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.

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!  

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!

http://sharkfishinginwales.blogspot.co.uk/2016/07/british-welsh-powerhouse_3.html

http://sharkfishinginwales.blogspot.co.uk/2017/07/the-militarisation-of-british-wales.html

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.

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.

The Age of Imperfection

or Wonky for Short

I am a Professional Failure. This is not me doing myself down but a statement of fact. Despite my bad breath and halitosis sometimes I look at myself in the bathroom mirror and say "You're actually a breath of fresh air lad". To reach the grand old age of 52 without a job/career or a spouse and children actually requires military planning. This does not just happen by chance. The fact that I had to don the mask of insanity to do it might appear a little extreme to you dear reader but the mentally ill can get away with murder as we are seeing on the news. To feign mental illness was the only way I could see that I was going to get out of the societal conditioning of striving, succeeding, competing, achieving. In other words perfection. I have become a glorious imperfectionist. Rather than bent I would call myself wonky. Capitalism has latched on to this fact now and Supermarkets are flogging off misshapen fruit and veg. Broken Biscuits have been around for a long time but it now appears with the world having imploded that we are all rising to the new consciousness. It's OK not to be perfect. It's all right not to get top grades. It's fine just to be without having to prove yourself to anybody. I can say these things now because I have walked through the veil of tears. There are no expectations on middle aged men. Well there are, we are expected to be slovenly and slow and good for nothing but going from the bookies to the pub and that suits me just fine. The fact that I don't gamble or drink doesn't matter. Society expects little of 'the feeble minded'. My 12 years of 'economic inactivity' have allowed me an insight into our collective insanity. There is no way I could have got back on the merry go round after I fell off quite spectacularly in 2005. I have been fortunate. With the love and support of my family I have been afforded a sanctuary in an emergency. I have had to re learn how to live. Learning how to live on little and this has actually been liberating. I was always self conscious and shy as a child and teenager and it appears that this self consciousness has returned now in the form that depending on where I go, I am actually dressed as somebody who doesn't care and doesn't try. Never somebody who cared about clothes and fashion, I could be a mannequin model in the windows of less salubrious charity shops. I am a scruffy, rough looking bastard in short and this does make me pause to reflect especially when I meet new people.  Their eyes belie the fact that they have identified a 'wonky', an imperfectionist and they are wondering what fate has befallen me to escape the culture of conditioning.

Perhaps I flatter myself but others can always identify someone who is self conscious. It is the law of the jungle. If you are self conscious, you don't tend to take so many selfies. It is a question of confidence and there is very little in life that can raise your confidence apart from success. But success always appears to have a dark side, a shadow. Unrealistic expectations from parents can cause a great deal of anxiety and distress in their children. So if any parents are reading this, take it from me, a professional failure, if you don't want your offspring to end up wonky, you will need to take advice from CAMHS if of course you can get hold of them.             

Bridge over Tory Waters

Bridge over Tory Water my'n uffarn ni!

Cairns like a Kamikaze Emperor came out from the Bank Holiday Clouds and announced that the Bridge, our Bridge is to be named after their Prince.
I didn't want to make this about ethnicity, it's about class, entitlement and monarchy, unelected monarchy and a little louse called Alun.
The most unpopular boy at school, he must have been bullied mercilessly to end up like this.
Harri Parri is getting married to Meghan Sparkle in May and while the sickly sycophants in their Union Jack underpants can't wait for that one, we the Welsh have to wait another year for this monstrosity.
I name this Bridge "Prince Charles"
Quick dap it!
Neil Hamilton and Dafydd El are going to hell.
That road is paved with good intentions and the best that we can do is a petition.
Non Violent Direct Action?
Fuck It, how about a little violent direct action?
If they proceed then we must plant seed.
Marijuana Leaf painted, Graffiti Tags, Republican tainted.
They have fleeced us and our visitors for the last twenty years, they blow the tolls and present us with the contents of a toilet bowl.
We had no choice with the Principality Stadium and now the Prince of Wales Bridge.
What is it with the letter P?
Do they think we are all pricks?
We watched him getting knighted at Caernarfon Castell and now we have to cross his effing bridge.
In this piece of bad poetry I call upon we to finally act, Wales Must Be Free.
Blow the Bridge, Paint it, Tag it because you rename it and you can effing forget it!
Political Prisoners lining up for nosh at H.M.P Berwyn will sing in perfect four part harmony
" Pont dros dyfnderoedd trafferthus."
Fe Godwn ni Eto

Back to Work

All I am presented with is people who think about themselves all the time including me!
Come on Theresa, shake that magic money tree.
The possession of cash flow is what divides us.
As long as we have enough to pay the Council Tax at the end of the year because I really want someone to police my bins.
Now sanctimonious prats are calling Basic Income, money for nothing.
I call them rats.
We are born to a country that taxes us as soon as we are old enough.
There is a central pot of money called the Treasury into which many people pay.
I used to do the same I have to say.
But then I got sick of trying, I got sick, a melancholy malady that had been with me, quite possibly from the day I was born.
Now I self stigmatise myself, I treat myself with scorn.
I don't allow anybody close enough to do the same, this working and paying tax, it's all a game.
We all need money to live but not to exist.
At the Government we all raise our fist.
Mark Twain said that the world didn't owe us a living, I don't think that is very forgiving.
Everything comes with conditions.
If there was enough quality work about then many of us wouldn't shirk but working for the existing wage?
I'm sick but not a berk.
This work/life condundrum is getting really humdrum, to the point I can't think about anything else.
CV, Interview, Suit to do what kind of job? 
I feel like a ghost moving through the Queen Street Shoppers.
Badly dressed, unimpressed.
It is the gaze of the female I try to avoid. 
Rightly or Wrongly I feel that they judge me.
Not hunter nor gatherer, just a bad poet carrying a locket of my mother's hair.
In Limbo Land heavy wooden blocks of progress cannot be shifted.
By the time I started my first job my father had retired.
I came back from selling print in Llangollen and cried.
It's all very well being 'pleidiol wyf i'm gwlad' but there are no fucking jobs here.
So over the porous border we troop so we can eat something more nourishing than soup.
Liverpool, Manchester or Bristol
If I had the balls I'd blow my brains out with an antiquarian flint lock pistol.

Don't Stare! Care!

Don't Stare! Care!
Zionist Unionists
Facebook Trolls
Anti Semitic? This takes the Biscuit.
The Establishment are out to destroy JC.
Murdoch writes drivel with his cock
Alan Sugar puts a lead weight in his sock.
When people with power know that their days are numbered, they awaken from their slumber and attack the man who is going to tax em.
So this will be relentless, the closer we get to Brexit.
Davis will be holding his nuts till next May.
Johnson, the most undiplomatic boor since records began.
And what about us, the rude poor.
The eulogised working class ain't got no sass.
We should care but we just stare.
We drink our Latte, maybe join a foam party.
Surrounded by charred concrete, we find it difficult to get to sleep.
Jesus Christ, on the day of Resurrection, it makes you weep.
We are reminded that we are the only critical mass never to have revolted.
Once in 5 years we are proud to say we voted.
Betting Shops, Alcohol Laced Cough Drops, The Lottery and Bonus Ball is like a Primeval Call.
Ant was trying to get out of his pact with Dec for many years but we were just too blind to see it because you see we don't really care, we just stare.
We stare from the porch of our home to see if anyone else has parked in our zone.
Territorial tae fuck, you wanna ruck?
In my bigger car, I say on Bluetooth "oh Zoe you're a star"
Shallowness and artificiality shall follow me all the days of my life until I get me a trophy wife then unemployed shall beget unemployed.
There's six generations haven't worked in this house.
Don't blame me, blame the coal board.
A Samurai sword swishes through the air and a newly sworn in PCSO is sent to investigate. He only gets as far as the gate.
He is tasered and battered in a revenge attack.
He is dragged inside and placed on a rack. The balaclava headed incumbent says 
"Watch this Mon brave"
He has stitched together a montage of police brutality through the ages, most of it from the States, the Part Time Police Officer is offered an After Eight.
Back at the Station he shouts at the Duty Officer.
"Don't stare, care"
Our Televisions are Bigger,
Royalty getting larger
Will Harry and Meghan have a guard of honour from Eton?
The bullies from the Bullingdon looking like something from a Kubrick film.
Giving the homeless a gentle nudge as they eat their fudge and prosecco.
Fuck me there is a lot to get angry about.
Much of it a figment of my imagination, no doubt.
As I bring this bad poem to a grinding halt unlike a screenplay by Sir Robert Bolt, I make this plea to the lower middle class.
Next time something matters, don't usher your children to bed.
Don't run back down your stairs to stare.
Please Care!