe those who prayed to the old gods were right and maybe I should learn how to pray too. But they didn’t seem to have better, or worse luck, than those of us who never prayed. Anyway, I’m not sure if their god would approve me praying for one from Shelter 15. From what I can see that god doesn’t approve of much and wouldn’t approve of anyone trying to buy some happiness.
Anyway, eventually the storms cleared and the word came down from the administrators that the Shelters had all agreed the next market day.
So, a week before the market day, I withdrew all my money from the bank, to smiles all around and people wishing me luck, I set off for the market green.
It took a few days for me to get there across the Nowheres.
It still amazed me to see all the stalls from all the shelters spread out across the valley under the bright purple sky.
Once in the market itself, I took a deep breath, took a tight grip on my money belt and strode straight over to Shelter 15’s stall.
‘Yes?’ the stallholder said, smiling because he knew why I was there.
‘I’d like to buy a wife please.’ I dropped my moneybag onto the table.

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The Entrance to the Lair

He prepared himself and took a firm grip on his The peasant nodded. ‘In here… definitely.’
Sir Gawain studied the cave entrance. ‘It’s a bit small.’
‘Are you worried your lance is too big to fit in the hole?’ The peasant smiled helpfully.
The squire snorted and doubled over.
‘Squire!’
‘Sorry, sire… I… er… sneezed.’
‘You’ll do more than sneeze when you get in there.’ The peasant seemed to relish the prospect. ‘Go on, then.’
‘Aren’t you coming?’ Sir Gawain fiddled with his visor.
‘No… I’ve got…..’ The peasant looked around the mist-shrouded landscape, what they could see of it. ‘It’s harvest time.’
‘What, this time of year?’ Sir Gawain knew little of farming. In fact the only thing he knew about agriculture was not to fight a battle in a field recently vacated by livestock… it was a bugger to get those sort off stains off armour. The latter thought made him wonder just how fearsome a dragon could be. He didn’t want to be trapped in a suit of armour with those sorts of smells on the inside.
‘Shall we go, then Sire?’ The squire helpfully stepped to one side holding her flaming torch up just inside the cave entrance.
‘Peasant. I order you to go first!’
‘Fuck off… I’ve got a harv….’
Sir Gawain swapped the lance to his other hand and drew his sword.
‘Oh, bollocks,’ the peasant said, grabbed the flaming torch from the squire and stopped into the cave. ‘Come on then.’

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