David Hadley's Blog, page 133

Mountains

Mountains

It is not easy to remember
All the world's necessities
When this world refuses to exist
Without the words to describe it.

Parts of it sometimes disappear
When I forget to give names
To all these things around me.
The distant grey mountains

Were lost to me the other day.
I must have forgotten to name them
Before the slow mist came down
And swallowed everything inside itself.

Mothership

It was bigger than I expected it to be, but then I hadn’t often wondered about how big I would expect them to be. Usually, when I think about things it does often end up being about certain ladies and about how we could spend some interesting time together, exploring the outer edges of erotic possibility.

Of course, it is not that I don’t think about other things as well. It is just that I like to think about the ladies more – much more – than I like to think about the other things, up to - and including - beer.

As for the alien motherships, to be honest, I hadn’t thought about them much at all. That is unless they were those aliens who Captain Kirk always happened to meet for some hot Starship Captain on alien sex-action, or – in some episodes – alien on Starship Captain sex-action.

But, here I was on the alien mothership. At least, I presumed it was the mothership, like I said, I don’t think about aliens that often and I’d never really wondered about what separated the mothership from whatever other classes of ships the aliens would have.

However, it was massive, so - until I found out any different - I decided to regard it as the mothership as I set off down a corridor at random. As I explored, I started thinking about how I’d actually ended up on this alien mothership (possibly) in orbit around the Earth… but that was another story.

Scheduling Nightmares

With our favourite holy evening TV schedules clutched tightly to our chests we made our way down the slow twisting corridor towards the place where we’d heard the most hideous screaming and screeching. It seemed obvious somewhere down there someone was in great pain, somewhere behind one of these many doors someone must be undergoing some of the worst torture seen in this land since the last time some cruel TV producer had summoned up the courage to inflict Janet Street-Porter onto some poor unsuspecting audience.

We could only hope it was not that she-devil who was inflicting herself and her banal ‘opinions’ on some poor victim, for then we knew we could do little to save the soul who’s torment could have by now gone far beyond the tender limits of sanity and beyond even our abilities for rescue.

Down this corridor we knew, though, that the devils and demons responsible for the creation of reality TV lurked, planning and scheming to bring even more evil into the lives of poor innocent TV viewers with their many versions of the levels of hell inflicted on the poor captive TV audience, condemned to suffer such pains and indignations all in the name of their most foul of holies – the viewing figures.

Then we can to the door, behind which we could hear that terrible wailing, screaming and caterwauling, and then we knew that we were too late, for on that door was a hastily-scrawled sign that showed those in the room were beyond all redemption, for that sign warned everyone about to enter that beyond that door were the dread auditions for the latest TV talent show singers.

Turning in horror we ran, hoping – hope against hope – that we were not too late to catch the last bus heading for the hills.

The True Danger of Conspiracy Theories

Here we are, and I must say what a splendid morni....

Oh, hang on... what a rather dismal day it has turned out to be. Someone, somewhere is stealing our weather and replacing it with this... well, whatever it is. Of course, this being the Untied Kingdom, the weather is usually cold, damp and drizzly with a wind that seemingly comes from all directions at once, but this weather isn't good enough even for that.

Of course, this should be the cue for some sort of conspiracy theory, but – as we know – the only thing that is ever true about conspiracy theories is that the people who believe in them are... well, wrong. The human race is quite simply not competent – or organised enough – to keep up something as complex as a conspiracy before someone, somewhere, decides they can't be arsed and the whole thing tumbles to the ground in disarray and mutual recriminations.

Of course, that is exactly what they want you to think.

Do you think it is really some sort of strange co-incidence that the only people who seem to believe in conspiracy theories are sad, lonely, paranoid obsessive losers?

That is what they want you to think.

They want you to dismiss all these conspiracy theories as paranoid lunacy and to deride or pity those that keep spouting the obvious bollocks, while they get on with their real aim – their project of world domination.

The only question is: just who are they?

But we know exactly who they are, which explains just why they are changing the climate of this country to more resemble that of Antarctica.

These Mirages

These Mirages

We always begin in such places
as this, with all the possibilities
of the day heaped up before us.

There is little here that can be turned
into precious stones that sparkle and glow.
We live amongst dull sands in heaping dunes
in the empty heart of this desert.

We wait for some glimpse of the wonders
we were promised, but nothing grows
from these mirages except disappointment.

You take my hand and hold it,
hoping for some strength to journey on
until we find those promises waiting

lying in green at the end of this barren land
where trees shade us from this shadowless place
and let us start living once again.

A Crack in Space

It had been quite a while since I’d made any Yorkshire puddings, so I was checking the amount of flour I needed as I took the second egg from the box and cracked it on the side of the bowl.

When I looked down….

I’m not sure, but I think there is a creation myth of one of the many hundreds – if not thousands – of religions humankind has invented throughout its history, that says something about the universe emerging from an egg.

Whichever religion it was – if it was one – was right.

There, floating a few inches above my bowl containing the other – normal – egg was a dark cloud, already twinkling with stars forming as it expanded. The dark cloud spreading and growing, not so much a big bang as a slow splurge, spreading out over the kitchen as I stood watching it.

Maybe it was slow because it had merged from a cracked open egg, maybe it was slow because I’d just taken it from the fridge, but universes are supposedly cold places, so maybe that was not it.

Of course, it is not every day that a new universe appears in someone’s kitchen, so at the time I was gob-smacked, dumfounded, paralysed by wonder and – quite possibly – a bit of fear too, as I wondered whether I would be subsumed into this new universe that was now spreading dangerously beyond the mug tree towards the microwave.

I remembered something about microwave radiation and the big bang from some science programme I’d half-watched and decided that something this big, something on the scale of a universe appearing in the kitchen was too big for me to handle on my own.

So I did the only wise thing I could in the situation.…

I called for my wife to come and help.

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Yet more outpourings and ejaculations from Norbert Trouser-Quandary's notably upstanding organ, featuring more tales of the doings and goings-on in that most delightfully perverted of England’s rural villages: Little Frigging in the Wold.
This volume of tales from Little Frigging features the adventures of Grand Uncle Stagnant back in the summer of love where he hears about the concept of free love and – almost immediately – stops issuing invoices.
Other tales in this volume detail the history of the Hot Strumpets on Wheels service, the uses of high visibility fetish gear, Little Frigging in the Wold – the computer game, the appendage of a hands-free pole-vaulter, pancakes and perversions and the Great Fire of Little Frigging. Grand Uncle Stagnant and the Summer of Love also contains many other intriguing events and happenings from the village and its environs, including the erotic use of the toolshed as well as pointers on the tactical subtleties of the Inter-Village Orgy match and much, much more.

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Further collections of tales from Little Frigging in the Wold can be found in: Little Frigging in the Wold and Sex, Pies and Sticky Tape.

Some comments on David Hadley's writing:
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“another one of yours I truly enjoyed, “Old Feebletrousers” love it!”
“Loved this piece. Very funny and energetic….”
“funny stuff!”
“that was brilliant!”
“on the one hand I’m so glad I decided to read the rest of this collection (funniest thing I’ve read in a LONG time) but on the other hand I wish I hadn’t done it during dinner as I just sprayed barely masticated tomato all over my keyboard from laughing too hard”

Grand Uncle Stagnant and the Summer of Love

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The Trousers of the Moment

Just why Rumple Grungewelly became such a world-famous celebrity, is - of course – a matter for a more popular culture-compatible pair of trousers than the pair I am currently on the inside of. However, I can safely say without fear of comprehension, that he would not have become as world-famous as he now undoubtedly is without a fine and discerning talent for spotting the trousers of the moment.

We have all – no doubt – had our own share of trouser-related misfortunes, but it seems that Grungewelly himself is not only the only celebrity on this planet, but possibly the only trouser-wearer who has managed to avoid any such tragic trouser-related mishaps. No matter where he is seen by the ever-present paparazzi, he – uncannily as it seems – never seems to be residing inside the wrong sort of trouser for the situation. This is a feat that will leave most of us who habitually have to make many fraught trouser-related decisions as an almost supernatural talent.

Thus is Grungewelly's fame assured... at least as long as there are trousers, or -come to that – legs to put inside them.

The Heyday of Dangerous Sports

Even so, none of us at the time thought it was possible – even though she was prepared to give it a go. Back in those days, of course, Health and Safety was not the great over-riding concern it has now become. So her attempt to open a corned beef tin without gauntlets, safety goggles and an air-sea rescue helicopter on stand-by, was regarded – at the time - as brave rather than foolish. Consequently, there was no attempt made by the local authorities to attempt to ban the proposed opening of the corned beef tin, or even to insist on a fenced-off security zone erected around the vicinity of the tin.

However, come the morning of the attempted opening, it was a fine English spring morning, with the howling gale throwing pouring rain into the determined, but expectant crowd that had gathered there, ready to witness the spectacle. Although, most people in the crowd confidently expected some bloodshed, if not the loss of one or more digits. There was even some speculation that an out-of-town betting syndicate with links to organised crime back in The Smoke, were taking good money on the loss of one or more limbs, once the initial tricky first corner of the tin had been broached.

She, of course, despite the storm, had come dressed for the occasion, which – as this was the 1970s, necessitated her wearing a bikini while some superannuated sheepskin-enrobed TV gobshite mouthed dreary double-entendres into his microphone.

It was tense, tight, right up to the moment when she inserted the key, feeding the little metal tab into the key slot, then waited while the local mayor, and a couple of local MPs bored the shit out of everyone with some pointless and – luckily for most – almost totally-inaudible and irrelevant speeches.

There was some concern that the bikini-clad contestant was turning blue under the downpour, so a couple of the sharply-suited gentlemen from the betting syndicate suggested that the local dignitaries cut it short before they had an accident.

Then, with only a brief fanfare from the sodden brass band it got under way.

She had been practising, of course, but only with a normal tin opener, and the then nascent ring pull on beer cans, but this was her first attempt at the dreaded and highly dangerous corned beef tin.

It was tense as the key began to turn and the TV commentator screaming inanities into his microphone, while the watching crowd pressed closer, all eager for their first sight of blood – or failing that – corned beef.

The contestant herself, her fingers numb with cold and sodden from the rain, couldn't get an adequate-enough grip on the metal key and the rain-sodden tin label was coming off in her other hand.

There were calls by the more safety-conscious to abandon the whole spectacle before disaster struck, but their voices of sanity were drowned out by the rest of the crowd, pressing every-closer as the first sightings of the corned beef were confirmed by the judges and the TV presenter nearly had a heart-attack trying to peer down the contestant's rain-sodden bikini top.

Then – suddenly – it was al over. The contestant stepped forward, beaming, the two parts of the tin separated, one in each hand.

Quickly, her assistant rushed forward with a plate and the contestant and her assistant began the tricky procedure of getting the corned beef out of the tin without either of them losing a limb in the process.

Then, with a suspiciously-orgasmic sigh from the TV presenter, the disgorged corned beef and the two parts of the tin were displayed to the wildly-cheering and applauding crowd as the judge and the adjudicator confirmed that the contestant did – indeed – still have al her appendages and that she had - in fact – completed the tin opening in what they could now confirm was a world-record time.

That night there was jubilation and impromptu street parties throughout the length and breadth of the UK, in scenes not seen since England had won the World Cup over a decade before.

It was a time when so many - once again – found themselves proud to be British.

Not One of Those Days

It was not one of those days after all, which was odd because I had it down in my diary as being one of my ten official, government-allocated, one of those days. This was going to be a problem as the government had decided to end the chaos, doubt and worry of all us workers having one of those days when we were not ready to cope with it. Thus, they hoped, by having pre-planned days where nothing would go right for us we would be ready and prepared for that day where it all went wrong and not suffer so much from it and lose productive time through it.

After all, how many times have we stayed in bed, hiding under the duvet, refusing to come out because we know that out there, there is one of those days just waiting for us…?

Exactly….

Allocating our one of those days for us was just another way the government tried to make us believe it was on our side, with its pollsters, focus groups and political strategists all saying that taking the uncertainty out of people’s lives was exactly the sort of thing governments ought to be doing.

But, if this, today… was not one of my one of those days, why was I standing in an alley with my hands up as an armed mugger relieved me of all my valuables just after I’d been soaked by a lorry splashing through a massive rain puddle at the side of the road as I walked along looking for a newsagent that had not sold out of my favourite newspaper, all when I was already late for work after my usual commuter train broke down just a few hundred yards from my station?