A & E

A very short story

There was no urgency in accident and emergency that morning. The man in front smelt like a pet shop. Perhaps he'd had an accident with a Parakeet. Everybody assembled, had read the signs

 'Do not go to A&E unless it's an Emergency' 

'A&E are not here to kiss it better'.

It was a Saturday however and where were the Great British Pubic to go if they needed it kissing better. Hand & Finger Accidents were the norm this particular morning. The rotund, compassionate, middle aged lady behind the glass had not received a call from the out of hours surgery so they didn't have the details on the computer. "What seems to be the matter"? "It's rather a delicate and personal matter". With that the fifteen other wannabee patients stood to attention and pricked up their ears. Delicate and personal, this should be good! Having had to shout out the delicate and personal matter three times much to the amusement of the others, Mo sat down. Her confidentiality betrayed by the impersonal nature of the Accident and Emergency Waiting Room. Mo wondered what would happen if a real accident and emergency happened, like a man walking in with a severed arm, packed in ice. Would the maiden ask "What is the problem?" Would she say "One moment please while playing with the cord on the phone". Would she ask what the name of the Doctor was and where in the West Midlands the surgery was? "O'yve severed me arm"! Take a seat over there then please.

Mo should have checked what the current waiting times were, were they three hours or fours at the moment. If she'd planned ahead she could have taken her knitting and her crossword. The NHS hierarchy were in full throttle this morning. All the pubic knew that they were getting it for free and they weren't in a rush. Crutches and crushed minds littered the square waiting area. There was room for 15 to sit down. God help the 16th thought Mo! The man with the severed arm might have to leave the limb with the lady on reception and go and sit down. Things had changed since she'd been a nurse with the newly founded NHS. Gone were the days of the matrons and sisters, the starched uniforms and hats. Now a different colour two piece to mark out the capable from the not so capable or rather the ones more capable but on less pay. Purple, Green, Light Blue, Dark Blue onwards and upwards until you got to Jeremy Hunt who was wearing red with horns and a trident. Mo listened to the news and followed with interest the goings on in the Junior Doctors Strike. Nobody wants to get ill but there are an awful lot of sick people. A huge population and a creaking system. If they can't fix you up, patch you up and send you on your way, then you die. Hopefully without having had too many hospital dinners. Nobody wants to work weekends even for more money. A 7 day a week NHS was perhaps possible in theory but not in practice because human beings need a break and a rest from the stress and strain so they might be there in person but not in mind.  A nurse in light blue came out and called Mo's name!  As she passed a man with his leg in plaster he looked at the 79 year old and said "Didn't you used to play for Glasgow Rangers and Celtic"?  Everybody turned as a Mosquito in a Brazilian football shirt came in to say that he'd been bitten by a human.  

IF Butt!

IF Butt!

A bastardisation of Rudyard Kipling's Poem for modern Welsh times

If you can keep your mental health when all about you   

    are losing theirs and not realisin.

If you can trust others after watching 24 hour news

    but make allowance for the Benefit sanction   

If you can wait in the queue at any Post Office and not be tired by waiting, 

    or being lied about, by the neighbour's gossip, 

or by hatin, dun’t allow yerself to be hated, 

    And yet don’t look too good in charity shop clothes, 

nor talk too wise in case they think you been readin 

If you can dream—and not be caught by the teacher  

    If you can think without developing O.C.D   

If you can meet with Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton 

    and treat those two imposters just the same;   

If you can bear to hear Owen Smith pretending he's Welsh 

    twisted, a  knave, smashing her back on her heels, 

or take your stuff to Cash Converters, broken, 

    and stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools: 

If you can make one heap of all your winnings 

    down the bookies which is closing down, 

and lose, and start again at your beginnings 

    and never moan like a professional moaner 

If you can force your heart and clogged arteries

    to serve your turn long after they are gone,   

And so keep on at the Fairground Ride in Barry or Porthcawl 

    Will shouts ‘Hold on!’ 

If you can talk with the crowds in Poundland and keep your virtue,   

    Or walk with Dai King

"How dare you call me common touch!" 

If neither your foe in Bryncethin nor loving friend in Tondu can hurt you, 

    If all men in Witherspoons count with you, but none too much; 

If you can fill the unforgiving minute 

    With sixty seconds’worth of distance, without running out of puff   

Yours is the sod of Earth and everything that’s in it,   

    And which is more

We'll never tell you to 
 "Man up, my son"! (As if!)

I had a Dream

I had a dream last night or rather this morning. You know, one of those vivid, pre-awakening jobbers that go on for ever but actually last 5 seconds. Well let me tell you what happened in this epic. It was in Wales obviously, and there was to be a large public meeting and Jeremy Corbyn and John McDonnell were there. A large dusty school hall, packed out. I'd booked my ticket in the morning and had got a stamp on my hand like the ones you get in night clubs and festivals. What was I going to do for the rest of the day whilst waiting? Mooch about like the reclusive, lone wolf that I am. I turn the corner and who is walking up the road with a couple of his mates but John Craven off BBCs Countryfile. He is wearing a Benny hat with a Green 1970s Parka with fur lined hood and a white T shirt with SWP on it. I told you it was vivid didn't I! Well I shouted "O John" and raised my fist in comradely salute. The friendly guy that he is came over, leaving his two mates smoking on the other side of the road. "What's up John? I remember you on Newsround in the 1970s. You, Michael Aspel and Tony Hart were our heroes". "19 years on Countryfile and the BBC give me the boot, so that's why I'm here to listen to Jeremy and John tonight". "Fair enough John", I replied. "Don't forget you're in Wales now, there are some duplicitous bastards about and stay out of the pubs. I'll see you later". With that, John Craven, formerly of Newsround and Countryfile walks back over the road to his butties. Even though I'd got my ticket early, I was 1 minute late getting to the school hall which was packed and standing room only. A grunt with glasses on the door said "You can't come in, you're too late". I said "But I've got a stamp" and flashed the back of my hand under his trwyn. He mumbled 'dickhead' and let me pass. I was ushered down to the front and as Jeremy and John walked down to the stage and the podium, both greeted me warmly and Jeremy said 'Thank you, you have been an inspiration'. "I do my best Jezza", I answered, secretly rather chuffed that I had been greeted by the future leader of the free world in such a manner. I looked over and saw John Craven, all muscles rippling, in his SWP T shirt. Standing Ovation and as the State Sponsored red Trabant left the grounds of the school, I shouted over "See you in Ebbw Vale at the next one".  The vehicle eased itself out of the car park and ran over the foot of the parking attendant in peaked cap who looked the spitting image of Owen Smith with a small Hitleresque moustache.           

The Great British Pubic

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-kent-36873632

I have taught their children. I have worked alongside them. I have gone to the pictures (Cinema/Multiplex) for those under 30, and to football matches with them. I have stood there in a Museum as a warden as they have walked around gormless and lost. I myself am a member of the Great British pubic and am not happy about the fact. The Great British pubic hair has voted for Brexit and now expect us to feel sorry for them as they queue like lemmings for the port of Dover. I heard them whingeing on the radio. I was stuck in a Traffic Jam on the M4 once that was so bad that it took me 6 hours to get from London to Cardiff because an 'Utterly Butterly' Lorry had spilt its load on the road and we were diverted round through Reading and at one point it looked as if we were going via Scotland. I was in my car bubble on a hot summer's day and I looked at the other members of the Great British pubic with utter disdain. It wasn't their fault but I was angered by our herd mentality. It was a Saturday and we were all trying to geographically escape and we were being held hostage by an articulated truck. I haven't used this product since (Utterly Butterly not articulated trucks) The irony was that I was travelling to Cardiff on a whim. Rather than being stuck in my digs in London, I thought that I would go and sit in my front room in Cardiff even though all I could see was the terraced house across the street. It was the foolish notion of being somewhere else, of being on the move, giving you the idea that you were actually free. I wasn't free, I had to travel back to London on the Sunday to be ready for work on the Monday. My Green credentials have gone right out the window now. The crowd mentality is never more obvious than when people are travelling by car. What throws me is that it has only been a week since the attack in Nice. There's something as tasteless as the butter in going to a country that has suffered such a tragedy. The pubic voted Brexit and now they are all headed for France. Hurrah for the Hols. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and hoping for a different result.  

    

'Why the Turks crossed the Sea' : Guest Blog Post by Kyriakos Sorokkou

Why the Turks crossed the Sea

Guest Blog Post by Kyriakos Sorokkou

Today at 5:29 am, I was still awake searching for books on Amazon. And suddenly I heard the air raid sirens. They were sounding for a minute. No war happened today, but on this day at 05:30 am, Turkey invaded Cyprus 42 years ago (1974) with the wretched excuse of protecting the Turkish Cypriots, Yeah right; protecting innocent Turkish Cypriots by killing innocent Greek Cypriots. This ain’t a peace operation a.k.a. "Cyprus Peace Operation" or in Turkish (Kıbrıs Barış Harekâtı)

A woman in her late 80’s lives opposite my house. Her son is STILL missing. He was no more than 19 years old when he was fighting the Turks. . . .

I’m not a historian or a political analyst but the British in the 50’s began distilling discord between Greek and Turkish Cypriots, then they gave us a shared-tricky-trap-like republic in 1959 and four years later (1963) the intercommunal troubles began. In 1967 there was a coup in Greece and with the blessing of CIA they led a coup in Cyprus as well, on the 15^{th of} July 1974.

5 days later (20^th July) Turkey invaded. So this is the reason why I fear the word nation and its derivatives: nationalist, nationalism, &c. There’s a poem on page 60 in my 2nd poetrycollection (Eight Birds and Other Poems) that talks about nation-

 I fear the word nation

I fear the word nation. 

I don’t hate my nation.

But loving a nation might lead to

loving it too much.

Nationalism is a word to describe that.

In German it sounds like Nazi 

Nationalismus

It’s not love of your country 

It’s to hate the outsiders 

Patriotism is a safer word 

But still you have to treat it with caution 

My country is not superior. 

It’s special but not the best 

My sandy language is one of the most important 

But not the best and most ancient

I love my country but I’m not a patriot

I love my country but I’m not a nationalist

I’m not superior to anyone. 

                08:38    26/01/15

Reading it more than a year later it feels juvenile and a bit naïve. But the ideas are genuine; but I might disavowed it when I grow older just like what C. P. Cavafy did with many of his poems. Greek poet Cavafy was a good friend with English novelist E. M. Forster. Forster knew Cavafy personally and he wrote a memoir of him. Both homosexuals. . .

Anyway. . . It seems I’m taking the subject elsewhere. The subject(s) here (do we actually have a subject here anyway?) is poetry, nationalism, Turkish invasion in Cyprus on this day. . .

I was a soldier for 2 years (2005-2007) (wasn’t writing poetry back then), and every day every hour we were observing every move of the Turkish occupying army. I was handling top secret documents in my own office with Bob Marley as background music. Bob Marley is pretty well appreciated in the Cypriot army (both for his songs and his smoking habits) haven’t smoke myself but inhaled as a bystander a few times. 

At the BFBS radio (British Forces Broadcasting Service) which serves the British Bases here in Cyprus as well) a few days ago they were having a discussion about coups in the 20^th century, for about an hour. Didn’t mention anything about the coup in Cyprus. I felt pretty insignificant. British in Cyprus talking in British English, but no mentioning of Cyprus. Get out from Cyprus! Well that was pretty spontaneous, but think about it a little bit. The island of Cyprus is controlled by 4 different nations/authorities. The only (legitimate) Republic of Cyprus 59% (effective), 97% (de jure). The Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus 36.3% (de facto, unrecognised, don’t visit). The British Sovereign Bases 2.8% (occupying two breath-taking areas of southern Cyprus), and the UN buffer zone 4%. We are a bloody fragmented shambles.  BUT despite all this we are far safer than any ‘peaceful’ continental European country nowadays. In my hometown the last time someone was murdered was in the 1920’s He was my great-great grandfather. The last time there was a robbery was more than 10 years ago and that not at a bank.

Enough with my rambling, I will thank my friend The Shark Fisherman of Wales for hosting me for the 2^nd time and I’d like to share a poem from my unpublished (untitled) collection (due to be published on my 30^th birthday in August next year).

Disclaimer: This collection is still a draft, so expect spelling/grammar errors. 

Deflation

You wake up,

Thinking,

“This is gonna be a great day!”

Then you see the news and your jocundity is deflated,

Like a forgotten ballοon from a birthday party which happened weeks ago.

You see the news and your mood is deflated,

Like the tits of an old hag or beldam; depends which one you see.

You see the news and your cheerfulness is deflated,

Like a deflated cactus because of bacterial rot; something like organised religion.

You see the news and your mirth

 Is deflated rotten and buried under the earth

You turn off the news.

You go to sleep.

And you hope to see,

You hope to see,

You hope to

You hope. . .

15:05                    17/07/16