Suffering Sycophants

I didn't watch the game. I was listening to LBC. I read on social media in Welsh that Prince William sang the Welsh National anthem better than the players. They were of course wearing the emblem of his father and his father's grandfather's brother (Edward VIII) going back in perpetuity. The emblem that signifies that a foreign prince has power and influence over a principality. Now if this isn't a case of Stockholm Syndrome then I don't know what is. The game invented in an English Public School and handed over to Industrial South Wales on a purple cushion. "Hey ease up Shark Fisherman, it's only a game, we have very little joy in our lives that when we put one over on the 'auld enemy', please have the good grace to allow us to enjoy our hangovers without laying in to us. Anyway you mad hypocrite you support the soccer, what's the difference?"

This, my friend is the difference. Now if the Welsh Rugby team would wear this emblem, then even I might consider jumping up and down and shouting  'Cachu Hwch i Gyfalafwyr'

The problem is, is that we have become so like our Lords and Masters that we can no longer tell that they are our Lords and Masters. Sticking a red tracksuit top on with Daddy's feathers on doesn't make you Welsh. It was a Royal double act at Twickenham last night, Good Prince, Bad Prince and you lot fell for it.

Just call me cynical!

Not my People

Not my People

A short (fictional) story

The tail back was from the village of Llanfarian to Rhydyfelin. Roadworks again in this non descript village 'ar y bont'. Walking passed the little kings and queens parked up on their thrones, twitching for the stop sign to turn to go, their attention turns to a man in bright blue trousers "Is he French or a Docker, perhaps?" "Hey, stop gawking" shouted the middle aged man with no hair and shuffling, old farmer's gait. "If I had tits and arse then fair enough but I'm not asking for it am I?" Everyday Sexism. Don't look. Just keep your knuckles flexed white on the steering wheel and your CO2 emissions locked on high. Who was the self conscious guy in sun glasses and azure blue trews? He was a towny all right. He'd be a Hipster if he had hair and was twenty years younger. The reality was that nobody had looked at him and that's the way he liked it. Please pretend that I don't exist. You won't have to pretend too hard. He'd got a reluctant "all right" from the Postman and that was 'feat' enough. Those masters of passive-aggression. The men that hate all other men. "Mae fe'n boeth heddiw" thought Bryn, because despite the best efforts of the 'mewn-lifiad' he still thought in Welsh. They can take my tongue away from me but they can't take my  thoughts. That's why he wore shades, even inside on Christmas Day. He didn't want anyone to read his mind. So what was he thinking today? Planning his escape as usual, thinking that being somewhere else might make his life better. An 'all in' day return to Shrewsbury perhaps? steep roads but gentle, decent people, cold, cerebral people. Shrewsbury was civilised. On the cycle path, a sharp intake of breath when he passed the old British Rail sign to Aberystwyth. He wanted to put off the visit to the Co-Op and Matalan as long as he could. Matalan would be full of men who looked like him. Men from Aberaeron. Why? because there is nowhere in the Regency seaside town that used to be spelt with a Y 'Aberayron' that you can buy cheap, decent socks and underpants. The fact that they are made by slave labour was a side issue for these portly white privileged males chugging up the A487 in their 4 by 4s. Bryn plonked himself on some sort of rustic bench made by 'neets' on a woodworking apprenticeship course. 'Poor Bastards' he thought as his arse fat hit the wood. "It was bad enough when I was young and unemployed. It was a Tory Government back then, perhaps I shouldn't be wearing blue pantaloons in case people get the wrong idea". They were all Liberals round here anyway but he couldn't wear yellow. It would clash with his teeth. Yellow Teeth? wear a Brown tie. He looked over at Plas Tan-y-Bwlch which had been turned into flats. Onward and downward he thought as he trudged on. Passing the Marina which had just been turned into the Law Courts. A cushy number for the judges and magistrates. He eyed the boats up enviously. Could I get as far as Ireland on one of those? Full Tank? Doubtful! I would have to abandon 'Dunroamin' and swim for it. The clouds today looked like handlebar moustaches and he imagined the 'Barnwr' sporting one as he bought his gavel down on the wood with a £500.00 fine and a 3 year prison sentence. Perhaps he could jump on the tailgate of one of the Group 4 security vans transporting Mid Wales cons to Swansea nick. He could jump off at Carmarthen, have a good look round before the lights turned back to green, and jump back on again. That's how desperate he was to get away. He was willing to travel via Carmarthen. People eulogised Aberystwyth but he just couldn't see it. You've seen one Poundland, you've seen them all. He was glad that he was on foot because if he could afford a car, there was nowhere to park. The mobile library had refused to stop at his home, citing budgetary constraints and a lazy arse driver so a trip to 'Y llyfrgell' was uppermost on his mind. Free Newspapers and the Internet. Walking near the tatty gift shop on Great Darkgate street his heart sank at all the tea towels, love spoons, inflatable daffodils and postcards of big hats. Bryn was trapped by Wales and trapped by circumstance. Bryn would have to get away before Wales suffocated him. Maybe he could stowaway in the boot of parents who had just dropped their progeny off at the top of Penglais Hill. He might get as far as Oxford, another cold, cerebral place. His blue trousers would fit in well there. This was not a spur of the moment thing. He had been planning his 'Wales Break' for some time. Now the reason for him to stay had gone, the world was his 'wystrys' but now he felt too old. Bwgan Brain wore better clothes than Bryn. Wales was as safe and dependable as traffic jams. Same faces, same people. He could hitch up with one of his ex girlfriends. He was sure about that but the reason for them wanting him would be more complex now.  He hadn't had children. Being a Step Father would be straightforward enough but he didn't want anybody else's kids. He wanted his own. There was always a complication when it came to his relationship with women. Nothing was ever straightforward. They couldn't accept him the way that he was. He always had to make compromises. So what was it going to be? stay at home homie or bugger off Bryn? Taking his middle aged existential angst with him to Aberdeen was pointless. If he was the same person there as he was in Aberystwyth there would be no point. His thoughts turned again to suicide. September was suicide prevention month but who and what was to prevent him now from killing himself. He was surrounded by the living dead anyway, in a seaside town, cold fish and chips and seagull shit. A pint in Wetherspoons and wipe your arse on the Cambrian News as the highlight of your week. If he couldn't live life on his terms, if he had to live it on their terms, then ending it seemed quite a feasible option. It was the rigmarole of planning it that was the put off. He could fly to America and do a Hemingway perhaps. He wouldn't have to sit through another 90 minutes with the arse kissers in the Black Lion, stroking their Prince of Wales feathers. He hated Wales, he realised that now. He could become an expat and pretend to love it "Cymro gorau, Cymro oddi cartref" and all that Jazz. He had borrowed a copy of Caradoc Evans 'My People' from the library and like the conscientious off spring of non-conformist parents he would have to take the book back so Shrewsbury, Ireland, Oxford, Aberdeen, Suicide and America would all have to wait...for another 3 weeks at least.   

     ar y bont - on the bridge
Mae fe'n boeth heddiw - It's hot today   

Mewn Lifiad  - In Migration

Barnwr - Judge

Llyfrgell - Library

Wystrys - Oyster

Bwgan Brain - Scarecrow

Cymro Gorau Cymro oddi cartref - The Best Welshman is a Welshman away from home

Bottom of the Ottoman

Bottom of the Ottoman from David Williams on Vimeo.

It's either at the bottom of the Ottoman

or in the cwtsh dan star*

that item that you cherished

the one that would take you far,

just like all the others, 

now discarded and thrown away

You said the lying hound you are 

"I'll use it one day" 

your appetite for shit and tat matches 

that for chip fryers and bread makers

the Pifco foot spa or the Goblin teasmade

the exercise equipment or obscure kitchenware

the weird shoes and linen suits

your subscription to 'that' magazine

musical instruments and cook books  

This house is like an episode of the 'Generation Game'

"Dinner Service, Fondue Set

Cuddly Toy, Cuddly Toy"

It's either at the bottom of the Ottoman

or in the cwtsh dan star*

cwtsh dan star: cupboard under the stairs

Capitaine Cochon

The 'Great' British Public have needed this today. Social Media has revelled in #PigGate. Why? because we are tired of the Tories. The same thing happened to Thatcher during her third term although not quite so early. We get bored. We are tired of austerity, poverty, bedroom tax, welfare cuts, refugee crisis, war and threats of war so when a story comes along from a source like the Daily Mail, then we the great proletariat, who they usually treat like pigs, start putting their nose in the truffles. Does Cameron really care? He said before the election that he would do another four years. 
The media bias against Jeremy Corbyn this past week has been relentless and unforgiving so when the blue suits on the other benches get their comeuppance then the mob are going to roar. I am disappointed in myself for joining in the banter as I look back over my Facebook Timeline but realise that it's like lancing a boil. So many of us harbour great resentment towards the Tory Upper Echelons, especially those of us on the Celtic Fringe, that when we are given an opportunity to 'oink' and 'snort', then we jolly well shall! 

Talk like a Pirate Day

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Piracy

I know, I know, I'm a bit old to be flouncing around like a pirate at 49 but indulge me. You understand of course that my admiration of pirates comes from my deep seated hatred of 'the establishment' especially the 'british establishment'. If there were proper maritime pirates today, I would be up in the crow's nest encouraging others to lay down their lives for the ill gained booty. For not only am I a Pirate admirer and impersonator I am also a coward. "After you Claude" is my trademark expression. If I think I can get away with anything without getting caught then I will but the chances of getting caught are very high. The Police Pirates are very good at their jobs these days so being a proper criminal pirate has lost its appeal. I am just an armchair pirate. You can follow my admiration of pirates here on  https://uk.pinterest.com/RedTheatre/m%C3%B4r-ladronpirates/

Life as Indigestion

I drove from Cardiff to Aberystwyth last night and I had indigestion all the way. Today I started thinking about indigestion as a metaphor for life in the privileged white west. I am sucking on a Gaviscon tablet now as I write this. It is because I rush my food. I have always rushed my food since school days. It is a very bad habit and I anticipate problems in the future. I had a diagnosis of 'hiatus hernia' maybe twenty years ago and took the Zantac for a while. Do you take medicines for a while and then give up? I think it's because I like strong coffee and that reacts with something and the coffee takes the place of smoking from years ago which triggered the original condition. Life is indigestible even if you are lucky enough to eat well. It wasn't only because I had rushed my food last night and had eaten a largish portion, it was also because I was 'anfodlon' and 'anniddig', two Welsh words that describe 'not contented' and 'irritable' and this because of the thoughts that I create in my mind. Even if I'm listening to soothing sounds or music, the mind can create all sorts of physical symptoms. I feel that I am on a loop, everyday is Ground hog Day, there is an elastic band that pulls me back to Cardiff and then pings me out to the West and I am pissed off with it. I can't settle in one place, I can't plan. I am forever thinking about the welfare of others and it is giving me indigestion. "Aye that's it blame others you loser, you don't know how lucky you are, you could be a Refugee........... Fade to Black." 

Sunny Prestatyn

Come to Sunny Prestatyn

Laughed the girl on the poster,

Kneeling up on the sand

In tautened white satin.

Behind her, a hunk of coast, a 

Hotel with palms

Seemed to expand from her thighs and

Spread breast-lifting arms.

She was slapped up one day in March.

A couple of weeks, and her face 

Was snaggle-toothed and boss-eyed;

Huge tits and a fissured crotch

Were scored well in, and the space

Between her legs held scrawls

That set her fairly astride 

A tuberous cock and balls

Autographed Titch Thomas, while

Someone had used a knife

Or something to stab right through

The moustached lips of her smile.

She was too good for this life.

Very soon, a great transverse tear

Left only a hand and some blue.

Now Fight Cancer is there.

Philip Larkin

One day I'll fly away

I saw Randy Crawford once

at the Fairfield Halls, Park Lane, Croydon

with a South African called Liesl

who played me like a fiddle.

I paid for her ticket and she wouldn't even let me hold her hand.

This was about 2003 although I'd been a fan of Randy since 1983.

"What more can your love do for me?"

Nothing!

Because it wasn't love on my behalf, 

it was lust and possession (according to her)

I wanted her biblically

and she punished me for that

she was like a cat in a hat

watching my every move with grace and skill

before she came in for the kill

she left me with a permanent frown,

Yeah one day I'll fly away

but it won't be to Cape Town.

  

Soft spot for the Gee-Gees

Soft spot for the Gee-Gees 

Hemingway and Bukowski both had a soft spot for the Gee-Gees.

At the racetrack, love letters like torn up betting slips thrown into the air.

A lexicon, an alphabet for Alpha males

who went to great lengths to hide their feminine sides

as all men do.

The more macho a male

the more animated his anima

"Oh leave it there butt, I'm trying to watch the Rugby"

The feminine, divine was their soft spot

a fine eye for the fillies

these guys wouldn't last five minutes on Linked In

Drowned in liquor

it made them sicker

they were both successful with the horses

less so with the women

but to compensate for what?

They couldn't do without them it would appear.  

Philip Larkin: Love and Death in Hull

Brits Out

I promise that I will do my best

To do my duty to God and to the Queen

To help other people 

And to keep the Cub Scout Law

Confuscious and his interesting times eh? ISIL couldn't have chosen a better time to pick a fight with the 'Brits'. The United Kingdom has never been so disunited with the SNP bursting out the doors of the House of Commons and Stormont having a seizure. The basis of British identity at the moment seems to lie in the 'fear factor' perpetuated by UKIP and Farage. The bodies of British holidaymakers lying on a Tunisian beach forced the hand of David Cameron and his million pound drone which was programmed to take out a Cardiff and Aberdeen youth (both 21) who had been foolish or blase enough to post an 'up yours' video to the British State. The Western Mail, the self styled national newspaper of Wales called Reyaad Khan, a Welsh Jihadi. Calling him Welsh abrigates the British State of responsibility in alienating him. It was the fault of the Welsh that he became a Jihadist. Well of course, all that Rugby and Beer swilling on Match Day is enough to turn anybody towards Allah and against Capitalism. The Shark Fisherman listens quite a lot to the radio station LBC and the callers on different programmes are really quite scary and are reason enough to worry about the future of the British State. Because of it's bloodthirsty, empire building history, the Shark fisherman does not recognise the British state as an entity because he does not recognise the monarchy as a valid form of authority in the same way that he does not write about a Principality in this blog. he writes about his country. He has the utmost respect for the nations that make up the so called United Kingdom but does not recognise the bastard baby of 'Great Britain' that sends drones over to kill people that disagree with its foreign policy especially Welsh ones. If the drone had taken out Jihadi John, then the Shark Fisherman would have been on side with the British State but he is getting very uncomfortable about the shape of things to come because actions will be taken in the name of Britain rather than, England, Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland and in this respect I shout out loud and clear 'Brits Out'. 

Dim ond Tri