David Hadley's Blog, page 109

Oh, Shut Up

But starting a sentence with a but some regard as beyond the pale. Even though sometimes on a cold morning there is no other way of getting the sentence going. That is unless there is a nearby slope to push it down so it stutters into life and then the first paragraph is up and running.

Of course, back in the (good) old days, each paragraph would come with its own – sometimes–integral – starting-handle. A few sentences setting the scene and there you were, the whole piece was up and running and chugging away nicely before the readers had their reading goggles and gauntlets on.

Still, this though is – apparently – the modern world and things here are different. Now is not the future though as we still lack the personal jetpacks and robot butlers that officially demark the future’s arrival.

So this is the here and now and we are stuck with it. Up to and including getting our writing up and running on cold and damp mornings. Ideally, before the readership begins to suspect the writer has – at long last, and to the relief of many – run out of stuff to wibble on about.

Already, there are fingers poised over mice and touchscreens. Each digit twitching and itching to get on to the newest of the new pictures of cute cats doing cute things with cute captions, wishing this fool would just shut up so the rest of the day can carry on.

So, shut up he does.

 

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

Modern Horrors

It seems so long ago now, but back in those days it was as if the tank top had never gone, lost in the mists of time. There was even talk, late in the night, when it seems the darkness can hold everything we fear, the dread flared trousers could come back to haunt us once again.

But, hard as it may appear, there are more horrors out there to scare and terrify than unfortunate fashion choices. Of course, we know that some poor unfortunates can cease to be human if they are infected by the plague that is politics. Politics is a disease that, as yet, science has found no answer for beyond quarantining the victims in houses of legislature. There the horrible disease that afflicts and then destroys their minds can be contained with little chance of it escaping to infect the rest of the populace. A populace that have enough on their plates following the plot twists in their favourite TV programmes without having to descend to the mind and soul-destroying miasmic mire that is party politics.

Beyond that, of course, there is the sheer terror of the TV schedules where vast inhospitable deserts spread out across the possible evenings of those looking for something decent to watch. The viewing schedule is a strange place where all the good programmes huddle together in terror around a mere handful of peak viewing slots. A place where each programme hopes, hope against hope, they will not be picked off one by one by the slavering hordes of Reality programmes that prowl the edges of civilisation. All waiting to tear, rip and devour the last few shreds of individuality and private thoughts from our already soporific tranquilised minds.

All this making the witches, demons and devils of past ages seem little more frightening than the prospect of accidentally switching to one of the shopping channels. Shopping channels that haunt our airwaves waiting to steal our brains and capture our credit card details.

 

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

They Came From Outer Space

Of course, the odds were overwhelming. Never in human history had this planet faced such odds.

The alien ships appeared on the edge of the solar system in ever-increasing numbers. There were thousands of them, all approaching Earth orbit and there was nothing we could do to stop them.

Soon the night sky filled with the orbiting ships, like hundreds, thousands, of new stars in the sky. Then, in addition, the daytime sky filled, with the ships grown massive in the sky like solid metal storm clouds. They hung there over every point of human habitation on the planet. From the largest cities right down to the humblest nomadic tents. Each and all had at least one of the massive starships hovering in the sky above it, all casting huge shadows across the ground.

We learnt to live in perpetual shadow, learnt not to look up to see something impossibly huge just hanging there over our heads.

All we could do was wait, wait and tremble. Everyone was scared, too scared to mention the fearsome objects filling our skies. Soon we knew they would turn their attentions on us and we would be doomed.

The voice came from everywhere, from every speaker in the world, from every resonating surface that could vibrate at those frequencies and in every language spoken by those beneath the ships.

‘We want your cheese!’

The world’s leaders, hastily prepared to face impossible demands contacted one another. The world’s armies all ready for inevitable defeat and death at the hands (or whatever) of the overwhelming alien horde all dared breathe again.

‘What?’ said the leader of the free world, when she could find her voice – and get the American president to stop praying long enough for her to get a word in.

‘Your cheese. We want it now…. Or there will be war. War you puny humans can never win!’

‘But…well, cheese?’

Earth is the only planet in the entire universe that has the precious cheese.’ The voice was calm, almost reasonable. ‘We must have your Stilton. The future of the universe depends upon it.’

 

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

Careful with that Canoe

Once we thought about the canoe, as is often the case on Thursdays. Even so, it was not often we thought about the canoe on Thursdays without a fully-consensual stickleback ponder session in the gazebo.

Of course, it does – so often – in these days of austerity mean that any fully-fledged consideration of almost every mode of aquatic (or in the case of the hovercraft semi-aquatic) transport does entail at least some – however fleeting – consideration of the stickleback.

Especially – as has already indicated in the House of Lords – on Thursdays.

Back in earlier days, however, it was often quite normal for the stickleback and its feelings about having its personal space violated by humans and their callous disregard of stickleback rights.

These days, of course, we live in more enlightened times... so we are told. Consequently, any violation, unthinking or otherwise, of the current nostrums of correct thinking will get us just as banged up as was the case when caught thinking the almost direct opposite a few short decades ago.

Most will – if they ever bother to think about it, will not waste much thought on the matter. Especially if they feel that the sticklebacks may have some sort of case for keeping their lifestyles free of unwarranted intrusion by canoes and – in some places – coracles.

However, we should all realise that what is the right thing to think today, may not be necessarily the right thing to think tomorrow.

So just be a bit careful with your canoe, because next time it may not be just the sticklebacks you are inconveniencing who take issue with you.

 

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

The Return of the Red Revolutionaries

Well, obviously… or perhaps not, depending on how you take your cheese, at the time everyone regarded it as the most significant event of the century… so far. At least, that is, in the often turbulent and divisive history of cheese, up to and including the Wensleydale perturbations and the great Luton Stilton riot of 1874.

Of course, those of us who had our suspicions about the Red Leicester supporters were justified in our concerns. Especially when the Red Leicester Worker’s collective announced they had taken control of one of the country’s largest cracker factories. Before demanding the government hand over control of all cheese-related matters to what they called the Workers Cheese Eating Collective.

The government, of course, had long expected that the revolutionary cheese parties would stage some industrial or political action. So they had stockpiled the chutney in readiness and the essential cheese supply lines were to be taken over by the army should the disruption spread. Although, many feared that the resulting imposition of basic army-issue cheddar on the populace would cause more unrest than it quietened. Especially if the rumours of navy hard tack biscuits left over from the Battle of Trafalgar turned out to be true.

Still, though in the end the Red Leicesters made a significant mistake in underestimating the support they would have. First the Sage derby, then the Double Gloucester turned against them. Particularly when the Red Leicester leadership refused to ballot their members and some of them returned to work, but only on the promise of extra sweet pickle on their Ploughman’s Lunches.

Soon after that, it was all over and it seemed that Britain was yet again safe from the cheese revolutions that had scared so many countries in such much of the 20th century.

It was thought that Cheese radicalism was a thing of the past. But now with Britain’s Left once more turning to those discredited and often stale cheeses of the past, it would be most unwise of us to ignore the danger signs. Especially since the leadership promised a prize freeze on Britain’s staple cheeses for the lifetime of their first parliament and a seizure of all unused and hoarded crackers. It seems that those dark cheese-less days of the 3 days-only cheese weeks, cracker coupons and complete chutney blackouts could so easily return, if we dare relax our vigilance.

 

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

On Appropriate Trouserings

Don’t think this is easy, especially not in such inappropriate trouserings as those you are sporting at this moment. Certain trouserings are – as a matter of course – more appropriate than others at certain times and in certain situations. For example, remember that time you went on stage in Stockholm to receive your Nobel Prize for services to the Exceptionally Ordinary. You may have been dressed in a pair of football shorts, but normally such legwear is not considered appropriate for such formal occasions. This is especially so when paired with fishnet stockings and Doc Martens. But you like to see yourself as an artist, so I suppose certain allowances must be made for your increasingly desperate attempts at ‘individuality’.

On the other hand a wetsuit is not normally considered the ideal leg covering for our continued adventures in high-energy physics experiments. No matter who claims it helps keep the neutrinos out on a chilly day, as we all know subatomic particles can play havoc with the circulation in the legs, especially when accelerated to near light speed.

In Scotland, of course, the kilt has been traditionally worn when giving chase to the wild haggis. Even if only to give the lasses something to laugh at when the men take a tumble up on the crags and their sporrans take something of a battering. However, caution must be exercised if entering an area of the Highlands where feral bagpipes have been allowed to go native as an attack up the kilt by enraged bagpipes is no laughing matter, especially in the mating season.

So, in the interests of safety, both your own and that of other people in the vicinity always make sure your putative trouserings will be suitable for whatever you have planned for the day. Unless, of course, she has strongly intimated that such attire will be unnecessary, at least for a while.

 

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

Political Probity

It didn’t happen exactly like that, of course. Although, for a time, it convinced several of the more excitable tabloids that both the politician and the lady of marketable intimacy were both found naked together in the bath filled with strawberry Angel Delight at the party conference.

However, as the Minister for Intimate Probing of the Wrong Sort did later issue a statement to the press. In it, he claimed that it is part of his remit to explore other forms of crime prevention, hence the use of the handcuffs and the whip in that Angel Delight filled bathtub. As he said at the time as well, his wife was standing beside him at this difficult time, much to his obvious relief. Especially when it seemed during in obligatory tear-stained TV interview she would much rather be standing behind him holding her personal favourite from her selection of high-quality kitchen knives in her hand.

The lady of marketable intimacy, of course, sold her story to the highest bidder. Originally, she claimed she was from Eastern Europe (which she later amended to Liverpool) and was trafficked into this country with the promise of becoming a reality TV star. However, later investigation by a rival tabloid discovered she’d turned to prostitution when disappointed by her failure in a TV talent show audition. Consequently, she turned to her current career as one with more potential for personal enrichment than that of being some pop Svengali’s latest paparazzi target.

Still, in the end though the politician was forced out of public life which meant there was one less of them out there wasting taxpayer’s money, if only for a while.

So, in the end, some good did come of it all.

 

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

The End of Days

Unbuttoned Sex Cardigan askew, the High Priestess of the Quite Rude strode into the Fornicatrium with her handmaidens rushing to keep up with her.

The floor of the Fornicatrium was awash with lime juice, discarded orange peel stuck to the soles of their feet as the High Priestess led the way through to the High Altar. She stood for a moment in front of the altar, making the signs of obsequience. Then to the gasps of her handmaidens, she turned off the most holy TV set.

‘Don’t look so shocked,’ the High Priestess said. ‘It was only the local news.’

‘But the holy TV is never turned off….’ The Handmaiden’s Union Rep said. ‘Unless…. Unless it is the End of Days™!’ The handmaidens turned to one another, clutching their sex cardigans tight around themselves, their faces in shock.

The High Priestess shook her head, making calming gestures. ‘No, it is not the End of Days™… as you know none of the twelve true religions could get planning permission for any form of Armageddon.’ She looked away for a moment. ‘Could you imagine the parking problems alone?’ She shuddered, fastening a few of the lower buttons of her sex cardigan. ‘No, my holy sisters, the news is worse than that….’

‘Worse than Armageddon! Worse than the End of Days™, worse than the total destruction of the universe?’ The Union Rep glanced at her sisters. ‘Tell us.’

‘Tell us…. Tell us.’ The Handmaidens cried towards the High Priestess.

One handmaiden near the rear of the group tentatively raised her hand. ‘The national team hasn’t been knocked out of the World Cup again has it?’ She looked at her terrified sisters. ‘You remember what happened last time that happened, none of the men could perform the Holy Act of Fornication for several weeks afterwards. Remember…? We had to even put aside out knitting for a while to get them back to normal.’

The rest of the Handmaidens nodded, each remembering how many episodes of the holy soap operas they’d each missed as they tried to return the nation’s manhood to their former glory… well, state of almost adequacy.

‘No, it is far worse than that.’ The High Priestess wrapped her ceremonial cardigan around herself, wishing she could hold her knitting needles of office for comfort. ‘We… we have run out of chocolate.’

The screams of the handmaidens could be heard for miles around the temple and the people of that nation knew that their world would never be the same again.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

The Perils of Celebrity

Spangle Trimphone became world-famous little more than five years or so ago now. Surprisingly enough, it was not her record-breaking score on the then latest quiz show phenomenon Name That Cheese! ™ that gave her this coveted celebrity status. That did initially demonstrate her rare intelligence when she successfully identified a rather tricky Sage Derby hidden under a tiger in a dense jungle. However, it was more that as she danced around the studio in victory it became increasing apparent she had mislaid her underwear before appearing on the show.

After that, it was increasingly obvious that Trimphone’s real talent lay not in naming cheeses, despite the inherent mass appeal of such an ability in the entertainment world. It became increasingly apparent her true mass appeal lay in her ability – or rather her inability to remember to wear any underwear when out in public.

Soon Trimphone was so famous that she didn’t need to go to any hip happening club, party or award-ceremony as other celebrities do. All she had to do was when getting out of a car – anywhere on the planet – jump up and down a bit until every photographer there had enough photographs of her lack of underwear, and then Trimphone could go home.

However, her fame turned fleeting when a jealous ex-lover revealed that at home, Trimphone always wore underwear. He clamed too that sometimes she strutted around at home even without any other clothes to cover the underwear up. He claimed too that Trimphone had accounts with some of the world’s most exclusive lingerie retailers in the world and had more pairs of knickers than the entire female population of Ipswich put together.

Not only that, her fall from grace was complete when a tabloid newspaper revealed that she didn’t even like cheese. A disgusted populace turned away from her in droves. Soon she had no choice but to return in defeat to the tawdry comedy quiz show circuit to earn the minimum necessary for her to remain a celebrity, despite her fall from grace.

 

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

The Magical Device

Lord Arsey Bumstrangler strode across his great hall towards the tower. He climbed the narrow winding stairs to the room at the top of the tower. He opened the door to see his wizards as they struggled futilely with the magical device. One of them appeared, at least to Lord Arsey, to be doing something distasteful with the entrails of a frog… or what used to be a frog.

‘Does it work yet?’ Bumstrangler looked down at the magical device, split open on the wizard’s cluttered workbench.

The head wizard bowed, the tip of his obligatory beard weaving a short trail in the dust on the floor. ‘No, sire.’ The Master wizard held up a yellowing sheet of paper, surprisingly small for the vital importance of the magical device. ‘The runes,’ the wizard muttered, ‘are somewhat ambiguous.’

‘Really?’ The Lord sighed with all the enthusiasm he could muster for the workings of magic.

‘Yes,’ the wizard fumbled under his beard and brought out a pair of eye-lenses. He wiped a layer of dust off them and settled them on as much of his nose as was visible between the rim of his obligatory wizarding hat and the beginnings of his official wizarding beard. ‘It is – to the untrained eye – written in the language of the magical runes, but not really in a way that makes any sense.’

The Lord harrumphed and turned to leave. ‘Hurry,’ he said. ‘I need the magical device soon. He glanced up at the hourglass above the workbench. ‘It is almost time for kick-off and the telly is stuck on one of the wife’s channels. If you don’t get the magical device working in time then I won’t be able to change the channel in time for the footy.’ He turned, glaring, to face the wizards as they cowered in front of him. ‘And you know what that will mean for you!’

He turned and left the wizard’s room, slamming the door behind him, wondering what the point of being the Lord of all he surveyed was if he couldn’t even change the channel on the telly in time for the footy.

 

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]