Supermarket Soliders

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“Ooh!” Karla jumped. 
Karla had just been putting a tin of beans in her basket when she looked up and saw the solider with a sub-machine gun standing in front of her. You didn’t often see armed men on the tinned goods aisle.
He winked at her and put his finger to his mouth. She smiled at him, he was a bit of a hunk.
“What's going on?” She whispered. 
“Don't worry, you'll be fine.”
“This is a customer announcement, will all customers please leave their trolleys and baskets where they are, and go to the frozen goods aisle, that's aisle 7. All customers please go to the frozen goods aisle.”

She looked at her solider for reassurance but he was no longer looking at her. He’d been joined by an older man, who was not quite so reassuring. The older man’s combat shirt’s sleeves were rolled up revealing ugly old fashioned tattoos, the buttons on the front struggled to contain his tummy and when he talked, Karla noticed he had three front teeth missing.
She bent down and put her basket on the floor and then headed to aisle 7, where about twenty five to thirty customers were standing looking confused. It ws cold in that frozen goods aisle.
“What's going on?” Karla asked one woman who just shrugged back at her.
“Don't worry,” Karla said echoing the soldier’s words, “we’ll be fine."
There were soldiers at  each end of the aisle now, six of them, plus three walking up and down. Each had their own gun. Karla looked at their uniforms, they were all slightly different and there was no insignia.
This was odd.
“Stand in a line up against the freezers,” the ugly man shouted. The confused customers did as they were told.
“Time to go home,” he said. 
He walked down the aisle, looking at all the faces. 
“You! Scum,” he shouter, and pulled out a woman wearing a hijab. 
“Pig,” he grunted and pulled out a man in a turban. 
“Filth,” he said, as another brown skinned woman was targeted. “Take them away,” the fat man cried and the three frightened customers were led away by one of the soldiers. 
“Now,” said the ugly man, “let's see. You,” he pointed to a young man. “Where are you from?” 
“Cardiff,” the man said. 
“You,” ugly pointed to Karla.
“Barry,” she said.
“Speak up woman,” he shouted 
“Barry,” she said again. 
“You,” he pointed to an man in his forties, 
“Prague,” the man said. Ugly slapped him and pulled him out of the line. 
“You,” he pointed to the woman Karla had reassured moments before.
“Cardiff,” she said, but her accent betrayed. 
“I said from, not where do you live, or do you not understand English, you piece of foreign shit.” 
“Poland,” the woman said. 
The man spat on the floor, his gob landing just a centimetre away from the woman's foot.
He pulled her into the aisle ready to be taken away. He pulled out three more people and then signalled one of his mean to take them all.

“There,” he said to the rest of the shoppers. “We’ve freed you from the enemy within.”
“Take me too,” Karla said. 

The ugly man stepped towards her.

“Oh, why would I take you?” He ran a hand down her cheek. “You’re not scum, you belong here.”

Karla mouthed words, but nothing came out.

“Don’t try to be a hero missy,” the ugly man said. “You’re too pretty for that.” He gently slapped her cheek. Then he marched out of the store with his men, but there was no rhythm or timing.

“It’s you who don’t belong here,” Karla screamed, but it was too late. The men had gone, taking their prisoners with them. 

Beyonce

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 At first Cardiff looked like it was hosting a giant hen do; happy drunken laughter and the clip clop of impossibly high heels echoed around the bars and streets. The were divas, grown women, broken hearted girls, and those who wished they were a boy. Every now and again the strains of ‘Crazy in Love’ could be heard, just slightly out of tune and with a distinctly Valley’s lilt. The rain mizzled in their air, making all the posh frocks stick to the skin and the hair dos become hair don’ts. From the look of things, it seemed like the deck chair pattern was the ‘in’ fashion either that or everyone had made tier own dress and there were empty wooden frames scattered across the prom in Barry Island.  If ever there was a world record for the most flesh on show while being clothed, Cardiff would be challenging it tonight. Mitch couldn’t remember seeing such a dominance of one sex.  Even rugby international were not so one sided. Cardiff had become a woman’s world for the countdown to a Beyonce concert.     

Suddenly the mood changed. It was time to go. Business faces on, dregs of drinks drank, the march began. Like a line of worker ants, the battalion set off. An army of women marching on their six inch heels. Wave after wave of women, not a man in sight. Except for Mitch. Mitch was braving the rain and the oestrogen in order to get home in time for the football. While the women were being entertained by Beyonce’s Formation, the men were glued to a 4-3-3 formation.

Although an all female army might look impressive, a combination of heels just a bit too high, skirts maybe just a bit too short and rain just a bit too heavy meant the troop moved slowly over the treacherous ground. Mitch decided he needed to do an overtaking manoeuvre. He curved out of the line to the left, quickening his pace. 

Mitch felt his left foot slide just a little too far forwards, if he got the right one down quickly, he could surely save himself. But he got it down too fast, it also slipped on the wet Tarmac. Now there was nothing that could save him, his hip hit the ground first, followed by his elbow and then his right hand. The pain jarred though his shoulders. 

A collective female gasp was followed by female laughter. He’d become the entertainment for the hen do crowd. 

“Don't hurt yourself,” one of them yelled to more laughter. 

The pain was bearable; it was the embarrassment that haunted him the most. Maybe, just maybe, he thought to himself, that one of the Beyoncé army with a halo would help him up and dust him down and their eyes would meet, and it would be the start of something beautiful. In the future they’d laugh about how they met and people would say it was like a movie. 

“Are you okay?”

Mitch looked up, hoping to see one of the single ladies, but his dreams came crashing down when he saw a six foot five safety steward was proffering a hand to help Mitch up. 

“I’m fine,” Mitch said. 

By the way, how many Beyonce songs (or near enough) did you spot in the story? Answers after the ad break.

Halo
Crazy in Love 
Diva
Single Ladies
If I were a boy 
Grown woman
Broken hearted girl
Don't hurt yourself
Haunted 
6 inch 
Countdown

Joe Ledley's Super Beard

A little Saturday Special  For audio click here

Gareth Bale's ponytail,
Robson Kanu's Cruyff's turn,
an Ashley Williams headed goal,
for none of these I yearn.
Sam Vokes can score a header,
Aaron's yellow, we all jeered,
but the best thing on the field in Lille
was Joe Ledley's super beard

The anthem made my hairs stand.
In the fan zone people cheered.
But the best thing on the field in Lille
Was Joe Ledley's super beard.

So we're in the semi final
And Ronaldo will be feared,
but we've got a secret weapon
Joe Ledley's super beard

Nerves Fried

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Nerves fried; a plane that is way too crowded without the air con on yet,  a mother, on her second flight, three bags and a three-year-old. All the ingredients you need for a temper tantrum, and the mother is close to losing it. The three-year-old is charming, an adorable smile and a mind of her own. “Hello,” she breezily sings to each passenger as she walks down the aisle. “Hello, hello, hello.” The little dab is managing to put a smile on the faces of even the most grumpy of customers. But there’s no smile on her mother’s face. There’s sweat, and a frown, but no smile.
The mother is two metres behind her child, trying to juggle the bags, the passports and the boarding cards, trying to watch the child and scan the seat numbers. It looks like she’s multitasked out for a while. There’s two additional bags under her eyes suggesting that it has already been a long day. To make it worse there is someone in her seat. Will that be the straw that breaks this camel’s back? The man sitting there smiles at the woman.

“Do you need any help,” he says.
“That's my seat,” she replies.
“No it's not,” he has the confidence of a man who knows he’s right. He points to the number on his boarding pass.
She drops a bag. Her daughter is heading back down the plane.

“Hello, hello, hello.” 

The mother looks at the card in her hand. She sees it, but she doesn't believe it. One seat is 22b the other seat is 25c. She can't sit apart from a three-year-old.  She looks again at the boarding card in case she’s made a mistake, she hasn’t She thinks about cursing the check-in girl before remembering she checked herself in online.

“Anke,” she calls out to her daughter, who is showing her teddy bear to a man in a suit.
“Help,” she says to a nearby member of staff. 

The woman in the blue uniform smiles.

“I have to sit with my baby,” the mother says. “I can’t sit apart. She’s only three, I can’t sit apart.”

“I’m sure we can sort this out.” The flight attendant takes the boarding cards from the woman and looks at them.

“I have to sit with my baby.” The panic is palpable.

“Madam, one boarding card is from this flight and one is from your last one. Have you got another one somewhere.”

The woman drops another bag and fetches out another card from the third bag.

“So you are 22a and b madam.” the attendant says. The woman’s sigh of relief is heard back in the terminal building.