David Hadley's Blog, page 134

Erosion

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Erosion

The words we once used are forever
Written on all these monuments.
The wind and rain will not erode them.
The sun will not scorch a faded
Forgetfulness across their rough surfaces.

The undergrowth will not grow up
Around them and hide them
Lost within a deeper tangle of green
Fading into a darkness
Too deep for any eye to resolve

Into something lurking deep within
With a man-made shape revealing
Some long-forgotten secret place
Hiding within, and tells us all

Some long-forgotten history
Of what once was before time
Taught us how to be forgetful
And not remember all these words.

Alarms and Diversions

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Now as the very delphiniums of our curiosity burst into bloom at the prospect of someone we find more than a little personable revealing to us what they keep within the deeper recesses of their underwear, we adopt the stance of a semi-beguiled stock control assistant in readiness for the delights that will soon be snuggling up against our eager palms.

Then – of course – the bloody alarm goes off and you have to struggle up through entangled dreams and duvets to turn the sodding thing off, whilst staring in incomprehension at the clock face. After all, it can’t possibly be that time already, can it?

What happened to the night?

What was that vague memory of a dream that is already fading away as the realisation that you must – indeed – get out of this nice warm, cosy, snugly… just a few more…?

No hurry….

Shit…!

Look at what that bloody clock has done now, several minutes stolen while you just closed your heavy eyelids for what could have been no more than a few seconds.

Now you do have to get up or you will be late.

But….

Warm….

Cosy….

No!

Up and out before you have time to think about….

Bloody hell, it’s cold and dark... and the bed is….

If you just slipped back for only a moment, because the outline of your body is still there in the memory of the sheet, you could go back, find your way back to that dream where you know that one you dream of will be waiting just for you….

New Technology

It was not quite as expected, but then we only had the advertisement to go on, which – of course – bore about as much resemblance to reality as a politician does to a human being.

Still, though, the instructions, while not exactly illuminating as to the functions, capabilities or even purpose of the new item were quite extensive, at least in pointing out the various circumstances in which using the item would invalidate its warranty, such as using it in anything more inclement than a stiff breeze to – if we interpreted the cartoonish illustrations correctly – attempting to use it in Wales whilst not wearing a hat.

Still, though, it came with a plug which is more than what used to be the case. I am of an age now where I can still remember the frantic search when something new arrived for some rarely-used item you could steal the plug from to use for the new device. And it had batteries included too.

Still, though, the hand-grips were not in Imperial as stated on the website and the lubrication socket was not in the position illustrated (nearly) in the instructions.

However, I could see she was more than a little eager – and considering the weather conditions – had already stripped down to the inner layer of cardigans in readiness to test the device.

So, I handed it over and left the room, intending to make a cup of tea, when she pointed out that if I filled the container on the optional attachment, it would make a cup of tea for her once she was finished and – not only that – it would also open jam jars for her, thereby making much of my existence superfluous, which she seemed to regard as somewhat of a feature, not as a bug.

Fatuous Zygote

Fatuous Zygote is the chat show host famous for once asking a member of the royal family if he had a penis and other such infantile impertinencies towards the celebrity circuit. Yesterday, Zygote announced that, at the age of 55 years old, he is now seriously considering growing up, despite the disastrous effect it may have on his career.

‘Quite simply I’m bored shitless with asking film stars about the size of their tits, arses or their genitalia,’ Zygote said in his trademark direct manner. ‘I mean, who really gives a damn anyway. I woke up the other morning realising I don’t really give a damn about Pumpkin Dropincentre’s latest film, or whether some superannuated rock star has been wibbling on about the state of the planet to some star-struck loons at the UN, or even – god help us – if they have released yet another bloody album several decades after they wrote their last decent tune.'

The BBC has confirmed that it has no use for a mature, sensible chat show host and will – when Zygote hangs up his plastic imitation tits for the last time – replace him with a dog that can – almost – bark the Norwegian national anthem whilst bouncing on a trampoline.

Small Woodland Creatures and the Media

There are not all that many people prepared to hold aloft the small woodland mammal of their choice in mixed company these days, especially when the recent tabloid hysteria questioning the practice of taking a weasel to the supermarket during a Bank Holiday weekend. This is especially disconcerting to those of a nervous disposition for whom, the presence of a badger or pine marten, during their weekly shopping trips is such a comfort, especially during the busy periods such as a typical pre-Bank Holiday weekend.

Of course, there have been a few incidents alleged where an over-stressed badger - or a squirrel in fear for the integrity of its nuts – may have bitten other shoppers. Allegedly, in one case made notorious by the aforementioned tabloids, a shop assistant at the checkout was savagely attacked by a distraught water vole when the store's computer rejected its loyalty card for the third time that week. However, further investigation has failed to come up with any evidence whatsoever for the water vole attack on the checkout staff of any British supermarket, let alone any small woodland creature assaulting another shopper.

Furthermore, most supermarkets - perhaps fearful of their market share and reputation – have all issued statements saying how they regard the use of small woodland mammals as companion shoppers as a great British tradition which they all wholeheartedly support.

Consequently, this whole issue could be one of those occasional tabloid storms that disappears almost as quickly as it became front page news, especially if some minor celebrity happens to go out for an evening in paparazzi-rich environment after forgetting to don any underwear.

Apart From the Camel

However, it is probably for the best if we pack it all away now and pretend that it didn't happen. Then, once we have removed the tell-tale lemon meringue stains from the eiderdown we can go about our business as normal... apart from the camel, of course.

It is always difficult trying to spice up what has become a routine love-life, especially when the watermelons are out of season and the Assistant Retail-Manageress uniform is still at the cleaners as they try to remove the raspberry yoghurt stains from the elbows.... yet again.

It is even more awkward trying to get a somewhat reluctant camel up the stairs, especially in a typical modern three-bedroom semi-detached - where the walls are not quite as soundproof as one would wish - especially while wearing fetish wellies that make the camel somewhat more nervous than would be the case with... say... a sheep, but I digress.

Still, though, once the camel was upstairs and we’d found some flippers that fitted it, it did lend proceedings that certain... erotic charge that has been missing from our intimate encounters of late, especially when the wife reached up, wearing only her leather Yeoman of the Guard outfit, to reach down the Monopoly board from off the top of the wardrobe and I began to shake the dice in readiness.

It did, though, turn out all right in the end, Although – and I have since Googled it for confirmation – as far as I'm, aware it was the first time in recorded history that a camel has, so convincingly, won a game of Strip Monopoly.

The Goat Herder Incident

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Apparently, none of the goats herders implicated in the famous case of internet censorship which later became known as The Goat Herder Incident had ever in the past had reason to consort with any Parmesan cheese, shocking as it may seem.

Of course, for several years now there has been an increasing number of busybodies convinced that they know what is best for everyone else intent on forcing their – somewhat dubious – notions of taste and decency upon the rest of us.

As it happens most people go about their own business without feeling the need to get carried away on other people’s behalf, interfering with things that have seemingly rubbed along all right, at least until these self-appointment interferers decided they should become involved.

It has been – especially in some of the more wild and untamed regions of this country outside the ring roads that encircle all we hold most dear - that there are some – only some – goat herders who take a dismissive attitude to certain forms of cheeses. Normally, this should be a matter for themselves alone. However, sine that last Laborg government ratified and introduced the EU-wide legislation outlawing disparagement of and discrimination against the various cheeses of other EU nations, the goat herder’s stance now contravened the law.

Consequently, at the recent goat-herders convention in exotic down-town Bilston, when several photographs of the - admittedly well-refreshed - goat herders were published on ArseAboutFaceBook openly disparaging several cheeses of other EU member countries, especially some Parmesan they regarded as 'like cardboard' there was – of course – outrage that such attitudes still persist in this country in this day and age, despite the fact that cheese-disparagement has along and noble history in this country dating back to the time King Alfred the Great sniggered at some Gouda.

After receiving upwards of nearly two complaints the administrators of the ArseAboutFaceBook site claimed they had no choice but to remove the offending photographs before the rest of the media got hold of the story and bored everyone shitless by banging on about it for several days, or at least until some celebrity fell out of her dress and diverted everyone's attention away from ArseAboutFaceBook once again.

However, the rest of the media – annoyed they'd missed their chance to have a go at ArseAboutFaceBook and thus win back some much-needed advertising revenue, decided instead to attack ArseAboutFaceBook for this act of 'cowardly censorship.' Thus was the story set to run and run, however, some politician said something mildly disparaging about her own party leader and instead the media rushed off to pretend we all cared about that instead.

Blizzards and Blood

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The snow fell all around us and – of course – all over us. Trudging onwards became harder and harder as the snow grew deeper. The world beyond was lost to us as the snowfall increased and the winds grew and turned the whole world white.

It became impossible to see any distance ahead and impossible to see the road we were meant to travel on, as the whole world became nothing but white. We knew that we would have to find shelter soon. There was no way we could carry on as the snow grew too deep to walk through, up beyond my knees and halfway up Maja’s thighs.

I could see little of her when I stopped, turning my back against the wind and letting her shelter in front of me. She was a mass of furs of all kinds with only her eyes, with those long eyelashes of hers frosted with snow, appearing from under her hood.

I lowered the scarf that covered my face and spoke to her, my words whipped away by the wind and the snow numbing my lips. She shook her head, leaning closer to me, looking up with eyes that still trusted me, despite all this I’d made her trudge through.

‘We need to find shelter,’ I repeated. This time she heard, at least, I assumed so. I looked around. What was not white was grey. I could see no further than a few strides around us.

Then the wind paused and the blizzard cleared for a moment and I saw what looked like a building of some form, just off what I assumed was the road.

I pointed and took Maja’s hand, dragging her – almost – through the snow until my gloved hand could reach out and touch the stone wall in front of me. We stumbled around the structure, my hand never leaving its surface whilst my other held tight to Maja, as I searched for a way in.

Eventually, I came to a broken down door and pushed it open… then wished I hadn’t.

The smell of death was strong, the bodies left where they’d fallen. I felt through my furs, for my own sword when I saw the cut, slashed and sliced bodies lying on the blood-stained straw in the barn. The fire they’d made was cold, but the bodies themselves were recent. Maja stumbled from one to the next, but even her powers cannot bring the dead back to life… not always.

Then, she looked at me and I looked at her. We knew we had to stay here amongst the death, for outside in the storm our deaths were all that awaited us. But we knew whoever had killed these people must still be nearby and would perhaps be coming back in need of some shelter themselves.

MP Caught In Scandal

Backhander Gimpmask was – to the general public – not one of this country’s most recognisable MPs. That is, until the expense scandal broke a few years ago and it was discovered that he had been claiming for some rather exotic specialist services from one of London’s most exclusive houses of pleasure on his parliamentary expenses.

Even to a country used to the rather sordid details of what our elected representatives like to do with – or have done to - their genitalia, and seemingly immured to anything once it was discovered John Major had been letting Edwina Curry feel the size of his majority and that even John Prescott could get a shag, still the country was shocked by not only the perversity of Gimpmask’s activities, but also by his bare-faced (for once) audacity in claiming for such practices on his recent expense claims, despite the trouble he was in last time.

In recent decades, the British have lost their former reticence about sexual activity, although they still do like to have a good healthy giggle about the sheer absurdity of human sexuality and what other people do to get their rocks off. So, when it was discovered that Gimpmask liked to do something no-one else in Britain would even consider doing in these days of erotic enlightenment and uninhibited sexual experimentation, there was a nationwide outbreak of the giggles.

When it was revealed that Gimpmask liked nothing better than to dress up in garish flannelette pyjamas while paying a woman of negotiable affections to don a winceyette ankle-length nightdress and put curlers in her hair before both getting into bed and read a few pages of a mass-market best-seller each, it seemed the whole of the UK was outraged that there were still such unabashed sexual deviants in our midst.

The French of course, eager to get one over on the ancient ally enemy were quick to jump on the scandal and claim that this all sounded like a typical suburban UK Saturday night, then there were questions asked not only in the EU, but also of the French ambassador.

However, much to the chagrin of the UK tabloids, the French Ambassador refused to admit what he got up top with his mistress and the baguette, despite the tell-tale Camembert stains on the duvet and the empty wine bottles discovered in the bidet.

Gimpmask – of course – had the full support of his party leader, right up until he was summarily sacked from his front bench position yesterday for making his party leader look like even more of a twat than usual.

In deep disgrace, it looks like Gimpmask will return to the backbench for at least several weeks, or until the general public finds some other leading politician to laugh at.

Certain Seasonal Rituals

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So, what if you are standing to attention and clutching your ceremonial dibber in readiness? No matter how eager you are, there are still certain formalities necessary before you are allowed into the garden shed to perform that annual ritual that we of the Noble Order long for and yearn for all through the drear dark days of the winter.

Still, at least the massed ranks of the ukulele orchestra have now finished admiring each others instruments and have formed up just to the left of the water feature that has – at long last – thawed out and resumed its desultory trickle, while the weeds once more provide ample shelter for the garden's quite considerable – for its size – crop of slugs.

However, some of the neighbours once again are looking on askance with fear and dread, each haunted by the prospect of the forthcoming ceremonial unveiling of the woman from number 32's rather inadequate bikini when the first rays of the sun are deemed warm enough for her to remove the dressing gown that seems to have been the only item of formal day wear she has been seen in since the clocks were put back last year.

Anyway, you know that somewhere deep in the dark heart of the shed lies what was once – so optimistically – called the lawnmower, a collection of mechanical disasters held together now mostly by garden twine, and tangled up in what seems like a breeding nest of superfluous electrical leads that may – one day – come in handy and a collection of gardening tools no-one has any idea how to use – apart from using them to massacre slugs.

Still, at least the rain has held off, long enough for the orchestra to begin the overture, and so, as they begin to play, you stand tall and proud, ready to march into the deep unknown that is the garden shed.