David Hadley's Blog, page 75

The Semi-Professional String Collecting Phenomenon

Banjoleg Undertow is probably the world���s leading organiser of semi-professional string-collection exhibition matches. Of course, since the decline of more traditional sports, newer entrants into the market such as semi-professional string collecting have moved in to capture the limelight. Consequntly, string collecting has since taken over the audience figures and ��� of course ��� the lucrative sponsorship deals formerly associated with other professional sports.

For a long time in the post-WWII world, string collecting was in a slow decline, even at times ��� staggering as it seems now ��� becoming unfashionable, if only for brief periods. Of course, during the heady days of the Sixties, string collecting was hip, happening and fashionable. Back in those days, people, especially the young, needed string, if only to keep their hair out of their eyes, or to keep their spliffs from falling apart.

String collecting also has a long and noble amateur history. There cannot be many people ��� men or women ��� who have not at some point in their lives kept some string. Even if only loosely unravelled in the kitchen drawer they use for miscellaneous and sundry items they may ��� one day ��� find a use for.

Although, even professional and semi-professional competitive string collectors often claim that first bit of string found loose in a kitchen drawer is what started them off on their careers. Therefore, any young boy or girl who has only one single short piece of string, hardy enough to be called a length, let alone a collection, should not despair. For even the greats, like Undertow himself, started out small with a single piece of string.

Even though, the current great revival of competitive string collecting came too late and he had already retired from competition, the legend of Undertow and his massive balls of hairy string still inspire newcomers to the sport. Not only that, Undertow himself mentors new collectors and at the Competitive String Collecting Institute and Training College in Wednesbury. There he does all he can to encourage youngsters to take up the sport.

Still, these days, youngsters can see the amount of money a top-flight semi-professional string collector can earn. This is not only in the national league and knockout cup, but also in European competition and even at international level. In addition, sponsorship deals, exhibition matches and Royal Command Performances, which all increase the earning potential of the top-flight collectors. Many youngsters these days who once dreamt of being film stars, pop musicians or football players now dream of having a string collection of their own, craving the glamour and excitement of the sport.

For all that, we must thank Banjoleg Undertow and his championing of an enthralling spectator sport that at one time could have been lost and forgotten about if not for his dedication.

 

The Queen���s Award for Arsing About

Tomorrow night sees the award ceremony for the annual Queen���s Award for Arsing About. It takes place at the prestigious Our Plaice Fish and Chip shop in Nuneaton. For many years, the Arsing About prize has been awarded to politicians from various parties. However, there have been recent changes to the internationally agreed rules for both Professional and Amateur Arsing About. This now means that politicians are explicitly excluded from entry into the shortlists, semi-finals and the play-off for the prize. This rule change came about because, as most Arsing About fans have long argued, politics itself is little more than a specialised form of Arsing About. However, they claim politics – paradoxically – runs counter to the spirit and philosophy of Arsing About. For connoisseurs of the art of Arsing About one of its greatest pleasures, both for the practitioner and the spectator, is seeing how so much of the actual Arsing About achieves no tangible result. To Arse About and then to achieve something is ��� many fans say ��� a direct contradiction of all that Arsing About stands for.

Politicians ��� of course – have long argued that they are indeed consummate professionals at the sport of Arsing About. They often point to the fact that there is a great deal of activity in the political field that leads to no worthwhile, productive, or – in most cases ��� any tangible benefit.

There is, of course, a great deal of political Arsing About ��� more than in many other fields except ��� arguably ��� the practice of law. However, critics of Political Arsing About point to the fact the politicians do end up�� usually making things worse. Which, although, it is a negative result, is still a result. This is, of course, contrary to the ethics, aims and the desires of the true practitioners of Arsing About itself.

So, tomorrow night the Queen will, for the first time in many decades, award the coveted Arsing About trophy, if they manage to find it in time, to someone outside the field of politics.

Consequently, this year there has been a great deal of interest in the shortlist. In addition, there is a great deal of betting money placed on the semi-finalists. ITV who are televising the ceremony live on prime time TV for the first time, say they are anticipating a record-breaking audience with the numbers of viewers expected to be in the many tens.

So, everyone is agog and eagerly waiting for a result which will ��� no doubt ��� change the face of Arsing About for many decades to come.

 

Down into the Hole

When the time came, we were ready. We did not know what to expect, despite the preparations, despite the training. We were ready though, even though none of us really knew what it was we were ready for.

The command came and the first few edged cautiously towards the opening. All of us were trembling, shaking and it wasn���t just the cold morning. Everyone was breathing heavily, their breath like the smoke from idling steam trains in the cold autumn air.

We all watched those first few edging forward towards the hole��� the cave��� or whatever it was.

Someone, one of the officers, had said the contractors had pulled out what looked like a stone plug from the front of the cave. A stone deliberately fashioned to seal the hole. This officer said that the archaeologists and historians had laughed, all agreeing that the humans of so long ago would not have the technology to fashion such a thing, not to the precision needed.

None of that really matters to us, the poor bloody infantry. We saw the mobile phone footage of those few engineers and site workers who���d been the first to venture in into the hole.

One of them had joked to the camera of making sure to capture it all. ���It will be – in the future – like that bloke who discovered Tutankhamen���s pyramid, when we find the treasure.��� He���d laughed. No-one, not in their wildest dreams actually expected to find any treasure. Well, maybe they did in their wildest dreams. I���ve had wild dreams, so I know how unrealistic they can be.

None of them expected what they got, not in this world, not in Britain, not from a mere hole in the ground.

Even in slow motion, the thing – whatever it was – was a blur, like a whole herd of octopuses, octopi��� or whatever. It was a mass of writhing tentacles, filaments, tendrils. The men didn���t stand a chance, torn apart in front of the camera. The woman with the camera just stood there, frozen to the spot. She���s in shock in hospital now. I���m not sure she even took in what she was filming. Someone grabbed her from behind and carried her back to safety, the picture jumping and shaking, the sound distorted by her screaming.

Apparently, she didn���t stop screaming until the paramedic from the ambulance injected her with something to calm her down.

Then a voice came over the tactical radio band. ���All clear��� so far. Come on down.���

I took a tight grip on my rifle and stood. Then I followed them down into the hole, doubting I���d ever come back out again.

 

Sleepers

Sleepers

Here we are, holding

These precious jewels

Of memory up

To each other once more,

Finding what one remembers

The other wanted to forget.

Finding that we did not,

After all, share a life.

But had two lives

That ran parallel together

Like railroad tracks.

These memories

��� like the sleepers ���

What held us together

Also keeping us apart.

 

When the Darkness Begins to Grow

Something happens in the darkness. The day falls back in defeat as the shadows spread and grow. The night grows from the shadow itself. The shadows spread and join, then what was familiar gets lost in the darkness. The night hides so much, all we hear are the sounds of the creeping things moving ever closer as the darkness spreads around us.

Occasionally we go out in the dark, but we know we are not creatures of the darkness. We are weak, feeble creatures out there, lost in the darkness, unable to see, but can only sense the danger lurking around us, watching us.

Humankind made a mistake, hiding from the darkness, turning our civilised places into islands of light in the dark of the night, leaving those seas of darkness all around for the other creatures to swim in.

At first, we were foolish, ignorant. We did not know, or we had forgotten, that the darkness breeds its own creatures, creatures unlike those defined by the daytime.

Back when we knew to be afraid of the dark, we knew there were creatures beyond the normal hiding out in the darkness. The creatures waited for the shadows to grow and spread. The creatures hid inside the blanket of the night, waiting.

Time came and went and we learnt to turn our nights into the day. We forgot about the shadows. We forgot about the night. We forgot about the darkness and forgot about what lurks there, waiting.

Now those shadows grow out of the night and creep into our cities, finding the shadows where they can lurk and wait. They are out there, waiting, watching us – their prey. They wait, poised, tense, for one of us to make the mistake of stepping into the shadows where they wait. There are so many of those shadows for them in these cities. They wait, they pounce, they feed, they grow and they breed.

Soon every shadow you pass on a lonely street at night has dangerous eyes watching, waiting, preparing, to pounce. Soon every dark alleyway that the sun never reaches in the day will have its own shadow with those watching eyes lurking inside it. Soon even the day will have places of darkness where we should fear to tread.

Our islands of light are no longer the refuge we thought they would be. We have forgotten the dangers of the shadows, the darkness and the night. We have forgotten too much and now the day grows dark and those shadows begin to grow and move.

 

The UK���s Leading Celebrity Chef

Sandwichbox Cruetset is probably the UK���s leading celebrity chef. He first came to fame as one of the leading chef���s in the underwater gourmet movement. A scene that so revolutionised the UK restaurant trade and increased sales of scuba equipment in the British Isles for the first time since Michael Fish dismissed the idea of another imminent tornado.

However, since hit TV series Sandwichbox���s Sandwiches, hit the screens he is now mostly famous for his gourmet sandwiches. Many fans now regard his salt ���n��� vinegar crisps on thick sliced white as his signature dish, with several restaurants in his chain claiming it as their most popular sandwich. However, in the most culinary-experimental areas of the UK his daring use of brown sauce on his cheap plasticy cheddar doorstep sandwiches has gained a substantial following. It has now become a common sight where all the young, trendy people gather to see them struggling with the mighty sauce-ensmeared doorstep. Each often failing to masticate as they pretend to write their ���novel��� at some of the trendiest coffee shops in the nation.

However, none can doubt Cruetset���s great success in reviving the great British sandwich and its inherent gourmet appeal. Who can forget his infamous leaf of wilted lettuce and half a slice of soggy tomato salad surprise?

However, Cruetset has decided that it is time to broaden his horizons beyond the sandwich and explore many other avenues of traditional ��� and often neglected ��� British foodstuffs.

Although, there are some food critics who claim that Cruetset has gone down the revolutionising road a little too far with his latest creation, Pot Noodle and Hot Water. Many of Cruetset���s critics have claimed ��� with some justification ��� that the complexities of boiling a kettle then pouring the hot water into the pot may be beyond the limited culinary skills of his target audience. Cruetset himself has denied this, but since most of his audience consists of hip young things with designer kitchens meant entirely to be seen and envied rather than used, many think Cruetset���s critics have a point. With many pointing out that, in such an expensive designer kitchen even finding out which of the multitude of shiny devices is the actual kettle is hard enough. It may even be beyond the capabilities of people who have to go to a specialist shop even to get a cup of coffee.

Cruetset, though, does seem to have taken some of the criticisms to heart though. C4 have just announced that his next TV series is to be called Sandwichbox Cruetset���s How to Order a Takeaway.

 

Great Battlefield Weapons of the British Army

Of course, the British army has a long and glorious history of battlefield pastry. Many of the great battles from the times of the medieval kings right through to some of the recent campaigns in the Middle East have all shown the same. Quite simply, the side that controls the flow of pastry, and other baked goods, to its front line troops is the one that more often than not wins. This is true not only of the day of battle, but often also of the entire campaign.

However, as many soldiers, from front line troops to the commanding generals, point out, often just the mere pastries themselves are not enough to hold the ground once it is taken. Obviously, the heavy meat pastries such as the steak and kidney pie to the awesome fully-pastried Cornish pasty will need logistical support. The front line troops will need a steady supply of gravy coming up through the supply chain to the front line if they are to use the pastries to their full effect.

However, once ground is taken, then the ground has to be held. Hence, the use of the sweet pastries, such as the apple pie, the jam roly-poly and other such more defensive pastries. These will need a steady supply of custard brought up to the front line, of course.

In recent years, though there has been a great deal of concern about the quality of the soldier���s kit. Many argue that the traditional British battlefield spoon is not up to the rigours of modern warfare. As we know, in a state of emergency, the soldier���s helmet can serve as a replacement pudding dish. But as demonstrated in the battle for the corner Caf�� in Caen in the period after D-Day, the bayonet is a very poor substitute for the spoon. This is especially the case when faced with custard.

If it were not for an emergency air resupply of battlefield spoons to the front line troops, then Caen would have remained untaken. Hence, it was quite possible that the German soldiers could easily have retaken the D-Day beachheads, equipped as they were with the latest high-tech anti-pastry German sausages.

As many veterans later said, even the strongest of British or even American pastries was no match for the German battlefield sausage. It was a battlefield foodstuff that had proved itself again and again throughout the long years of the war up to that point.

Of course, with all their fighting throughout and around the world, the British soldiery has learnt a great deal from their enemies about warfare. They even learnt to use what were once the strengths of the enemy against them. After all, military experts now regard British battlefield curry as one of the most powerful weapons on the battlefield.

Although, even now in the 21st century, there are not many British soldiers who would risk going into battle, even with the latest in high-tech cookware, without at least one traditional British Army bacon sandwich. Which only goes to show that even in the modern age there are still some soldering traditions that have stood the test of time and will probably never die.

 

Cheese Dancing and its Dangers

 

Obviously, those of us without a regular cheese dancing partner, or any access to a polka-compatible edam, or a foxtrot-ready Cheshire cheese, all feel somehow deprived. Especially as the new season of the BBC���s hit cheese dancing show gets underway again.

The cheese-dancing phenomenon has taken the whole country and all generations by storm. The hip clubs for to younger people have not seen such an upsurge in dance nights since the heyday of the Wigan Casino. Or the acid house days of the mid-1980s. The latter a time when the House of Commons and the House of Lords were the happening places to be, especially if you had your own supply of H2SO4, or knew of a local dealer or hip chemistry teacher.

However, cheese dancing, as the tabloids have all been eager to warn us, is not without its dangers. A bad Double Gloucester trip can be a mind-shattering experience, especially without someone to talk you down after the last cracker has gone. There are for several more lurid tabloid stories about the danger of a cheddar overdose or even the long-term effects of frequent smoked Applewood use. However, many of these are often vastly overstated and exaggerated by an ever-shrill tabloid media looking for lurid front-page copy.

There were tabloid headlines only a few weeks ago, which claimed that Grimsby Premierhotel, the young socialite, had overdosed on camembert at a party. This was later confirmed as a publicity stunt gone wrong. It later emerged that she had only danced a tango with some brie. An escapade repeated every evening across the country by thousands of people, with little or no untoward side effects, apart from a brief over fascination with fresh baguettes.

However, the government, keen to get their faces back into the newspapers, have announced a public enquiry into cheese dancing and its possible dangers. Meanwhile, the EU, always eager to stick its nose into ordinary people��� lives and regulate the fuck out of them has proposed an EU-wide Statutory Cheese Dancing Time Directive. Such a directive would stipulate that where anyone even contemplating a quick Sage Derby Two-step will have to fill out a full health and safety checklist before proceeding. In addition, they will have to wear a dance-monitoring tachograph for the duration of the enterprise as well as using only EU certified dance-compatible cheeses.

Many have claimed this is yet again is a sign of an over-meddlesome and anti-competitive EU. However, others point to the number of lives that could be saved be adopting a more preventative and cautious approach to cheese dancing.

However, there is evidence that the EU���s over-cautious stance could bring about the end of the cheese-dancing phenomenon through its zealotry for over-regulation. Nevertheless, as with all these things, only time will tell.

 

The Turnip Award

Although not well known outside of the rather incestuous contemporary art circuit Focuspuller Clapperloader today won the almost prestigious Turnip Art Prize. At a people-studded ceremony, Clapperloader received the First Prize of ��10.73 for his entry entitled Gurgle. A piece one gushing contemporary art critic called an utter masterpiece.

As many people know, contemporary art moved away from painting, sculpture, and – what the rest of us would regard as – art a long time ago. It looks as though, the scene has now also moved on from the rather wearying done-to-death Duchamp-inspired tat and trivia presented as art of the recent conceptual art scene. A scene noted more for its total lack of apparent artistry, talent, and even worthiness. It became apparent even to its exponents and admirers long after everyone else has long ignored it, that conceptual art was the artistic dead end to end all dead ends. Particularly when so many gallery and museum cleaners accidentally threw out so much of its so-called artworks. After all, these cleaners, lacking the refined sensibilities of the artists and their tame critics, knew – from long experience in their jobs ��� rubbish when they saw it.

Consequently, art students realised they would no longer get grants, bursaries or awards for the up to then de-rigour tat rearranging that had made lucrative careers for their forbears. Now art students had to cast around for some other outlet for their self-proclaimed artistic abilities. Abilities usually well concealed from any impartial outside observers, even when presented with the works that the artist hope would prove their inherent talent. An artistic talent so great that it must, for this reason, need support – ideally from the public purse ��� while the artist pursued their ���vision���.

Focuspuller Clapperloader was one of those art students. He used his first tranche of student loan money during his last term at Bay City School of Modern Art to buy himself a high-end digital video camera. For a while, he thought about learning to use it correctly. He thought of using it to make some money on the side making ideologically pure, female empowering and politically correct porn. A product he assumed there would be a large untapped market for, especially at the back of Student Union meetings.

However, knowing he was ��� at least in his own mind ��� an artist, ��Clapperloader decided he didn���t need to learn how to operate the camera. A decision since confirmed by several critics��� responses to his ���raw��� uninhibited��� and ���free��� use of framing, focus, and even subject matter in his many films��� artworks. However, it is for his widely acclaimed 72-hour masterpiece Gurgle that Focuspuller Clapperloader won the Turnip Prize. A ���searing indictment of the new Tory fascism��� as one critic called it, and ���a profound response to the austerity and ���cuts��� mantra that so blights modern Britain��� according to another.

Gurgle is, as pointed out before a film��� artwork lasting 72 hours where Clapperloader films an ordinary sink plughole as water trickles down it.

���Captivating��� another critic called it. ���It shows that at last video had become an art form. We look forward to Focuspuller Clapperloader becoming the harbinger of a whole new and ��� of course ��� revolutionary force in the vital cultural practices of the art world. Surely, his work is society���s only true response to unfeeling and rapacious capitalist system that holds us all in thrall,��� gushed the BBC���s art critic after the award ceremony.

Focuspuller Clapperloader���s films��� artworks are available for the public to purchase for ��100 000 each.

 

When The Shadow Came

A shadow grew out of the darkness, its edges sharp and defined against the light. The shadow changed and shifted, even though the glowing streetlights did not.

Then the shadow moved, flowing up the lamppost like some film shown in reverse.

The light went out.

The shadow grew as though it fed on the absence of light. It sent out a tendril of darkness that grew up the posts of the nearby streetlights, until they too were lost in the dark of the shadow. Other tendrils moved out and a shop window went dark. One thin finger of shadow snaked up high on a wall and the tiny bright red light of a security camera winked out too.

The two teenage girls were coming home late, loud young drunken laughter as they came around the street corner. They hesitated when they saw the dark street in front of them. A bit further on the streetlights glowed as normal.

���Must be a power��� thing,��� Jenny said.

���Thing?��� Debbie tired focusing on her friend. It had been a dull night, all they could do was drink and now Debbie was beginning to regret it. There was something she wanted to remember, something she���d heard on the TV News a week or two ago. Normally, she paid no attention to the news, just the dirty old men of politics shouting at each other, or a war or disaster in some place she���d never heard of. But, there was something about a late night walk home that had ended in tragedy.

She half-remembered something about shadows and the unexplained death of a young woman, of a girl her age. She remembered it because both parents had turned to her and told her to be careful. For the first time too, she hadn���t answered back because she���d seen something in their eyes she���d never noticed before.

They did care.

That thought, that her parents did care, made Debbie pause as Jenny, barefoot and carrying her high heels staggered on.

���Come on, Jenny said, not looking back at Debbie. ���It���s only out for this bit of road.���

���No, we ought to���.��� Debbie looked back over her shoulder. The other way was miles longer. She felt her stomach lurch; she really ought to cut down on the drinking. She turned to a shop doorway, but a couple of deep breaths and the feeling passed.

She looked up and the deep black shadow was closer now, creeping closer as she watched it��� and Jenny had gone��� disappeared.