Out Of The Mists Of Dreaming

She came not out of the golden skies of the mornings, but out of the heavy mists that haunted our dreams. She was there first as a heavier darker shadow amongst shadows until she stepped out barefoot on the dew-sodden grass. She wore a thin blue dress that clung to her body, dark with moisture around the bottom and halfway up her legs.

She stepped forward as the mists curled away from her and waked towards us without a trace of fear or hesitation. She knew already that we could not harm her, that she would be the one and we would follow, even though, as yet, we did not even know her name, or even if she needed one.

She stopped a few feet in front of us and just waited. Behind me, I could hear the rest of our party as they, slowly, one by one, knelt in the dew-heavy grass. Soon she and I were the only ones standing.

She just looked into my eyes, as though she had all the time in the world, and I had none. I could feel my knees bending before I had realised I was even going to kneel. I, who would never kneel to any man, there in the cold wet grass; I knelt to this nameless woman. But I knew it was right, for as I knelt and she took one more pace forward the mists swirled away and the sun shone down on all of us. 

The End Of Teenspeak

Yesterday, a leading teenage website Innit announced it had detected a new trend amongst its audience.

Trendi Downwithtthekids (45), one of the editors of the website, said:

It looks as though teens have decided to give up trying to use Teen-speak. What, with all the pressures on teenagers these days, and all they have to fill their time, such as video games, phones, texting, social networks and so forth, they don’t have the time to describe it in the new ways formerly typical of the teenage experience. It looks as though none of them can be bothered to think up new words to describe stuff, let alone use a word in an alternative or even contradictory sense to its usual meaning as teenagers have been doing since… well, since teenagers fist appeared ion the scene in the 1950s.

Since even before the invention of ‘cool’ to mean something good or worthwhile teens have been trying to use language as a way of group bonding and to prevent adults from knowing what it is they are getting up to. However, these days with the majority of adults refusing to even acknowledge that they themselves are no longer teenagers, the adults are constantly eroding teenager’s attempts to create a distinct identity of their own.

One completely disheartened teenager, said:

It’s just no good bothering these days. As soon as we come up with a new word for something, or find a new use for an old word, it is all over the web within an hour or two, and there are articles about it in the newspapers the next day about how they are already preparing the dictionary entry for their next editions. I mean, y’know, that is well… er… innit… er…. I mean, it is just so dispiriting. That is, if you can see my point of view?

Weasel Appreciation Day

It all began on the morning before Weasel Appreciation Day. There we were, the whole team - including our Goal Inquisitor, Stan Toastbutterer - were cleaning the studs on our Weasel Appreciation boots, ready for the big day, when suddenly Stan Toastbutterer said, "It looks like rain."

Oh, how we laughed as we traditionally beat him about the traditional head, face and neck with our traditional badger racquets and weasel cues. Of course, as everyone knows, Weasel Appreciation Day would have to be called off if there was even the merest hint of rain in the air.

The traditional Weasel Appreciation Day costumes simply cannot stand up to the slightest bit of drizzle, and some of the rituals, despite the use of studded boots, can be very tricky to perform on a muddy pitch. Everyone remembers what happened when the traditional ceremonial penalty shoot-out between the Apostates and the Heretics took place in 1963, despite a rainstorm earlier that day, when several penalties went wide or over the bar before last orders had been called, and the Apostates Centre-Choirboy, Skidmark Acidbreath, severely twisted his surplice, putting him out of Evensong for the rest of the season. Less well-know is the sudden downpour that happened in 1983 when the Lord High Sausage Taster was accidentally basted in his own ritual gravy due to the volume of the rainfall making the diving board very slippy indeed.

Many people have remarked on the fact that a country chiefly famous for its drizzle does seem to have an inordinate fondness for outdoor pursuits that have to stop because of the rain, such as cricket, tennis, picnics, dogging and - of course - Weasel Appreciation Day itself. Others, however, myself included, put this down to the traditional sheer bloody-mindedness that has made the Briton traditionally such a pain in the arse to everyone else, both throughout history and throughout the world.

The March Towards World Domination

Of course, back then no-one knew the dangers of getting too close to the Hamsters of Doom. We had our weasel racquets, obviously, and we wore the shin-pads. However, it was never enough; especially - as was the fashion at the time - we adopted the stance of a reality-bewildered social worker at the very first sign of a putative encounter with any semi-domesticated rodent.

Back then, though, pop music had not quite become the self-parodying nostalgia-fest that it has since become. People could then talk of the rise of popular culture without feeling that sense of betrayal now engendered by any contact with the current overly rapacious and highly-cynical entertainment industry.

So, while we were slowly being entertained to death, the Hamsters of Doom had already begun their march towards world domination and their attack upon the commanding heights of human cultural achievement that we were so eagerly rushing to abandon.

Almost inevitably, those that first became Disciples of the Hamsters of Doom were looked upon with scorn and derision by the rest of us for their diet of sunflower seeds and their strange passion for sawdust floor coverings. But soon - first, in London, of course - the giant exercise wheels began to appear.

Sponsorship in Sport

Of course, back in those days we had to provide our own sheep. There was none of this corporate sponsorship, not in those early days. Only the other day I saw some one whose wellies had been sponsored by PlungenPuke Sheep-dips. Bloody good wellies they were too, designed so that once the sheep had her back legs in them there was no way she could wiggle free.

I wish I'd had a pair like that, back when I was young enough to get up to the top of Torfellbank hill when all the young ewes used to gather up there.

Anyway, I blame the television money. As soon as they get hold of a sport, the money pours in. That brings more money in and before you know it, the sheep have adverts for banks and suchlike dyed into their fleeces. 'Do to this sheep exactly what our bank has been doing to you all these years.' I remember that one.

There's drugs as well. So many shepherds these days are on Viagra, it makes going into the dressing room like trying to walk through a turnstile.

(One of my earliest – see here for example. Note: the link to the actual article is broken. I’ll get around to fixing it when I redo the webpage sometime in the near* future.)

*near future – as in quite possibly never.

Justice: A Strong Signal Sent

Early yesterday afternoon, career criminal Splice Defoliant was convicted - at Hull County Court - of First Degree Semi-Indifferent Sheep Estrangement. He will, consequently, serve the minimum term of twenty years in prison, slightly reduced to a maximum of twelve weeks, as the judge revealed, Defoliant was eligible for time off his sentence for good behaviour, a nice suit and - somewhat controversially - in the Judge's opinion, having quite a nice bottom.

The scourge of Semi-Indifferent Sheep Estrangement has been running amok and unchecked throughout this land for a long time now. Consequently, such a harsh sentence will send out a strong signal that the justice system - and decent law-abiding people - in this country will no longer stand idly by while these miscreants deliberately - and with malice aforethought - estrange some of our finest semi-indifferent sheep.

This judgement, does go to show that the justice system in this great country of ours is in close touch with the mood of the media, and will not ignore the shrill tabloid clamour for 'something to be done' no matter how opportune or ill-judged.

As the current, previous, or next, Home Secretary, Kneejerk Populist, said recently:

For too long now, too many of our laws have been based on the frankly old-fashioned and outdated notions of fairness and justice. But, we are now in this modern age of 24-hour instant media, who are using increasingly shrill attempts to capture the attention of a fickle and shallow consumer base. So, what is needed is a justice system that can respond instantly to whatever is the current folk-devil, moral panic, media whipped-up storm, faux-outrage or sales-led cynical media campaign, as swiftly, and as arbitrarily ill-judged, as possible. For, as long as the public is under the illusion that 'something is being done', no matter how cosmetically ineffectual, or half-arsedly inept, then I can rest assured that my job is still safe.

The Other Side Of The Reservoir

It came to pass that the prophet Nhigel (May His Plums Dangle Mightily) and his Mates had gone out one warm summer morning, to go fishing down at the local reservoir. First, they undertook the ceremony of the Holy lager as they sat on the bank, chanting the rites of ‘Last Night’s Telly’.

‘Me, I reckon you don’t get so many birds getting their kit off these days, as you used to,’ said Stan the Sceptic.

‘It’s wossname,’ said Barry the Tosser, producing a fart that all the others felt needed a round of applause. ‘Y’know?’

‘Feminism?’ said the all-knowing Nhigel.

‘Yeah, that,’ said Barry the Tosser.

‘That’s why the telly is run by women these days,’ said Phil the Wanker. ‘They’re in all the top jobs, and so they make all these bloody girly programmes, soaps, fashion, all that reality crap.’

The other Mates nodded their approval at these wise words.

‘I bet they’re all lesbians,’ said Barry the Tosser.

The Mates considered this point for a while as the pile of empty cans grew larger.

‘Nah,’ Steve the Sceptic said eventually. ‘If they were all lesbians, then wouldn’t there be more birds getting their kit off, rather than less?’

The Mates turned as one, to hear the wise words of Nhigel on this great philosophical conundrum.

‘Fair point, mate. Fair point,’ Nhigel said. ‘Anyway, about this fishing then?’

‘What fishing?’ said Barry the Tosser, failing to stand up.

‘We came here to do some fishing,’ Phil the Wanker said to Barry.

‘Did we?’ Barry said. ‘I wondered why you’d all got those fishing rods and stuff.’

‘Why do you think we stopped off at the bait shop?’ said Phil the Wanker.

‘’Cos Nhigel fancies the one that works there,’ said Barry the Tosser. He turned to Nhigel. ‘Did you pull her yet?’

Nhigel just smiled. ‘About this fishing,’ he said. ‘I reckon we ought to try around the other side of the reservoir.’

‘Why?’ said Stan the Sceptic.

‘I bet it is because there are more fish over there,’ said Big Paul, Nhigel’s best mate. He turned to Nhigel confidently. ‘Am I right, Nhige?’

Nhigel was silent for a moment. He smiled up at Big Paul. ‘No.’ was all he said.

‘No?’ The Mates all looked at each other, then back to Nhigel who was staring off across the reservoir.

‘Then why they hell should we trudge all the way around there?’ said Stan the Sceptic. ‘It’s bloody miles and the pub will be open soon,’ he said, looking up at the sky and calculating it wasn’t long until midday.

‘Because,’ Nhigel said, getting carefully to his feet. He nodded towards Stan. ‘As you rightly observed it is getting towards lunch time.’

‘What the hell has the time of day got to do with it?’ said Barry the Tosser, looking confused.

‘Because,’ Nhigel said, picking up his rod and setting off along the bank of the reservoir. ‘Because, the girls from the biscuit factory over on the other side of the reservoir have found a nice secluded place where they can go topless sunbathing during their lunch break…. Coming, lads?’

Immediately, as one, all the Mates got to their feet and followed Nhigel as he led them away. However, Barry the Tosser was so eager he ran straight into a tree and fell down again.

‘It’s a bloody miracle!’ Barry the Tosser cried struggling to his feet once more and rushing to catch up with Nhigel and the rest of the mates as they hurriedly made their way around to the other side of the reservoir.