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Saturday, 16 June 2018

Home Town









It could be Spice, it could be alcohol, it could be Bridgend, it could be Manchester. It doesn't really matter. What matters to the comfortable and complacent is that this is in full daylight when people should be in work. There is no work. There is no hope. Only benefits if you are lucky! It is all very well the Police asking people to work with them to counter the destructive tactics of drug dealers but these dealers are only emulating what they see around them every day namely Neo-Liberal Capitalism. A dealer would not classify themselves as such. They would consider themselves 'entrepreneurs'. We are in the world of 'The Apprentice' and 'Dragons Den'. They are thinking "Well if I show a bit of initiative here, I can make some money". What Conservatives, The Police and The Establishment want you to do is make money legally by going to work but as we know there is no quality work. Top jobs in the area are in Parc Prison for Officers looking after locals who choose to Zombie out on Park Benches but is Drug Addiction really a choice? Do people really choose to behave in a manner designed to upset the comfortable and complacent or have they been traumatised by circumstances at an early age? "There but for the Grace of God go I" cries a local pastor with trembling finger. "There is no God" comes back the reply from the hunched up figure on the park bench.  




Monday, 4 June 2018

Mortality & Mental Health


https://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/318895.php

It's a Monday so what better day of the week to write about mortality and mental health. Death, other peoples that we are not intimately connected with have entered our 'living rooms' since the advent of 24 hour news. We all knew subconsciously that other people were dying, but we didn't know them, they were on a different continent, it was a war that had nothing to do with us so we didn't care. The trouble was we did care. We cared too much but we didn't know what to do with that generalised anxiety. The good news story at the end about the hamster learning how to juggle alleviated our concerns slightly but there was always a niggle that would return "When would it be our turn?" What has happened recently is that 'death' has been turned up a notch with ISIL and their televised You Tube barbarity playing on our subconscious fears. Do people in poorer countries who have had bombs dropped on them fear death less than those in wealthy countries. The wealthy 1% have been building bunkers to escape to, if the shit hits the fan. My specific interest in writing this post is a link with mental health. There must be one. I have death anxiety  I must have or I wouldn't be writing this. My anxiety revolves around the impending deaths of those close to me and then to a more selfish and personal death anxiety, the neurosis related to an 'unlived life'. I have not truly lived and this is what my own personal anxiety relates to. Knowing that at one particular time in the future, that all our collective lights will be extinguished, perhaps leads to this desperate scrambling to fill our lives with stuff, occasions, more stuff, more people to carry on our lineage and the equally desperate succour to be convinced that there will be a life for us after death because this one is so shit. I cannot be alone in this thinking but I have never heard it discussed in mental health circles "The reason that I am mad is that I am scared to die or that I am scared to continue with an unlived and unlivable life" As a layperson who has read a few psychology books I am more convinced now than when I began, that the threat of death underpins much of our collective madness and insanity and instead of being comforted by the news reports of mass deaths, we are even more disturbed by it because these deaths are more and more senseless. Death needs to make sense. Death needs to be the price we pay for a full, kind and caring life not for a selfish one. So when we receive the news that innocents are killed we are outraged because they have not been given the opportunity to lead a full, kind and caring life because it has been snatched away by the selfish ones.     

Wednesday, 30 May 2018

Obstruction


Anywhere you go, in this day and age, you are likely to be obstructed. Your physical progress in day to day activities like driving gas guzzlers is likely to be impeded by traffic jams and parking restrictions. We have sensed a rise in racism since the Brexit vote of 2016 but the Shark Fisherman of Wales has also felt a growing sense of claustrophobia. If you want to get somewhere you have to physically factor in the likelihood of delays. This over powering sense on occasion of being hemmed in, of gasping for air, especially on sweaty, sultry days like yesterday. If I feel like this in the countryside, imagine what sensitive snowflakes in the cities feel like. When I return to Kairdiff from West Wales which is less often these days, if I am able to borrow a motor vehicle, I make sure that I leave late in the evening so that there is less likelihood of traffic congestion. I, like everyone else, prefer a smooth run but dependent on the time of day this is less and less likely. The Bus takes 4 and a half hours from Aber to Cardiff (although I am told that there is a faster one now), the train takes you through Shrewsbury to get to Caerdydd and that is over 4 and a half hours. When you consider that it is 2 and a half hours to get to Paddington from Cardiff Central by train, then the word obstruction springs to mind. We in Wales are being obstructed from progressing. Barricades are being put in our way, both physical and metaphorical. It is not in London Government's best interests to have a Wales where people can get about, they might unite.
Another example of obstruction is in ones pursuit of employment. If one has been unemployed as long as me, then the matter of references becomes a burden. I wonder now, who can I contact from 2005, who will be able to give me a reference?  How do you give somebody who suffered a drug induced psychosis a character reference? Here are a number of fictitious references I imagine could be written about me:

"If he gets bored, he will just walk off the job"

" Keep him interested and give him some variety, otherwise he will tell you what you can do with your job"

" He is not interested in money so make sure that you can spin some higher, esoteric, altruistic motive behind your soulless, mind numbing job"

The obstruction is in my mind. I have bought into 'Learned Helplessness' big style. The rats putting their paws on a pad and getting an electric shock and then giving up. I realise that I gave up on life at the age of 22. I have been going through the motions for the last 30 years, not feeling anything, not allowing myself to feel anything. This disassociation as a defence mechanism. Withdraw into yourself and then just leave your physical form for others to deal with. The reality of life's obstructions are just too much to deal with so we just pretend that they don't exist, we retreat into drink and drugs and addictive behaviour to numb the pain of thwarted ambition, or we cheat and go round the obstruction, instead of over it. You will recognise the people who do this immediately. They are our elected representatives in Parliament. They realised very early on that they wouldn't need references. Just join the local party and voila, you can become leader without very much life experience at all. I am starting to realise that Government is the obstruction in all our lives and 'learned helplessness' is voting them back in every 5 years.     

Wednesday, 23 May 2018

A View from the Bridge

The Shark Fisherman of Wales is spending much of his time in Ceredigion these days attending to family needs and cares. This requires travel down the beast of a road known as the A487. Last Thursday I was stationary outside the Aberaeron Stores (aka the Spar) on the Bridge for five minutes awaiting oncoming traffic coming from the South (Cardigan) Those familiar with the picturesque Georgian town know that residents, churchgoers, Wncl Tom Cobblers et al, park all along the left side of the road up as far as the Craft Centre at Clos Pencarreg. It used to be the case that two sets of traffic, Northbound and Southbound could pass each other with care. Not any more. Due to the size of the Heavy Goods Vehicles going North and South along this trunk road, somebody has to give way. So similar to the village of Llanon, because of parked cars along one side of the carriage way, drivers have to stop to give way to oncoming traffic. Summer's here and temperatures are soaring and I foresee road rage incidents and possibly accidents at these two specific places in the months to come. Yesterday, I was a Pedestrian on the bridge awaiting a family member to finish shopping and not once in the twenty minutes was I stood there did any traffic flow freely. South Bound Traffic had to stop for North Bound Traffic. If you are a regular user of this road, then you know, otherwise a sign outside the Aberaeron Stores GIVE WAY TO ONCOMING TRAFFIC might be helpful.

One suggestion would be to divert all heavy goods vehicles or cars down from Ffos-y-Ffin, down passed Rhiwgoch and on to the A482 thus avoiding the bridge all together. Is this feasible I ask Civil Engineers and Council Officials? 



The A487 has been in the news recently due to lobbying by petition to get road widening and passing places between Cardigan and Aberystwyth. As the Presiding Officer and Assembly Member for Ceredigion, Elin Jones actually lives beside this busy trunk road going through Aberaeron, you would have thought this would have been a priority for her.  

Tuesday, 15 May 2018

The Aloneness of the Long Distance Runner

GUEST POST BLOG by Matthew Lidis


You all remember my 600th post by special guest Matthew Lidis which has been viewed 961 times since its publication and over 1000 times by the time this one goes to press. Well my old writing buddy from Salford International University has gone and done it again. This time, he has achieved something pretty remarkable, hang on, I'll let him tell you about it himself. 


"In August 2004 I started running. I was living with my dad as I recuperated from a particularly nasty bout of depression. One night, from nowhere, I decided to put on a pair of battered indie Golas, seemingly the most suitable footwear I had for the task in hand, and ran round the block. It took me about three minutes. On my return I was drenched in a thick, cold sweat and my lungs were burning - the result of a long, fruitful and happy relationship with skunk weed and Embassy Number One. After necking a pint of water and flaking out on my single bed, my breathing and heart rate eventually returned to normal. And I felt, eventually, fantastic. Something had disappeared, something had clicked, something made sense. Within an hour I was raring to get out there again just so I could feel that rush and buzz that had faded far too quickly. The fog I had been swimming around in for the three or four years before had not lifted, but it was suddenly easier to navigate.

Over the coming weeks I could be seen pounding the streets of BL1 in my entirely unsuitable footwear and a broad array of ageing Britpop t-shirts. My distances slowly increased and I noticed my mind travelling to places it had never been before. I would come home from my temp job at a car finance firm eager to get out there on the pavement, just so I could see what revelations my legs would feed to my brain that night. It became clear that excercise was having as much a positive effect on my mental well-being as my physical health - a benefit the PE teachers failed to mention as they berated my teenage rejection of rope climbing and horse vaulting.
I made my way down to London that November and, by then, I had upped my mileage to around four per night. Running had become part of my daily routine, so much so that my new housemates would notice when I had not been for my daily fix. I had become addicted. New doors swing open the first time you take any drug. Avenues painted in never-before seen colours are yours to explore. Running was no different. I was chasing that sensation of release I felt after that first run, just like every junkie does. Without my daily hit I would become irritable and angry, which would melt away after a mile or two in exactly the same way as draining a couple of pints or a few tokes on a spliff.

Fast forward a few more years and, following the death of my mum and a particularly nasty break up, I had learned to cope by means of the all too rare combination of running and drinking. One justifying the other. By the time I was 30 I was happily running eight miles a day, followed by a good few beers or a bottle of wine or two. The carbs from the drink fuelling my running and the running allowing me to feel no guilt about drinking. As my miles/units crept up my thoughts inevitably turned to the challenges these bring. Could I manage a whole bottle of whisky in one go and could I run a marathon? The answer to the former, despite the disturbing events at a house party in Stoke Newington, was a resounding yes. A life goal achieved. I applied for the London marathon soon after. I didn’t get on an ended up running the Blackpool marathon instead. Which was great. I got a good time (3:40) But there was this niggling need to run the one I wanted to. Nine years of rejection magazines later, I finally got on. I was fat, but I was nearly two years sober.

I trained and trained, lost a stone and a half and paid £137 for a night in the Tottenham Premier Inn. As I made my way to Blackheath with 41000 other runners, I felt anxious. People shoved past me to get on the train, nobody talked. A nervous throng and the feint smell of Vaseline. Where was the #spiritoflondon? It was right there, the same as I’d ever known it. Brutal, unforgiving -  like the heat. I dragged myself round the course on the cusp of heatstroke the whole way. I remember very little about trotting through London in 24 degree heat other than the deafening noise of the crowd began to irritate me when I was focusing all my energy on simply not collapsing.


I feel a sense of emptiness as I write this on the swinging Virgin train home, sad that the legendary London marathon was not all I was expecting, although what I was expecting to enjoy about running along with the population of Skelmersdale, I am unsure. I do feel a sense of achievement and I do feel empathy for the other battered runners I see on this train, struggling to waddle up to the toilets. But, most of all, I feel a craving for the silence of pounding an open, empty road early on a Sunday morning. For if this fourteen year relationship with running has taught me anything it is that that my race is with myself and it is one I am happy to run alone."



Saturday, 5 May 2018

Oh to be left alone




The Swinging Sixties were not very swinging in Wales. I don't need to remind the historians and cognoscenti amongst you of the three events that shook Wales to its core but if Tryweryn, Aberfan and the Investiture of the Prince of Wales (all man made disasters that could have been avoided) didn't put the cap on it, was it not so surprising that it took another ten years to see the results of this at the polling booth. 1979, a mere decade after Carlo's bethroning at Caernarfon and a confused and divided people who had been munched up in World War 2 were asked whether they wanted a Welsh Assembly. The results really do speak for themselves. I was 13 at the time and the stirrings of my slavering, rabid Welsh nationalism were sown in this year. 
It took another 18 years for a defeated people ( traumatised by Thatcher's Decade and her defeat of the NUM and Arthur Scargill in 1984/85) to engender just enough interest to vote for a Welsh Assembly in 1997 and whilst it might have been a very good morning in Wales, around the world were the stirrings of events that would lead to the toppling of the Twin Towers in New York in 2001. In the 17 years since then Wales has essentially been a by-stander on the World Stage. I am trying to amass my thoughts whilst writing and am wondering what it will take for the Welsh people and the Welsh Nation to unify and take on the insidious might of Monarchy & Westminster. I hear this word sovereignty bandied about and it was a word that UKIP used to such an effect in the Referendum vote of 2016 and now look at them.
The Council elections and results yesterday were reminiscent of two dinosaurs fighting. As you may me aware I am rather partial to a bit of profanity so cover your ears. F*****g Conservative & F****** Labour were at it again with no clear winner. Similar to America we are victims to the Big Beasts of the two party system and with this first past the post nonsense it doesn't give any of the others much of a look in. The two party state is a monolith and people are no longer excited by the class war of Conservatism and Labour.  I suspect that like most people, they just want to be left alone but if there is one thing more certain in the modern age, you are not going to be left alone and by ere is a little poem I wrote about being left alone.


Sunday, 29 April 2018

The Welsh Wyddor


The Welsh Wyddor



Pont y Cont
Leanne for Life
Carwyn Cairns
Ducks & Drakeford
Boxing Mac
Sadness of Sargeant
Dirty Deryn
Eluned of Ely
The Toxic Taff
Nuclear Mudflaps
Judgement Day
Pont y Principality
Tramp Stamp
Ich Dien
Twll din i'r Cwin
Elfed Eisteddfod
British Broadcasting Corporation
Sianel Pedwar Cymru
Only the Lonely
knows this feeling inside guy
Tell me why is Wales full of tall tales from time served politicians?
Exam & White Boards
First Language or Second?
Will Kirsty lose her swydd under the new leader?
They will have to have a re shuffle
The only Liberal in the village
Three years left for the Kippers who will be reaching for their Tartan Slippers 
for Sturgeon's Scotland will be leading the way.
FREEDOM
Where there's a Wales, there is no way.
Like a fucked up Rubicks cube
Diarrhoea Jones and the Temple of Gloom
Two bit celebrities and their entourages.
Instead of One Wales my suggestion 
is to gift South Wales to England.
We the the ultra rabid slavering Nationalists 
retreat, encamp, withdraw to the mountains of North Wales and set up the Capital at Machynlleth.
The will of the Welsh people is to remain within the Greatest of Britains
 and no amount of tweeting otherwise will make any difference.

Friday, 27 April 2018

Putting the Bugger in Brynbuga







Dwi ddim yn gwybod os ydy o rywbeth i frolio amdano ond dwi 'Y Ffrinj Nuttar' wedi bod yn ymosod ar Carwyn Jones yn eiriol ymhell cyn sefyllfa Sargeant y llynedd. Mor bell nol a 2014 mi roeddwn ni yn ei alw fo 'The Grey Lady' oherwydd ei wep welw a'i ymarferiad o wisgo cotiau mawr du. Yn gorfforol roedd 'na fwy na dwtch o'r Donald Trump amdano. Hollol aneffeithiol fel Prif Weinidog a Gwleidydd faswn ni yn ei alw fo ac yn debyg i sawl arweinydd arall jest yn aros yna am y statws o gael ei alw yn arweinydd. Dos bosib rôl arweinydd/adweinyddes ydy arwain trwy esiampl a dim jest sefyll yna fel dummy siop teiliwr. Maent yn deud fod wythnos yn gyfnod hir yn wleidyddiaeth ond mae mis, neu flwyddyn neu dwy flynedd yn teimlo fel oes. Mi orffennais gerdded llwybr Clawdd Offa yn 2016 y diwrnod cyn y bleidlais Brexit ag ni all neb gwadu fod awyrgylch 'Brand Britain' wedi troi yn wenwynig ers y dydd hwnnw. Mae o fel bod isymwybod hiliol, yr 'island race' wedi dod i'r wyneb gyda rhyddhad o gael gwared â mewnfudwyr gydag un bleidlais. Ewrop oedd y bwgan mawr, yn debyg i ni yng Nghymru gyda Westminster a'r Teulu Brenhinol. Fel un sydd wedi byw yn Lloegr dydy neb yn gwario eiliad yn meddwl amdanon ni ochr arall i'r ffin fandyllog (porous border) ond nol yng Nghymru mae yn teimlo fel brwydr ddyddiol i ddatgan barn am hunaniaeth. Ein Quisling bach 'Alun Cairns' sydd wedi deffro un bore a phenderfynu fod enw newydd i fod ar yr ail Bont Hafren. Tatws Bach i gymharu â beth sydd yn digwydd yn Syria ond rydym ni fel dinasyddion Cymru yn meddwl gallwn ni gwneud rhywbeth am yr ail enwi gan wybod ni allwn newyd y sefyllfa yn Syria. Yn lle treulio amser gofidio am bwy sydd yn mynd i fod yn arweinydd nesaf y Blaid Lafur Cymraeg efallai ddylwn ni dechrau lobio i symud y Cynulliad mor bell i ffwrdd o Gaerdydd ag y Bont newydd ac sydd yn bosib. Aberystwyth yn lle Mark Drakeford, Caernarfon yn lle Eluned Morgan. Mae ein hen Prif Ddinas (ers 1955) wedi troi yn rhyw fath o le dwmpio'r genedl. Ddylswn ni wybod, dwi wedi bod yn pydru yna ers tri degawd bellach. Mae brwydr scwar ganolog wedi ei golli. Mae'r hen 'Temperance Town' wedi troi yn lle intemperate iawn erbyn hyn gyda chefnogwyr Rygbi yn troi yn flin yn ei chwrw. Ydy hwn mwy i wneud gyda chiwio i'r orsaf trenau tybed? Ac roedd Rod Liddle yn iawn tybed yn awgrymu ein bod yn wlad trydydd byd? Os dydych chi ddim wedi symud allan o eich milltir scwar erioed mi fyddwch yn berwi gydag anniddigrwydd dros y cwestiwn yna ond yn anffodus dwi wir yn teimlo fod yr ymateb i hun a sgrifennodd yn y Times wedi dangos ni i fyny fel cenedl croen tenau ofnadwy. Rhyfedd o fyd taw yr Aelod Seneddol Plaid Cymru a gafodd ei eni yn Lloegr sydd wedi ymateb mor chwyrn i eiriau ffwrdd a hi gan y dyn oedd arfer gweithio ar y South Wales Echo.  Rydym mor gyflym i ymosod ar ddinasyddion gwledydd eraill sydd yn datgan barn yn ein herbyn ond mae o fel ein bod yn cerdded ar blisg wyau tasa un o ein Cymry honedig yn deud rhywbeth. Mi orffennai yn son am David Davies, Aelod Seneddol Sir Fynwy, y dyn sydd wedi rhoi'r 'Bugger' yn 'Brynbuga'. Drueni fod Aelod Seneddol Dwyfor Meirionydd ddim yn cynrychioli'r hen Sir Gwent. Ar yr un diwrnod maent yn dadorchuddio cofeb yn Abergavenny i gofio am Eisteddfod Genedlaethol lwyddiannus diweddar mae'r Tori sydd wedi mynd i'r fath trafferth o ddysgu Cymraeg yn datgan 'English First' ar arwyddion ffordd. Rhyfedd o fyd indeed!  

Thursday, 19 April 2018

Keys to the Kingdom



Keys to the Kingdom


forget it folks, the weather's hot and Iceland are aving a Barbecue Promotion

Unbeknownst to the Welsh or should I say those that live or exist here, the whole country has gone from becoming a colony to a Castle.
The Prince of Wales Bridge is the Draw Bridge and the Severn Estuary is the Moat.
They tried the Ring of Iron at Flint but the whole of Wales is now a colonised castle and they have just handed over the keys to the BBC who will be broadcasting the Establishment and Westminster Propaganda from Central Square, Caerdydd. With the Anglophile WRU and the HMRC and the Trinity Mirror's Western Mail, the Centre of the Capital City has been tucked up like a kipper. They've done a Wooden Horse Manoevere, they've dropped their quislings and collaborators like Cairns, Carwyn and Ken and with UKIP in the Senedd you have to ask did we subconsciously want this to happen? Have we become addicted to submissive behaviour? Have we forgotten how to fight? I think we know that it is too late unless we are prepared to fight a guerrilla war like Owain Glyndwr. Cardiff is lost, despite the presence of the Eisteddfod and Tafwyl and loads and loads of the comfortably numb and complacent amongst the cyfryngis Cymraeg, nothing is going to change. The BBC are very clever you see because despite giving Welsh Speakers a comfortable living and a sense of self importance they have pulled the wool over our eyes. The viewers and listeners think that they are our saviours broadcasting in "iaith y nefoedd" but they are in fact creating a hell on earth in the long term because despite this bullshit target of 1 million speakers by 2050 we subconsciously know that we are disappearing up our own fundament and that the writing is on the wall for the language "Cofiwch Tryweryn" We are all taking part in a daily charade which is eroding our enaids from the inside out. We have become a soulless people. No longer kind and passionate, now vacuous and cold like the rest of South East England. We have been sold out in front of our own eyes by our own people. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and hoping for a different result so if you think that supporting Wales in the Six Nations and voting Plaid Cymru is going to save Wales then you are a mad c*nt. Take it from me because it takes one to know one. The only thing that can save Wales is an act of God. We need a Spiritual Revolution, A Diwygiad where people en mass, the 37,500 (It's a tidy sum but a mere drop in the ocean compared to the population of Wales)who signed the petition leave their homes on the day that the draw bridge for Castell Cymru is to be renamed and undertake a sit down protest to stop the traffic for as long as it takes for the c*nt Cairns to change his mind.If it means we have to drown him first, then so be it. We cannot put up with this shit any longer. There is no time left. The time is for action and if that means a Civil War, if that means hand to hand street fighting then so be it. 
Cymru am Byth.


Further Reading
Guaranteed to F**k you orft!



Tuesday, 17 April 2018

To whom this may offend


Alabaster Pasty
To whom this may offend
You may be affronted(hopefully)
by this punk performance poetry which is like
the non automatic, automatic door
on the waiting room at Keighley Station going Southbound.
I had me an alabaster pasty at the 'Island of Lesbos' artisan, wholefood delicatessen and patisserie in Hebden Bridge.
I paid a lot of money for summat that tasted overspiced.
It were a cross between chicken and avocado,  glycerine and ice.
This didn't actually happen, I am making it up.
To prove a point, that things are overpriced and you wonder why?
because
rent and rates, overheads, profit margins, greed and human nature.
 You've got sucker on your forehead,
The dead eyes of a Fellini headed female on a packed train from Leeds to Manchester.
She had more cases and bags than Sophia Loren's trailer on a film set. If you were fifty years older then you'd get the cultural reference.
We stood all the way on the Trans Penine Express, it was a Sunday. 
Dewsbury and Stalybridge rather than Venice-Simplon.
It is such an intimate way to travel, I imagined an orgy but I wouldn't take part.
I am an abstainer.
An abstainer of the alabaster pasty.
The price of the ticket should have meant that I travelled in first class fully clothed orgy.
There was solidarity amongst the stander uppers that the sitting downers could only envy.
Why are women on hen parties always overweight and ugly souled and loud?
Shoe horned into their black lycra, like walnuts stuffed into a man sized Johnny.
What the fuck has a pink flamingo and a cowboy hat got to do with getting married?
That poor bloke is all I can say when Debbie and Marian, Gloria and Fay come round and stay, drinking cocktails.
I thought that misogyny like anti-semitism was a made up thing but I came off that train in Piccadilly as if I'd had my dick rammed hard in a jar of Kosher Piccalilli .
Stinging foreskin needing lard and they wonder why we prefer foreign birds or other men.
Life is like an alabaster pasty.
You take a bite, it tastes of nothing and it gives you indigestion.



Second Hand Frigidity


Second Hand Frigidity



They don't like people, who make it quite clear, that they've been doing it wrong all along.
You know that this life and your wife is not the right fit but you'll sit tight in the hope that you'll find the wit and wisdom to extricate yourself from this mess.
Come on lah! Fess!
While good queen Bess meets the geezer off the blue planet you are still checking whether you have any stake left in it!
Can I sell it? Can I fuck it? Can I make it? Can I bake it?
Where did your obsession with cooking come from cos the British palate is not renowned around the world 
There's Indian, there's Chinese. There's Italian but not many that carry your name.
"Just going down the Butcher's Apron for some conger eel and mash mother!"
"Don't forget to bring some back for your brother."
Sibling rivalry will be the death of many a family and while mummy is concerned about Freya some of the working class are on an all daya, it might be a bender or it might be breakfast but listen to me while I broadcast that it's social mobility and the lack of it that is making people die ten years before their time.
All this International malarkey is just a distraction.
They, the Eton Toffs and The Vicar's Daughter don't want you to have what you oughtta!
They want you focused on the telly and playing with your willy.
They do not want you to plot and plan on how to get rid of the man. 
They are just so glad that you are more concerned about your Nan
who is the same age as the Country's matriarch.
The one that Prince Charles is waiting to cark.
He has always wanted to be King, he'll be the oldest monarch to don the crown, at this rate it will lodge on his frown.
They've bought him off with the Severn bridge, I'd have given him a clapped out old fridge for his second hand frigidity.



Tuesday, 10 April 2018

The Wider Silent Majority





"The wider, silent majority is absolutely with us"
said Alun Cairns of his bastard bairns, 
7th Generation of the Industrial Revolution
you mean the ones who drove the Brexit Bus 
down our Valleys Street and then got stuck up the twyn?
you mean the wider, silent majority
 who wear the Prince of Wales feathers on match days
at the Principality Stadium and then get roaring drunk and abusive because they hate themselves for not being able to sing the National Anthem?
They couldn't find their own arse with both hands let alone sign a petition
Yes they are absolutely with you, you simpering, grovelling Tory lickspittle, you triumphalist little Vale of Glamorgan Barley Baron.
When you were a Tory Assembly member you wrote down the words Greasy Wops on a note pad when asked by Vaughan Roderick what you thought of, when you thought of Italians. Ti ricordi che?
 Now you are Secretary of State for Wales.
What would the Bracchis, the Rabaiottis and the Basinis think of that? 


Bella Ciao from David Williams on Vimeo.

Bottom of the Ottoman

News from Nowhere

News from Nowhere
Liverpool

Hitler navigates the A487 from Aberaeron to Aberystwyth

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David's books

How To Be Idle
Second Sight
Freud: The Key Ideas
The Yellow World
Intimacy: Trusting Oneself and the Other
Going Mad?: Understanding Mental Illness
Back To Sanity: Healing the Madness of Our Minds
Ham on Rye
Electroboy: A Memoir of Mania
Memories, Dreams, Reflections
Mavericks
Murder in Amsterdam: The Death of Theo van Gogh and the Limits of Tolerance
On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft
I Bought a Mountain
Hovel in the Hills: An Account of the Simple Life
Ring of Bright Water
The Thirty-Nine Steps
A New Earth: Awakening to Your Life's Purpose
The Power of Now: A Guide to Spiritual Enlightenment
The Seat of the Soul


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