David Hadley's Blog, page 156

This Year of Great British Sporting Success Continues

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Even though there were plenty of reasons not to, she – as is her wont – insisted. So, I had no option but to pick the freshest of the watermelons and don my flippers in readiness.

She approached – at speed – from the north end of the bedroom, taking a firm grasp on my already-proffered shuttlecock as she made her third lap of the bed, which already had the Norwegian judge marking her down for her unorthodox use of the gardening wellies.

Still, we managed to just scrape through the first round against a very strong German couple who did things with sauerkraut and lederhosen that would make a TV celebrity blush.

After our convincing win over the Belgian couple in the next round, the press began speculating on our chances of not only reaching the finals (the first time for a British team since the heyday of the 1970s squad), but that we could even beat the reigning World Champion Dutch team who did that thing with a whole Edam cheese that is the most frequently-streamed clip on YouTube as well as now being a best-selling computer game.

However, first, though, we have to beat the Italians in the semi—finals next weekend, where they will be doing their best to dazzle the judges with their use of bondage linguini. We hope you will all be there to support us in our efforts to continue this year of great British sporting success.

Accidental Invasions

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It was not that obvious at first sight, which is odd when you consider the size of the average bulldozer. But, she had one of those smiles that tend to light up your life, and one of those low-cut tops that somehow seem to rewrite the laws of gravity.

Still, as she said, it was obviously a complete accident that she had both illegally appropriated the aforesaid bulldozer, and then – purely by chance – driven it across her neighbour’s back garden, totally destroying an allegedly over-large hedgerow that had been the cause of some friction between the neighbouring households, including some desultory small-arms fire.

However, the investigating police officers dismissed the neighbour’s suggestion that this assault by bulldozer was an attempted invasion and dismissed his claim that his bulldozer-stealing neighbour had planted a flag of occupation in his rockery, and planned to build defensive trenches and a machine-gun next in an area adjacent to his water feature.

However, following an in-depth investigation of the bulldozer driver over tea and homemade scones, which the lady in question insisted on buttering for the officers whilst leaning over their proffered plates in her gravity-defying top, those officers decided that no further action should be taken and that the neighbour himself should be put under surveillance as a suspected terrorist.

At the End of Waiting

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There is nothing.

There is silence.

There is stillness.

It is as though time has stopped. It is as though the time has stopped moving ever onward, as if the decades no longer drip by like a broken tap until the bucket of centuries fills up and overflows into another millennia.

She waits….

She has been waiting for a long time, since time lost all meaning until time wore itself out here in this place where she waits.

She waits….

Now there is something different. Now it feels to her as though time may be moving again… soon.

She has learnt the patience of centuries waiting to be free again, waiting to escape this prison.

Now she knows here is something waiting out there, lurking as her prison moves towards it.

Even after so much time that time has lost all meaning to her, she can still feel the presence of some living things nearby, coming closer, closing with this place that is, and – it seems – always has been, her prison.

Soon, she knows, she will be free.

They are coming closer, they will free her… and then… and then….

Then she will feed again; taste the sweetness of their living flesh for the first time since before their world began.

This time she will not stop….

This time she will not allow herself to be caught.

This time she will feed until there is not a living soul left on that nearby planet her prison is drifting towards.

She can almost smell the sweet taste of living, torn apart and devoured until there is nothing living left.

This time they will know true fear and they will learn to worship her in the small time they have left before she devours all.

You Can’t Hurry Love

As the Supremes so wisely pointed out: You Can’t Hurry Love, which made us realise the roller skates were a mistake, especially when she ended up stark naked – except for the aforementioned roller skates - in the fast lane of the Bewdley bypass dual carriageway.

Unluckily, though, she was not stopped by the police pursuit vehicle before taking the sharp right into the West Midlands Safari Park and ran the risk of roller skating naked into the lion enclosure. An act which is – curiously – omitted from the park’s warning signs, which will soon surely be rectified, at least when the park attendants have finished their in-depth study of the CCTV footage of the incident where she ended up startling several penguins before managing to stop herself by grabbing hold of a stanchion.

Still, she was the one who suggested that our love-life needed a bit of a fillip (or – now I come to think of it, did she mean that Philip from three doors down who is always out in his garden - stripped to the waist - chopping logs). Now, though, I suspect that the roller skates will soon be returned to their box and be put on top of the wardrobe alongside all her previous good ideas that failed the test of time and circumstances. All of which I should never again mention, or even allude to, again, if I want to make sure that, next time, it is not me who is caught by the constables as I roller-skate naked down some local dual carriageway.

A Political Hot Potato

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Still, I suppose, it was not the wisest thing to have done when she was approaching – at speed - wielding a still oven-hot jacket potato; I should have made my excuses and left, however, abiding by the fine upstanding traditions of British tabloid journalism: I denied everything.

Such are the vagaries of the political life. Never, on first paying the initial bribes and backhanders had I expected to get this close to the great engine of the British State, and never this close to a politician and member of the cabinet. Although, judging by recent political history, it really should have been the jacket potato with the seat at the Cabinet table. At least, it couldn’t have been worse for vegetables don’t vote for ridiculous policies that have more unintended consequences than a Brussels Sprout Vindaloo.

Anyway, to get back to the matter – and hot potato – in hand, I never, before that unforgettable night, realised that when fellow journalists on the inside track talked about political hot potatoes, that they were talking literally, and that – indeed – hot potatoes are a staple of the political process.

Still, you live and learn – unless you are a potato… or a politician. I suppose – though – it does go a long way towards explaining the current state of the country.

Possibly….

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Still, as they say you can’t make an omelette without at least making some sort of attempt at cooking, no matter how half-arsed. Just what that has to do with why we are gathered here this fine… bloody ordinary and – to be honest - rather dull… morning I have yet to discover, for this is one of those pieces that has no particular aim or direction to it, at least not yet.

Although, don’t wander off just yet, there could be some good stuff further down….

Possibly….

Although, usually by now we would have at least some sort of gratuitous nudity or something involving badgers, sellotape and a musical instrument of some form. However, because we have not – as yet – come across anything of the sort doesn’t mean that there will be no mildly amusing diversion in today’s peregrination around the detritus of what passes for my mind.

Possibly….

All-in-all, then, maybe it would be better to….

Hang on, that rather fetching young lady over there, next to the badger set, has just taken all her clothes off and took a roll of sellotape out of her rucksack, along with a ukulele…. even the badger has stuck its nose out of its hole to see what is going on.

This looks like it could get very interesting, indeed….

Possibly….

Hang on, while I go and fetch my notebook and sketchpad….

Unanswered Questions

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So, what do we have here… and why does it smell like that?

Although, it is an interesting question – with its own integral question mark and a well-developed sense of intrigue, it is – unfortunately – a question that will have to remain unanswered… at least for the time being.

So, if you have already changed into your best bespoke inquisitorial outfit, including your sparkling be-sequined questioning cape and wand, then I’m afraid you are going to have to either sit there with them on – looking incongruous – or go back and change into some more perusal-friendly clothing.

Sometimes, the questions are best left unanswered, especially if you are in the vicinity of those who are not keen on questions in the first place; especially those who regard their religion, ideology, politics, food choices or selection of socks beyond reproach.

However, as change is the only constant, especially with underwear and politicians, this is not really a tenable position.

However, then there are those of us who like to question everything, who take nothing for granted and like seeing certainties crumble into rubble before us, while those that prefer not to ask awkward questions say: ‘What did you question that for?’

And we reply: ‘Why not?’

The Naughty Fruit Set

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‘She may well, indeed had had all the bananas a woman of her social standing could desire, but her disdain for the pomegranate led to her being shunned by the rest of London society at that time.’ So, says an exciting new biography of Ermintrude Watermelon, the woman who became synonymous with the infamous Naughty Fruit Set that came to prominence in the inter-war years through their flagrant use of fruit – and sometimes even vegetables – in a way which shocked the more straight-laced of the upper classes, especially when it was revealed just what the Set were doing with all those pineapples.



Many contemporary commentators, and most subsequent historians, have put the Set’s use of fruit for erotic purposes down to some sort of after-effect of the Great War, which had not only robbed the young ladies of the period nearly a whole generation of men, it had – on the Home Front – led to a lack of fresh vegetables (although not on the scale of the Second World War and its aftermath where one upper-class lady complained she had been unable to enjoy a good firm cucumber until well into the 1950s).



However, like most of the fads and fashions of that period the antics of the Naughty Fruit Set were brought to a sudden end by the stock market crash which led to the Great Depression, where anyone consorting in a overly-erotic way with even a mandarin orange was regarded as decadent and beyond the pale. Even though it was rumoured that the Prime Minister and the Cabinet of the time got up to all sorts of activities with a bunch of grapes and certain members of the 10 Downing Street typing pool, all the official records of that period are still covered by the Official Secrets Act until at least 2032, despite several attempts to have the official minutes released under Freedom of Information rules.



So, until that time what really happened then will – unlike the antics of the Naughty Fruit Set remain in the realm of speculation and rumour.

Expecting the Worst

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Well, as it happens…. Or, as we are in the UK, as more often it doesn’t happen, we are gathered here today on this fine… er… drizzly, dull day to celebrate the fact that we are all one year older and – probably – not all that much wiser than when we gathered here exactly one year ago today to celebrate the fact that we were gathered here again, resembling nothing much more than a bus queue waiting for a bus that will never come, and thereby forced into that most uncomfortable situation for any English person – having to acknowledge the existence of other people and – worst of all – make some sort of attempt at communication with them beyond a forceful tutting and shaking of the head.

After all, though, everyone must remember that the British don’t like it when things work. We always expect the worst and are disappointed when we don’t get it. There is nothing that frustrates a free-born English man and/or woman than having something work as it should; it feels as though we have lost our divine right to complain that the world is not as shoddy and badly-made as we’d hoped and we – therefore – have noting to complain about… or, ideally, mutter under our breath about.

To be honest, we don’t actually like complaining either. There is always the danger that if you complain, something will be done about it and – rather than making it worse as we secretly deep-down hope – some conscientious and competent bastard may actually come along and fix it, make it all right… and then where would we be?

The Castle

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Sally woke to find herself in a long curving corridor where large grey-stoned walls rose up on either side of her, right up to a high wooden-beamed ceiling that looked as though it could be the floor for a higher storey.

The floor was cold and hard, flagstones. She was naked, she realised, propelling her out of her feeling that this was some odd dream. She looked around, feeling her dread growing. The cold stone floor was bare, as were the walls, except for flaming torches in brackets every few yards which made the shadows twitch and tremble. There was a window not too far away, shuttered with heavy wooden shutters, fastened with a bar across them.

Sally got to her feet, noticing that her body was dirty, cold and stiff where she had lain on the floor. She was covered with a thick, dark, dust which was probably mostly ash from the smoky torches up on the walls. She searched around again, but there were no clothes and nothing that could be used as clothing. The corridor was quiet and still, something about it suggested night time, but she didn’t know what.

Sally shivered, feeling a chill that also suggested night. She made her way carefully on her bare feet across the cold hard stone to the window.

‘Someone,’ she whispered to herself, mainly just so she could hear the sound of her own voice. ‘…must have lit these torches and closed the window shutters.’ She wondered if whoever it was had seen her lying there, asleep and naked on the floor, and yet done nothing about her. She shivered again, this time not from the cold.

The bar over the shutters was too heavy for Sally to lift, but, by putting her eye to the slight gap between the shutters, she could see that it was night outside; a clearer cool night with stars above the distant vague shadowed outline of trees. She turned from the window, still no wiser. Hugging her arms around herself as she shivered, Sally, slowly and cautiously, made her way along the corridor and around its long slow curve… then stopped.

There - a few yards in front of Sally - was another young woman, also naked and asleep on the floor.

As Sally watched, the other woman began to stir, to wake.