David Hadley's Blog, page 79

The UK���s Leading Lady of Transactional Intimacy

Fallopian Sprungdivan is probably the UK���s leading lady of privatised affection. Her name ��� and several of her more intimate body-parts ��� has been linked with many of – what once were called – the great and the good. Although, after Sprungdivan���s latest tabloid expose we now know that most of those men are neither great nor very good.

For, as Sprungdivan readily admits, if they were more than not very good and not very great, then they would not have to pay her rather extensive fees. Although, as she does point put too, she does offer some services that those patrons cannot get at home. At least, without her clients��� spouses studying the smallest print in their marriage vows. After all, not many women do look as good as Sprungdivan in fisherman���s waders, a Batman cape and a bobble hat. All of which are essential items for a certain fetish that Sprungdivan claims that more than one of her companions from the inner circles of the government and the higher ranks of the clergy are somewhat particular to.

As for the bucket of smoked mackerel, the pool cue and the somewhat reluctant badger, several leading professional footballers have already issued stern denials and some rather strict legal gagging orders. As Sprungdivan herself said on this matter, gagging is something those particular premier league players know all about. ���Especially those who like to go down in my penalty area���, as she somewhat cryptically observed on the steps of the High Court.

However, Sprungdivan is a woman with noble beginnings, as a daughter of a leading member of the post-war Labour government; she was born into a life of wealth and privilege. A life far removed from the ordinary world. Unfortunately, her life of wealth and luxury came under threat from a Party Political machine trying to rebuild the – somewhat-tarnished ��� myth of that somewhat exclusive self-selecting cabal as a party of the people. Consequently, they decided they would no longer allow the offspring of former MPs to get a safe parliamentary seat automatically.

Sprungdivan claimed this act by the party machine forced her to seek alternative and lucrative employment elsewhere on the fringes of the political scene.

As Sprungdivan said, she wanted a more honest career than politics. However, her contacts, and social circle meant that almost inevitably, her client base consists – almost exclusively – of politicians. Apart from several well-placed clergy, policemen, plumbers and upper ranks of the armed services, that is. As she said, ���only a fool would hang out with people like that without getting paid for it, especially without their knickers on���.

Almost inevitably, the establishment has closed ranks against Sprungdivan. Leaving her, as she says herself, little other option but to write expos��s for the tabloids in order to keep herself in a standard of living she feels she deserves. Especially after spending the major part of her life pandering to the sexual deviations of what we all know to be the most sexually perverse sections of our society.

Consequently, those that criticise her must ask themselves if they would be prepared to do the thing she has done, and ��� if so ��� how much they would have to charge.

 

Buggeration of the Nation

Speedbump Trimcontrol was little known in these islands until the day he became government minister for Buggering People About. For a long time now, governments have seen their prime duty as causing as much buggeration in the lives of ordinary people as they can. For, not long after the Second World War, governments discovered that they were about as much use as a toast rack in a monsoon. Consequently, they quickly had to find some way of preventing the general population from discovering this for themselves and thus causing severe disruption to politician���s careers and expense accounts.

Early political theory thought that governments could not only make sense of the world around them, it also believed the governments were capable of doing something about it. Up until then governments had responded to the various crises, trials and tribulations, and mere events, dear boy, that beset them, in the traditional manner. That is by rushing around in ever-decreasing circles while looking for someone else to blame.

However, in the post-war age of planning, of ���scientific��� government, something changed. They found that when faced with various crises, trials and tribulations, and mere events, dear boy, that beset them there was only one thing to do. So they responded by rushing around in ever-decreasing circles while looking for someone else to blame.

Unfortunately, this solution was a bit too much trouble for government politicians and civil servants. They all only wanted to spend their days preparing for lunch in the morning and recovering from lunch in the afternoon. Unluckily, it became obvious that the rest of the population was beginning to notice that politicians served no actual purpose except as scapegoats when everything ��� inevitably ��� went tits-up.

Therefore, when governments eventually realised there was nothing they could do that would be of any use, they decided they must act. Governmental theorists and political scientists argued that if they were not to be put out of a job along with the politician and the civil servants they needed to act too.

Consequently, the political theorists came up with a method of preventing the general population from noticing that government was both pointless and useless.

Ultimately, they concluded that the more a government buggered the people about, the less chance there would be that the people would have time to notice that the government was useless. Hence, the Wilson government of 1974 was the first to introduce a Ministry for Buggering People About. Such was the success of this ministry; it has now become an essential part of the government machinery in all subsequent governments.

Some even argue it is the essential part of the government and without it no government could continue to function, especially when the people find out how actually useless it is. That is why Speedbump Trimcontrol is probably, after the Prime Minister, the most important person in the current government. For without someone like him in control of buggering people about it is almost inevitable that those same people will discover what a waste of time the government is, and then they may even do something about it.

 

Holding Firm Under The Onslaught

 

Well, at the time it looked as though we were alone against the hordes poised on the cusp of invading. Obviously, though, we were prepared��� more than prepared. We have gone into battle against overwhelming odds many times before and we have always prevailed��� eventually. This time though, we knew our backs were up against the wall.

Well, they would have been, had there been a wall there.

However, despite the lack of a wall, we were fairly confident of our defensive positions. We all felt secure in our bunkers, assured that we could hold the line. That is if no-one panicked and broke under the onslaught. We had to stick together to win, we all knew that. Well, except for Mrs Carpetstain at number 32, who thinks it is still 1953 for some reason. However, her daughter was visiting her and the daughter had some experience in the front line against this particular enemy. So she distracted he mother with talk about the impending coronation of Queen Elizabeth II, after taking the precaution of taking the batteries out of the doorbell, just in case.

It was about mid-morning, when we heard the first whispers of intelligence, which indicate the enemy were on their way. Charlie Helicobacter from number 79 managed to get a signal out confirming that the invaders were from an animal welfare charity and they were attacking both sides of the street at once. Helicobacter struggled bravely against the heavy pounding of both his doorbell and the door itself. There was talk he even managed to give an impression that he was away on a fortnight���s holiday, by leaving out a decoy note to the milkman. An impressive feat of counterintelligence since this street hasn���t had a milkman since 1983.

However, Miss Givings, the new library assistant who has just brought number 27, had warned us about this ruse. Just when we thought it would be safe for us to answer our doors again, the charity collectors would charge down the streets infiltrating out porches and, sometimes, even getting inside our front doors. The carnage would be devastating. However, this street has survived countless attacks by various door-to-door religionists and we like to feel we are made of sterner stuff.

Our line held firm, even though Mrs Carpetstain���s daughter had to rugby tackle her mother when one of the enemy managed to rattle the letterbox. Mrs Carpetstain thought it was a visit from Prince Phillip, wanting to borrow her late husband���s cufflinks for the Coronation ceremony. But Her daughter managed to keep her under cover in the hall until the danger passed. She then locked her mother in the pantry, purely as a defensive measure.

In the end, we survived, as we know we have to. But, at night when the all clear sounds, we wonder just how many more of these onslaughts we can stand.

 

The Leek Incident

Obviously, she was standing there in the vegetable aisle at the time. She had her hand on my courgette, so I was paying her the utmost attention, especially as my fish fingers were beginning to defrost.

���Do you know,��� she said, ���about the erotic power of leeks?���

We were in a Welsh supermarket, so all I could do was agree. After all, disparagement of the leek is still a capital offence in Wales, especially during the rugby season.

She looked down to see my fish fingers wilting in my basket. ���That is, if you are interested?��� She put down my courgette and strolled over to the leeks. She picked up a large thick one and stroked it suggestively.

I swallowed and ran back to the freezer section and deposited the now rather limp box of fish fingers amongst the other formerly-aquatic digits.

I dashed back to the vegetable aisle, but – of course – she had gone.

Or, at least that was what I thought.

I was back at the meat aisle, eyeing the steaks when a warm hand touched my arm.

���Steak, so much better for a man to eat, much better than fish fingers.��� Her fingers ran up my arm. She leant towards me. ���I have changed my mind about the leeks,��� she said, her Welsh accent making me think of sticks of seaside rock standing proud.

I nodded. ���Young Welsh lamb would be better.��� I turned to her and she smiled.

���I could do with someone like you to help me with my shopping, putting it in my car���.��� She licked her lips with a slow tongue. ���You could help me put it into my cupboard.��� Her hand stroked down her own thigh. ���My cupboard is bare.���

I gulped. ���I���d like that.���

���My hero,��� she said. ���Helping a damsel in distress.��� Her hand stroked down my chest, my stomach. ���You may not have shining armour. But I can see you have brought your lance.���

I took a step closer to her.

���Mmmm,��� she whispered, her lips almost touching mine. ���It makes those leeks look a bit limp.��� She looked up into my eyes. ���But it is always the same, don���t you think? Supermarket vegetables are not as fresh as firm, as vigorous as those brought fresh, are they?��� Her hand was now down between us. She squeezed, and I knew then what those leeks had felt when she���d caressed them back in the vegetable aisle.

She looked down into her empty trolley, then to my empty basket.

���I think I���ve done enough shopping today���.��� She squeezed me again. ���Don���t you?

I put my empty basket inside her empty trolley. ���Yes,��� I said.

���Come on, then, she squeezed again, leading me to the exit. ���Come and put this in my cupboard for me.���

The Cheese Dancing Phenomenon

Dripfeed Pantechnicon is arguably the UK���s leading celebrity cheese-diversity awareness officer. Up until the staggering breakout success of Celebrity Name That Cheese Dance-Off, cheese awareness was not the well-recognised sport it has now become. All over the UK since the programme became a staple of early-evening schedules on Saturdays, cheese awareness teams dance off matches have been taking place across the country.

It was the way that celebrity socialite Grimsby Premierhotel, and her professional cheese awareness partner, Dripfeed Pantechnicon, performed an almost perfect Wensyledale Tango, on the Christmas special two years ago, that changed attitudes. Many claim that single performance bought cheese dancing out of the shadows and into the limelight.

Many UK supermarkets have responded to this surge in demand for the more danceable cheeses by opening their cheese and dairy aisles for special dance nights. Where anyone can come along for a quick Double Gloucester waltz or try disco dancing with some Caerphilly. These have been a great success, with the sales of the dancing cheeses doubling or even tripling over the more pedestrian non-dancing cheeses.

However, some cheese manufacturers have complained that some cheeses ��� even traditional cheeses ��� have suffered because of their lack of any formal dance associated with them. Brie in particular has suffered, mainly because ��� as we all know ��� French cheeses are not really suitable for dancing. Especially the cheeses like Camembert, which can become too runny under the hot dance lights for anything more than a quick rumba.

However, many others have also cited Dripfeed Pantechnicon���s ability to perform most of the more exacting Latin dances whilst preparing his crackers for the Stilton as an event that had raised the profile of cheese dancing. Especially for those amateurs who have only ever taken a small wedge of cheddar out onto the dance floor at their local club.

Although, there are some people who hark back to the seventies, a time when the famous Wigan cheese all-nighters were such popular occasions. Times that saw a great deal of Cheshire cheese not only danced with, but also consumed in order to fuel a night of non-stop cheese dancing.

However, Dripfeed Pantechnicon himself says that the dancing ��� despite the fame and fortune it has bought him ��� is still not enough for him. He says he hopes – one day – to return to just undertaking straightforward cheese awareness, especially in deprived communities. Some of those communities have never seen Sage Derby or tasted Red Leicester, let alone danced a waltz holding a slice of Gouda.

Many fans believe it will be a sad day for cheese dancing should this ever come to pass. A good many people would argue that the TV programme has done far more to realise cheese awareness amongst the ordinary people of this country than no end of cheese awareness courses ever could. But the British public must learn to accept Dripfeed Pantechnicon���s decision, no matter how much it will spoil what has now become another great British Saturday night TV tradition.

Day After Day

 

It took time. One day there was a future and the next there was none. All we had was the one day. It had stolen our time and left us with one day.

It was a day that left in the night and came back in the morning. There were no more tomorrows for us, no more seasons, no more birthdays and Christmases. There was only this one 17th of May going around and around for as long as we could foresee.

We���d both seen the films: Groundhog Day and others neither of us could remember. I���d read a few SF books exploring the phenomenon, but Ellie hated SF, so she glared at me until I shut up about them.

���What are we going to do?��� Ellie sat up in the bed looking down at me. We���d exhausted my idea for what to do��� twice.

Now I was exhausted and thinking about breakfast. It was a small hotel and the breakfasts were limited, which suited me fine. A full English was just what I needed after an intensive couple of hours with Ellie. Ellie craved variety, difference, change. This was why we were originally here for this weekend in a country Inn.

Now that weekend was turning from a week into almost a couple of months by our internal calendars, not the world outside.

Ellie was going a little stir crazy.

We had no real idea of how long we���d been here. No matter how we tried to record the passage of the days, or rather this one day, all our records disappeared by the morning. The day just reset itself, like a computer starting up, flushing all records of the day we���d just spent from its memory and starting again.

It did not matter if we made voice recordings, diary entries, blog posts, Tweets or anything else. By the next morning, they had gone. I���d even tried scratching some discrete – and some not so discrete – marks on the wall, like in the prison films. By morning, those too had gone.

There had been a brief time or two when the possibilities of having a day with no memory excited us. Then we discovered that actions without consequences are not much fun. We could make love on the village green in front of everybody, rob the small post office, drive our car into the river, but nothing we did changed anything. The morning began with the same bird singing the same song on a tree branch by our window��� every bloody morning.

���But at least we have each other,��� we���d agreed on what may have been the twelfth day.

Now, on what could be the fifty-third day, we were both beginning to wish we didn���t have each other at all.

 

Gone On The Dust Of Dreaming

Gone On The Dust Of Dreaming

Almost complete,

Like a dream left on the pillow

In the light of morning,

She was almost here.

And I almost touched her,

Reaching out a hand

Just before the insistent morning

Stole her from me.

Now she is gone

On the dust of dreaming.

But her perfume still taunts me

As though she could still

Be here, nearby, lingering

In that dream land

That is a breath away

From this cold and empty

Waking world

That only teases me

With her absence

As I stumble through

These morning rooms

As though trying

To contact a ghost.

 

A Traveller In The Possible Worlds

It is time to turn away from this road. It is time to take the turning I would not normally take. All along this route, I searched for a place to stay. Looked for some new place I could call home. I have stood in the cities all across this and the other possible worlds, and yet none of them has ever felt like home to me.

Most people, of course, are trapped, here on this world or one of the other possible worlds. They do not know about these crossroads that lie far from any human habitation. These are places without name or even a fixed location. These places, known only as crossroads are where the possible worlds meet one another. There are roads that lead off away from this world, at an angle to reality. It is possible for a traveller, such as me, to take one of those roads that lead off into another possible world.

Some call them dimensions, some call them universes, but to me they are other worlds. I suppose what they are called doesn���t matter. The important fact is that they are there and it is possible to choose the road that can lead a traveller to a new world, to a world never known before.

I suppose I���ve always been a traveller. When I was young, my mother opened the possibility of these roads for my sister and me. She was the one that showed us there are far more worlds than the one we knew.

She had though us safe there in that small insignificant world. She had thought our father would not find us there. But one day we were rushed into our clothes. Our belongings, always packed and ready for a quick escape, were thrust into our hands. We were too young to understand back then. All we knew was that, despite her surface cheerfulness, talk of a big adventure, there was fear in our mother���s eyes. Her jolly voice cracked every now and then, into panic and anger.

Then we were running down the road, with our mother glancing over her shoulder. She knew something was coming, something that would rip her children from her hand. Shala dropped her favourite doll in the busy dust stirred up by our feet. But our mother just tightened her grip as Shala howled and pulled back pleading for her doll.

Then we were at the crossroads. Our mother paused for a moment to select a possible world. Then she dragged us through.

Shala was looking back, sobs choking her wailing, looking for a doll along a road that she could still see, but no longer existed. Meanwhile, I was looking forward, eager to go on deep into a new world I���d never seen before.

That moment I believe, made me into the constant traveller between the possible worlds I am to this day.

 

Another Failed Tabloid Expose

Paradiddle Locumbadger is probably the UK���s leading exponent of the art of underwater goat tickling. Underwater goat tickling was ��� of course ��� very popular in the UK right up until the late 1960s. It was a time when several drugs scandals and a number of allegations against some of its practitioners brought the scene into disrepute. Many of those former practitioners went on to become Radio One DJs or popular TV entertainers; such was their fall from grace. Meanwhile, the specially bred goats, who could survive for long periods underwater while being tickled, slid into depraved and neglected lifestyles. Some of them, it is rumoured, even ended up in national politics. A fate no decent caring human being would wish on anyone or anything, especially any semi-domesticated ruminant.

However, the scene did continue ��� mostly underground ��� and, of course, underwater. Several clubs opened up in the capital and other larger UK cities where goat ticklers could perform. Sometimes with up to seven goats at a time in the large tanks set up on the goat-tickling stages of these clubs. All performing whilst the patrons danced around to the electronically-amplified sounds of goats giggling underwater.

Of course, the tabloid newspapers were quick to condemn these clubs. As usual the tabloids suspected that if young people are enjoying themselves then something must be wrong somewhere. Allied with this was the fear that these youngsters were probably getting much more sex than the average tabloid reporter. Which is probably why the tabloids are opposed to virtually everything anybody else does.

However, that is all rather by the by. But it does go some way toward explaining why the tabloids spent so much time and effort trying to set up stings and exposes of the underwater goat tickling scene.

In particular, the tabloids were desperate to get something incriminating on Paradiddle Locumbadger himself, already the biggest ��� and highest paid ��� underwater goat tickler on the scene. He was also notorious for the number of groupies and female fans he attracted. For, as we all know, there is nothing more sensual or erotic to an impressionable young woman than seeing a man in the prime of his life engaged in the sensual act of tickling a goat underwater. Which, of course, caused outrage and consternation amongst the tabloid reporters, and the politicians outraged by anything that would get their names in the papers.

Locumbadger was too smart for the tabloid hacks, and for the politicians, of course. To get to the top of such a competitive art as underwater goat tickling requires great intelligence, acumen and an awareness of tactical finesse. All are attributes that easily outwit the lumbering crudities of the average tabloid reporter, or even politician (in the pre-political goat days, of course).

Thus was Paradiddle Locumbadger able to stay at the top of his game. Largely free from the scandals, shocks, sting operations and the blatant over-indulgent use of Horlicks that brought many of his contemporaries so low and so many goats into the sordid world of politics.

For that alone, them of Paradiddle Locumbadger should never be forgotten, especially wherever we hear the sound of an overly-moistened goat giggling freely.

 

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Extract:

���Professor Stewart?���

���No.���

���Well, who���?���

���Chief Inspector Lever. And you are?���

���Bloody confused.���

���I beg your pardon?���

���I���m confused.��� Martin glanced around the room. It looked like a typical academic office, or – rather – what he would expect a typical academic office to look like: namely lots of books, periodicals, overflowing folders and stacks of paper.

Although, he hadn���t expected to see the chalk outlines spread around the floor, or the ominous dark stains merging into them. A slightly-younger woman came through the door and stood against the wall, behind the man who claimed to be a Chief Inspector.

The seated man produced a wallet and – briefly – flashed some sort of card at Martin. It could have been anything: a bus pass, a library ticket, a photograph of the man���s favourite homing pigeon. Martin had seen the police do that sort of thing in crime dramas on the telly, so he felt marginally reassured that he was in the presence of a real policeman.

���My name is Martin Laws. I came to see Professor Stewart, where is he?���

���Why?���

���Why what? Why is my name Martin, why do I want to see Professor Stewart, or what?���

The woman standing by the wall stood up straighter. She stared at Martin as though she was carefully calculating the amount of electrical charge she would like to apply to Martin���s genitalia. Martin smiled back helpfully.

���Why did you want to see the professor? Are you one of his students?���

���No.���

���You don���t work for the university, do you?���

���No.���

���Were��� are you a friend of the professor���s? No, obviously not. You asked me if I was him, didn���t you? So, I���ll ask you again; why did you want to see him.���

���Ah, I see��� well, there���s. Well��� you see, someone I live with, she asked me to come and see him.���

���Why?���

���Well, they, her and her friend��� a room became available for rent, and they, well��� they just sort of moved in, nearly two weeks ago. She, Lisa – that���s her name – asked me to come and see him.���

���Why?���

���I don���t know, as a favour I suppose. She was a bit busy and I had some free time.���

The chief inspector appeared slightly irritated by something. ���Why?���

���Well, I suppose I just like to help people if I can. It seemed the least I could do, really.���

���No! Listen to me. Why did she, this��� this���.���

���Lisa, sir.���

���Thanks, Conrad. This Lisa, why did she ask you to see the professor?���

���Oh, I see. Sorry. I was getting totally the wrong end of the stick, wasn���t I?��� Martin said.

The two police officers stared at him in silence. Martin could see they were both thinking about precisely which end of what particular stick they would like to apply to which exact, and vulnerable, part of his body.

���Oh, right, well Lisa asked me to see if I could get her essay back from him before he marked it. She suddenly realised she���d made a silly mistake and wanted to correct it.���

���Oh.��� Both police officers looked rather deflated, as though they had expected him to admit to involvement in terrorism, drug gangs, murderous love-triangles, stolen gold, political assassinations or something else both highly-illegal and very exciting compared to the usual unhappy lot of a policeman.

���So where is he – the professor? I ought to be getting back, with the essay��� if you don���t mind?���

���He isn���t here,��� Lever said.

The other officer, Conrad, walked over to one of the chalk outlines. ���He was here���.��� she moved to another of the chalk outlines ���and here������ she pointed ���And over there��� there��� and there��� and this������ she tapped the desk, ������was where we found his ear. The left one to be precise. Next to these.��� She pulled a plastic bag from her pocket.

Martin tried to remain expressionless and calm. ���What are those?���

���Juggling balls.��� Conrad said. ���Plain black juggling balls. We think they came in that envelope.��� She pointed across to a padded envelope on the edge of the desk.

���The postmark is illegible,��� Lever said. ���So, if you never met the professor before I suppose there is little you can tell us.��� He stared into Martin���s eyes. ���Providing you are telling us the truth.��� He looked away and then back at Martin. ���I suppose we had better take your name and address though. We may want to have a word with this��� this���?���

���Lisa, sir.���

���Thank you, Conrad��� this Lisa.���

���So Mister��� Mister���?

���Laws, sir.���

���Thank you, Conrad. So, Mr Laws. Perhaps we will meet again��� later.���

���Right. But what about the essay?���

���I think there is a chance he won���t be marking it,��� Conrad said. ���Don���t you?���

���Er��� yes, I suppose so. Can I have it then?���

���No.���

���Oh, why not?���

���If it was in the pile of essays on his desk you wouldn���t be able to read it, anyway,��� Lever said.

���Why not?���

���They were absolutely drenched in blood.���

���Oh, right. Nasty.��� Martin grimaced and shuddered. ���So what will I say to Lisa? She���ll want to know. What happened? Did he suffer at all?���

���I should have fuckin��� well thought so,��� Conrad said as she led Martin to the door. ���I���m not absolutely certain, but I would have thought being torn limb from limb would – at least – sting a bit.���

Martin stopped in the doorway and turned to face Conrad. ���You are not very respectful of the dead are you?���

���No,��� Conrad said and shut the door in Martin���s face.

[….]

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