An arms race in outer space!

There's an arms race in outer space

and Trump wants a United Ireland

Artificial Intelligence is going to kill us all

Cinderella, you shall go to the ball.

British Patriots in nonce bonnets

can't understand why people wish to leave the union,

"No we want you to stay but we want them to go"

all this and more caught on a second hand Go Pro

All the Western countries are in a pickle, 

the Nazis are on the march!

Reform UK Ltd are taking bungs like they're going out of fashion

At this rate Nigel Farage will be able to afford a dachshund.

A little toy dog he'll keep in his man bag

it will have a small moustache and angled fringe

and just when scrutiny rears its ugly head

the dog will frighten journalists away by barking "Raus"

History repeats itself and fascism comes back into fashion

some will call it sensible politics and create excuses

for the unmentionable.

Even the sleepiest among us can see that life is now questionable.

Anglophiles question why Celts want to leave the Union

The response "You were the original invaders'

is met with incredulity.

Public Schoolboys with ties to Monarchy are never off duty.

Britain is the shittest it's ever been 

We can't even say God Save the Queen

because her son is in the throne room

and the brother hiding at Sandringham

Harry & Meghan are being given the runaround

The King and the Tabloids are trying to run them aground

Perfidious Albion is seething with discontent

You can see them in Piddington and Portsmouth,the malcontents

Will it ever get better? Probably not

It's too late to stop the rot

A scared and frightened populace are easily controlled

by an arms race in outer space!

Tawdry Audrey

If you blame Capitalism you sound as if you are blaming human behaviour for the state of human society. You could come across as a little naive because Capitalism dominates our lives, it's all that we know. As we get older we come to recognise its restrictions and limitations but it's all that we know.

Michael Crick, the Journalist, described the 36million donation to Reform UK Ltd by a British based crypto currency dealer as 'tawdry'. If you went up to Donald Trump and said that his offer to every adult voter of $5,000 if the Republicans are voted in as the majority of both houses as tawdry, he would reply "Audrey" I have no recollection of any Audrey.  

Not content with suspicion over the £5,000,000 bung for services rendered, Reform UK Ltd are in doubling down freefall and appear over the moon with donations of loadsa money to be able to buy the Prime Ministership of Britain. 

Britain and America are so similar in their dis-functional democracies that money talks. "We might just be able to blow the doors off this thing with more investment and a share option"

I hope that Jack Polanski takes Holborn & St Pancras for the Greens but I also hope that Andy Burnham is a success as Prime Minister as he has identified the 40 years plus scourge of neo liberalism and he and Ed Miliband are pushing back against the settler colonialism of the Israeli West Bank. Too little too late some are opining but as Rome was not built in a day, the Zionist entity in Israel will not be toppled in a day either.

Songs have been sung about money since the first shekel changed hands but it's those that don't complain about money that seem to have the most of it. They don't question 'the oil' of currency they just get on with acquiring more of it. We can blame the billionaires all we like but the billionaires are the Untouchables. Even accusations of Pedophilia cannot bring them down. 

For those of us who are bad with money. It passes through our hands. It is spent as soon as it reaches us. To earn money by any form of work or toil could be viewed as prostitution. You are prostituting your time in return for a remuneration. You can lose that remuneration in an instant but you will never get that time back.

At what age does it sink in that we will never be free?

When Alan Milburn knocks on our door and asks our parents "Are there any 'Not in Employment, Education or Training' in your household?

We have workfare at Sainsburys or they can join the British Army!

Factory Fodder or Fodder for the War Machine.

It is obvious that money talks but isn't it up to us whether we put any value on that money?

Isn't that what cryptocurrency is after all? 

 

Welcome to Great Britain

is patently untrue

to put it bluntly we don't want you.

You really are not welcome

so the black cladded 'patriots' would have you believe.

From Dover to Portsmouth and everywhere in between

there is seething resentment at the giant dinghies sight unseen.

If you've sailed from Cherbourg to the Solent 

you deserve a round of applause 

but what the lumpen proletariat don't like, it's not being done for the cause,

for the sake of Blighty and the white working class denizens within.

They feel that they are being cheated out of housing and healthcare,

of non existent jobs, why don't the Toffs care?

It's only the dodgy posh like Farage and Rupert Lowe  

who've sold their souls to the foreign devils

They'll take you all below.

The greatest grift of smoke and mirrors is being perpetuated by wealthy conmen

while the dangerous uneducated have been waiting for this day!

From Epping Forest to Southport, to Knowsley, to Cannock to Rotherham

from Southampton it's coming round the coast again. 

Burnham wants to spread the load so the wealthy can feel the pain

of the poor bitter and twisted but they have lawyers on their side.

Men in wigs who will send the Middle Class to Jail

for protesting with a sign!

"Oh Jerusalem! Oh Perfidious Albion! please tell me what is mine?

Wotchoo mean nuffing?

I got to have someffink for my troubles don't you see" 

They're coming to take my nothing

that's why we scream and shout

It's too easy for you to call me a far right lout. 

I can't pretend to understand the politics of Empire and of bombings and of war

all I do know that after a day of doom scrolling I feel very sore.

Trump and Musk have all the answers and now the AFD

No more woke weak lefty labour liberals for us!

You can stuff your Greens right up your chuff

It's football and a punch up and a Sunday lunch

"We want our country back and stop the boats"

"Get out of my way you non British scrote" 

 The Sasquatch of Sasgwent

If you put Chepstow into Google Maps, the American dame the other end

will tell you that you are closing in on 'Sasgwent'

The hard C in Casgwent becomes the soft S in Sarasota

SO 

I thought that I would write a poem called

The Sasquatch of Sasgwent do patrol the old Severn Bridge

not for her the forests and caves of 

Oregon and Washington State

but this tiny corner of South East Wales

She is as old as Brenin Tewdrig

and as young as the emergency alarm in Welsh only

She is a Gwennwys  

She's not a silly arse and has no airs and graces

but you better give her plenty of room 

in the wide open spaces

She'd crush your Tesla with her bare teeth

and drown Elon Musk at the Severn Bore

She was taking tolls when legally allowed to do so

pocketing the cash in her big furry pouch

Whoa betide those who try and mess with 

the Sasquatch of Sasgwent!

You'll wish that you'd never been so cocky 

when she beats you round the back of the head with a hockey 🏑

"Stick that up your jumper" she cries in Gwenhwyseg

On occasion she'd be chatted up by big fat hairy men

from Avonmouth and Bristol

but they soon back away when she shows them her pistol

"It's not safe for a Severn foot eight 

or is that an eight foot Severn lady"

so she has to assert her dominance to males

who can be a right pain in the arse especially in Wales

Heads do turn in the Chepstow Tescos when

 her fist comes down on the self service till 

"They just don't want to employ staff, 

they're putting people out of work"

as she sashays back to the ol Severn Bridge

another day in the life of 

The Sasquatch of Sasgwent.

Pinch, Punch, First Day of the Month! #politicalpoetry

 

Blame Andy Burnham

Keegan's Képi Blanc

 KEEGAN'S

Képi Blanc

remembrances

a work of faction

by

Daf Williams

It was 1976 and we were 10. Punk was dawning and the swamp of teenage-hood was before us. Me and my best mate Mickey lived in Cilcain, in the same village as Kevin Keegan who played for Liverpool. 

Kevin Keegan's Voice 

'Jean and I had decided to buy a house in Wales when we discovered how much more you could get for your money there. Our lovely house with two acres of land cost no more than the three bedroomed semis on smart estates in Liverpool that the other players usually favoured. The fantastic views and the peace and quiet of the countryside were well worth the time it took to commute to Anfield. We used to ride our horses for miles and miles in Parc Arthur and rarely saw another soul, although on one occasion we were out on horseback, scarecly identifiable in our riding gear and hats when a guy popped up apparently from nowhere and asked me for my autograph which was pretty weird.'

Extract from his autobiography.

Our Fathers were self made men, my dad had a printing business in Denbigh called Gwasg Ni and Mickey's Dad had a Jewellery business in Ruthin called Kinsellas. They were born Welsh and Classless. Class was an English Invention. Pops had come across it first when he had started work in Fleet Street in the 1950's. He was London Welsh and went to Jewin on a Sunday and Highbury on a Saturday. He'd had me late in life and looking back I had everything apart from cuddles.  Cilcain stands nestled under Moel Famau where on a Sunny Day you can see the Liver Building.  Mickey's Dad had been born in Liverpool, but his grandparents were from St Asaph. Mickey and I had gone to the Village School, Ysgol y Foel and that's where we came across Kevin Keegan for the first time. He was giving out prizes at the Sports Day.

Our fathers were deciding where to send us. It was our last year in primary. We wanted to go together obviously but our Dads had different ideas. Even though I spoke Welsh, Mickey didn't. Mickey's Dad was very pro the language and Welsh Culture even though he'd lost it in Liverpool. My Dad having lived in London just wanted me to have a good education, a head start. His business was doing well and he said that he could afford to send me private. I didn't know about such things in those days. Me and Mickey obviously wanted to be together. 

Other things were on our minds in the Spring of 1976. Through his Jewellery Business Mickey's Dad Gwilym or Bill as he was called had got tickets for the second leg of Liverpool V Barcelona at Anfield. Tickets were like Godldust. Toshack had scored in the first leg at the Nou Camp and the Spanish Fans had thrown their cushions down in disgust on the pitch at the end of the game. 55,104 tickets had gone on sale, a club record for Liverpool. It was the semi-final of the Uefa Cup.

One thing was sure, you couldn't see the Denbigh Mental from the top of Moel Famau. It was hidden as Mental Illness was hidden. It was taboo, verboeten.

Square Pegs in round holes, that's what me and Mickey were. We stayed friends until Margaret Thatcher came in to power and then we saw less and less of eachother. I had withdrawn into my shell not to emerge until my breakdown at 21. Admitted to the North Wales Medical Centre for two weeks under Dr Dafydd Alun Jones. I was told that I was very sensitive.

The First Punk Record to be launched in the UK was still seven months away. The Sex Pistols Anarchy in the UK so we still had to put up with the likes of Chicago's 'If you leave me now' or David Soul's 'Don't give up on us baby'. Pants wot? We were ten and so alive. Telly Savalas was all the rage in 1976 and we just couldn't stop saying "Who loves you baby"? We must have said it a hundred times a day. We didn't think of him dying of cancer when we were just starting out on the fags and reading action magazine.

The Heather on Moel Famau was like a warm bed of curly hair that enveloped you when you fell. You pick the right spot and you could move across like Sid Vicious or Johnny Rotten on a sea of arms after they had thrown themselves into the crowd. Summers were hot and reliable in the seventies and the summer of 76 was to be the hottest of the lot. There was only a little wind and we made the most of it with our Peter Powell Stunt kites. One day Mickey's Gran from Liverpool came with us. She must have been about 80 then and she had the broadest Scouse accent I've ever heard. Mickey had a Red Kite naturally and I had a White one (Liverpool's home and away strip) She punched Mickey in the shoulder when he wouldn't hand it over.  Me and Mickey were big cyclists. We'd love nothing better than to descend into the villages below Llangynhafal, Hendrerwydd, Gellifor, spin through the red Rocks. Find the Village Shop and try it on with the fags. We had the money we just needed the fags. Our fathers smoked cigars and my dad preferred a pipe. We were enveloped in the smoke of Grandee and Three Nuns as we watched Liverpool in their all white strip playing Johan Cruyff's Barcelona. It was 1-1 and Liverpool went through on a Big Phil Thompson goal. I was blonde and Mickey had Black hair. We were always over eachother's houses playing. Our Mam's would make us great teas of Jammy Dodgers and Golden Wonder Crisps with Cherryade Corona.

Oh yes, we'd passed the physical allright. We both had older sisters who thought we were pests and nuisances. Her and me Ma would be swooning over Sacha Distel and me Da would be puffing on his pipe in his brown and cream stripey cardigan and detachable Prince Charles Beard. Looking back it seems like he had a beard one day and then he wouldn't the next. Even though Mickey's dad and my Dad were businessmen they supported the Labour Party.

Me and Mickey were planning to find a car like Starsky and Hutches in Mold and steal it.

Mickey grew up to be a kind of Travis Bickle Character. We're all loners really. I don't know why the media make such a big thing of it. We live as we dream, alone.

The Big Treat would be going off somewhere sometimes Rhyl, sometimes Wrexham. Me and Mickey had viewfinders and we always needed to top up with new views because we'd got bored. We were also suckers for these Transfer Books you could get in WH Smiths. From War to Dinosaurs. Really 76/77 was to be our last year together. He would go to Ysgol Glan Clwyd in St Asaph and I was sent to Ruthin School, the Redcaps. Two of the worst decisions our fathers could have made. They loved us I know but they fucked us up like in Phillip Larkin's poem when they did that to us. We actually ended up discussing whether our Dad's had swopped us when we were babies. He spoke English at home and went to a Welsh Medium School and I spoke Welsh at home and ended up going to an English Public school. Still ours wasn't to reason why, ours was just to do or die. And that's what me and Mickey did during our teenage years, we died. He wasn't a particularly naughty lad in primary but by all accounts he went haywire in Glan Clwyd. I went the opposite in Ruthin. I went into my shell. We did Latin there and I even remember doing extra Latin. Latin when the Hen Iaith fy Nhadau was dying. I really don't know what happens to you and your body and your mind when you turn thirteen but kids should be warned. It's mental.            

Mickey went off and joined the French Foreign Legion