David Hadley's Blog, page 194

Not in this Story

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It starts with a sentence.

It starts with a moment.

It could be the way the bright early morning sunlight catches in her hair when she looks down at the sliver of ground that lies between the two of them. It could be the way he turns and walks away, leaving her alone, her hand making futile gestures of regret to his back as she waits for him to change his mind, turn around and come back. He never does turn around though, not in this story.

At that moment, you do not know if this is the beginning or end of their story, or just a moment somewhere in-between. You do not even know if it is their story, they could be merely two incidental characters, some stop off; a waypoint in the trail the story will leave behind it.

It may not even be a story at all. It could be just one of those incidents that lies there on the page, refusing to go forward into some new world that lies waiting somewhere down the page, or to grow some long back story that leads to this moment. You do not know their names, their ages, what they do with their time or anything about them while this moment waits for some story to grow around it.

You do not even know where they are standing: on some deserted beach, a lonely hilltop, a busy street or some railway station waiting for the train that will carry them apart for the first or last time.

All you know is the feel of her skin on his fingertips and the way that this moment reminds you of so many other times, and what came before those times and what came after them and how you hope, this time, that it will be different to all of those other times.

Leaving the Shore Behind

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Slowly, we turn back to the life we have left behind, looking back at that far shore that disappears into the mists of memory. There is nothing left there for us now. All the ties of family and place have gone. There is no home there for us now.

Those fires that destroyed everything we had, may have been put out by the winter rains and snows; but something, some memory, of what has been lost, still smoulders deep within us. We will kindle and care for those small sparks of memory and loss, ready for them to burst back into fires of retribution, revenge and justice when we need them.

That distant shore is no longer our home, but we stand together, side by side, watching the sea mists swallowing it, knowing that one day we will return and other, brighter, fires will scorch that land. We will return, strong and proud, and the fires we will bring to that land will be the fires of justice.

We know we cannot put it right, we know the fires we shall bring will not burn the past back into being. We know that fire can destroy, as it destroyed our lives. We also know, though, that fire can cleanse, fire can purge. Fire can bring new beginnings like the bird that rises newborn from the flames.

The Theological Utilisation of Mayonnaise

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'Even if there are aspects of your life you would like to remain unpondered, it ill behoves us not to draw a veil over that which remains unmayonnaised.' Of course, nowadays there are few amongst us for whom those would not be very wise words indeed. After all, in this modern world, now mostly free of superstition and fear of the unexplained, the fact that we have not applied mayonnaise to anything left unveiled, should not frighten or shock anyone.

However, such were the religious sensibilities of those of the Uttabollux religion during its heyday, during that period of history we now call the Late Early Mid Medieval Modern Ancient past, that anyone, especially a woman not safely inside her box, to leave any part of themselves not coated in mayonnaise was to risk danger. At the very least – they risked being burnt at the stake as a witch, or in some of the less-enlightened villages of middle Europe being cooked and eaten as a steak.

Therefore, for the speaker of those lines quoted above, the High Dhaftghit of Bridlington, which was one of the most devout Uttabollux areas of Britain at the time, was indeed a great risk. Not only did the Dhaftghit, Catamhite Bhishoprick, expose himself to charges of blasphemy, idolatry, sacrilege and profanity, he also ran the far greater risk – common to all religions – of saying something that lay people could almost understand. For one of the great strengths of any religion is its incomprehensibility, for once people discover that what their religious leaders are saying makes absolutely no sense whatsoever, then that religion starts to lose its hold over its adherents.

Consequently, the rest of the Holy men of the Uttabollux saw the danger and immediately called Dhaftghit Bhishoprick to an urgent theological convention to point out his heretical failings to him in the first-ever recorded use of baseball bats in theological debate.

Christmas Preparations

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So anyway, there we were. She was naked, of course, and – obviously – sitting behind the drum kit while I wound up the battery-operated cheese grater and we got ready for the evening's festivities.

This Christmas though, I am not sure whether we will be doing the same thing or not, especially as there is a waiting list for the drum stool, which is now standing at 37 names. Consequently I'm, not sure we will get it back in time for Christmas Eve, especially if that odd bloke, Mr Balalaika, from five doors up, wants it to sit upon whilst he undertakes his annual rooftop vigil on the lookout for low-flying reindeers.

Even though nearly everyone in the street has attempted to explain to him about myth, tradition and the difference between fact and fiction, he is adamant that he saw the sleigh pass his house one Christmas, when he was a child, and never stop. Ever since then he has kept up this lonely yuletide vigil.

Latterly, Mr Balalaika has convinced himself that the CIA - for what he regards as obvious hegemonic reasons to do with the USA's war on foreign overly-bearded gentlemen – have equipped Santa with stealth technology for his sleigh, as well as the traditional under-cover beard.

Despite this however, there are some positive benefits to his stance. For example, the prospect of having to walk past an armed man on the rooftop has – in recent years - kept the number of carol singers prepared to risk their lives to come down our street to easily manageable levels.

Late-Night Philosophising

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Obviously, there are very few peregrinations or perambulations of the perimeters of possibility that do end up at a place of great philosophical import. Unless, of course, we include journeys to that most profound place of philosophical pursuance, outside the fabled ancient symposium, the fish and chip shop.

It has long been a tradition in practical British philosophising to use the late night take-away as a place of philosophical speculation, including that perennial philosophical problem often encountered at such times. Here, of course, we speak of that philosophical problem we have all encountered, namely: 'how can I be sure these are the same legs I had when I first went into the pub, seeing as these ones don't seem to be working properly?'

It is a problem that has perplexed many philosophers down the centuries, made especially famous by Kant's seeming inability to leave the bier Keller late in the evening without walking into a lamppost.

The late night philosophising over a substantial snack was first – of course – utilised by Greek philosopher after they had understood the philosophical importance of the kebab during one of their many battlefield philosophical discussions with the Persians. The Ancient Greeks immediately saw the value of a post-evening's snack easily held completely in one hand, thus leaving the sword-hand free for the raising of any vital philosophical point should the debate become heated.

Philosophy after the Ancient Greeks fell into a long theologically-dominated morass right up until the invention of the sandwich re-invigorated philosophical inquiry, enabling a philosopher to peruse a paradox without becoming distracted by the complexity of cutlery.

From here, Western philosophy quickly developed as taverns, inns and other places of contemplation became more hospitable to anyone with a need to think themselves under the table without fear of having their syllogisms derided by ladies of the night willing to speculate for pay as well as provide pork pies and pickles to any gentleman philosopher of means.

Unfortunately, modern philosophy began to distance itself from the traditional speculation undertaken towards the end of an evening in a local hostelry and instead moved itself into the academy. Despite the attempts of philosophy students to keep up the tradition of well-refreshed speculation, university-based philosophy eventually became the irrelevance it is today.

Ostriches and Evolution

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Not only that, have you seen the size of its thighs, Rowena? I mean, you have to ask yourself, or, if not yourself, at least a close acquaintance: is it natural? I mean, as an ostrich it is impressive and - as we agreed - its thighs are quite impressive, but does it have to wear the kilt?

After all, when all is said and done you have to admit that an ostrich does, at the best of times, rather resemble an ambulatory sporran… with a neck, so the kilt – to, what I like to call, my mind - does tend to smack of overkill.

Anyway, with those wings it is not going to have enough grip to maintain any kind of purchase on the bagpipes. As for catching a wild haggis out on the Scottish hillsides: admittedly, the ostrich has a good turn of speed, but what is it going to do when it eventually corners the haggis - peck it to death?

I hope that may go some way towards answering your question, Rowena, as to why the ostrich evolved in Africa and not the Highlands of Scotland.

As for why the penguins evolved where they did, I think the answer is obvious. Any seabird with such ambitions to take over the world is going to need its secret base, from which it will launch its missiles if the governments of the world do not agree to its demands. Obviously, therefore, the penguins are going to choose an out of the way place like Antarctica on which to evolve… as I said, it's obvious, really.

Clarkson Causes More Controversy

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There was outrage today when some of the permanently aggrieved community discovered that – yet again – professional contrarian Jeremy Clarkson had not said anything they could get outraged about.

As one serial moaner said:

For years now, I've been hoping that Jeremy Clarkson would say something outrageous about me, or my rather dull hobby, so that I too could complain about him. Yet again, he has sown his unreasonable prejudice against me, and people like me – who are unfortunate enough to not be, or do, anything Clarkson finds objectionable, or even partake in something he could write a column moaning about when he has run out of his usual subject matter.

Various groups who like to justify their existence by making everyone else feel guilty about something all rushed onto the bandwagon. They all immediately began complaining about, and condemning Clarkson, in the hope of getting some publicity for themselves before the whole storm in a teacup blew over, or some celebrity fell out of her dress, or Apple released something shiny, to divert the attention of the public away from them again.

DIY traders reported a huge surge in the sale of extendable ladders as people rushed to buy them in the hope of getting on their highest of high horses before the whole episode gets forgotten sometime in the next few days.

Meanwhile, on Twitter all the usual sheep bleated in the usual way.

An Interest in Cabbages

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Ah… well, the cabbage….

I was rather hoping you would not notice that, or – if the worst came to the worst – you'd be too polite to mention it, but this is – after all – the interwebnets and politeness has no place here.

I mean it is not that unusual to… take an interest in cabbages, although, admittedly not usually that way.

Not that I....

No… no… no….

No….

Of course not.

I merely had it here for research purposes, obviously.

Admittedly, the way the leaves, fall open so invitingly is rather arousing, and it is rather a sexy shade of green, and the peephole bra I accidentally bought for it does seem to suit it so well, and I….

Oh, the sexy little brassica, sitting there with its wanton look of….

Hang on I need to… erm… go away for a…. moment.

[Time passes]

Ah, now where were we?

As I was saying, my little sex cauliflower, I – of course - have no interest in the cabbage that way. After all, I am a happily married man… or so my wife tells me, anyway.

I would no more take an interest in a sexy little Savoy like that than… than….

Hang on; is that wanton strumpet of a cabbage winking at me?

I think I may be in there!

On the Run

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It was wet and cold. The rain poured down as we ran from street to street, the governmental Cheese-Detector vans hot on our trail. We had made the mistake of gathering our cell together for some rather splendid underground Stilton one of our most experienced bootleg cheese-makers had constructed, but someone left a window open.

The Cheese Detector vans were there in moments, screeching to a halt as the health police tumbled from them.

We ran, gathering the Stilton, the crackers, the butter and our crude homemade cheese knives as we scattered, each expecting the shouts of the anti-cheese tactical police and the thump of a bullet in our backs with every breathless step.

I had been involved in the underground since the days when the Health ministry first outlawed cheese for contravening of the If it Tastes Nice Then it Must be Bad for You law of 2023, which outlawed nearly all the food people liked to eat.

The government had – of course - banned smoking a long time before, and alcohol not long after that, but no-one had really expected them to keep on banning things, not after they'd banned elections, not being nice and having an unauthorised opinion almost ten years before.

It seemed that the governmental activists were still not happy, still troubled that their constant legislation had not - as yet – produced the perfect citizens living in the perfect society. Rather than their banning of everything they could think of making everything better, it seemed – illogically to them – only to make things worse.

It didn't help that the populace of the European state didn't seem to want to contribute to these various governmental schemes to make us into perfect citizens, or to co-operate with the various rules, laws and regulations the Brussels government came up with to make us all perfect.

The revolution had begun and the idealists amongst us dared to dream that one day England would return and we would once more be free-born Englishmen able to openly slice traditional English cheddar onto our crackers once again without fear.

Cheese Incident

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In this place, we will find the things that are here. If you remember not to place your eggcups in the vicinity of the Stock Exchange, then you can rest assured in the knowledge that your marmalade will only go towards partial fulfilment of the next cheese incident in the manifesto. All of which without any danger of yet more quantitative easing causing undue consternation amongst those of us who enjoy bedecking office receptionists with a plethora of multi-hued lupins.

But, Delores, always be aware of the helicopters, and do not ask how all the toast will be kept secure. Walls have ears, and some of them may have chins. You may think you know all the secrets of the refrigerator, but you do not know the full story of what lies behind the bacon.

Ah, you laugh nervously now, Delores, but I know all about the cheeseburgers… and the donkey.

I saw it once. It was interesting. It is not that interesting now.

I have seen you, Delores, dallying with the helicopter goatpeople and their beguiling banana-flavoured enticements. But you know too that their chins still bear the stains of electrical indifference.

You may think you understand, Delores, but you are cursed with the need to wear underwear, so you will never know the glory of an early-morning lupin in an adjacent room, or the smell of string vests in the late dusk of summer evenings.