A Perturbed Donkey

The donkey was perturbed.

Which was to be expected.

After all, when a professional donkey perturbist enters the perturbing arena and comes face to face with her opponent, then that donkey best be at least slightly concerned. Furthermore, it ought to be at least slightly perturbed by the end of the twelfth round or the crowd will want their money back.

This we all know and understand.

Or, at least, as close to understanding as some of us get. Which is often as close as a town and the railway station of the same name.

However, sometimes the donkey is not all it should be. Sometimes it is a ringer. There are rumours that Far-Eastern gambling syndicates are moving into the sport of donkey perturbing at an increasing rate. Particularly now that other sports have started to take an interest in the syndicates. Consequently, several of their shenanigans and ruses in those other sports have been exposed and terminated.

However, donkey perturbing, especially at the professional and international level, has long had a reputation of being a clean sport. Only the case of Derby Ornamentals Centre leg-on Perturber, Underhand Googly, ever, has resulted in a conviction with Googly banned from the sport for the illegal use of the marshmallow.

Still we can only hope that the sport will do the utmost to keep its good name and that it doesn't fall prey to the gambling syndicates. After all, these syndicates made football lose fans because of the match fixing and their use of spread betting almost made tennis bearable to watch. 

Otherwise, if no action its taken, this world will lose another of its great sports. This forcing us sports fans to take even more of an interest in naked female mud wrestling than we do already.

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

Dreams Are This Fragile

Dreams Are This Fragile

Dreams are this fragile

insubstantial as a thought

drop the moments when those times

become like a cold reality

and those delicate dreams tear

like tissues to fall

as paper snowflakes

across a dark green carpet.

These are your dreams

something precious to hold

like a rare delicate butterfly

or some other living beating thing

with a soft tremulous heartbeat

so soft, like a thicker warm moment

pulsing under your fingertips.

Something precious that can take hold

of the insubstantial air to take wing

across these endless skies

to take your dream soaring

to some high safe mountain

Where your tumbling tears

will not wash these dreams away.

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

The Torture Chamber

‘No! Not the accordion!’

But it was too late, even though the man bound to the chair writhed and screamed there was no escape for him, not this time.

The man hidden in the shadows watched in silence, not moving as the accordionist went about his dastardly work.

Eventually the man bound to the chair could take no more, chewing his own head off from the inside rather than undergo any more torture from the deadly accordion.

When the man in the shadows was sure the accordion was silent, he pulled off his ear defenders. Then he stepped into the pool of light around the now headless, but rather bloody, remains of the man still bound to the chair. The man from the shadows sighed. ‘I thought he’d talk once we brought out the castanets,’ he said watching the torturer make the accordion safe before returning it to its music-proof cage.

The Musician-Torturer nodded as he cleaned his earplugs and placed them each in its own place in his velvet box, the box that had belonged to his father and his grandfather when they too were Musician-Torturers to the Emperor.

The man from the shadows, a shadow himself, dressed in black placed his thin white hand on the shoulder of the corpse, almost affectionately. ‘At least, he spared himself the bagpipes.’

‘He did talk though,' the Musician-Torturer said.

‘Yes,’ the man in black agreed. ‘But they all do… in the end.’

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

When the Empress Danced

It is said, still after all these years, by those who knew her, that she was the most beautiful woman they'd ever met. Even allowing for the way time alters perceptions so we only remember the golden times, it is still something remarkable.

Of course, history has a way of choosing who it wants to remember and who it wants to forget. History has decided to keep Empress Shilah as one of its own, while her husband is left for the dust of time to cover over.

This suits me.

Even back then, I merged into the background, becoming the forgotten Emperor, while Shilah became the symbol and the beloved of the empire.

Of course, that was not the whole story. As my wise old teacher, the philosopher Hedden, said to me once, 'while everyone is watching the dancer, no-one sees what goes on in the shadows.'

I liked to live, and – yes – rule, in those shadows, letting Shilah dance for everyone. She liked the attention, she liked the gold, the rich fabrics, the obsequious attendants, servants and slaves. She loved the fawning ambassadors and the politicians all eager to lick the dust from her feet, if her whim so commanded it.

They all thought that winning her favour would aid them in whatever way they thought would further their desires. Little did they know that while they plotted and schemed behind their smiles, while they manoeuvred and plotted to gain her favour or merely lusted after her, I was there in the shadows behind them listening and learning.

Of course, the stories and tales tell of all her lovers and her desires. But Shilah was not like that. Like all beautiful women who spurn men's – and women's – advances the stories grew more lewd and lurid the more of them she turned down and turned away from. She always, every night, came to my bed to listen to the stories I told her of what I'd learnt from the shadows while the court danced its attention on her.

She had no other lovers.

Except for that lover that crept out of the darkness of the East, out of the shadows where even I feared to tread. The lover that came from the plague- scarred lands and stole her from me with his fatal kiss.

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

Meeting Doom

Sometimes there is not that much that can be done. Sometimes it is better to turn away and go back to how life used to be. Back before all this chaos, trouble and disaster up-ended itself over your head like someone emptying the night-soil pot from an upstairs window as you walk the street below.

Other times, though, walking away is not possible.

Especially when there is a fire-breathing dragon in the way.

Especially when there is a princess with such huge… eyes, pleading with you to save her.

Trouble was Stan was not, as he claimed, Sir Stanley, Knight of the Storms. He was just Stan a poor peasant from a town with a great many upstairs windows. He didn’t know how to walk in armour and doubted it would be much use against a dragon; he’d seen what happened to metal in contact with heat at a blacksmith’s forge. So, he didn’t want to be locked inside this semi-articulated can when the dragon turned that flame on him. He had no idea how to get it off though, not without help.

As for the lance, he’d turned it over in his hands, looking for some indication of how it should be used. It looked flimsy, too flimsy compared with the dragon. The lance looked as though it could only annoy the fire-breathing beast, kindling and stoking up an appetite for a nice lunch of hot tinned man.

But the princess was begging him to save her and she had those huge… pleading eyes. She also looked like the kind of girl who could be very grateful.

Stan took a firmer grip on the lance, checked his sword was there in the scabbard at his side. He had to admit that so far his had not been much of a life, so losing it would not be that much of a loss, but it was the only one he had.

But she had those huge….

‘Right, dragon!’ Stan yelled as he lowered his visor and hefted his flimsy lance. ‘Prepare to meet my… your doom!’

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

Dark Twisty Corridors

As so many times before the TV programme makers have – despite the odds – come up with another great example of the programme-makers art. Each episode of Dark Twisty Corridorsappears to be better than the last. 

Each week our heroes, sexy Doctor Improbable Chestbumps and her nervous sidekick Steve Questionable end up chased down several, seemingly never-ending dark twisty corridors. Chased either by a monster or an explosion, sometimes even both.

Although, the programme makers defied everyone's expectations for the three-hour long Christmas special. In that episode our brave adventurer and her nervous sidekick were chased down several extra-long dark and twisty corridors by an explosion right into the path of that episode's extra nasty (as befitting the season of peace and goodwill) monster. A monster with three heads and a deadly-poisonous elbow.

However, some critics have dared express even slightest reservations about the programme. Those that survived the multitudinous social media death squads hunting them down, revealed several plot flaws in the programme. Pointing out that it seems slightly improbable that, week after week, a person of Chestbumps intelligence would find herself stuck in dark twisty corridors, invariably with a faulty torch. Especially so, when it is known - usually – before they set off there is a monster down there and/or a chance of an enormous explosion. 

 It appears that each week there is an explosion at the end of the programme. Usually where they do that diving for safety hand-in-hand thing just as they reach the exit. Just as the billowing explosion of flame and smoke passes over, inches from their heads, just in time for Questionable's pithy, but apt, one-liner to end the episode.

However, the rest of us know the programme is sheer genius and thus look forward to the blinkered short-sighted TV network cancelling it too soon. Then we can take our justifiable outrage on-line until they reverse the decision as we knew all along they would.

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

Here be Dragons… Possibly

‘We're here.’

‘What?’ Sir Gawain stared around the damp misty valley, then turned to his squire. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, look.’ His squire held up the sat-nav.

Sir Gawain clunked across to her. He was sure the constant drizzle was making his armour rusty, seizing it up slowly.

His squire showed him the sat-nav screen. ‘Here be Dragons!’ It said.

Sir Gawain turned to stare at the damp, empty valley again.

‘Hey, be careful with that lance!’ His squire yelled, stepping smartly out of the way and ducking.

‘Sorry, it's new,’ Gawain said absently.

Then, out of the mist something emerged.

Gawain peered into the mist, whatever the whatever it was was, was coming towards them. His hand fell to his sword pommel as he dropped his lance to the ground.

‘Hey, careful with that lance!’ the squire said. ‘I was up all night polishing that.’

Gawain turned, trying to glare at the squire through his visor. ‘So, that was what you were doing?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘Oh, nothing… its just that… well, y’know…?’

‘What?’

‘Polishing your lance… y’know back at knight school… well, that was a bit of a euphemism….’

‘A what?’

‘Nothing…. Nothing at all.’ Gawain turned back to see the whatever it was was now standing in the road staring at them… possibly.

‘What manner of foul beast are you? I am Sir Gawain of the Knights of the Oblong Table and I command you to stand clear or taste the edge of my sword!’

‘What does it taste of, then?’ the whatever it was said, drawing back a hood made of the same collection of patched and ragged material that Gawain could now see gave the whatever it was its rather indefinable outline.

‘This sword of yours… taste nice does it?’ The whatever it was winked broadly. ‘Pork sword is it? Know what I mean, eh?’ It winked again.

‘I….’ Gawain peered through the mist. The whatever it was was a peasant, but it was hard to tell if it was male or female, or how old it was. Although, the dirt ingrained in the skin suggested he or she had not had a bath, or even stood out in the rain, for quite a long time. That was surprising in such a damp country as this.

‘Never mind all that,’ Sir Gawain said. ‘I’m looking for a dragon.’

‘Oooh, kinky,’ the peasant said. ‘Got a lance have you?’

‘Yes, I ha…. What do you mean by that?’

‘Disgusting, I call it,’ the peasant said. ‘You posh blokes coming up here to poke a nice harmless dragon with your lance… you ought to be ashamed of yourself.’

‘A dragon… nice… harmless…!’ Sir Gawain spluttered.

‘Yes.’

‘But… it is a… dragon.’

‘So?’

‘But they are savage, fire-breathing monsters who kill….’

‘Well, I’d imagine that you’d get a bit pissed off if every time you settled down for a nap on a heap of gold some toff strode up to you and started prodding you with his lance.’ The peasant peered through the mist at Gawain. ‘Although, you’d probably like to be prodded by a lance, wouldn’t you? I’ve heard what goes on at those Knight Schools once the candles are blown out.’

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

The Lady and the Lemon Meringue

It is hard to say when it began. Mainly as it is impolite to speak with your mouth full. But it was the best of lemon meringues and it was – well, still pretty good. Even though it was one of her off days. Or if the lemons were past their best and the meringue refused to stiffen. Although, it was said at the time - by those who knew – that nothing would refuse to stiffen under her ministrations.

However, such musings were best left to those in the know. The rest of us could only stand and admire her wrist action.... and dream.

There were those who said too, that such fantastic lemon meringues were beyond mere human capabilities. That she was some supernatural being far beyond the mere mortal. Some thought her one of the woodland spirits that know the secrets of the fruit and the wondrous bounties of nature, and how to combine them to enslave and enthral us mere humans.

Others, though, spoke of the food of the gods. If anything on this Earth could lay claim to being such, then it was one of her lemon meringues. Those, of course, believed that she was some goddess, walking among us to bring us a taste of what humanity could aspire to. So when – at long last – we threw off these earthly shackles and the mortal concerns we bind ourselves with - we could take our rightful place in the heavens of the gods.

Those of a more prosaic nature claimed it was what the spoon was invented for.

The rest of us queued formally and in reverence for our portions. We offered our thanks and sat down with our own slice of heaven here on earth, hoping it would never end and our bowls would never empty.

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

Make a Wish

Well, I mean, you would, wouldn’t you?

If you got the chance, you would definitely give it a go, wouldn’t you?

I mean we’ve all sat there daydreaming about what we would do should some fairy godmother, some genie freed from a bottle or someone like that, offered us the three wishes so beloved of fairy tales.

Be careful what you wish for, as some wise old geezer once said… and me? 

Well, I can only agree.

Of course, like everyone else when she appeared in front of me in a shower of sparkling stars and multicoloured smoke - like some cheesy no-budget local TV ad from the 70s - I responded as anyone else would.

‘Bollocks,’ I said.

She sighed and dusted some of the ash from her costume. A costume that was, I noticed immediately, somewhat diaphanous and see-through in all the places it is impolite to look.

‘What are you staring at?’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Only you are a very attractive woman.’

‘Woman? Pah!’ She waved her wand dismissively. She looked down at herself and tutted. ‘Only it is the traditional costume… and theyare sticklers for tradition. The union have been on to them about it, about our dignity in the workpla….’ She looked back up at me. ‘Anyway, I’m not a woman, I’m a fairy.’

‘A fairy… bollocks They don’t exist… they are only fairy stori….’

She strode up to me and tapped me on the chest with her wand. ‘That feel real enough to you, sonny?’

I flinched, stepping back. The star on its end was very pointy. I looked down to see a hole in my shirt.

‘Anyway, I’m your fairy godmother.’

‘Bollo… er…. Aren’t you a bit young?’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Er…. Nothing. I just. We’ll, I must be older than you?’

‘And?’

‘Well, y’know… Godmother. I would that would have entailed some age difference, like that of a parent to a child… mother and child.’

She stared at me. ‘You humans are so weird.’ She straightened her… her dress, what there was of it. ‘Anyway, I’m a bit pushed. There’s a pumpkin over in Watford I’ve got to turn into a Porsche, and her from over Bristol way has called in sick this morning… again. So, I’m going to have to cover her shift… again.’ She glared at me. ‘So get on with it, I haven’t got all day.’

‘Er…?’

‘What now?’

‘What am I supposed to be getting on with…. I… er?’

‘Three wishes.’

‘What?’

She pulled a tablet computer out of what appeared to be thin air. ‘It says here you have three wishes due…. So, get on with it. My time is valuable you know.’

‘Er….’

‘Three wishes…, come on.’ She tapped the wand against her thigh.

It was then all my troubles began.

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

A British Sporting Great

Well, these days the name of Binomial Herbidacious is little known outside the sport of running about for a bit for no real reason. But back in her heyday Herbidacious was a leading contender for Olympic gold in the British team at the Carlisle Olympics of 1876. A remarkable achievement, especially since the Olympic games would not begin for another twenty years. But one of Herbidacious's great strengths was her starting speed out of the blocks.

In fact, it was reading of Binomial Herbidacious's talents that got a young Albert Einstein interested in both the speed of light and the effects of gravity. Mainly as Herbidacious was competing well before the invention of the dedicated sports bra and was a lady of generous frontage. In fact, several competitors in races against her, complained that Herbidacious already had an advantage of a few yards before the race even began. Many said she could win a close race even with most of herself still behind her opponents.

Her talent was first noticed at school, even though during those strict Victorian days it was not regarded as proper for young ladies to exert themselves physically. Especially as most of them needed a long lie down after divesting themselves of their very restrictive Victorian corsets.

In her infant and junior school years, Herbidacious was unbeaten at the egg and spoon race. She won it every year on her school's annual sports days. But disaster struck when she moved up into secondary school and her physical development made it impossible for her to keep her egg in her spoon without her generous proportions knocking the egg from the spoon. Nor could Herbidacious herself even see if her egg had fallen from her spoon without the aid of a mirror.

Her heartbreak was short-lived however as her sports mistress took a keen interest in Herbidacious and her physical development. In fact, in her autobiography Herbidacious credited her sports mistress and Herbidacious's attempts to evade her attentions, especially in the showers, as a major factor in Herbidacious's remarkable powers of acceleration from a standing start.

Lately, there have been calls to make this great sportswoman of an earlier age into a figure of national pride and importance. So that is why the current government, ever eager to boost their populist credentials, have decided that a statue to this leading figure in the UK's sporting development should be erected.

They promise to commission a statue as soon as they can afford to pay for the sizeable amounts of bronze needed to full realise Herbidacious and her spectacular assets at anything near life size. So naturally the government is looking to the public to make generous donations to the statue fund. The government has pledged to match out of funds it has already appropriated from the public, thus making us all pay twice – and probably well over the odds as usual with any government project.

So please give generously to support this monument to this country's great sporting heritage.

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

When Gods Are Made

‘Thursday?’

‘Thursday.’

Why Thursday?’

‘It is the only one we have left. You should have been here for the meeting.’ The Goddess shuffled the papers on her desk without looking up at him. ‘Nobody else wanted it.’

‘Why not?’

‘The Goddess shrugged. ‘I don’t know… personally I’ve never liked Tuesdays….’ She looked up at him. ‘Anyway, from now on Thursday will be known as Plunkday. All right?’

Plunk nodded. Of the many things he’d wished for over his short but troubled life none of them had involved either being a… the weather god, or having a day of the week named after him.

Now he had both.

The Goddess smiled brightly. ‘Happy?’

‘No.’ Plunk shrugged. ‘I wasn’t happy before… before all this….’ He looked around at the strange room the Goddess called her office. ‘But now I’m unhappy and dry, rather than unhappy and wet, so I’m not complaining, mind.’

The only other room Plunk had ever seen called an office was also… in politer company known as the privy. So, he had been a little perturbed when the Goddess first said she wanted him to meet her in her priv… her office.

Even now he was a bit suspicious of the rather luxurious and comfy seat she was using. But it did swivel and Plunk took a little comfort in the idea that few people… or even gods, for that matter, would want a swivelling privy seat… or would they? 

He didn’t know any more.

This becoming a god… becoming the new weather god… was turning out to be much more complicated than he imagined.

The Goddess pushed a piece of paper across the table she called her desk towards him. ‘Sign here.’

‘What?’

She tapped the piece of paper at the end closest to Plunk. ‘Sign here.’

‘How?’

‘You know just write your na….’ She looked at him ‘You can’t write can you?’

Plunk shook his head. ‘Not much call for it, herding ducks.’

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

Roadside Experiments

Well, there she was. Which was not ideal, for if she was over here then I wouldn't have had to shout against a background of heavy traffic noise. So, I believe she can hardly be blamed for any of the subsequent misunderstandings, except of course the incident with the weasel.

However, the weasel is now receiving intensive trauma counselling, so it is possible that later a line may be drawn under that particular aspect of the experience.

Although, current psychological evidence does suggest that the weasel may never be fully at ease... ever again. Especially in the near vicinity of a cheese and sweet pickle baguette.

However, such setbacks should not divert us from the bigger picture and the great advances made in our understanding of human sexuality. In particular how it relates – or not – to the lay-by. Especially during the early evening rush hour.

As well, of course, as the significant increase in our understanding of cheese and sweet pickle-related trauma in impressionable young weasels. A subject which, I'm sure you will agree, modern science has woefully left unresearched. Even despite the more than generous research funds available from the EU for such vital research.

Anyway, so there she was dressed in the full leather outfit and ready for our research project to begin. At least, until the police patrol arrived and insisted we erect the barriers to avoid distracting the passing drivers. In particular the drivers heavy goods vehicles. The police claimed there was a possibility of us causing a severe road accident when the aforesaid driver became aware of a rather under-dressed young lady striking nubile posses in a lay-by near Redditch. Which, if you have ever driven around Redditch will make you understand why those drivers were in dire need of any distraction available.

Still. The erection of several large cricket sight-screens in a lay-by did cause more inconvenience, we are sure – than any provocatively-dressed young lady would have done. Consequently, the entire lay-by was soon full of haphazardly-parked vehicles as their drivers stopped to see what was going on.

This, unfortunately, meant that any results we gathered from our research immediately became invalidated by the crowds of observers. For as we all know the nubility index of any young lady is often erratically perturbed by the number of observers present.

Therefore we had no alternative but to abandon the experiment for that day.

However, we plan to try again, but this time somewhere in the vicinity of Luton where – it is said – drivers are immured to all roadside distractions, no matter how provocative.

However, we shall have to wait for our experimental confirmation of this sometime in the near future before it can be stated without equivocation or the possibility of statistical error.

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

Couldn’t Stand the Weather

It was cold.

It was wet.

It was normal.

Plunk looked up at the sky, the clouds were grey. The bits of the sky were there were no clouds were grey too. There was a slightly lighter grey over where Plunk assumed the sun would be. ‘Bloody weather.’ He spoke without rancour or hostility, just stating a fact. He gathered his cloak around him and shoved at the door with his shoulder.

The damp-swollen door shuddered open and the cold wind threw a handful of rain straight into Plunk’s face. ‘Bugger,’ he said, again more as a statement of fact than a curse. He’d given up cursing the weather the day they’d found and killed the weather god. Plunk didn’t think there was much point in cursing the weather now there was no god to listen, but old habits do die hard… much as weather gods die, come to that. Plunk’s mouth tried to remember how to smile at the memory as he trudged head down through the puddles and the wind-thrown rain towards his barn.

Plunk couldn’t remember whether the weather was better before they’d killed the weather god, as some staunch religionists claimed. Somehow he doubted it, gods, like lords, like kings and everyone else who managed to grab some power – to Plunk’s mind – were all the same. As long as they were warm and dry and had all the food, drink and women their wealth and power could get them, then they couldn’t give a stuff for ordinary folk.

Plunk opened his barn door and smiled at his flock of ducks, who - contrary to local folklore - seemed more than happy to be inside out of the rain.

There was a rustle and she emerged from the stacked hay on the hayloft above his head. Plunk grabbed for his hayfork. ‘Who are you?’

She floated down the ladder, her feet not appearing to step on the rungs. ‘Don’t you recognise me, Plunk?’

‘Ye… y… Yes, Goddess,’ Plunk felt his knees bending as he pulled his cap from his head. ‘What do you want with me?’ He risked a glance up from his lowered eyes.

‘As you may know, our weather god had… a bit of an accident.’

Plunk nodded, not looking up, as his hands worried and wrung his rain-soaked cap.

The Goddess reached out and lifted his chin. Her hand was soft, warm and dry. She looked into his eyes. ‘We have decided, the next weather god… it is going to be you.’

‘Oh, shit,’ Plunk said.

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

Watching Paint Dry

After an initially uncertain start in the ratings, it looks as though the UK's latest celebrity-based reality show is now going from strength to strength.

Celebrity Watching Paint Dry (CWPD) has already come to dominate the early Saturday evening viewing schedules with an almost five-to-one lead over its nearest celebrity reality show rival, AntnDec's Celebrity Lawn Watching. A programmedeliberately placed against CWPD in the vital early evening weekend viewing schedules.

The host of CWPD, the irrepressibly smug centenarian all-round entertainer Undercoat Slapdash is credited with making the show such a success. Of course, allied with the almost unbearable tension of watching celebrities, usually with the attention span of a bewildered gnat (unless looking in a mirror), stare at a wall of drying paint for as long as they are able.

Most of the show's viewers put its overwhelming success down to the fact that watching paint dry is far more riveting than watching anything else currently on our TV screens. So they find the entire spectacle of glamorous people watching paint drying in exotic foreign locations really exciting. This is despite the viewers seeing very title of those locations behind the freshly-emulsioned walls. All while Slapdash's voice-over allows the celebrities to tell – in their own monosyllables – of the amazing emotional roller-coaster journey standing in front of that still-tacky paint job takes them on.

Although, now there are rumours that the show's great rival, AntnDec's Celebrity Lawn Watching, is – in its new series – about to unveil a re-jigged format. One where its celebrity's watching the growing laws of some of their closet celebrity friends and greatest rivals. All of which, the channel promises, will make their show the must-see programme every weekend. Particularly as viewers are bound to be fascinated by the lawns of the rich and famous.

However, only time will tell which of these great examples of the TV programme-makers art will survive and prosper in the cut-throat world of TV entertainment.

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

The Initiation

Then it was over. I looked down at my hands, then back up. It didn’t seem possible. The languid smoke rose from where they had stood a few yards in front of me. One boot remained upright and smoking as the one next to it crumbled into a pile of thick black ash. The rest was a scorch mark.

I looked down at my hand, my finger still pointed at where they now weren’t, but it shook and trembled. I made sure it stayed pointing away from me.

‘See?’ a voice said from behind me.

I did not want to turn and see the old man with the long white beard. He looked too much like a wizard, a sorcerer, especially now I knew all he’d told me was true.

I stared at the finger that had just killed the three…. They weren’t human, I knew that.

‘What…?’ My voice was uncertain, unsure of what I wanted it to say. For a moment, I almost pointed… then I remembered what that finger had just done. I shuddered, wishing I had a holster to put my finger in, or at least a safety catch on it.

‘What what?’ I heard him shuffling closer behind me, the tap of his staff on the stony ground. I wondered if I would need the beard and the staff, too… was it compulsory?

‘What were they? What did I do? What is going on?’ I turned to him, making sure my finger pointed at the ground between us. ‘|Just… basically…. What the fu…?’

The old man opened his arms. ‘Welcome to the club,’ he said.

‘Wha…?’

‘You are now – officially – a wizard,’ he said. ‘Well done.’

‘Oh, shit.’

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

Britain's Leading Illusionist

Spellcheck Ratlicker is – without a doubt – Modern Britain's leading illusionist. For years he has left audiences spellbound at the incredible illusions he performs in his live stage shows. Where, each night, capacity audiences are made to believe in the illusion of his talents.

Five years ago, Ratlicker amazed sell-out audiences up and down the land when he made thousands of paying audience members believe they were getting value for their money at his shows. Up to and including the 'special' souvenir show programmes. These cost £15 each for three pages of adverts, a two-paragraph biography cut-and-pasted from his website and an out of focus photograph of Ratlicker himself deluding a pair of homing pigeons into thinking he was a top-flight entertainer.

Ratlicker began on the club circuit where he would perform the traditional sawing a woman in half illusion. Often leaving a hastily restitched together lady, feeling somewhat bewildered and light-headed from blood-loss, a trail of blood and several other clues as he fled the scene only moments before the police arrived. Soon, however, he was running low on women that desperate to appear in show business. He then had to resort to sawing politicians in half, which while not quite so spectacular did mean the police no longer wished him to help with their enquiries. Especially as none of the halves of the women ever made claims of inappropriate sexual impropriety against him, even after Ratlicker sawed them in half.

After that, with the limited number of replacement glamorous assistants, or even politicians, available to him in such a situation, Ratlicker had to change his act. Particularly when he was booked to perform on cruise ships. There, he performed a daredevil stunt by diving naked into a tank of ravenous sharks and surviving there unmolested.

However, it was discovered that he was cheating by smearing his body with the cruise ship chef's special sauce. A substance that even ravenous sharks would not contemplate, no matter how desperately hungry they became.

These days, his act is mainly him sitting in a clear perspex box for as long as the audiences can tolerate, or until he gets a TV contract. Which, considering the state of current TV cannot be that long.

So we can look forward to seeing much more of Spellcheck Ratlicker on our TVs, unless we are lucky enough to have made other arrangements for those particular evenings.

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

Ah, Those Sexy Castanets

It happens, albeit not as often as back in the days of yore, or even mine. But, occasionally, there is still a sign of life in the old thing. Especially when she does that thing with the castanets and the current Argos catalogue.

Still, having said – or, at least, typed - that, I must admit that age does come to us all. With it, the ageing process brings many deprecations of the physical and the mental. Often, it gets to be the case that what is desired – even yearned for (as in the case of the Argos catalogue and the castanets) cannot be physically achieved. There is also the case that the physical is possible but you can't remember why you came in here, and why you are holding the spoon.

However, as I was saying, there are not all that many of then in Spain, especially in the more coastal regio....

Hang on, that wasn't it....

Anyway, there she was posed intimately with the Rear Admiral (as it were) and the commander of the Fleet Air Arm, both immersed in the bath full of lukewarm custa....

No, it wasn't that, either.

Hang on, I'll remember what it was I was going to say - and/or type - in a minute... as soon as I remember what I was going to do with this spoon....

Hang on, is that the sound of castanets I hear? Is that also the tell-tale rustling of the pages of a current Argos catalogue too?

Now I remember why she wanted the spoon.... and the handcuffs....

Duty calls....

Goodbye

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

The Time of the Lesser Gods

Now as at all timesI can see in the minds eye, in their stiff, painted clothes,the pale unsatisfied onesoutside the fish and chip shop. But those days are over now and those in need of the holy benediction of hot chips go elsewhere and follow other – lesser - gods.

There was a time, when this was fish and chip shops as far as the eye could see. Well, as far as the eye could see at closing time when we fell out of the pub. But for some reason, back then there was something in the atmosphere – possibly some kind of industrial pollution – which affected the sight after only a few hours in the pub. Making even the avoidance of a collision with a street light sometimes very problematical indeed.

Of course, some blamed the beer, but that was mere foolishness. Except, possibly, in the case of the Bull's Head. A pub where there was a strong suspicion the landlord served industrial effluent instead of beer. But, usually by the time we got to the Bull's Head such acts of connoisseurship were often – at best – mere philosophical speculation.

Still, the day came when the first kebabappeared upon the face of the land. Of course, there were some who regarded it with suspicion, with Sceptical Stan wanting to kill it with a stick. But for others of a more questioning nature it was the kind of challenge they liked to rise to – or at least stumble towards – once the pubs were closed.

Soon the kebab shops were everywhere. They became just as much of a tradition as the tradition they replaced. Then those wise – or brave - enough to pontificate to the general bewilderment of those alongside them in the queue about such things are told, in the wise words of the prophet Nhigelto 'shut the fuck up'.

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