Politics in the UK

Pembroke Doolaly is probably best known to the UK population as one of the foremost exponents of riding the British political gravy train. He has been at the top of British politics now for almost forty years. Thereby surprising a great many of those who take an interest in politics by still being alive.

In his early days, as the son of the Earl of Doolaly, Pembroke, of course, joined the Labour party, anxious to be seen as one of the people. Providing of course, none of those people got too close.

He inherited the seat of Puddletown South in that great Labour tradition of nepotism from his uncle Bacillus Troutcock, who gave up the seat when he became Lord Troutcock. Troutcock entered the Lords pledging to work tirelessly to bring about the end of inherited wealth and privilege.

After serving in the Labour government as Secretary of State for Cabinet Meeting Chocolate Biscuit Provision, Doolaly saw the writing on the wall. He crossed the floor of the house to join the Conservative party in time for the rise of Margaret Thatcher. His constituents all bought their own council houses with money provided by Doolaly - which although technically illegal was covered by parliamentary privilege - and Doolaly’s natural aptitude for political blackmail.

In the Conservative party he rose to Chairman’s assistant in charge of buying stamps.

For a while when the Tory party waned through the Major years, Doolaly did consider joining the Liberal Democrats.

Instead, in a crisis of conscience and cash flow he rejoined the Labour party under Tony Blair.

While out canvassing in his seat, Doolaly saw real poverty for the first time. Pembroke was aghast to discover there were some households, after living for three or more work-less generations on benefits, who had TVs with screens that did not fill up an entire room. Some of them had been forced to choose between pay TV subscriptions and feeding their children. With some of those children reduced to eating as little as seven packets of crisps, and less than the national minimum of 14 litres of fizzy drinks, a day. ‘Some of the children weren’t even obese,’ a shocked Doolaly said on leaving one house where the woman and her 46 children had barely enough benefits to keep them comatose through ingesting cheap lager by the bucketful. The woman had even confessed she was forced to give her new born baby milk ‘like some savage in darkest France… y’know where the giraffes come from?’

Once more entering cabinet, where he claims he hid in a cupboard during the Iraq war discussions. He claimed he was out of the room fetching Gordon Brown a new mobile phone when all the wrong decisions were taken.

After that, he thought about joining the Conservative party again, but decided it wasn’t worth the bother of having to rejoin Labour at the next election after that. So, he decided to stay on the Labour backbenches in opposition and continue making money, where he remains to this day. He is almost as rich, wealthy and privileged as those on his front bench who taunt the Tories opposite for being rich, privileged and out of touch. Something that could never be said about Doolaly after his impressive parliamentary career, and his herd of libel solicitors held on retainer. He has promised to step down at the next election with his safe Labour seat democratically awarded to his own son, Trainshed Doolaly.

Truly, a fitting end to a glittering career in politics.

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

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

Hollywood's Current Leading Star

Slingback Chaingun is probably still Hollywood's most famous leading slab of acting muscle, despite rapidly approaching his 85th birthday, or as his publicist insists, nearing 45. Still with a full head of jet black hair, the body of Arnold Schwarzenegger in his prime crossed with a mountain gorilla. He is also – allegedly – well-endowed enough to make a stallion feel inadequate, Chaingun is rapidly approaching his 65th year in the movie industry.

Some say he is typecast as the misunderstood rebel on the side of truth and justice with a massive gun. Other critics, however, see this more as an in-depth study of the modern world. An examination of the crisis of masculinity that forces men to take on overwhelming odds armed only with a miscellany of high-powered weaponry.

Many feminist critics, though, dismiss Chaingun and his whole oeuvre as conforming to outdated stereotypes of masculinity. In particular the role of the male in society as warrior with the innate male understanding of which end of the gun the bullets come out of.

However, in the real world, away from academia, Chaingun remains a star in the only way that matters. His last twenty-seven films have all been massive box-office successes, especially the last 14 films in the phenomenon that is Shooty Kill-Death Mayhem (parts V-IXX). 

Here Chaingun plays the rogue Green Beret Steve Massacre in his seemingly never-ending quest to take on every failed state, dictatorship, terrorist organisation and jungle location. All in a solo attempt to rescue brave American captives from torture, abuse, un-American involvements and certain death. Each in a multitude of cinematically-gruesome ways as the scriptwriters can imagine. All while the US government does all it can to disown, discredit and abandon Steve Massacre to his fate. 

At least right up to the last act, where they discover he is winning. They then send a helicopter to take the captives back home to a hero's welcome and a massive boost in the polls for the incumbent president. Meanwhile Massacre is left behind in the jungle to await the discovery of yet more innocent Americans in peril.

All of which goes to show why even at the great old age of 85… 45, Slingback Chaingun is still at the top of his game, and long may that continue.

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

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

It was Nowhere

There was nothing there. At first it was just wasteland stretching as far as I could see. Stubby trees, brambles, weeds and grass, little more and all overgrown. There was something familiar about it though, even though I couldn’t place it. As I walked on, looking for anything that would tell me where I was, I realised it reminded me of the waste ground around where I’d grown up. Back then, there were many places where demolished houses and factories had been, with the site just left to grow wild. Great places if you were a kid back in those days when you were just let out in the morning to roam and explore.

This, though, looked bigger than those places, as though a whole area, the whole area, as far as I could see had gone wild. Then, looking around up on a small rise I had the feeling I was home.

There were none of the houses, shops, factories and all that. No roads, street lights and pavements. But looking around I realised that this was where I lived. There was something there, the place behind the buildings under the roads and pavements. It was where I lived, but everything human removed from it. 

Half-closing my eyes I could imagine all the human habitation given a place and a name. Eyes half-closed, I could see it all how it was only yesterday, back when everything was normal. Not like it was now, when I’d woken up and found myself here, either long before humans came to inhabit this place… or long after they’d all died and gone.

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

No Stranger

We spent our last night together in that chamber above the main room of the inn. Downstairs we could hear all the others drinking, singing, carousing and having a good time. Up here, though, in a room lit only by a few small candles and the fire in the stone fireplace, we knew we only had these few hours together. Jenny knew that come the dawn I would be gone.

So we kissed and held each other. Neither of us wanted to say anything that would break the spell of our last hours. She held me close afterwards, lying on my chest, her hand wrapped around me and her leg thrown over mine, almost as though she was trying to hold me there. I could feel the flutter of her eyelashes against my chest as she tried to stay awake, even though both of us knew we needed the sleep; sleep that would not come for either of us.

But, eventually, in the end, we both must have fallen asleep at some point, because I did not see Jenny again for around 200 years.

I woke up again lost deep in some woods, not knowing where I was or when it was. Time had slipped by, that was all I knew. Eventually, using those tricks we all have to learn if we are to survive in this kind of life I managed to find some clothes I found I was back in the old country too, for once. But I still had no idea when it was. From the look of the clothes, I guessed sometime around the 17th century.

I walked out of the trees in the thick wood into a clearing. There was a merchant’s caravan there, stopped to camp for the night as the summer evening slowly turned into a warm summer night.

I walked up to the first camp fire. It had a pot of stew simmering over it and the smell of cooking meat and vegetables drifting towards me on the evening breeze.

‘Could you spare some food for a stranger,’ I asked the figure bent over the pot.

Jenny looked up at me and smiled. ‘You are no stranger,’ she said.

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

I Hold in My Hand a Piece of Paper

This is, of course, the question we all must ask of ourselves as we stand here on the cusp of the brink of the edge of a new world. Or, at least it would be, if we hadn't – temporarily – mislaid the piece of paper with that question written on it.

However, I do have a few other pieces of paper I've gathered over the last few... well, looking at some of them: many, many... er... years.

So, ladies and gentlemen of the world's press gathered here to bear witness to these momentous events on the world's stage. You will no doubt be aware of how hard all the world's leaders, politicians, statesmen and stateswomen gathered at this summit have worked to bring about this... this.... Well, whatever it is we have done at this moment of crisis in the world's history.

Ah!

So, if you are as hungry as I am, and don't quite trust the banquets put on by our generous hosts, I have here on this historic piece of paper in my hand the phone number of an excellent takeaway. They do deliver, but only in a five mile radius of central West Bromwich. So I think we can put that particular piece of paper to one side and move on to announce that....

Ah, if you are looking for a good time then Lusty Trudy of Glamorga... er, probably not. If my wife is watching this press conference, as I'm sure everyone in the world is, then can I make absolutely clear that piece of paper was not mine. It was, in fact, handed to me by a member of the Danish delegation.

Right, moving on.... Ladies and gentlemen of the press, do any of you need a taxi in Glasgow?

No?

Right.

Can I just say that the government of Great Britain will stand resolute and firm in its commitments. I pledge to you all here and now, that we will – in the fullness of time get half a pound of carrots, a small wholemeal loaf, a box of tea bags and a tin of chicken or fish flavoured cat food. At least, as soon as time and resources allow.

Ladies and gentlemen of the world's press, I thank you for your time.

There will be no questions.

Thank you and good night.

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

The Swordsman

‘So,’ she said.

‘Hmm,’ he said.

‘Is that it?’

‘Er… it must be the weather. It has been a bit cold.’

‘What has that got to do with it?’

He looked down at his sword. ‘It is a well-known fact that metal shrinks in cold weather.’

‘Really?’

He didn’t like the way she was looking at him. He shifted his feet and put his sword away. ‘I’ll be getting a bigger one soon,’ he said.

‘Oh, yes?’ She leant back against the low stone wall behind her, half-sitting on it and raised her leg to push herself onto the top of the wall. She sat on the wall with one foot resting up on it, her hands over her knee and her chin resting on the backs of her hands. ‘Do you wish you had a bigger one?’

‘Well,’ he could feel the heat in his neck spreading upwards. She was not looking at the size of his scabbard. He stopped himself turning away from her, or clasping his hands over his groin. ‘I have no complaints.’

‘But you do want a bigger one… need a bigger one?’

‘I….’ He looked around for some way out of this.

She laughed. ‘You’re new to the city aren’t you?’

‘Y… yes…. Is it that obvious?’

‘I’m afraid it is.’ She smiled, warmly this time and shifted her position, signalling for him to sit on the wall beside her.

He sat.

‘Where are you from?’

‘Just some village… days away.’

‘Oh, what was it called?’

‘What?’

‘Your village… what is its name?’

‘I don’t know… it was just home… the village. None of us ever thought of giving it a name.’ He sighed. ‘It was the only place I knew. I was happy there.’

‘So why did you leave?’

‘The foreigners… the invaders…. They came one day… and… well… the village is no longer there.’

She looked at him. ‘Come on,’ she said.

‘Where?’

‘I have a home… not much of one, but I’ll take you there.’

‘Why?’

She looked at him, head cocked to one side. ‘Let’s just say every sword needs a scabbard, shall we?’

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

The Seasons of Forever

It takes the time we share and twists it into something new. There was a time when this was a summer lasting for as long as we could see. It was a summer stretching beyond our beach to where the sea reaches out to meet the sky. We never thought our summer could ever feel these colder winds of autumn. We never thought the trees up on the climbing headland would ever fade from green to these browns, reds and golds of our darkening narrower days.

Now we turn away from that sea that stretched away before us. We turn back from this beach, towards the forests and fields that lie between our fading summer and the winter that waits for us deep inland. The time of coldness is coming and we can feel it in the winds that blow around us.

You turn away in the night, chasing your dreams across a bed suddenly grown big. A space I cannot reach across to close, even if I wanted to, even if I knew how.

Outside, the nights grow ever longer. The wind blows and the rain falls like those tears you cry whenever you think I cannot see or know.

Our summer has been too long though. I know the sound of your tears and I know nothing remains here for either of us. Except the slow journey from this summer we thought would never end back inland to our endless winter.

[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).]

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)]

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).]

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).]

Medieval TV Schedules

Of course, back in the early medieval period there were far fewer TV programmes available, and only a couple of channels. Most of those programmes involved, in one way or another, either ploughing or the plague. Albeit with an occasional foray into travelogues for those thinking of joining their feudal lord's soldiers in an invasion of the continent and/or Wales and Scotland.

The long running TV soap opera Piers Ploughman of course had a massive (for the time) audience. Three times a week mediaeval peasants tuned in to see whether or not Piers managed to plough a furrow. All without falling foul of his manorial lord's foul moods. Or his wife's unreasonable demands for more children to help her get the harvest in. Or the local priest thinking up more ways to accuse Piers of committing some sin or another. Often, Piers endured endless trouble from his mother-in-law's disastrous attempts at witchcraft. Often resulting in that episode ending with a cliff-hanger. This usually saw Piers transformed into a frog by his mother-in-law.

Of course, the nightly news programmes on medieval TV mainly concerned themselves with the doings of kings and who they were doing it to. Foreign news mainly - as we have already seen above – concerned who was invading who, and which noble families were vying for which crown. This latter interest in the doings of the various noble houses brought about an early forerunner of the Football Pools. The peasants would tune in every Saturday, around tea time, to see which noble houses had fought each other for which crown and which one had won. A draw was worth three points and 21 points was enough for one lucky peasant to win the star prize of a goat. Thus making the lucky winner equivalent to a millionaire at today's prices.

Of course, all this changed in the late medieval period with the invention of the video game and the runaway success of the game Grand Pilgrimage 5. A game where the player had to get his group of pilgrims to Canterbury, despite all the odds against it.

From then on, TV in history tended towards a slow decline until the invention of the Reality TV genre in the Victorian period with Celebrity Ripper in Fog.

 

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

An Intimate Device

Obviously, you would have thought so....

At least judging by the number of YouTube videos dealing without how to go about it all without suffering any injury to the lower back. Or, for that matter, causing an outbreak of faux outrage on the social media outlet of choice for those who believe they owe the world their opinions on all and sundry.

Speaking of all and sundry, which I was, even if you were waiting for the more... intimate details, there is the matter of the so-called optional attachments. Most of which, cost extra. Thus the initial lack of them makes the device itself little more than an ornament, or even a conversation piece... if you like having conversations about that sort of thing. Despite this so-called frank and open age, many people in our experience would not always wish to venture down such conversational routes. Especially those routes opened up by seeing such a device proudly displayed in a position of promise on a friend or neighbour's mantelpiece.

Of course, many for the older generations will often ask – sometimes even to your face – why such devices are even necessary. After all, in the immediate post-war period with rationing and many of the men still away in the forces, most women had to make do and mend. Mostly with whatever they could find around the household. Which mainly entailed some very imaginative knitting and the creative use of tinned spam.

So, maybe, it is better not to decry the more than obvious limitations of such devices. Nor should we regard as more than a little irksome some of her particularly wistful looks at some of the more generously endowed vegetables on display in the fresh produce aisle of the supermarket. Instead, we should be grateful that technology has developed towards creating such essential devices in the first place. Moreover, we should look towards the future with anticipation for what greater possibilities it will bring – providing we can get the batteries for it.

 

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

Headline Acts

Potemkin Fuzzpedal was once the UK's most famous nightclub and workingmen's club act during the heyday of those institutions. At least, before TV and social changes brought about the decline of those establishments. Until then, Potemkin Fuzzpedal and his Performing Accountants; a song, a dance and an internal audit were the biggest draw on that particular circuit.

For the audiences, it was the sheer thrill of live accountancy performed on stage – usually without the aid of a safety net - that was so exciting. Especially so in the workingmen's clubs. Places where accountancy was regarded as something beyond the pale and even a mere invoice was regarded with suspicion and dread.

Back in those days most people, the working class especially, lived in an almost total cash economy. Therefore, the use of accountants was virtually unknown. So to see a real one, especially performing on stage, possibly – and daringly – with one of the new electronic calculators, was a dazzling and riveting spectacle. It conveyed the full glamour of accountancy to a mass audience for the first time.

In fact, most of today's top-flight glamorous celebrity accountants say they were inspired to tread the accounting boards through an early teenage exposure to Fuzzpedal and his dancing auditors. Some even talking of their own first fumbling attempts at cash-book reconciliation under the bedcovers late at night. Often before falling into a restless sleep filled with dreams of VAT returns and tax schedules.

All in all then, today's glamorous world of performance accountancy, where some of the big name partnerships regularly sell out the world's biggest arenas has a great deal to thank Potemkin Fuzzpedal for. Otherwise – who knows – accountancy could still be – unbelievable as it sounds now – a mere profession practised in cramped offices by unglamorous people who know little of the fame, fortune and celebrity status now enjoyed by today's headlining accountancy stage acts.

 

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

These Stories We Tell Each Other

We tell one other stories of these times and places. We have no choice.

Without the story of the morning about how the sun rises beyond those far hills, our days could not begin.

Without the stories of the animals moving across these landscapes and the tales of how the plants grow we would have nothing to eat. Then our dry bones would be the only story we could tell to that warming sun. Without the long twisting tale of the river we would have no fish, nothing to drink and no way of taking ourselves down to where the sea waits. Its waves tumbling over one another in their haste to hear us tell the great legends of the sea and the tales of the seafarers who risked all to travel across it is search of more tales to tell. The tales of distant lands and peoples who each have their own stories of how this world came to be, and their place inside it the sailors tell us on their return.

Without you, I would have no tale to tell of how it feels to wake and not be alone with only the trees and the animals to sing my stories to. Without your stories of children that grow inside you, then break free to run across these hillsides making the stories of their own life then there would be no-one to tell all these stories to.

And what else is there, except these stories we tell one another?

 

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

To Touch These Clouds

 

To Touch These Clouds

Down on the ground the grass will grow
while birds reach out to touch the clouds.
We could have once expected such
small portents shaping all our dreaming

as we so often ask for some
acceptance of so much we want.
Even though there are shadows here
amongst us as we make our way

between these rocks that fill these paths
towards the summits of our hills.
Up where we hope to emulate
the birds and reach out, touch these clouds

which darkened all our promised skies
and turned us from our green-soft valleys.
To climb these hillsides in the hope
of finding something here to point

towards. A promise offered here
of something better than we know.
Before we turn back from the sky
returning to our valley lives
to live in clouded shadows again.

 

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

Queue Theory

There was a time, but then there would be. For if there was no time there would have been nowhere for the was to happen and we'd all be standing around feeling foolish, wishing we were waiting for something, but without the time element waiting does become somewhat problematical.

As Professor Eigenvector Electronvolt, emeritus professor of Queueing and Waiting theory of the Tipton Institute of Technology (TIT) recently stated, 'a queue needs both time and space to be a queue, without it everyone there is just dicking around.'

This ground-breaking theoretical breakthrough has galvanised the entire field* of queueing, both at a theoretical and practical level. Recent experiments at the Large Queue Collider on the Tipton-Wednesbury border have concentrated mainly on what happens at two points. First, where the ends of the queue meet the target – such as a Post Office Counter or airline check-in desk, where the queue particles meet and unmoveable object. Secondly, at the other end where the queue interacts with the normal day-to-day world. The rear of the queue, where it meets the ordinary world, has been well-understood since Newtonian times and Newton's Laws of the Queue still hold strong, especially his Third Law which – of course – deals with the mathematical consequences of queue-podging.

However, recent work has mainly concentrated on the other end of the queue, mostly at a theoretical level as busy physicists don't have time to spend in queues, except when signing in to top-flight conference venues in exotic locations. Consequently, a lot of work in this area has been undertaken by postgraduate researchers, who – of course – have little else to do other than stand around waiting for someone to notice them.

Therefore, researchers in this area hope that in the next few years they will be able to confirm the existence of the so-far, only theoretical 'Next Please,' particle. Theory suggests such a particle should exist but has been so rarely encountered down at the front of the queue, leading some queue physicists to doubt it exists.

 

*Obviously queuing in a filed has its own specialised theoretical and practical sub-divisions, mainly concerned with the toileting arrangements at music festivals (wellies advised).

 

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

Ye Olde Toppe Gear

Hello and welcome to this week's edition of Ye Olde Toppe Gear. This week Richard de Hammond field tests the new Porsche two-oxen plough. Meanwhile James of May takes the new Land Rover hay cart out on some of Britain's rural byways and off-road. Meanwhile,the Stig takes the new British warhorse out on our track to see how it compares to the European warhorse and even the latest hot hatchback mounts from the Saracens.

Also, I Jeremy Lord Clarkson, discover just which is the best vehicle to use when going on a pilgrimage to Canterbury. Later, we have Little John from the world-famous band of the Merry Men taking our reasonably-priced mule around our track later on.

Before that, we'll have, a special report from a muddy field near Agincourt where we see what happens when a bunch of poncy modern French knights go up against the traditional British longbow. We think you'll be surprised at the results though.

First, though, the news. There is talk at the King's court of introducing a national speed limit of three miles an hour on all British roads, including what remains of all the Roman roads. Although, judging by my ride into the studio this morning down Watling Street, the possibility of achieving such high speeds is almost impossible given the poor state of the roads. Especially, given the fact most of them turn into a muddy swamp. As for the talk of adding safety features such as speed humps, must roads have them naturally these days.

Anyway, talking of mud, here's Richard de Hammond with his report on the new Porsche two oxen superplough.

Run the film!

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

Archaeology

Archaeology

And here is something newly found.
It sits here, waiting on the palm,
in one cupped hand, and makes its shape
from limits it can then transcend.

It's more beyond itself enclosed,
contains the distances of time
and history within itself.

Its turning form can speak to us
of ages long ago and gone,
to times before the modern now,
when other lost unknowable
wise hands then grew and shaped its form.

But still it will remain right here,
becoming this new meaning taken
by every hand that holds it tight.

Each making new connections back
along that trodden path of time.
We listen now to sounds, echoes
of times, ages long past and gone.

Always we have long history
behind us, somehow reassuring
when walking down these twisting paths
in these now fading footsteps taken here
by earlier, forgotten, generations.

 

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

The Untidy Universe

There is nothing. Everything is emptiness and hollowness.

But then that does save the bother of having to find somewhere to put it all. There should be at least some cupboard space, but there never is.

‘There is,’ as Wittgenstein said about this great philosophical conundrum, ‘never enough space on top of the wardrobe. For that which we cannot find space for, we must learn to live without.’

It is a problem overcome by nature in its constantly expanding universe. Obviously, some cosmic force had tried to stuff all of space and time into a universal cupboard, only to find it suddenly bursting back out again in what we now call the Big Bang.

Despite the complete lack of evidence for one, perhaps there was some sort of god after all. Perhaps a god whose wife suggested that he might tidy up the form and void a bit and put some of that matter away he’d left about all over her nice clean eternity.

So, like any normal bloke he just rammed it all in the universal cupboard and went off to watch the football on the telly, then jut as he’d settled down with a beer, the big bang burst out and there he was with a universe all over his wife’s nice clean floor.

No wonder he buggered off pretty sharpish as soon as the universe came into being and hasn’t been seen since.

 

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