Nav Logan's Blog, page 14
May 26, 2015
Blind Justice
The police were truly baffled by the crime spree that had spread through the city. More victims were reported daily, but no link could be found between them apart from the fact that all the victims were male. Lawyers, waiters - rich, poor, the victims came from all walks of life and all parts of the city.
None of them could describe their attacker, but the general consensus was that it was one man.
The only common thread was his modus operandi. Each victim had had his eyes ripped out.
The Cyclops stalked the city streets, determined to be king.
None of them could describe their attacker, but the general consensus was that it was one man.
The only common thread was his modus operandi. Each victim had had his eyes ripped out.
The Cyclops stalked the city streets, determined to be king.
May 24, 2015
The Midnight Serenade
The following story won second prize in this month’s competition on http://thecultofme.blogspot.co.uk/201...
With hands still grimy from digging his most recent grave, the maestro lifted up the string and fitted it into the violin. The task was not a simple one for two reasons: Firstly, it was pitch black in the graveyard, and he needed to complete the task by touch alone. Secondly, the wire was still slick with fresh blood.
Each of the strings of his violin was anointed thus. Each wire had been consecrated by the blood of a young female victim. It was part of the ritual he performed whenever he needed to replace a string.
Since his rise to stardom, it had become so much easier, of course. He didn’t need to hunt his victims down anymore. They came to him; all wide eyed and simpering over his music. They eagerly accepted his offer of a private dinner, away from the crowds and paparazzi. The lavish dinner, prepared with his own hands, was followed by too much wine. Heady with drink, they would fall into his arms, and later, into his bed. It was there, during a night of wild passion, that they would meet their demise.
He loved the look of shock on their faces as the garrotte bit into their soft tender necks. He often became aroused again during their final struggles.
Later, he would carry their still naked bodies out into the family graveyard at the back of his mansion, and there they would be laid to rest, forever to listen to his midnight serenades.
When the new string was set in place, he would tune his instrument; a wonderful Mendini, as black as his heart. Plucking the newly-baptised string, he tightened the peg until the sound of the note was just right. Tiny droplets of blood flicked across his cheek as he nuzzled the chinrest and began to play.
Standing over his mother’s grave, he always played her favourite piece: Albinoni’s Adagio in G Minor. In his mind, he can hear the rest of the orchestra playing along as he performed the piece in front of a packed arena, perhaps even for the Queen herself.
He could also imagine the sighs of his many victims. They rested nearby, keeping his mother company through the long years of darkness. She had always demanded to be the centre of attention.
It was his mother who had bought him his first violin. She, who demanded the best on every occasion. She, who beaten him and locked him in his room whenever his performances where not up to scratch. She, who eventually became his first victim.
Playing his violin afterwards, with her blood still slick on the strings, he had found a new sense of peace. He had played like never before … and so the ritual had begun.
He was sure that his mother would have understood. It was such a small sacrifice to make for the art. He was sure that they had all understood eventually, once they had heard him play his midnight serenade.
With hands still grimy from digging his most recent grave, the maestro lifted up the string and fitted it into the violin. The task was not a simple one for two reasons: Firstly, it was pitch black in the graveyard, and he needed to complete the task by touch alone. Secondly, the wire was still slick with fresh blood.
Each of the strings of his violin was anointed thus. Each wire had been consecrated by the blood of a young female victim. It was part of the ritual he performed whenever he needed to replace a string.
Since his rise to stardom, it had become so much easier, of course. He didn’t need to hunt his victims down anymore. They came to him; all wide eyed and simpering over his music. They eagerly accepted his offer of a private dinner, away from the crowds and paparazzi. The lavish dinner, prepared with his own hands, was followed by too much wine. Heady with drink, they would fall into his arms, and later, into his bed. It was there, during a night of wild passion, that they would meet their demise.
He loved the look of shock on their faces as the garrotte bit into their soft tender necks. He often became aroused again during their final struggles.
Later, he would carry their still naked bodies out into the family graveyard at the back of his mansion, and there they would be laid to rest, forever to listen to his midnight serenades.
When the new string was set in place, he would tune his instrument; a wonderful Mendini, as black as his heart. Plucking the newly-baptised string, he tightened the peg until the sound of the note was just right. Tiny droplets of blood flicked across his cheek as he nuzzled the chinrest and began to play.
Standing over his mother’s grave, he always played her favourite piece: Albinoni’s Adagio in G Minor. In his mind, he can hear the rest of the orchestra playing along as he performed the piece in front of a packed arena, perhaps even for the Queen herself.
He could also imagine the sighs of his many victims. They rested nearby, keeping his mother company through the long years of darkness. She had always demanded to be the centre of attention.
It was his mother who had bought him his first violin. She, who demanded the best on every occasion. She, who beaten him and locked him in his room whenever his performances where not up to scratch. She, who eventually became his first victim.
Playing his violin afterwards, with her blood still slick on the strings, he had found a new sense of peace. He had played like never before … and so the ritual had begun.
He was sure that his mother would have understood. It was such a small sacrifice to make for the art. He was sure that they had all understood eventually, once they had heard him play his midnight serenade.
May 23, 2015
Celebrations
Let the church bells ring throughout the land. Let the rainbows fly like you will only ever see in Ireland. Let the horses dance and the choirs sing. Let the Guinness flow freely, for today we can all celebrate.
Our voices were heard, and it was not a whisper in the dark.
Nay, not that.
It was a shout that shook the mountains and made the lakes of Ireland tremble.
A new Ireland has been born today; a land for the free and one for the brave.
A new day has dawned and we are one step closer to equality.
Our voices were heard, and it was not a whisper in the dark.
Nay, not that.
It was a shout that shook the mountains and made the lakes of Ireland tremble.
A new Ireland has been born today; a land for the free and one for the brave.
A new day has dawned and we are one step closer to equality.
The Raven’s Call
Battered and bloody, I lie on the battlefield gasping for breath. My ears ring with the sounds of dying men’s screams.
Victory horns echo across the valley, announcing the end of the day’s warfare; not a moment too soon. The sun is already dipping in the west. Soon, it would have been too dark to fight.
I ache all over. My muscles tremble with exhaustion. Despite the waves of nausea that threaten to overwhelm me, I must struggle to rise. I cannot meet this dusk on my back.
Somehow, despite the odds, I’m the victorious leader of this forsaken army.
Victory horns echo across the valley, announcing the end of the day’s warfare; not a moment too soon. The sun is already dipping in the west. Soon, it would have been too dark to fight.
I ache all over. My muscles tremble with exhaustion. Despite the waves of nausea that threaten to overwhelm me, I must struggle to rise. I cannot meet this dusk on my back.
Somehow, despite the odds, I’m the victorious leader of this forsaken army.
Rock Soup
Rock Soup
The following story is a retelling of an old fairy tale, which was about a group of Russian soldiers who arrive at a village with no food, and started to make a soup. They started with a stone in a cauldron of water. After cooking it for some time, they tasted it, and declared that it needed a little salt. They asked if any of the starving peasants had any salt, and someone said “I have some.” Gradually a soup was made which fed the whole village and the soldiers too... This version is based on a true story and probably the original nursery tale was too.
The story happened in a wood, not far from Amesbury, at the time of the summer solstice 1988. I’d been travelling with a group of protesters since the May Bank Holiday, marching from a free festival in Wick, near Bristol. Our mission was to raise awareness of the Stonehenge Free Festival, which the authorities had been trying to stop for the last number of years.
Over the last few weeks our group of thirty or so people, along with a few rescue dogs, some drums, with our banners and black flags, had walked the highways and byways of Avon Somerset, Wiltshire, and finally we arrived in Hampshire.
We usually had a police presence of some sort, too. It was a game of cat and mouse. The police wanted to stop us, but we were doing nothing wrong. We were simply walking, and camping on various grass verges, commonages, etc.
On the day of this story, we had finally arrived at our destination: Stonehenge. A massive police presence was blocking the area, although there were biased about exactly who they were preventing from entry into to cordon they had created around the stones. An old lady walking her poodle might slip through unheeded. A group of Japanese tourists was sure to be waved through, but unsavoury types such as ourselves were not allowed anywhere near the land which had been freely given to the people of England, (and not just the M.O.D).
We pointed out that their blockade of the public highway was illegal, and due to the fact that we had a number of press, photographers and even a camera crew with us, they were forced to let us continue our march; though only with certain conditions.
By this point, our small group had grown quite considerably, and it was now a couple of hundred people strong. It was therefore deemed to be a risk to public order, and we could not enter the police cordoned area without breaking up into smaller groups. After some discussion we agreed to groups of no more than twenty at a time, with a minute space between each group setting off.
The Police commissioner smiled with relief, thinking he had won, but it was an easy problem to solve.
Our original group of thirty split up, each leading a group of twenty protesters down the road toward Stonehenge. The first group set off at a slow ramble, as if they had all the time in the world. The next group followed, and so it continued. By the time it got to the last group, however, the pace was much quicker.
With each passing mile, the distance between the groups lessened, until eventually, we arrived at the stones with no space at all between the first and last group. We had become one again, much to the annoyance of the Police Commissioner.
Sadly, we were not allowed to stop, and were marched all the way through the cordoned off area and out the other side. They finally stopped escorting us at the roundabout outside of Amesbury. From there we continued on our own into the town. Here, we would meet up with the vehicles that were carrying our gear, and organise the next part of our plan.
We marched through the town and stopped at the supermarket car park. The place was crammed full of weekend hippies, anarchists, and every other type of colourful freaks, all waiting to hear news of the location of this year’s free festival.
Here, we met up with some of the horse-drawn travellers that we had shared camps with a number of times during the preceding six weeks march. Together, we discussed the site we had selected, and how we were going to get to it. With the help of ordinance survey maps, we agreed a route and then split up to pass the word around to everyone else in the car park.
Over the preceding weeks, we had made the job of the police very difficult. People had been camping all across the countryside, in every layby and commonage, and as the solstice came nearer the pressure increased as more and more people gathered. The police did their best to evict people, in many cases breaking the law themselves in order to achieve their goals. The problem with their plan however, was there was just too many of us. It had become un-policeable. In the end, I am sure that they were happy to have us all in one place, where they could keep an eye on us, and this is exactly what happened.
We had found a large wood, a few miles west of Amesbury, and this was to be our proposed new festival site. It was still within walking distance of the stones. If we were not going to be allowed to have a festival at Stonehenge, we were going to have one nearby, and planned to still go to the stones on the morning of the solstice.
With the horses at the head of our procession, followed by our black flags and drums, we left the car park and headed out of Amesbury. As we left, more and more people emerged from shops and alleyways. It was like rats leaving a sinking ship. Looking back down the long straight road out of the town, we could see thousands of people marching out of the town, many more than we had come with. The whole road was taken up for as far as we could see. It was an awesome sight to behold.
We marched onward, along walkways, bridleways, a disused railway line, even across an army barracks. They didn’t like that much, but when we pointed out that we were walking on a public right of way, they could do nothing to prevent us. Eventually, we arrived at the woods, and started to set up camp.
After six weeks of marching together, camping in a different place each night, our small band of protesters had become quite good at setting up camp. Within an hour, we had a large communal bender set up out of canvas and hazel poles, firewood collected, and a good fire blazing. We were about to start making some food for ourselves when we noticed the amount of weekend campers who had arrived at the festival site. Many came with only the clothes on their backs. Some of them had been clever enough to bring a tent, (we referred to them as nylon nightmares as they were far inferior to our benders) but little else.
Some asked whether they could use our fire to cook their pot noodles, or heat up their tins of beans, as they had not brought any cooking gear with them. It was then that we had an idea.
Sending scouts out to scour the site, we went around and cadged any spare food we could find. “Hi there. We’re setting up a free food tent over there. Have you got anything that you can donate … A few carrots, a bit of rice, anything?”
Bit by bit, the donations came in and we soon had the makings of a decent stew. We set to work cooking it in the big cast iron cauldrons we had lugged with us from Bristol.
“FREE FOOD,” we shouted. “FREE FOOD! Donations welcome!”
“Free food?” people would ask, unsure if they had heard it right.
“That’s right. Here, grab a bowl of stew.”
“It’s free?”
“Yep, but we accept donations. Have you got anything to contribute?”
The answers varied from “No, sorry,” to “I have a tin of baked beans in my rucksack, if that’ll help.”
Some offered us cans of beer. They’d brought no food with them to the festival, but had the forethought to bring a weekends supply of alcohol.
A few replied with, “I’ve got no food, sorry, but I’ll pay you for a bowl of stew.”
“Listen mate. Thanks, but your money’s no good around here. I’ll tell you what though. If you go into town tomorrow, buy some food and bring it back. Okay?”
They came in their droves, and no one went away with an empty belly. During the rest of the day, and all through the weekend, we were busy cooking stews and making japatis like they were going out of fashion, but we still had time to party too, and it was good to be doing something positive.
Some years later, I was reading bedtime stories to my children and came across the story of the Rock Soup. I told them about my own Rock Soup story, and how we had fed hundreds of people with next to nothing. It gave them a new perspective to the old tale.
I’m pretty sure that the Russian soldiers and their starving peasants had a similar experience to us. I wonder if this was how the story in the bible about the loaves and fishes came into being. Perhaps all that Jesus and his disciple did was facilitate, and the crowd shared what fish and bread they had amongst them, rather than keeping it all to themselves.
The following story is a retelling of an old fairy tale, which was about a group of Russian soldiers who arrive at a village with no food, and started to make a soup. They started with a stone in a cauldron of water. After cooking it for some time, they tasted it, and declared that it needed a little salt. They asked if any of the starving peasants had any salt, and someone said “I have some.” Gradually a soup was made which fed the whole village and the soldiers too... This version is based on a true story and probably the original nursery tale was too.
The story happened in a wood, not far from Amesbury, at the time of the summer solstice 1988. I’d been travelling with a group of protesters since the May Bank Holiday, marching from a free festival in Wick, near Bristol. Our mission was to raise awareness of the Stonehenge Free Festival, which the authorities had been trying to stop for the last number of years.
Over the last few weeks our group of thirty or so people, along with a few rescue dogs, some drums, with our banners and black flags, had walked the highways and byways of Avon Somerset, Wiltshire, and finally we arrived in Hampshire.
We usually had a police presence of some sort, too. It was a game of cat and mouse. The police wanted to stop us, but we were doing nothing wrong. We were simply walking, and camping on various grass verges, commonages, etc.
On the day of this story, we had finally arrived at our destination: Stonehenge. A massive police presence was blocking the area, although there were biased about exactly who they were preventing from entry into to cordon they had created around the stones. An old lady walking her poodle might slip through unheeded. A group of Japanese tourists was sure to be waved through, but unsavoury types such as ourselves were not allowed anywhere near the land which had been freely given to the people of England, (and not just the M.O.D).
We pointed out that their blockade of the public highway was illegal, and due to the fact that we had a number of press, photographers and even a camera crew with us, they were forced to let us continue our march; though only with certain conditions.
By this point, our small group had grown quite considerably, and it was now a couple of hundred people strong. It was therefore deemed to be a risk to public order, and we could not enter the police cordoned area without breaking up into smaller groups. After some discussion we agreed to groups of no more than twenty at a time, with a minute space between each group setting off.
The Police commissioner smiled with relief, thinking he had won, but it was an easy problem to solve.
Our original group of thirty split up, each leading a group of twenty protesters down the road toward Stonehenge. The first group set off at a slow ramble, as if they had all the time in the world. The next group followed, and so it continued. By the time it got to the last group, however, the pace was much quicker.
With each passing mile, the distance between the groups lessened, until eventually, we arrived at the stones with no space at all between the first and last group. We had become one again, much to the annoyance of the Police Commissioner.
Sadly, we were not allowed to stop, and were marched all the way through the cordoned off area and out the other side. They finally stopped escorting us at the roundabout outside of Amesbury. From there we continued on our own into the town. Here, we would meet up with the vehicles that were carrying our gear, and organise the next part of our plan.
We marched through the town and stopped at the supermarket car park. The place was crammed full of weekend hippies, anarchists, and every other type of colourful freaks, all waiting to hear news of the location of this year’s free festival.
Here, we met up with some of the horse-drawn travellers that we had shared camps with a number of times during the preceding six weeks march. Together, we discussed the site we had selected, and how we were going to get to it. With the help of ordinance survey maps, we agreed a route and then split up to pass the word around to everyone else in the car park.
Over the preceding weeks, we had made the job of the police very difficult. People had been camping all across the countryside, in every layby and commonage, and as the solstice came nearer the pressure increased as more and more people gathered. The police did their best to evict people, in many cases breaking the law themselves in order to achieve their goals. The problem with their plan however, was there was just too many of us. It had become un-policeable. In the end, I am sure that they were happy to have us all in one place, where they could keep an eye on us, and this is exactly what happened.
We had found a large wood, a few miles west of Amesbury, and this was to be our proposed new festival site. It was still within walking distance of the stones. If we were not going to be allowed to have a festival at Stonehenge, we were going to have one nearby, and planned to still go to the stones on the morning of the solstice.
With the horses at the head of our procession, followed by our black flags and drums, we left the car park and headed out of Amesbury. As we left, more and more people emerged from shops and alleyways. It was like rats leaving a sinking ship. Looking back down the long straight road out of the town, we could see thousands of people marching out of the town, many more than we had come with. The whole road was taken up for as far as we could see. It was an awesome sight to behold.
We marched onward, along walkways, bridleways, a disused railway line, even across an army barracks. They didn’t like that much, but when we pointed out that we were walking on a public right of way, they could do nothing to prevent us. Eventually, we arrived at the woods, and started to set up camp.
After six weeks of marching together, camping in a different place each night, our small band of protesters had become quite good at setting up camp. Within an hour, we had a large communal bender set up out of canvas and hazel poles, firewood collected, and a good fire blazing. We were about to start making some food for ourselves when we noticed the amount of weekend campers who had arrived at the festival site. Many came with only the clothes on their backs. Some of them had been clever enough to bring a tent, (we referred to them as nylon nightmares as they were far inferior to our benders) but little else.
Some asked whether they could use our fire to cook their pot noodles, or heat up their tins of beans, as they had not brought any cooking gear with them. It was then that we had an idea.
Sending scouts out to scour the site, we went around and cadged any spare food we could find. “Hi there. We’re setting up a free food tent over there. Have you got anything that you can donate … A few carrots, a bit of rice, anything?”
Bit by bit, the donations came in and we soon had the makings of a decent stew. We set to work cooking it in the big cast iron cauldrons we had lugged with us from Bristol.
“FREE FOOD,” we shouted. “FREE FOOD! Donations welcome!”
“Free food?” people would ask, unsure if they had heard it right.
“That’s right. Here, grab a bowl of stew.”
“It’s free?”
“Yep, but we accept donations. Have you got anything to contribute?”
The answers varied from “No, sorry,” to “I have a tin of baked beans in my rucksack, if that’ll help.”
Some offered us cans of beer. They’d brought no food with them to the festival, but had the forethought to bring a weekends supply of alcohol.
A few replied with, “I’ve got no food, sorry, but I’ll pay you for a bowl of stew.”
“Listen mate. Thanks, but your money’s no good around here. I’ll tell you what though. If you go into town tomorrow, buy some food and bring it back. Okay?”
They came in their droves, and no one went away with an empty belly. During the rest of the day, and all through the weekend, we were busy cooking stews and making japatis like they were going out of fashion, but we still had time to party too, and it was good to be doing something positive.
Some years later, I was reading bedtime stories to my children and came across the story of the Rock Soup. I told them about my own Rock Soup story, and how we had fed hundreds of people with next to nothing. It gave them a new perspective to the old tale.
I’m pretty sure that the Russian soldiers and their starving peasants had a similar experience to us. I wonder if this was how the story in the bible about the loaves and fishes came into being. Perhaps all that Jesus and his disciple did was facilitate, and the crowd shared what fish and bread they had amongst them, rather than keeping it all to themselves.
May 22, 2015
Alien Invasion
The alien had plenty of time to do his research while travelling at light speed through the depths of space. The importance of blending into the background on this exploratory mission had been drilled into him. The Earthlings may not take kindly to a bug-eyed, purple life-form of superior intelligence landing on their planet. They might be envious of his magnificent tentacles. Therefore, his landing craft had been cleverly disguised as a popular form of transport, at least according to his databases. It was a lime green Hillman Imp with a Greenpeace sticker in the window about saving the whales. He was confident that he had that one covered.
He next asked the computer for a suitable iconic figure to imitate, something that would be popular with the Earthmen, and more importantly, the Earthwomen; who he would be hoping to probe as a critical part of his mission.
Many results came up.
One of the biggest hits was a strange fellow with a short moustache who seemed to bark rather than speak. To the alien, he looked a likely candidate, but as he had selected Milton Keynes as his landing spot, the computer overrode his decision and game him another option.
The computer had learned through extensive research that the first individual was not actually barking after all. He was speaking German, a language which was uncommon in Milton Keynes. It therefore advised that the second most popular persona would be a more suitable option. This one at least spoke the same language - well, sort of. It opted for Mel Gibson.
The alien was a little hesitant about this choice, and not at all happy to be losing his beloved tentacles, but the mission was of paramount importance, so he’d just have to get on with it.
The term used in Milton Keynes was to keep his chin up and have a stiff upper lip, or so the computer advised him. The alien was still learning what a chin was, and his lip refused to be stiff. It tended to wobble about in a rather fetching manner, but he did his best and spent long hours in front of the mirror perfecting the correct facial expression.
A problem had been reported. It seemed that the second most iconic figure on the list wasn’t actually from Milton Keynes either, far from it in fact. Although the people of Milton Keynes identified with his looks, and he scored highly with both the males and females of the dominant species, the computer advised that he needed a more local accent; something that would blend in more.
The computer trawled through endless hours of communication networks before eventually settling on a suitable accent. It came from a popular TV sitcom: Auf Wiedersehen, Pet. Again there was some confusion here, as the title of the programme suggested that this was in fact German also, but after more extensive research they confirmed that it was indeed English; the common tongue of the inhabitants of Milton Keynes - well apart from the cats.
Confident that they had covered all eventualities, the alien parked his spaceship in orbit around the small green-blue planet and hopped into the Hillman Imp for the final part of his journey. He felt confident that he would soon be probing many of the local inhabitants, without them even knowing that they were being probed by an alien species.
A few hours later, the alien, or Adolf Gibson as the name on his newly- created driving licence stated, found himself gridlocked on the M25. He had thought the Alpha Centauri bypass was bad, but this was far worse.
Added to that was the fact that he could spot no other Hillman Imps amongst the predominantly German cars parked alongside him.
When he finally escaped the M25 gridlock and headed up M1 to his destination, he noticed another problem. The Earthlings were much bigger than he had anticipated, many towering over his diminutive four foot in height. However, no one seemed to pass him any mind, so he concluded that all of the research had been worthwhile.
On the plus side, he found that he got on quite well with the second most dominant species in Milton Keynes: the cats. Perhaps he should have disguised himself as a kitten instead. They seemed to have a lot more fun than the Earthlings did.
He next asked the computer for a suitable iconic figure to imitate, something that would be popular with the Earthmen, and more importantly, the Earthwomen; who he would be hoping to probe as a critical part of his mission.
Many results came up.
One of the biggest hits was a strange fellow with a short moustache who seemed to bark rather than speak. To the alien, he looked a likely candidate, but as he had selected Milton Keynes as his landing spot, the computer overrode his decision and game him another option.
The computer had learned through extensive research that the first individual was not actually barking after all. He was speaking German, a language which was uncommon in Milton Keynes. It therefore advised that the second most popular persona would be a more suitable option. This one at least spoke the same language - well, sort of. It opted for Mel Gibson.
The alien was a little hesitant about this choice, and not at all happy to be losing his beloved tentacles, but the mission was of paramount importance, so he’d just have to get on with it.
The term used in Milton Keynes was to keep his chin up and have a stiff upper lip, or so the computer advised him. The alien was still learning what a chin was, and his lip refused to be stiff. It tended to wobble about in a rather fetching manner, but he did his best and spent long hours in front of the mirror perfecting the correct facial expression.
A problem had been reported. It seemed that the second most iconic figure on the list wasn’t actually from Milton Keynes either, far from it in fact. Although the people of Milton Keynes identified with his looks, and he scored highly with both the males and females of the dominant species, the computer advised that he needed a more local accent; something that would blend in more.
The computer trawled through endless hours of communication networks before eventually settling on a suitable accent. It came from a popular TV sitcom: Auf Wiedersehen, Pet. Again there was some confusion here, as the title of the programme suggested that this was in fact German also, but after more extensive research they confirmed that it was indeed English; the common tongue of the inhabitants of Milton Keynes - well apart from the cats.
Confident that they had covered all eventualities, the alien parked his spaceship in orbit around the small green-blue planet and hopped into the Hillman Imp for the final part of his journey. He felt confident that he would soon be probing many of the local inhabitants, without them even knowing that they were being probed by an alien species.
A few hours later, the alien, or Adolf Gibson as the name on his newly- created driving licence stated, found himself gridlocked on the M25. He had thought the Alpha Centauri bypass was bad, but this was far worse.
Added to that was the fact that he could spot no other Hillman Imps amongst the predominantly German cars parked alongside him.
When he finally escaped the M25 gridlock and headed up M1 to his destination, he noticed another problem. The Earthlings were much bigger than he had anticipated, many towering over his diminutive four foot in height. However, no one seemed to pass him any mind, so he concluded that all of the research had been worthwhile.
On the plus side, he found that he got on quite well with the second most dominant species in Milton Keynes: the cats. Perhaps he should have disguised himself as a kitten instead. They seemed to have a lot more fun than the Earthlings did.
Trial and Error
“This bloody thing is stupid. I can’t make any sense of it!”
“Did you try reading the manual?”
*eye-roll* “Don’t be daft. That’s for idiots. I’ll just keep pressing buttons and pushing knobs until something happens.”
“Is it plugged in?”
“Of course it is! I’m not a complete numpty!”
“What’s that red flashing light for? Is it supposed to do that?”
“I don’t know, but I think I’m on to something. Now, if I press this button here ...”
“Is that a good idea?” *Loud grinding sound* “Oh, I didn’t like the sound of that!”
“I think it must be faulty!”
“Did you try reading the manual?”
*eye-roll* “Don’t be daft. That’s for idiots. I’ll just keep pressing buttons and pushing knobs until something happens.”
“Is it plugged in?”
“Of course it is! I’m not a complete numpty!”
“What’s that red flashing light for? Is it supposed to do that?”
“I don’t know, but I think I’m on to something. Now, if I press this button here ...”
“Is that a good idea?” *Loud grinding sound* “Oh, I didn’t like the sound of that!”
“I think it must be faulty!”
Trial and Error
“This bloody thing is stupid. I can’t make any sense of it!”
“Did you try reading the manual?”
*eye-roll* “Don’t be daft. That’s for idiots. I’ll just keep pressing buttons and pushing knobs until something happens.”
“Is it plugged in?”
“Of course it is! I’m not a complete numpty!”
“What’s that red flashing light for? Is it supposed to do that?”
“I don’t know, but I think I’m on to something. Now, if I press this button here ...”
“Is that a good idea?” *Loud grinding sound* “Oh, I didn’t like the sound of that!”
“I think it must be faulty!”
“Did you try reading the manual?”
*eye-roll* “Don’t be daft. That’s for idiots. I’ll just keep pressing buttons and pushing knobs until something happens.”
“Is it plugged in?”
“Of course it is! I’m not a complete numpty!”
“What’s that red flashing light for? Is it supposed to do that?”
“I don’t know, but I think I’m on to something. Now, if I press this button here ...”
“Is that a good idea?” *Loud grinding sound* “Oh, I didn’t like the sound of that!”
“I think it must be faulty!”
May 20, 2015
Seamus The Escapologist
Seamus The Escapologist
In the summer of 1991, I was camped up in County Wexford. I was working on a number of organic farms, earning the money to buy myself a new horse. During the winter before, my mare had passed away, and I was stuck with a newly-built wagon until such time as I could afford a replacement.
Finally, in late summer, I’d saved up enough to buy myself a young piebald colt. He was a two year old stallion. He wasn’t exceptional as piebald’s went, and people wouldn’t be queuing up to breed from his distinguished pedigree, but his markings were good enough to think him worthy enough to remain a full stallion. I’d never had much fondness for geldings personally.
Although still young, he was placid natured and trained both to ride and drive, so he would do all that I needed of him. I named him Seamus after my father. My father had always been a hard worker, and I hoped for no less from my new stallion.
As things transpired, the colt turned out to be the laziest horse I have ever known, but that’s not the reason for this story.
Soon after buying him, I hitched him up to my wagon and set off. I’d been in Wexford for almost a year now and needed to blow the cobwebs from my mind. Having returned to Ireland the autumn before, I yearned to explore more of the country of my birth.
I’d hardly had the horse for more than a few days, but already I was getting a sense of him. I learned two things quite quickly. The first was his sloth-like nature, and the second was his ability to escape confinement. He was always too lazy to actually go anywhere when he escaped, but nevertheless, escape he did.
Halters inexplicable became unfastened when no one was watching, tethers uprooted, and gates miraculously opened. At first, I considered it coincidence. Perhaps I hadn’t fastened the halter properly. Did I shut that gate correctly? However, I soon became over-diligent in everything I did around my new horse.
Being a harness repairer by trade, I reinforced his halter with leather to stop it breaking. I even went so far as to tie up the loose ends with bailer twine, so that even I had trouble unfastening it. I started driving the half-shafts I used to tether him with, deeper into the ground so they wouldn’t be pulled free with ease. There is nothing more dangerous that a stallion roaming lose on a country road.
I bought higher quality chains and swivels that he couldn’t break. I carried a pliers around with me to give the clips an extra tightening when I staked him out to graze, to make sure that they would not - could not - come free on their own. Eventually, I procured a mountain climber grade double clip to stop him escaping his bindings.
He was an escapologist, but I was confident that I would win out in the end. When tethering him to a lamppost, I would use intricate knots that could not be undone by idle lips or teeth. This meant that I would not have a quick getaway, but it also meant that I wouldn’t find my horse and cart gone when I returned from the shops. He was safely secured and could not do himself or anyone else any harm.
One evening, as I went over for a last check before bed, I found him gone. I’d given him a long tether rope, with a swivel in the middle, and a good 10 feet of chain leading to his halter. This way, there was no risk of him becoming tangled. If he got caught on chain, it would shake loose whereas a rope tether always had the risk of becoming ensnared. If caught up in rope, the animal could hard himself as the rope would have a tendency to tighten rather than shake itself loose. I tied his tether to a tree at the edge of the field, and we were in a disused factory with a solid gate leading to the road, so he couldn’t have got far.
I looked around for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. Finding the tree I had used, I checked the rope. It was still attached, so I followed it. A few feet away it disappeared into a hedge. The hedge was dense, though thankfully not thorny. It was made of willow and alder, so although it was dense, it was penetrable. I could barely see through the dense foliage, but on the far side, I could make out some piebald shapes. There was a herd of Friesian cows in the field beyond. I pulled hard on the tether, and heard a snort from beyond the hedge. My stallion was still attached. He might have escaped the field, but he hadn’t escaped my tether. I could just about make him out through the thick foliage, standing on the bank at the edge of the field. I pulled harder and heard his snort of protest. He didn’t want to come back through the hedge.
By this time it was getting dark, and it was a long walk around to the entranceway of the next field, to say nothing of the risks of walking a horse at night along a busy road, so I made a decision and pulled harder. He tried to resist, not wanting to leave the field, but I was having none of it.
“Listen mate, you got in there, so I’m sure you can get yourself back out the same way.”
Eventually, after a lot of huffing and puffing, he emerged from the hedge. Apart from a few minor briar abrasions, he was none the worse for wear and happily strolled over to drink some water from his bucket.
I untied him from the tree and used a half-shaft to tether him out instead, thus avoiding a repeat of the hedge-pulling the following morning.
I headed north for Ferns. A friend of mine was camped just outside of the town, and she had invited me over for a week or two before continuing my journey. She had a pretty mare that was in need of servicing and she wanted my stallion to run with her for long enough to tease her into season and service her.
My friend was camped at the edge of some forestry, and her black mare was running loose in about ten acres of woodland, with an old donkey for company.
Seamus greeted them both with youthful exuberance, eager to get straight to the task at hand, but the mare was having nothing to do with his adolescent advances and tried to kick and bite him whenever he came within range. He took rejection with good cheer and continued to court her despite her attitude. Eventually, he would wear her down with his charm.
We left them to it. She was unshod, so she was unlikely to do him any real harm. I was confident that with time, he’d figure out the intricacies of equine courtship.
Occasionally, over the next day or so, we would hear the odd squeal coming from within the woods, and at regular intervals the mare would lead her newly-enlarged herd back to the gates of the forestry to say hello, get a drink of water, and get a bit of human companionship.
On the third morning, however, the mare and donkey arrived at the gate without my stallion. We waited for a while, but there was no sign of his return so with some concern I set off to look for him. I walked the woods, calling out to the horse, but could find no trace of him.
I was assured that the woods were well fenced, and that my friend’s horses had never escaped, but that didn’t allow for my colt’s enthusiasm for escape, so I walked the perimeter looking for any possible gaps in the fence. I could find none. The two fields on either side were empty of horses and the field at the rear was full of cows.
I returned to the camp to get a bite to eat, and the kettle had not even boiled when a local farmer arrived.
“I think your stallion is in my field with my cows,” he advised. The farmer was well acquainted with my friend and was aware that I had brought a stallion around to service her mare.
“Oh, I’m sorry about that. I’ll go and fetch him straight away.”
“I’d have brought him over, but I was afraid he might attack me. I have to bring the cows in to get milked shortly, so I thought I’d better come over and get you.”
I assured him that the stallion was no threat to man nor beast, but apologised again and followed the farmer to his fields. His herd of Friesian’s were the ones I had seen earlier, and sure enough, standing happily grazing among them was none other than my Seamus. He gave me a happy snort of greeting and readily allowed himself to be led away.
The farmer pointed out that his electric fence had been pulled down in the corner of the field, next to the forestry. “Look at the marks on his chest,” he pointed out. “That fence is on high power. It must have smarted a bit when he pushed his way through. He dragged it half across the field with him.”
I could indeed see a thin marks where Seamus’s coat was singed by the electric fence wire. I apologies again and promised to block up the gap before letting the horse back out into the forestry.
Tying Seamus up, I set off into the forestry with rope and billhook in hand. Now that I knew where to look, I found the spot where my stallion had escaped. He had crawled down into the ditch at the back of the woods, pushed his way beneath two strands of barbed wire, leaving some mane hairs behind in the process, and climbed out of the ditch on the other side, bringing the electric fence wire with him as he galloped away up the farmer’s field.
First, I repaired the farmer’s fence, and received a few jolts myself in the process. I then cut some young ash trees down and rammed then into the dirt of the ditch, securing them to the barbed wire and interweaving more brush to make the barrier impenetrable. Finally satisfied, I returned to camp and released the stallion.
The following morning, the farmer returned. “You’re horse is back out,” he informed me amiably.
I couldn’t believe it. How had he made his way through my barrier? Could he have found another weak spot? I set off to collect him, with further apologies to the farmer.
Once this was done, I went to check the fence. I couldn’t believe my eyes. He had forced his way through the ditch again, despite there being other places much easier to probe for his initial escape route. It had clearly taken some effort for Seamus to break through the meshing of tree limbs in order to get into the field beyond. I couldn’t understand why he would bother. There was plenty of grass in the laneways of the woods, so it wasn’t hunger. There was a big barrel of fresh water by the gate, so that ruled out thirst. Added to that, he had the company of other horses: well, a grumpy brood mare and a donkey, but still, surely that was better than a herd of cows.
It finally dawned on me. Seamus was a traveller’s horse and had spent his whole life in a herd of piebald horses. He was breaking into the field next door to be with the piebalds there. The fact that they were cows, rather than horses, didn’t seem to bother him. He felt at home there. Maybe he was short sighted.
I rebuilt my barricade, and further fortified it with my tether chain. I felt confident that he would not break through again.
I let my stallion back out, waited half an hour and then went to check. He was grazing in the neighbour’s field. Cursing, I went around and brought him home.
Once again I repaired the barricade, adding more wire and tree limbs. I felt confident that a hamster wouldn’t squeeze through the ditch, but allowing for Seamus’s stubborn single-minded nature, I went one step further. Attaching a piece of wire to the farmer’s electrified fence, I attached this to my barricade. The whole thing now sizzled with energy. The stallion would get an unpleasant jolt if he tried to force his way through the gap again. Seamus had used momentum to break through the electric fence before, but this time, he wouldn’t be able to. If anything was going to stop him, this would. If this didn’t work, I was at a loss to find another way to stop him breaking free.
I released him and stood by the gate, watching. He trotted off with a purpose and disappeared from sight. A few minutes later I heard a loud squeal of surprise. Shortly after that, Seamus came galloping back up the forestry track looking very unhappy with himself. The barrier had finally defeated him.
I managed to stay there for another couple of weeks without any further incident, well, apart from the mare kicking him into a bog hole, but that’s another story. He even got to lose his virginity, though not without a little help.
In the summer of 1991, I was camped up in County Wexford. I was working on a number of organic farms, earning the money to buy myself a new horse. During the winter before, my mare had passed away, and I was stuck with a newly-built wagon until such time as I could afford a replacement.
Finally, in late summer, I’d saved up enough to buy myself a young piebald colt. He was a two year old stallion. He wasn’t exceptional as piebald’s went, and people wouldn’t be queuing up to breed from his distinguished pedigree, but his markings were good enough to think him worthy enough to remain a full stallion. I’d never had much fondness for geldings personally.
Although still young, he was placid natured and trained both to ride and drive, so he would do all that I needed of him. I named him Seamus after my father. My father had always been a hard worker, and I hoped for no less from my new stallion.
As things transpired, the colt turned out to be the laziest horse I have ever known, but that’s not the reason for this story.
Soon after buying him, I hitched him up to my wagon and set off. I’d been in Wexford for almost a year now and needed to blow the cobwebs from my mind. Having returned to Ireland the autumn before, I yearned to explore more of the country of my birth.
I’d hardly had the horse for more than a few days, but already I was getting a sense of him. I learned two things quite quickly. The first was his sloth-like nature, and the second was his ability to escape confinement. He was always too lazy to actually go anywhere when he escaped, but nevertheless, escape he did.
Halters inexplicable became unfastened when no one was watching, tethers uprooted, and gates miraculously opened. At first, I considered it coincidence. Perhaps I hadn’t fastened the halter properly. Did I shut that gate correctly? However, I soon became over-diligent in everything I did around my new horse.
Being a harness repairer by trade, I reinforced his halter with leather to stop it breaking. I even went so far as to tie up the loose ends with bailer twine, so that even I had trouble unfastening it. I started driving the half-shafts I used to tether him with, deeper into the ground so they wouldn’t be pulled free with ease. There is nothing more dangerous that a stallion roaming lose on a country road.
I bought higher quality chains and swivels that he couldn’t break. I carried a pliers around with me to give the clips an extra tightening when I staked him out to graze, to make sure that they would not - could not - come free on their own. Eventually, I procured a mountain climber grade double clip to stop him escaping his bindings.
He was an escapologist, but I was confident that I would win out in the end. When tethering him to a lamppost, I would use intricate knots that could not be undone by idle lips or teeth. This meant that I would not have a quick getaway, but it also meant that I wouldn’t find my horse and cart gone when I returned from the shops. He was safely secured and could not do himself or anyone else any harm.
One evening, as I went over for a last check before bed, I found him gone. I’d given him a long tether rope, with a swivel in the middle, and a good 10 feet of chain leading to his halter. This way, there was no risk of him becoming tangled. If he got caught on chain, it would shake loose whereas a rope tether always had the risk of becoming ensnared. If caught up in rope, the animal could hard himself as the rope would have a tendency to tighten rather than shake itself loose. I tied his tether to a tree at the edge of the field, and we were in a disused factory with a solid gate leading to the road, so he couldn’t have got far.
I looked around for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. Finding the tree I had used, I checked the rope. It was still attached, so I followed it. A few feet away it disappeared into a hedge. The hedge was dense, though thankfully not thorny. It was made of willow and alder, so although it was dense, it was penetrable. I could barely see through the dense foliage, but on the far side, I could make out some piebald shapes. There was a herd of Friesian cows in the field beyond. I pulled hard on the tether, and heard a snort from beyond the hedge. My stallion was still attached. He might have escaped the field, but he hadn’t escaped my tether. I could just about make him out through the thick foliage, standing on the bank at the edge of the field. I pulled harder and heard his snort of protest. He didn’t want to come back through the hedge.
By this time it was getting dark, and it was a long walk around to the entranceway of the next field, to say nothing of the risks of walking a horse at night along a busy road, so I made a decision and pulled harder. He tried to resist, not wanting to leave the field, but I was having none of it.
“Listen mate, you got in there, so I’m sure you can get yourself back out the same way.”
Eventually, after a lot of huffing and puffing, he emerged from the hedge. Apart from a few minor briar abrasions, he was none the worse for wear and happily strolled over to drink some water from his bucket.
I untied him from the tree and used a half-shaft to tether him out instead, thus avoiding a repeat of the hedge-pulling the following morning.
I headed north for Ferns. A friend of mine was camped just outside of the town, and she had invited me over for a week or two before continuing my journey. She had a pretty mare that was in need of servicing and she wanted my stallion to run with her for long enough to tease her into season and service her.
My friend was camped at the edge of some forestry, and her black mare was running loose in about ten acres of woodland, with an old donkey for company.
Seamus greeted them both with youthful exuberance, eager to get straight to the task at hand, but the mare was having nothing to do with his adolescent advances and tried to kick and bite him whenever he came within range. He took rejection with good cheer and continued to court her despite her attitude. Eventually, he would wear her down with his charm.
We left them to it. She was unshod, so she was unlikely to do him any real harm. I was confident that with time, he’d figure out the intricacies of equine courtship.
Occasionally, over the next day or so, we would hear the odd squeal coming from within the woods, and at regular intervals the mare would lead her newly-enlarged herd back to the gates of the forestry to say hello, get a drink of water, and get a bit of human companionship.
On the third morning, however, the mare and donkey arrived at the gate without my stallion. We waited for a while, but there was no sign of his return so with some concern I set off to look for him. I walked the woods, calling out to the horse, but could find no trace of him.
I was assured that the woods were well fenced, and that my friend’s horses had never escaped, but that didn’t allow for my colt’s enthusiasm for escape, so I walked the perimeter looking for any possible gaps in the fence. I could find none. The two fields on either side were empty of horses and the field at the rear was full of cows.
I returned to the camp to get a bite to eat, and the kettle had not even boiled when a local farmer arrived.
“I think your stallion is in my field with my cows,” he advised. The farmer was well acquainted with my friend and was aware that I had brought a stallion around to service her mare.
“Oh, I’m sorry about that. I’ll go and fetch him straight away.”
“I’d have brought him over, but I was afraid he might attack me. I have to bring the cows in to get milked shortly, so I thought I’d better come over and get you.”
I assured him that the stallion was no threat to man nor beast, but apologised again and followed the farmer to his fields. His herd of Friesian’s were the ones I had seen earlier, and sure enough, standing happily grazing among them was none other than my Seamus. He gave me a happy snort of greeting and readily allowed himself to be led away.
The farmer pointed out that his electric fence had been pulled down in the corner of the field, next to the forestry. “Look at the marks on his chest,” he pointed out. “That fence is on high power. It must have smarted a bit when he pushed his way through. He dragged it half across the field with him.”
I could indeed see a thin marks where Seamus’s coat was singed by the electric fence wire. I apologies again and promised to block up the gap before letting the horse back out into the forestry.
Tying Seamus up, I set off into the forestry with rope and billhook in hand. Now that I knew where to look, I found the spot where my stallion had escaped. He had crawled down into the ditch at the back of the woods, pushed his way beneath two strands of barbed wire, leaving some mane hairs behind in the process, and climbed out of the ditch on the other side, bringing the electric fence wire with him as he galloped away up the farmer’s field.
First, I repaired the farmer’s fence, and received a few jolts myself in the process. I then cut some young ash trees down and rammed then into the dirt of the ditch, securing them to the barbed wire and interweaving more brush to make the barrier impenetrable. Finally satisfied, I returned to camp and released the stallion.
The following morning, the farmer returned. “You’re horse is back out,” he informed me amiably.
I couldn’t believe it. How had he made his way through my barrier? Could he have found another weak spot? I set off to collect him, with further apologies to the farmer.
Once this was done, I went to check the fence. I couldn’t believe my eyes. He had forced his way through the ditch again, despite there being other places much easier to probe for his initial escape route. It had clearly taken some effort for Seamus to break through the meshing of tree limbs in order to get into the field beyond. I couldn’t understand why he would bother. There was plenty of grass in the laneways of the woods, so it wasn’t hunger. There was a big barrel of fresh water by the gate, so that ruled out thirst. Added to that, he had the company of other horses: well, a grumpy brood mare and a donkey, but still, surely that was better than a herd of cows.
It finally dawned on me. Seamus was a traveller’s horse and had spent his whole life in a herd of piebald horses. He was breaking into the field next door to be with the piebalds there. The fact that they were cows, rather than horses, didn’t seem to bother him. He felt at home there. Maybe he was short sighted.
I rebuilt my barricade, and further fortified it with my tether chain. I felt confident that he would not break through again.
I let my stallion back out, waited half an hour and then went to check. He was grazing in the neighbour’s field. Cursing, I went around and brought him home.
Once again I repaired the barricade, adding more wire and tree limbs. I felt confident that a hamster wouldn’t squeeze through the ditch, but allowing for Seamus’s stubborn single-minded nature, I went one step further. Attaching a piece of wire to the farmer’s electrified fence, I attached this to my barricade. The whole thing now sizzled with energy. The stallion would get an unpleasant jolt if he tried to force his way through the gap again. Seamus had used momentum to break through the electric fence before, but this time, he wouldn’t be able to. If anything was going to stop him, this would. If this didn’t work, I was at a loss to find another way to stop him breaking free.
I released him and stood by the gate, watching. He trotted off with a purpose and disappeared from sight. A few minutes later I heard a loud squeal of surprise. Shortly after that, Seamus came galloping back up the forestry track looking very unhappy with himself. The barrier had finally defeated him.
I managed to stay there for another couple of weeks without any further incident, well, apart from the mare kicking him into a bog hole, but that’s another story. He even got to lose his virginity, though not without a little help.
May 19, 2015
Why?
Why?
“This is Anita Goldfinch, on the scene for GTFOOH News. I’m reporting from Feathery Lane, in the suburbs of Pullettown, where a tragic accident happened earlier today. A young white female, who police later named as Clarissa Leghorn, was tragically struck down while crossing the freeway. Neighbours are supposedly shocked, and no one can understand why she was crossing this dangerous intersection. Police are examining a card found near the scene of the accident, addressed to a local pimp living nearby. Although not signed by the victim, the Valentine’s card does declare undying love for the colourful rascal: Mr Peacock”
Why? The Plot Thickens
Later that day…
“This is Anita Goldfinch for GTFOOH News. We are waiting for Mr. Peacock to make a statement to the press. Here he is now.”
A young fellow, dressed in gaudy plumage steps out of the nearby tenements and approaches the camera crew.
“Mr. Peacock! Can you tell us what your relationship was to Ms Leghorn?”
“Listen, Babe, that chick was whacked, ya dig? I was trying to get a restraining order out against her … axe the Po-leese!”
“So you did know the victim then?”
“She was always laying eggs on my doorstep. She wanted my lovechild!”
Why? The Plot Thickens Further …
A short while later
“This is Anita Goldfinch for GTFOOH News. The Pullettown Police Department have just released a statement. It is revealed that a handgun was found close to the scene. Police are currently questioning the postman, but it appears that he had delivered mail to the victim earlier. From our sources inside the PPD, we believe that two letters were delivered. One was the card we spoke of earlier, which had been returned to sender, and the other was a court order of some type. As the old saying goes, “Hell hath no fury like a chicken scorned.”
“This is Anita Goldfinch, on the scene for GTFOOH News. I’m reporting from Feathery Lane, in the suburbs of Pullettown, where a tragic accident happened earlier today. A young white female, who police later named as Clarissa Leghorn, was tragically struck down while crossing the freeway. Neighbours are supposedly shocked, and no one can understand why she was crossing this dangerous intersection. Police are examining a card found near the scene of the accident, addressed to a local pimp living nearby. Although not signed by the victim, the Valentine’s card does declare undying love for the colourful rascal: Mr Peacock”
Why? The Plot Thickens
Later that day…
“This is Anita Goldfinch for GTFOOH News. We are waiting for Mr. Peacock to make a statement to the press. Here he is now.”
A young fellow, dressed in gaudy plumage steps out of the nearby tenements and approaches the camera crew.
“Mr. Peacock! Can you tell us what your relationship was to Ms Leghorn?”
“Listen, Babe, that chick was whacked, ya dig? I was trying to get a restraining order out against her … axe the Po-leese!”
“So you did know the victim then?”
“She was always laying eggs on my doorstep. She wanted my lovechild!”
Why? The Plot Thickens Further …
A short while later
“This is Anita Goldfinch for GTFOOH News. The Pullettown Police Department have just released a statement. It is revealed that a handgun was found close to the scene. Police are currently questioning the postman, but it appears that he had delivered mail to the victim earlier. From our sources inside the PPD, we believe that two letters were delivered. One was the card we spoke of earlier, which had been returned to sender, and the other was a court order of some type. As the old saying goes, “Hell hath no fury like a chicken scorned.”
