David Hadley's Blog, page 128

The Uses of Democracy

Anyway, not that we expected that much to be different. We at least expected there would be at least some, if only cosmetic, differences between the political tribes. That there would be choices between the candidates put up for our perusal when we are allowed to pretend that electing one over the others will somehow make any meaningful difference to what we like to call our lives.

Back in the old Soviet days, the Western media and political circus used to like to sneer at those one party states where the leader would be elected with a huge percentage of the popular vote. The leader would then go on blithely ignoring those (nominal) voters and go about doing whatever he and his cronies could get away with. Of course this is very different from our own – and they like to tell us much better system – where the leader gets chosen by the largest minority of those who can be arsed to vote. The winner of the election then going on to do whatever he and his cronies can get away with.

This, political analysts claim, proves the inherent superiority of our political system over all the others.

There are two main problems with democracy, of course, those being:

1./ The voters.

and

2./ Who they get to vote for.

Both aspects lead to us getting the sort of politicials that are the least offensive to the greatest number. We have only a ‘choice’ between bland cloned automatons that know nothing of the world beyond the incestuous and cosy political world and are barely human on any normal scale of measurement.

Still, could be worse. At least this way we are spared from rule by the deadliest of all political animals, those who believe in something. For those that believe in something are – so often - prepared to see so many others suffer and die as they march us on though these deserts towards their vision of a promised land.

The Unreal Ones

'She's almost like a real person.' Martin had that look in his eyes again as we hurried to grab a table, sipping our full pints as we weaved through the crowd.

'What?' I said as we sat at the table.

'She's almost... almost, mind... like a real person.'

I put my beer down on the table. 'She is a real person.'

'No.' Martin shook his head.

'No?'

'No.'

Sometimes I wonder about Martin. My mother always said there was something not quite right about people she called too clever for their own good. Although, she never met Martin, I'm sure she would hold him up as the perfect example of the type.

I looked up to see him sitting back, arms folded, looking smug. 'All right,' I said. 'Explain.'

'You and me are real people.' Martin looked around the bar.

'Me... I know I am. You... well' I sipped my beer.

Martin edged forward in his seat, leaning over the table towards me. He waved me towards him. We both leant forward over the table like co-conspirators.

'You, me... everyone in this bar, in this pub... we are real people.'

'Right.'

'People like her: Surianne Jameson, they are not real.'

'What you mean celebrities?'

'Amongst others.'

'Well, I can see that they... well, some of them at least live lives completely different from the way most of us lea....'

'No. You don't understand.' Martin shook his head. 'That is just the point; they don't lead lives at all. They are not real. They do not exist. Not here, anyway.'

I looked at him. Martin was capable of spectacular wind-ups at times. This was not one of them. At least, I thought so. 'You're not winding me up, taking the piss are you.'

Martin shook his head. 'I'll prove it.' He sipped his beer. 'Listen....'

So I did.

Waiting for Her

Waiting for Her

The words are hiding, and I cannot think.
The page sits empty, gloating, clean and smug.
It knows when I have trouble, and the words

will not behave, all playing endless games
of hide and seek. They hide behind as I turn
to look out through the window, see a day

go slipping past me, while I wait for she
who brings the words to come here back from where
she goes whenever she feels I don't pay

her the great respect and the attention
she obviously craves and so deserves.

Warning: False Weasels!

Well! Now here is the thing. You see those over there?

Well, they are NOT real ones!

Yes, it is true. They are false - imitation - weasels.

Is nothing sacred any more? Why, back in my day, there would have been a massive outcry, front-page stories in the press, TV and radio newsflashes and extensive in-depth coverage. As well as questions in Parliament, apoplectic letters to the editor, arguments in the pubs, and - quite possibly - even comments made in the cake shops.

Quite simply - we would not have stood for it.

But, these days, these days, well….

It seems - these days - that just anyone can walk around with any number of imitation small mammals without provoking even a murmur of disquiet or discontent. False weasels, imitation voles, counterfeit badgers, bogus field mice, invalid foxes, fictitious stoats, you name it. It seems anything goes in this day and age.

Well… I suppose it only goes to show. Times change and all that bollocks.

Still, if you ask me (and I'll still tell you, even if you don't) it will all end in tears. It is all well and good having all these imitations, but what will happen, for example, when you next need an authentic ferret for your next Ceremonial Immolation of the Estate Agent?

What then, eh?

What then?

Deserving

The sea whispered to the beach as though it knew some great secret it was eager to impart. We were together, side by side: me lying down, Julie sitting up with a book resting on her thigh. I was looking up at the sky, a slow cloud made its way across the blue as though it was lost and looking for somewhere it could call home.

Julie’s hand lay on my thigh, except for a few moments every thirty seconds or so, when she turned the page of the book she was reading. Then after a gap where I began to notice the absence of her hand, it was back, stroking the hair on my thigh before resting, proprietorial on my body again. My skin felt salty, hot, and Julie’s hand felt cool, soft, against me.

‘What?’ she said, turning to look down at me over the tops of her sunglasses.

‘Nothing,’ I said, not meeting her glance.

She sighed and closed her book, turning towards me. ‘There’s something,’ she said. ‘I know.’

‘This,’ I said, lifting myself up on my elbows so our faces were only a few inches apart.

‘What about it?’

‘Do we deserve it?’

Julie took her sunglasses off, screwing her eyes up at the sudden brightness. ‘Of course we deserve it.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘But….’ I said. ‘We got this…’ I made a gesture that encompassed the beach, the bluest sea I’d ever seen, the almost cloudless sky and the hotel that lay just at the edge of the beach. ‘…by killing people.’

Julie sighed and picked up her book with one hand whilst putting her sunglasses back on with the other. ‘But, they deserved to die,’ she said.

A Scent of Shampoo

Her head was – for a short while – pressed against my chest. By lowering my head, I could bury my nose in her hair. It smelt of some sort of flowers, some brand of shampoo, I suppose. For just a moment, though, I could imagine us lying together in some meadow somewhere on a day in the long summer school holiday. Together, as I'd always thought the two of us should be.

Then, a moment or two later, she sniffed and snuffled and eased herself away from me. My arms, that had just been holding her, as I'd always wanted to hold her, fell to my sides. She turned away from me without looking up at me, wiping her eyes and nose with a tissue.

I felt I should say something, but I've never known what to say, or what to do, in such situations. It had even been Claire herself who had stumbled into my embrace as I stood there, powerless and embarrassed by her tears.

I thought, helplessly, of the moment at that party when if only I'd leant forward and given Claire that kiss she was – I now realised – waiting for, then she would not be here now crying over some other boy. Instead we'd be together, perhaps in that summer meadow, because I knew I would never make her cry.

The Naked and the Dead

I looked down at myself. I was naked. This was strange. As far as I could remember I’d just reached over to turn the light on, so I could finish my book. Then I must have fallen back asleep or something, because it was - it seemed – long past dawn and it was already light outside.

I must have slept all night in my chair, but this didn’t explain how I was here, standing up across the other side of the room… and naked.

I wondered if I’d gone insane and this was some manifestation of a loss of lucidity.

Then I looked around and saw myself, still fully dressed, sitting in my chair behind me.

I looked down at my naked self, then at myself in the chair, just sitting there.

Just sitting there… and dead.

I was dead.

‘I am dead,’ I said, surprised to hear my own voice. ‘Dead and naked.’

‘You’ll get used to it,’ a voice said.

I turned.

She was young… well, younger than me anyway, and she was naked too.

She saw me not looking and laughed. ‘Like I said: you’ll get used to it. After all, why should your clothes die too?’

‘I am dead, then?’ I repeated it too myself too. ‘Naked and dead.’ I was so bewildered by it all, it didn’t occur to me to ask what she was doing there, in my house, there at my death.

It wasn’t until much later that I learnt it had been her house too, and – unlike mine – her death had been no accident with a faulty-wired reading lamp, she had been murdered.

At least, so she said.

Slight-Incline Theory

These days Toblerone Stoatrevolver is widely regarded as the instigator of what later become known as Slight-Incline Theory. Initially, it was a theory which went some way towards explaining almost nothing of any great interest. Yet it could be called upon by any journalist in desperate need of an article to fill the spaces between the adverts. The journalist could use it to pad out an article on anything from the mating habits of small woodland mammals right up to the mating habits of Hollywood celebrities. Not that – as was later discovered – there was all that much difference between the mating habits of both sets of creatures, as was originally assumed. Especially so when the Hollywood celebrities had a habit of creeping off into the undergrowth with each other at various inopportune times – much to the squirrels’ consternation.

Stoatrevolver's Slight-Incline Theory, like many other briefly fashionable pseudo-mathematical theories, was – in fact – not so much a theory more a way of getting media attention for a rather neglected university academic in an unfashionable area of study. Much as with other such theories which grab the attention of the media, Slight-Incline Theory was not so much famous for what it did explain, which was almost nothing. Its worth lay in what other newsworthy articles a journalist could shoe-horned it into. Mainly to give those aforesaid media pieces a thin veneer of academic respectability, even if – on further perusal that academic rigour was almost – or completely – non-existent. It is for this reason alone that Toblerone Stoatrevolver and his Slight-Incline Theory will be remembered, but only for a short while.

Exploring the Wilderness

Even so, it was something of a surprise to find it where we did. After all, the expedition had been underway for little over a month. It had been hard, difficult, making our way through the unmapped wilderness. We considered ourselves fortunate that we'd only lost one of our party who'd gone back to the kitchen, so she said, 'to make us all a cup of tea' and hadn't been seen since. However, from our - admittedly somewhat sketchy – understanding of the arcane mysteries of the TV schedules, we had some idea of where she'd gone. About the fate of that promised cup of tea, its whereabouts is unknown to this day.

For those of us still in the bewildering complexity of the exploration, though, we had no alternative, but to carry on deeper and deeper into the unknown.

It was getting late now and that small square of light that still remanded however distant it grew as we moved deeper into the darkness and the unknown. It reminded us of a calm, rational and ordered world that lay beyond this unexplored hell-hole. The light back there was fading fast and we knew that if we did not find the promised treasure soon, it would be turning as dark out there as it was in here and none of us wanted that.

There were rumours there was still someone trapped up here from the last expedition into the attic. Somewhere amongst all these mysterious boxes, chests, suitcases and other containers with their unknown and mystifying contents, my long-lost father was up here somewhere, still trying to fix a TV aerial that had long superseded by modern technology.

We were glad that we did not find him, because if he discovered that England had not won the World Cup since 1966, and that all his efforts had been in vain... well, sometimes it just isn't worth carrying on.

However, she did eventually turn up with the promised cup of tea... and some biscuits, so it wasn't all in vain after all, even though by then we'd all long forgotten what we came up here to look for.

The Sea’s Dominion

The Sea’s Dominion

Down along the shoreline the tide
Makes edgy progress, advancing
Like some timid army into unsure ground.

But still the walls of the castles crumble
Under its unwavering assault
Until all the free land is swallowed

Into the sea’s new dominion,
And is lost beneath the waves
Falling over each other as they race

Each eager to throw itself hard against
The resisting rocks, until that cliff falls too

Leaving the land bitten off; chewed
And digested until everything, once more,
Returns to the sea we once escaped from.