My Toxic Masculinity Part 2

I have become emboldened. The response to my first post has inspired me to write some more about my Toxic Masculinity. In Part 1 I tried to pin the blame on the culture and on my mental illness, well in this one, I am going to lay the blame firmly on me and my toxic masculinity. I feel toxic and I am a man but I have not done and I am not going to do what a lot of men do and go looking for a woman and a relationship to try and fix me. Men of my age are often on their second or third marriages by now. Many are fathers and grandfathers. Not that many are how we say in Welsh 'hen lanc' or what the patriarchy would describe as 'on the shelf'. As I have said before I don't do research for my blog posts. I shoot from the hip. I had heard that the phrase 'on the shelf' was used to describe where a woman slept who was in a caring role in the family. Fathers deliberately had daughters late in life, who would look after them in their old age and like jugs or ornaments, they would literally sleep on the shelf. In one respect I am living an 'equality' in that I am meant to be in a caring role to elderly parents and instead of sleeping on the shelf, I sleep in a single bed with a floral duvet next to a desk where I can write my blog posts when inspiration strikes. I am a toxic male because generally I do not feel comfortable talking to women. I am toxic because I am sexist because much of what I see and hear is shallow, small talk. I am toxic because I have listened intently to tales of divorce and discord from my friends and I have thought "Phew, I am lucky that was not me, that would have buried me". I am toxic because my confirmatory bias has marinated in this stuff for years. 
I am not a Sex Pest but I wonder if I was braver, more stupid, more arrogant whether I would be or could be. I am not a sex pest because I am frightened of women. Brett Kavanaugh and Harvey Weinstein were not afraid of women. They were men of power and they thought that their status would allow them to get away with their pesting. 
Inadequate men in a Capitalist society often turn to 'Pornography' to scratch the itch. Testosterone, Violence, Alcohol, Drugs, Prostitution and perhaps the biggest drug of all Money. Women are leered over and objectified in Pornography but what do teenage boys do from their early teens to well into their adult years is watch pornography, even when they may be in relationships. Pornography is online and everywhere these days but as a 13 year old in a single sex school we paid a 'Dealer' by the name of Dewi Roberts, 10 pence a page out of the adult entertainment magazine 'Fiesta'. It was interesting that it was actually Dewi who discovered the fire in a desk at the back of the class that me and a friend had started with every intention of burning down the school. 
One part of my toxic masculinity which I don't cover in my book Amsterdamnned   is my visits to Amsterdam's Red Light Districts. In my numerous visits to the Dam I lost count of the number of windows I went through, the neon red light like a moth to a flame. If a man admits publicly that he has visited Prostitutes, then he must be a Toxic Male or is he just an honest one? I should be ashamed but I am not. I could hide behind the smokescreen of a Bipolar, Manic High and a Drug Induced Psychosis but I knew what I was doing. I knew that these were deliberate choices that I was making. Like a Gambler (perhaps) money had lost all meaning, and I was going to spend it in a way that I thought would replenish me but only eventually depleted me. I was the man, I had the money. I had the power.
Isn't Toxic Masculinity ultimately about Power. Of course we have the privilege but we Toxic Men have lost our humanity along the way.     

Complementary Gender

I believe that 'Complementary Gender' is the New Age term for 'Opposite Sex'. This blog post carries a trigger warning and it is quite possible that it will trigger men and women alike. I write this through the prism and prison of mental health, trying to understand my own feelings and getting it down on paper or computer screen is my therapy. I can only apologise to those reading in advance if they are offended by my opinions and views. Right let's get down to it! As a Limey, catching bits and bobs of the Senate Committee hearing regarding Christine Blasey Ford and Brett Kavanaugh I am struck how unfair the whole 'caboose' is. Men in suits interrogating or listening intently and deciding on the ultimate career progression of an alleged sexual attacker based on the  victim's testimony. It is not Brett Kavanaugh who is on trial here. It is Donald Trump. He comes across as a nasty bit of work ol Kavanaugh but he is Donald Trump's fall guy. Could this be a practice run for the much hoped for impeachment? Let's hope so. Brett Kavanaugh is 53 years old. He is a year and a few weeks older than me. He is a successful Judge, I am an unemployed bum. What we have in common is a negative attitude towards women or alleged attitude in his case. This is one reason why I stopped drinking his favourite beverage of beer. It would make me negative and resentful. I lashed out once at a former girlfriend with my leg when I was drunk. I did not connect but the intent was obvious. I tried to kick her and by implication I tried to hurt her physically. I have done a lot of negative things in my drink but thankfully not rape. I used to drink to alleviate the symptoms of intrusive thoughts in OCD. Pure O. The problem with that is that the intrusive thoughts come back with a vengeance the morning after, usually a Sunday. Thoughts of a hugely morbid, negative and disturbing nature, to me anyways. Thoughts that I could do nothing about. 

I went to a single sex school, from the ages of 11-17. Formative years where I had very little if no contact with girls and women. My OCD, my intrusive thoughts and my mental health took a dive when I was 13. From the age of 17 until now I have avoided women. I was too shy, too introverted, too scared of rejection. I have had girlfriends but they have happened by accident, the relationship either instigated by them or by me when drunk. I'm not sure about the States but in the UK the culture we grew up in was the pop culture of Gary Glitter, Stuart Hall, Rolf Harris and Jimmy Saville. These were the predatory males strutting their stuff on the public stages of the late 70s and early 80s. We didn't know until this century that they were so depraved and disfunctional. Boys and  Men grew  up in a sexist and misogynistic culture and it is only by looking back from the present can we see how pre-historic those times were. At the time, it appears to have been accepted as the norm. We were brought up in a homophobic culture. Any hint or whiff of same sex attraction carried condemnation. The above is not an excuse but it is an explanation of a cultural problem that some men bought into hook line and sinker and others fought to free themselves from.

Perhaps it is only a male that will call what we have seen over the last couple of years as 'gender war'. If that comes across as flippant I'm sorry. Harvey Weinstein is 66 years of age so older than me and perhaps even more steeped in sexist culture. It appears that it is only younger men who do not suffer with a jaundiced eye on the relationships between men and women. They have gender fluidity and a very positive attitude towards interactions between men and women or human beings as they should be referred to. We have bought into this Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus. A complete misunderstanding of boundaries,consent,appropriate behaviour, cat calling etc etc. Women give birth to boys who turn into men and some turn into monsters. Why? Again that question could be interpreted as woman shaming, putting the blame on to them again. Instead of labelling each other as misogynists and misandrists perhaps we should just do what I have been doing and avoid each other. It would bring population numbers down. If you are a woman and you are unfortunate enough to meet me in real life, you now have the upper hand and know that I will be intimidated by you, unless you have the same low estimation of yourself as I do of myself and then we will get on famously but only as friends.           

Populist Poet

Apart from being the creator of Ken Frane 

(Last of the Cardiff  Docks' Detectives) 

I am also a Populist Poet.

Our Last Christmas in Europe

Oy fellow Grande Bretagners! Listen up. Loath as I am to use the C word on September 14th, I want you to wake up and smell the Continental Coffee. Do you realise that Michaelmas 2018 will be our last as members of the European Union? This is some serious shit man. All our Christmases from now on are going to be dour British affairs so what I am going to suggest in this blog post is that we all make Christmas 2018 the most European Christmas of all time. This means not buying any British produce at all, whatsoever and bringing the UK's economy crashing down before we actually leave. You want austerity? Let's have some proper f****ing austerity. So everything from the turkey to the tinsel, from the decorations to Santa's sack, make sure that it has been produced in Europe and not in Britain. Nobody is to eat Gammon. Gammon is verboten on Christmas Day, we don't want to be staring into the pink fleshy abyss to remind us of who got us into this pickle do we? If you possibly can, try and speak another language apart from English on Christmas Day, a proper European language like French or German or Welsh. Get some practice in on Duolingo so that you can be like Eric Olthwaite's parents in Ripping Yarns  

Let's make this the most European Celebration so in years to come we might remember what it was to be civilised, co-operative and cultured. Sleep well in your British beds o servants of Perfidious Albion and remember 'que sera sera, whatever will be, will be, 

you're going to Wemberley in eternity' 

Colli Diddordeb

Mae o yn digwydd o dro i dro. Ble dwi'n colli diddordeb mewn pawb a phopeth. Mae'r peiriant corfforol, meddyliol, eneidiol wedi cael digon. Efallai fod y tymor yn troi o haf i hydref rhywbeth i wneud gyda fo ond jest teimlo wedi blino gyda'r un hen rigol ydw i. Blino ar wastio fy mywyd ar y cyfryngau cymdeithasol. Mae yna reswm dwi wrthi mor eger yn enwedig ar drydar. Dwi'n cadw cwmni i ddau riant mewn tipyn o oedran ag dwi'n llenwi'r oriau ble dwi ddim yn cadw golwg allan amdanynt yn llenwi'r gofodau 140 cymeriad, mae yn weddol saff a diniwed ond heb os dwi wedi colli diddordeb. Mae fy ffydd yn y dynol rhyw wedi ei cholli ers oes pys. Ers 2005 i fod yn fanwl gywir. Ers yr amser ges i fy ngharcharu. Mae fy chwerwder at fy nghyd ddyn wedi tyfu ac esblygu ers hynny a dwi ddim yn wahaniaethau. Mae fy atgasedd at y dosbarth canol Cymraeg bron mor gryf ag tuag at y Teulu Brenhinol Prydeinig. Yr un yn swancio yn Buck House ar llall yn swancio ar y maes. Ond efallai un rheswm arall dwi wedi colli diddordeb mewn bywyd ydy'r ffaith fy mod i ddim yn gwerthfawrogi pethau anarferol, arall fydol, hudol bellach. Dwi yn sbïo ar wyrthiau bach bywyd trwy lygad 'cynic'. 
Y meddylfryd rwan ydy "Oherwydd bod realiti mor ddiflas ag undonog does dim pwynt ceisio dianc oddi wrtho trwy ddilyn llwybr ffantasi". Dianc roeddwn yn ceisio gwneud cyn 2005 trwy'r defnydd o ganabis ag alcohol. Os doeddwn ddim yn gallu dianc yn gorfforol o'r carchar rydw wedi dod i adnabod fel Cymru fasa rhaid i mi ddianc tu mewn. Dianc tu mewn ta dianc oddi allan ydy'r dewis sydd yn wynebu fi. Yr olaf ddewisais gyntaf ond yn anffodus mae hwnna yn gyfrwng weddol gyhoeddus ag mi wyt yn amlygu dy hun fel rhyw fath o bar fly neu gaethwas i gyffuriau. Ar y pryd, rydych ddim yn sylweddoli rydych yn gaeth ond mae 'na lais bach yn gweiddi o dro i dro "dim ond ceisio dianc rydych chi". Y dewis cyntaf ydy'r un dwi wedi bod yn dilyn ers tipyn rŵan, y bywyd sobor ble dwi wrthi yn ceisio dadansoddi'r byd ar betws ag fy lle i ynddi ag erbyn hyn dwi wedi blino. Dwi'n dyn canol oed ag dwi wedi colli diddordeb. Yr ofn mwyaf sydd gen i ydy mi fydd yn cario mlaen fel hyn tan y diwedd. Sgerbwd o ddyn mewn siwt croen yn treulio ei amser ar y peiriannau hunan werthuso yn yr archfarchnad. "Unidentified Object in the Packing Area" 
"Fi ta'r siopa dych chi'n son amdano yr hulpan?" ag dwi newydd sylweddoli yn rhi hwyr efallai fy mod i ddim wedi gwasgu'r 'Opsiwn Cymraeg' 

Annex Cardiff

As somebody who has lived there for thirty years I am prepared to go along with Alun Cairns idea and annex Cardiff. It is time for people to fess up, Cardiff is not Wales. Cardiff is more British than it is Welsh and it always has been. I mean what Welsh person would call its National Sporting Stadium 'The Principality Stadium'. I'm sorry if this upsets some people but the Welsh really are a nuisance scurrying along the pavements and roads on match days with their Prince of Wales Feathers (WRU) Rugby Jerseys, munching a burger and singing Calon Lan. We already have the Western Mail which calls itself the National Newspaper of Wales so the Western Powerhouse is surely just an extension of that. What's in a name? An awful lot, The 'Prince of Wales Bridge' ring any bells? Wales has become an American Tourist's version of what the Land of Your Fathers was meant to be. The Capital City is so British that you cannot tell your Goat Major from your Owen Glendower. Welsh Speakers are tolerated because the working class cognoscenti knows that the young Welsh League of Health & Beauty (The Urdd) will not carry on speaking Cymraeg once they have finished their education because like a flower, without feed and nourishment, it will die out and there is no food and nourishment on the cold concrete mean streets of Kairdiff. I mean take the 'Hen Llyfrgell' as an example. It was meant to be the place to go and siarad yr hen iaith but it is withering like that flower because it cannot recruit Welsh speaking staff and is the butt of Welsh middle class complaints. I use the term Welsh loosely because yn Gymraeg we have 'Y Cymry Cymraeg' the Welsh Welsh, the Welshest of Welsh, those that speak the Welsh. In the English we just say Welsh.This might sound like just another self hating Welshman writing but I am not as self hating as Alun Cairns. I mean, he must really hate himself and Wales to be pursuing the political path that he is. He reminds me of the character from the film the Last Days of Dolwyn played by Emlyn Williams who vows to wreak revenge on the village that branded him a thief as a young man. The film that was Richard Burton's first screen role and in which he speaks Welsh like a native or rather a Cymro Cymraeg.

   

Abersignon

Abersignon

There's a place called Abercynon but this is a story about Abersignon where everybody is unemployed.
Now a Universal Basic Income would eradicate the ignominious process of proving that you are entitled to benefits.
Everybody in Abersignon had to sign on exactly the same day so there were huge queues and all knew each other but they never talked, they just looked straight ahead.
Instead of a guaranteed basic income these folk had to use the Universal Job Search.
One fellow had a cracking idea, he said let's open a mine.
They called it the butty mine and people started talking again because they had work to go to, a common goal and a sense of camaraderie.
Now the only people out of work were those who worked in the Job Centre. They looked on jealously as the men marched to work in their moleskin trousers and shiny boots. There was equality of opportunity and women worked down the mine as well. The people of Abersignon couldn't believe their luck and the job centre was nicknamed the joke shop. Television crews were sent to cover this success story. This was Socialism in action they reported. Abersignon had become the first socialist collective enterprise under a Corbyn led government.
One day in the cage coming up out of the ground, a man pointed at another and called him an anti-seamite. That man had refused to work a designated seam and was therefore referred to as an anti-seamite. Well fear and disillusionment spread like a wildfire underground throughout the workforce. Others started calling each other anti-seamites without a shred of evidence. It became a witchunt underground and the winding machinery and the cage finally ground to a halt. A woman called Hodgepodge had been putting it about the canteen that there were more anti-seamites at the mine than you could shake a stick at. It turned out that she was related to the manager of the job centre who had become desperate after losing all his clients to the butty mine. They weren't butties any more. The collective dream had died all because of vicious rumours. It only took one person to refuse to work a seam and then everybody was tarred with the same brush. The works closed and everybody went back to queuing up at the Job Centre and life went on as it always had done in Abersignon.

Further Reading

http://sharkfishinginwales.blogspot.com/2016/07/i-had-dream.html

http://sharkfishinginwales.blogspot.com/2016/09/prime-ministers-snap-time.html

http://sharkfishinginwales.blogspot.com/2018/07/interview-with-author.html