David Hadley's Blog, page 98

Tattooed

Tattooed

She’s got a badly tattooed right tit

Falling from a bra that doesn’t quite fit.

She says, ‘I’d rather have a fag

Any day, better than a shag.

You know where you are with a smoke,

Much more reliable than a bloke.

They fuck you pregnant and fuck off

While a fag only leaves a cough.

If it’s a bloke, or smoke that kills you dead,

I’ know what I’d sooner have in bed.’

After the Accident

Something about it held me there. We waited, unsure, as if there was something there in the air we could sense but not see, hear, smell or touch. It felt like something from long ago, some ancient instinct lying far below our civilised selves.

I felt Jeanine tense, her hand tightening inside mine. She reached across and grasped my upper arm with her free hand. ‘I don’t like it,’ she whispered. ‘Let’s go back.’

‘We can’t go back.’ I glanced back over my shoulder. The car was a wreck. I’d smelt petrol and I was worried there might be an explosion. As I turned I smelt smoke on the air. Something was burning. There was a small orange glow flickering inside our wrecked car.

‘We need to get away.’ My leg was stiff but I could walk on it. I let go of Jeanine’s hand and eased my arm under her, lifting her to her feet. In the light from the full moon, emerging from behind the clouds, I could see she had a cut on her forehead. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I don’t know… everything hurts,’ she said, wincing as she put weight on her ankle.

‘We need to get away… the car….’ I said. As I spoke, there was a woof like a large dog barking and everything around us lit up. I turned, feeling Jeanine twist to see too.

The car was burning now. Only minutes before, perhaps less, we’d both been sitting in those seats that were now aflame.

I turned back; pulling Jeanine close and feeling her stifle a cry. ‘We need to get away.’ I began to struggle towards the woods.

Jeanine stiffened, halted, staring off into the dark woods. ‘No,’ she said. ‘There is something in there… watching us… waiting.’

 

There Will Be Naked Ladies

Nevertheless, it was – as these things go – more interesting than originally thought. Although, people these days have the attention span of a….

Oooh, look at that!

Shiny!

As I was saying before I….

Hang on, don’t go yet. There will be naked ladies.

Sort of….

Although, by now all adult Internet users – even those who are not ladies with a mirror – should know what a naked lady looks like. Nevertheless there are still metric oodles of photographs available online for those who may have forgotten and need a quick reminder, or two.

In fact, while I think about it….

Hang on, a minute.

[….]

Right. Apparently, I was remembering correctly and the undressed lady does indeed have two elbows, and they are – more or less – where I remembered they ought to be.

Without vital research tools like that so much of what passes for work, information and entertainment in this modern technological world would be much more difficult.

Back in the 1970s, for example, if a young man wished to check for himself that an under-dressed young lady’s elbows – for example – were in the place he remembered they were, was much more difficult than it is these days. It would mean ferreting about under his mattress, or in the bottom of his wardrobe, in order to find suitable reference material. Sometimes, it even entailed a visit to a newsagent. Perhaps more than one visit, if the newsagent’s teenage daughter was behind the counter on his first visit.

In earlier times, such anatomical curiosity would necessitate being rich enough to commission a painting. Or, making friends with an impoverished artist. Preferably who could knock of a quick sketch of a female arm from the wrist to the shoulder for a nominal charge.

In even earlier ages, it would need a long awkward crawl to the specialist area of the cave to see some of the cave paintings. Usually the ones the shaman of the tribe spent so long meditating over. In fact they spent so much time there, they were made blind when they left the darkness of the cave and returned to dazzling sunlight. This is where many anthropologists now believe the idea that such intense meditation ‘makes you go blind’ originated.

So, there we have it. Modern society does indeed need as many pictures of naked ladies as it can get. For – as this brief historical guide shows – they are essential to man’s understanding of this universe and without them we as a society, as a species, would be much less well-informed.

In fact, without such visual aids a good many of us, it seems, would be unable to tell our arse from our elbow.

 

 

 

Without a Prayer

Eventually they came for us. Every belief needs some blood sacrifice to make its adherents feel they are the chosen ones and we, here in these hills, became those sacrifices.

When the old gods faded and died, we here in the hills turned away from the religions that rose up to replace those old gods. Instead, we turned to look up at the stars and all around at this world that surrounds us. We discovered those old gods were lies told by those who clung to power and the new gods were not much better. Meanwhile, up above us the stars turned and we found what made this world turn.

The new religions needed enemies. So their priests and prophets looked around for someone to blame when their promises and entireties failed to turn this world in the direction they promised their followers.

We became the devils, the demons, the witches and the heretics. Up here in the high hills, our telescopes and microscopes became the instruments of the devils. The priests blamed us for their crop failures, the cattle diseases and for why so many innocents died.

Of course, we patiently explained about contagion, about hygiene. We explained how to grow crops year after year. Still those priests called us devils and demons and so the wars began.

Now we know they are going to lose, because while they have the gods on their side we have science and technology on ours, and a prayer in no match for well-made steel.

 

A Notorious Historical Dandy

Splendiferous Haberdashery was uncountably the 18th Century’s finest dandy. Famed for having a different bespoke handkerchief for every hour of the day, he was the first person in London to wear underpants. There were also – unconfirmed – rumours of him having a bath nearly every fortnight. Hence, Haberdashery was a notorious figure in the London society of the time.

These days of course he is mostly known for being the first person to wear a bobble hat at the opera. Back then, Haberdashery was a far more controversial figure. Especially in his life-long interest in ladies underwear and his never-ending search to find some lingerie that would fit him.

Of course, back in those days conspicuous consumption was all the rage amongst the rich and powerful. From the enormous country houses down to how much a young gentleman would spend on his socks was all a matter of status and societal approval. Consequently, a young gentleman was often judged on the size of his folly. Consequently, any young unmarried gentleman who never displayed his ha-ha to his intended was shunned by polite society.

However, for a young gentleman without a sizeable acreage, attracting a wealthy fiancée or bride was always difficult. This is why young men such as Haberdashery would concentrate on the more personal displays of wealth and taste. Not that Haberdashery was without a country pile. But an unfortunate misunderstanding during the Civil War reduced the family home to rubble. This happened when both sides fired upon it thinking it occupied by opposing forces. There had never been enough money in the family coffers to restore it to anything habitable. At least not to the standard acceptable in the polite society of the time.

The situation was not helped by Haberdashery’s father and his wild gambling habit. Haberdashery senior was notorious for – even at the time – for his unerring ability to spot a loser on the horse racing track and to unfailing have the worst hand ever seen in a card game.

Splendiferous Haberdashery, though, as the second son was destined for a life in the clergy with his elder brother Bespoke Haberdashery expected to inherit the family (lack of) fortune.

That was until both the father and elder brother died in a mysterious boating accident on the estate lake. This was quite a famous mystery at the time as the Haberdashery estate didn’t have a lake. Splendiferous was the only survivor of the accident and thus the entire fortune in debts and unpaid bills came to him.

However, such was the amount of money that Splendiferous had spent on various items of ladies undergarments over his student years, that he was able to sell some of them off and pay all the debts. Not only that, Splendiferous had Haberdashery Hall rebuilt in the then fashionable style.

Hence, on her wedding night Flounce Haberdashery – his new wife – was amazed to see that her new husband had a whole wardrobe of ladies underwear there, ready and waiting for her in their wardrobe. As she later, and rather mysteriously, said in a letter to a friend – explained something unusual to her. Flounce went on to say that when he proposed to her Splendiferous was very keen to point out that he and his intended new wife were both exactly the same size. Therefore, he reasoned, it was obvious they should marry. A conundrum that remains unresolved to this day.

 

Sign up to the David Hadley – Author Mailing list to receive news about new releases, special offers, forthcoming titles and much more.

[Books by David Hadley are available for the Kindle here (UK) or here (US) or for other formats at Smashwords here]

Britain’s New National Sport

 

Ricochet Splashback is probably the UK’s greatest living exponent of the backhand chin stroke, which has put the Luton Imponderables way ahead in this year’s Mass Debating League.

There has, of late, been a sharp decline of football in the national consciousness, mainly because watching a single game now costs more than the average mortgage. As well as England withdrawing the national side from all competitions because they couldn’t scrape together enough English players from the top divisions with the ability to kick a ball (as seen in the current World Cup). Having to scout the Sunday morning park pitches for anyone who they could press-gang into the team was the last straw according to a FA spokesman.

Consequently, with falling revenues. Sky and the other sports broadcasters, as well as the BBC – who found some spare change down the back of the BBC Breakfast sofa to pay for it – needed a new sport.

Casting around for something suitable, and by accident, he says, alighting on a political debate show, one sports programme producer realised there is nothing the British people enjoy more than watching other people talking bollocks.

So the idea of a mass debating league was formed.

Of course, politics is only one form of bollocks, not as prevalent these days as it used to be, but still a major force in pointless – and endless – argument. Of course one of the greatest ironies in the rise of mass debating as a spectator sport is that one of the leading causes of any outbreak of pointless bollocks talking and tedious point scoring was often football itself.

However, with less football about in general, including the Premier league, now getting smaller audiences than a Church of England sermon, there weren’t many football arguments about. Therefore people were looking around for other subjects to have pointless and purposeless arguments about.

Consequently, there is a great deal of variety in any mass debating match. Arguments breaking out all over the mass debating pitch on all subjects from the sex life of politicians (always good for a laugh) to the best way of growing marjoram.

Of course, the Internet had been a great boon in the burgeoning popularity of mass debating. Now, local and national team coaches hang out in tabloid newspaper comments sections, online forums and social media. All of them on the look-out for the next mass debating star. Someone who can argue endlessly about the most pointless and trivial subjects with a devotion to the game long since missing from football, cricket, three-in-a-bed romps and all the other former staples of the national sporting scene.

With England putting teams into the next Mass Debating World Cup, European Nations Cup and the Olympics, there seems no better time for everyone to drop everything and – like Ricochet Splashback – start mass debating themselves.

Sign up to the David Hadley – Author Mailing list to receive news about new releases, special offers, forthcoming titles and much more.

[Books by David Hadley are available for the Kindle here (UK) or here (US) or for other formats at Smashwords here]

The Land Lies Wanton

This is a land of winter. We do not know much of the summers to the south. We do not grow grapes that ripen in the sun, or take long languid breaks in the middle of the day. Life here is not long, slow and unhurried.

Our summers, such as they are, are frantic, racing against the inevitability of winter. We ripen what will grow on these stony mountainsides and turn it into beer. Strong dark ales to keep out the wind, the rain and the blizzard snows that last for weeks at a time.

We spend our lives wrapped up in furs against the cold and fire is precious. Especially out on the moors where there are no trees and only a few shelters for the herdsmen for those days and those nights when even they have to seek shelter from the killing winds.

Now, though, the young grow tired of these endless winters. They grow weary of lives lived harsh and for little reward. We turn, then turn again, back to look towards the south and think of the easy, warm lives lived there.

There is talk, growing stronger, of how the south lies there ripe and lush like a maiden on her wedding night, just waiting for someone to come and take it.

Some of us are ready now and there is talk of marching. Instead of sitting here huddled in furs around our stuttering fires, listening to the wind howl and wondering how high the snow is rising, we could be marching south into a warmer, brighter world.

Sign up to the David Hadley – Author Mailing list to receive news about new releases, special offers, forthcoming titles and much more.

[Books by David Hadley are available for the Kindle here (UK) or here (US) or for other formats at Smashwords here]

A Knight of the Realm

Hopalite Trebuchet was probably one of the greatest Knights in English history. He was more famous in his day that Robin Hood, Richard the Lionheart, Doris the Bold and Sir Steve the Bastard put together.

Not only did Trebuchet turn out for both sides during the War of the Roses, coming on as a late substitute for the Yorkist side at the battle of Tewkesbury, he was also one of the Lancastrian’s leading scorers.

Not only that, he was also a leading knight in the lesser known War of the Milk Tray. Notably scoring a particularly impressive victory against the Soft Centres at the battle of Caramel.

Of course, Trebuchet was not only a master of the battlefield, especially in is use of the tactic known as ‘running away’ while in full body armour. He was also adept at the aristocratic sport of jousting, where he was rumoured, especially amongst the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, to have the longest lance any of them had handled on the tournament field.

However, it was during England’s semi-permanent war with the French that Trebuchet earned his greatest glory. As most of the battles took place on French soil, the chivalric rule that away victories counted double came into play. So even if the British only managed a draw against the usually greater numbers of French knights, then the battle would be awarded to the British. This despite the French often outscoring the English knights on artistic interpretation.

It was during the battle for Calais, despite the French army’s overwhelming superiority in battle-ready Camembert, that the English forces led by Trebuchet managed to lay siege to a French hypermarket. They liberated several cases of high-value wine and a cartload of French beer before heading back for a victory stagger through the streets of London.

However, disaster struck Trebuchet when he fell off his horse in full armour during that victory stagger, severely denting his curiass. Despite frantic efforts by the king’s own surgeons, none of the crude tin openers of the day could free him and Trebuchet died two days later.

He was given a state funeral with his eulogy read by the King himself and buried with full honours in Westminster Abbey. Consequently, he will always be remembered as one of the greats of British medieval history.

Sign up to the David Hadley – Author Mailing list to receive news about new releases, special offers, forthcoming titles and much more.

[Books by David Hadley are available for the Kindle here (UK) or here (US) or for other formats at Smashwords here]

Each Handful of Day

She could turn as she held each day as a season. From the bright emerging green of spring, through the softer blooming of the coloured summer through the golds, reds and fading away of the autumn to the white bare winter the days would wait for her.

She had all the days anyone could need as well as the time to take each one on the palm of her hand and hold it up to the light of the sun. Each day was there for her, waiting for her to give it a name and a place in her cupboard of memories, labelled with all she found inside it.

She found new worlds in each of the days she held up to the light. There were strange faraway worlds where monsters grew out of the mists and flew beyond the mountains. There were worlds of men doing great deeds and women finding how their lands worked and each learning the mysteries of how the stars revolved about them.

There was everything and everywhere. Each day held something new for her to take back to that cottage by the sea. There she could stare out to the far horizon and wonder if there was anyone else out there across that wide sea as lonely as her.

 

Sign up to the David Hadley – Author Mailing list to receive news about new releases, special offers, forthcoming titles and much more.

[Books by David Hadley are available for the Kindle here (UK) or here (US) or for other formats at Smashwords here]

 

 

If I Could Sing

If I Could Sing

 

If I could sing

then I would sing

a song of distance,

a song of sadness.

A song to tell the story

of all our sorrows.

A song that tells

of how the rain falls

and the winds twist

the days around us all

turning back the days

into darkest night time

and leaving us alone

to sing to the moon.

Sign up to the David Hadley – Author Mailing list to receive news about new releases, special offers, forthcoming titles and much more.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]