David Hadley's Blog, page 80

A Fairy Tale Existence

 

Once upon a time, there was���.

Hang on���.

No, there wasn���t. After all, even a woman of her��� experience���. Well, not with a pumpkin anyway.

To be honest, life can get a bit lonely for a young girl in the magic forest. After all, talking animals leaping out of the undergrowth to engage in even trivial day-to-day banter about the weather, or eating your granny all up, can be disconcerting. It can make even the most self-confident fairy tale heroine a bit on the jumpy side.

As for the woodsman and his chopper, well we all know what happens, especially to young virg��� girls, if they step off the path.

Not only that, try running out of a bear family���s hotel without paying for your room and board, as well as the accidental breakages, and they will not be very impressed. As for the bill for masticatory damage to an A1 Heritage Site listed Gingerbread cottage and you are looking at some serious money. Woodland dwellers in the magic forest do take the idea of neighbourhood watch very seriously. They will do more than look with more than a little suspicion at anyone skipping gaily down the path into the heart of fairyland.

Especially so after the several incidents during the last year���s Christmas���s Top Gear Special, where the boys in their cars ripped through the magic glade causing several gold coins worth of damage. Not only did Hammond���s car shatter a glass slipper left in the road, there is also footage of May frightening the unicorns. However, as the boys�� pointed out after the traditional post-Top Gear Twitter ���outrage���, they did have to complete the course before midnight. Otherwise, their cars would turn back into pumpkins, or in James May���s case ��� a turnip.

Anyway, it all changed following the tabloid expose of what Goldilocks really got up to that day in the bear���s cottage and Little Red Riding Hood���s splitting from the band to go solo. Some say that now the magical forest has��� well, lost some of its magic.

There is talk of one of the giant entertainment corporations taking over fairyland and maybe merging with some other region���s folk tales. As one executive from Megamedia Corp said, ���These old European folktales are no longer commanding the market share they used to in the old days.���

Although, many critics would point out that it is corporations like Disney, and so on, who have taken the heart and soul out of the fairy tale world ��� destroyed the magic even. Often by turning what were once dark and often morbid morality tale into twee entertainment robbed of any depth or meaning.

But, in the meantime, there are rumours that the private intimate photos of Little Red Riding Hood (wearing nothing under her cape), Goldilocks, and even Old Mother Hubbard have been hacked. Allegedly, the photos are now available on certain websites, if you know where to look.

 

EU Harmonisation And Its Drawbacks

Afterwards, she put it all away, back into the special cupboard, and we went back to our normal lives. At least, I did after I���d taken the wild haggis back to the glen and set it free as we���d promised. I stood there, at the foot of Ben y-Hill, watching the wild haggis as it made its way up the hillside. I was hoping it would make it before the feral bagpipes could catch its scent on the wind and give chase.

It had been a good holiday, but it was time to give our tame sporrans back to the sporran kennels and head back over the border into the land of the expensive. Of course, this was a long time ago, back before the EU outlawed the exploitation of Europe���s native wild animals for untoward activities. In particular, this was brought about by the cruel treatment of the wild Italian salami by Italian hunters. Traditionally, they set sharp���toothed steel traps for this normally shy and endearing creature. Then once captured, they cruelly rip its legs off while it is still alive before hanging the maimed salamis up to dry.

Moreover, we all know how Germans dig deep pits out in the black forest, lining them with cruel wooden spikes. All so they can catch the sauerkraut bird as it hops along the forest floor searching for the vinegar it feeds on. There has also been some concern expressed about what the peoples of the same region do to the poor lederhosen llama in order to turn it into an item of clothing.

Anyway, despite the protests by the Iberian Chorizo hunters and the French snail blockade, the EU passed a law outlawing all such practices. Also including the breeding of faggots for the table by British farmers, which many say led directly to the great mushy pea slick that drowned several people in Tipton two years ago.

Other actions by the EU along similar lines have created increasing Europe-wide concern. In particular, that many local delicacies, foodstuffs, traditions and arcane sexual practices are now marginalised, regulated and even made illegal by an increasingly intrusive EU.

Many believe the EU is now going way beyond its original purpose and even its current remit. Many believe that the EU needs reforming and its powers of supra-national law making and arbitrary use of powers to eradicate local differences rescinded.

Otherwise, many fear the increasing disenchantment with its centralising and homogenising action could bring about the community���s destruction. Even despite all it the good work it has done to make our lives the fascinating bureaucratic quagmire they have become.

 

The Perils OF Fakery In Wildlife Documentaries

Obviously enough, the walrus in the kitchen sink was somewhat of a giveaway. However, Mrs Parallelogram still claimed it was an accident. She claimed that she was just cycling past the zoo when the walrus fell out of the sky into the wicker basket on the front of her bicycle.

She also claimed not to know the walrus was the property of the zoo. Despite the If Found Return To [the zoo���s address] stamped in waterproof ink on the underside of the walrus���s front left fin.

Mrs Parallelogram, however, claimed that she thought the walrus was ��� quite obviously – migrating south for the winter and had simply fallen out of the sky due to sheer exhaustion. She said she was an avid watcher of BBC wildlife programmes. Consequently, she knew all about the migratory patterns of walruses, which always fly south for the winter. Along with the penguins, who fly in the opposite direction from south to north as the cold weather makes living at the South Pole somewhat awkward. This is especially so with the South Pole���s limited mobile phone coverage and the lack of any decent TV during the Christmas period.

As Mrs Parallelogram said at her trial, ���Can you imagine what Christmas TV is like for penguins? They spend all year round in the bloody snow, freezing their wings off. Then just when they fancy a bit of seasonal good cheer, everything up to and including the TV station idents gets covered in snow. To them it seems like the TV stations are just rubbing their beaks in it.���

The prosecution, of course, called the famous wildlife documentary maker, Sir David Attenborough. He swore that it was established fact that walruses were not a migratory species and did not fly south for the winter. Furthermore, he stated categorically that walruses were unable to fly.

However, counsel for Mrs Parallelogram���s defence pointed out the increasing use of fakery in wildlife documentaries. Something, which under cross-examination, several wildlife documentary makers and naturalists employed by those programmes had to admit was true.

The counsel for the defence then forced those naturalists to concede that it was, therefore, possible that walruses could fly and were, indeed, migratory. Defence counsel then went on to argue that the claim that walrus did not migrate could have been part of an elaborate cover-up and expenses fiddle. All, according to defence counsel, part of the wildlife documentary makers��� ongoing fraud. Disguising the fact that they did not have to travel ��� at great cost ��� to these far-flung corners of the world to get what they claimed was this exclusive footage.

The judge, therefore, in his summing up of the case against Mrs Parallelogram, said that there were already several recorded instances of wildlife TV programme fakery. This meant that the facts of the case had not been established beyond reasonable doubt.

The jury returned, after seven minutes of deliberation, and pronounced a unanimous verdict of not guilty. Mrs Parallelogram was allowed to walk free from the court without a stain on her character.

The walrus, now called Sigmund, still lives ��� happily ��� in Mrs Parallelogram���s sink. Except, of course, for the five months of the year when he flies south for the winter.

 

2014 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.

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Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 2,100 times in 2014. If it were a cable car, it would take about 35 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

When The Gods Deserted Us

There was a place, a long way from here now, where everything was simpler, easier. That place we called home. It had been home to us, our village, for longer than anyone could remember. The old ones often said our village had been there for all time, ever since the gods themselves were born.

We, the shamans said, were the children of the gods. The gods had made our valley for us, made it a good place to live. If, one season the crops failed, or the hunting was poor, the shaman told us, then it was our fault for not being grateful to the gods.

Although, when the invaders came, the shaman died without any explanation of how we had failed the gods that time. His mouth spoke no more once a barbarian sword had taken his head from his body.

Now, our captors march us on, far into lands none of us ever knew existed. Many, of course, have died on this long march. The old, the sick, the young and those that try to escape, all left on the sides of this road where they fell.

Many say the gods have deserted us, fleeing in terror when the barbarians poured down the valley hillsides. Others say the gods will come one day to rescue us, but only when they think we have paid enough for what wrongs we did them. The believers also say the gods are behind us, picking up the ones that fall and taking them to sit beside the gods. All ready to welcome us home when the gods take their vengeance on the barbarians and rid their bodies and souls apart.

Me, though, I sit and wait. Some come talk to me because I was the last Shaman���s apprentice, and I���d learnt some of the secrets of the shamans and the gods. The others ask what I think. I say I am much like them and have not yet learnt enough to understand the ways of the gods.

Mainly, though I sit alone, remembering the time the old shaman sat me down and told me the big secret of being the shaman. He said. ���There are no gods, but never let the people see that you know that. They need the gods and it is our job to give them those gods, even though we know it is all a lie.���

So I sit and await what will come, knowing I deserve whatever fate awaits me on this journey or at its end, because I let the people down and I let their gods desert them.

 

She Could Dance This World

She was the one who danced through the days. She was the one who took the possibilities of that day and spread them out around her world. She could take the fresh spring air with all its promise of growth and fecundity into her hands. Then she���d weave a world of growing around her shifting feet as they danced across this possible world. She gave the day its dawn, its morning and its evening. She then slow danced the blanket of the night across the tired day, ready to begin again.

She could dance the birds into song to give her a tune for dancing. She could dance the rain against the dry ground to bring the flowers dancing out from the ground. All swaying with her in the breeze as the clouds took their stately progress across the skies looking down on her.

She could dance the stars in their progress across the night, take the moon in her arms and dance until dawn.

Like the river flowing and like the tides and seasons turning, she never grew tired of movement. Even in the slow, short days of winter, she could still dance the snows across the land. She could swirl like the howling winds as the gales blew and the bare trees danced to keep warm.

She could dance like the flames in our fires as we gathered around to see her dance this world into being for us. We knew that without her, there would be no dance, and with no dance, there would be no world.

The world grew older and her dances grew slower. We knew she was immortal, unlike us who lived, grew and died in the days of her dances. We wondered if it was our fault for not showing our appreciation for all her dances, nor how she danced our word into being each day.

We offered her all the gifts we could gather from the world she made for us. Still the dances grew slower; still the winters grew longer, still the cold winds danced through our lives. More and more our own dances halted as we made our slow ritual way to the burial mounds where so many danced no more.

Then, one mid-winter day we awoke to find she had gone, leaving us with the cold and the dark and no more dances. So now we sit here watching the slow dancing flames of our fires, wondering if spring can ever come again, now there is no-one here to dance it into life for us.

 

Finding God

���It is really not my fault.��� He struggled as they pulled him out from under the hay.

It was not a good hiding place. As rural folk, they knew about barns and they knew about hay, and how to find someone hiding inside it. Usually, though they found young – or sometimes not so young ��� couples getting to know each other in the old familiar way.

This time, though, it was different.

���It is not my fault,��� he repeated trying to pull himself free. These were rural folk, quite used to restraining wild beasts, though, and this one was not only wild, but livid. ���Unhand me. Don���t you know who I am?���

One of the peasants, Plunk, stood in front of the struggling being. ���But it is your job.��� He looked into the eyes of the one in front of him, still half-heartedly struggling against the two labourers who held him. ���And yes, we do know who you are. Otherwise,��� Plunk pointed behind him to the pitchfork-carrying mob squeezed into the barn, ���why else would we do this?���

���You!��� The captive glanced wildly around, looking for help or escape. There was neither. ���You are peasants, forming a mob is what you do.���

There was a collective gasp from the crowd.

���That���s not very nice,��� a woman called from the mob, stepping forward. ���Treat us like dirt, you do you all do. To think of all the sacrifices I���ve made to you��� you ungrateful shi���.��� She strode forward and slapped the prisoner around the face. The noise was loud in the sudden silence. ���To think how I���ve worshipped you.��� She turned striding back into the mob.

Some patted her on the back; others stepped nervously away from her. After all, you could never be too sure. They, those like the captive, were known for their capriciousness. The crowd eyed the prisoner warily.

���But I am a god.��� The prisoner���s voice was weary.

���Yes, and what a god.��� Plunk signalled and the two villagers dragged their captive to the door of the barn. ���Look at it.���

The weary defeated god peered outside. ���What about it?���

���It���s raining.���

���So?���

���It is always raining. It hasn���t stopped raining since last autumn.��� Plunk glared at him. ���After all, you are the weather god. It is all your fault.���

���I��� er��� I���ll have someone look into it. I promise.��� He looked around at the mob, pleading, yet hopeful. ���It must be some kind of administrative error��� or something.���

���We���ve heard your promises before. It is not good enough.���

���So��� wh��� what are you going to do with me?���

���We are putting you on trial. Come on.��� With that, Plunk led the way out of the barn towards the village meeting hall. Behind him, the two guards, followed by the eager mob, dragged their prisoner through the rain and mud.

The weather god began to cry. He didn���t know much about mortals, but he did know that in trials like this, trials by the mob, no prisoner was ever found innocent and the punishment was always death. Very painful death, which was something, as an immortal, he���d always thought he���d never have to face��� not until now.

 

The Cave Mouth

Well, it is something, I suppose, Brenkin thought. ���Not much of something, though,��� he said to himself as he edged closer to it. He gave the��� thing, what was left of it, anyway, a prod with the toe of his boot. He jumped back in case it turned out to be not as dead as it looked.

It stayed dead.

Very dead.

Brenkin gave it another experimental tap with the toe of his boot, carefully because boots were expensive, and because deadly – or rather, former-deadly – creatures may still be dangerous.

Mordon once said Brenkin had learnt nothing, but he���d learnt caution.

So, it seemed he���d, at last, got the knack of the fireball spell. Well, to some extent at least. There was a singed, burning smell in the air Brenkin recognised as the smell of his eyebrows burning off��� again.

He stepped around the remains of the beast that had flown at him from the cave. He edged closer to the cave mouth, peering in at the darkness.

He looked back at the still very dead creature. What manner of beast it was Brenkin had no idea. All he knew was that it had some very impressive teeth and claws and it had not been happy to see him, not happy at all.

Since he���d began wizarding over three years ago, as it happened, it appeared that there were a lot of things ��� usually with razor-sharp teeth and claws – that were not pleased to see Brenkin. They were not shy in trying to do something about it either. This, to Brenkin, explained why he was getting so proficient with the lightning bolt and fireball spells. Although not quite proficient or controlled enough to risk trying to grow another beard yet��� not after the last time.

As Mordon has said ��� several times ��� a wizard���s beard shows he has confidence in his own abilities. No-one would hire, he claimed, a beardless wizard or even worse one with a singed beard. Brenkin supposed Mordon had a point, which made him wonder why Daggor the merchant had been so keen to hire him, a new wizard, to go and fetch some merchandise he���d left in this cave.

Now he stood at the cave mouth, his hand still tingling with the aftermagic of his spell. Brenkin wondered if there was a reason beyond mere parsimony why Daggor had hired a cheap newly-qualified wizard for what was basically a piece of straightforward courier work. If so, just what was doing all that heavy breathing deep in the darkness of the cave?

Knowing that if he wanted to live to be a wise old wizard, the best thing for him to do now would be to turn and walk away. Brenkin hitched up his new wizarding robe, brushed non-existent dust off it and stepped into the cave.

 

The Dreaming Castle

It could be a dream that holds her deep inside a world she does not know. It could be a world conjured out of airy nothing by a mind wandering inside itself. It could be something new.

Jenny had not been here before and it had the same lack of consistency of the world she lived in every day. A door she walked through in her familiar house did not lead into her own hallway, but out into a passage built of large solid-looking stone blocks. A curving passage coiling around to a set of steps suggested she was at the base of some ancient tower. Perhaps it was a medieval castle or other such solid and fortified building from a long past age.

There was a spiral staircase at the end of the passageway. The staircase was dark and gloomy, the bare stone walls looming over the narrow staircase. Jenny was reluctant at first to take the staircase, knowing where such things lead in dreams like this.

But, looking down, she saw her foot already on the first step. She knew that if she tried to turn the dream would have something worse waiting for her. So she went where the dream took her.

It took her to a closed and locked door, a few dozen steps up the spiral staircase. The door was solid wood, riveted with large iron rivets and reinforced with metal bars. It was a door made to prevent exits and entrances.

She tried it again ��� because sometimes in dreams once-locked doors will open ��� but it stayed locked. So Jenny turned back to the long curving passageway.

She stopped, looked back at the door, took a step closer and pressed her ear to it.

Yes, she could hear something��� something familiar.

It was her alarm on her phone. An electronic chirping that had dragged her from her dreams every morning for the year or more she���d had that phone.

She reached for it to make it snooze, but the heavy wooden door stood in her way. The dream did not break, shatter, fall, around her sleeping head onto the pillow. Her bedroom did not emerge out of the morning gloom no matter how many times she blinked or pushed herself as though rising from that sleeping pillow.

The alarm buzzed on as Jenny turned from the door and back again, bruising her hands on its solidity as she tried to force her way through the door and out of the dream.

She caught her hand on one of the hard metal rivets and yelled out in pain. She sucked on the edge of her hand, feeling the rough wood of the door with her other hand as the alarm chirped on and on, realising ��� at last ��� that this was no dream.

 

Pride And Penalty Shoot-Outs

Of course, Dandelion Waiftendrill first made her name on the lucrative women���s professional Mr Darcy Bothering circuit. A sport where some of the finest female athletes of the ages have again proved that they are capable of sporting achievement equal to any other professional sport.

Of course, Mr Darcy Bothering is a very competitive sport and thus commands huge stadium crowds, TV audiences and followings for the star players. Especially those like Dandelion Waiftendrill that can manhandle a fully-moistened Mr Darcy in the scrum. She can then get him over the line into wedlock while the rest of the players are still out in the fields criticising each other���s bonnets in a pointed manner.

Of course, professional Mr Darcy Bothering is a very different sport to that played by many amateurs around the park boating lakes and village duck ponds across the country. These places are where the sport began in the early nineteenth century, not long after Jane Austen published her first book of rules for the sport.

Up until, then Mr Darcy Bothering was without a formal set of regulations, or even a body to oversee professional rules and standards. It is said that every English village large and wealthy enough to have a Darcy available would have its one individual set of rules and traditions for how to play the game. Some of which, dating back to post-reformation times, could be very crude, if not, lewd. Allegedly, some methods of pre-moistening the Mr Darcy were based around ancient folk traditions, which some say, contain traces of early pre-Christian pagan worship, witchcraft and penalty shoot-outs.

However, these days, professional Mr Darcy Bothering is a much more regulated affair. It now has its professional leagues, professional associations and official Mr Darcy Moistening measurements overseen by both umpires and the referee.

Consequently, some claim professional Mr Darcy Bothering will soon overtake professional football for audience attendance. Especially for the traditional Mr Darcy Bothering English cup final in the first week of June. A time when women fans from across the country will throng to the newly-completed Wembley boating lake. All wanting to watch top-flight professional Mr Darcy Botherers compete to marry off the character in what many hope will be a world record time, or failing that, after extra-time and a tense penalty shoot-out.

Not only that, the sport���s world governing body is planning to hold a Mr Darcy Bothering World Cup every six years, in stadiums around the world, thus becoming a fixture in direct competition to both the FIFA World Cup and the Olympics.

Many Mr Darcy Bothering Associations confidently predict that the World Darcy Bothering Cup could become the world���s leading sporting fixture before the middle of the century. Such an event is something that all we Dandelion Waiftendrill fans would love to see.