All the Selfish People

With apologies to the brilliant Beatles

for tampering with their classic song

for purely selfish reasons.

mea culpa

Ah, look at all the selfish people
Ah, look at all the selfish people

Richard Dawkins picks up his book in the church with no God
The Selfish Gene
 Dawkins contends that a supernatural creator almost certainly does not exist and that religious faith is a delusion.
Then who is it for?

All the selfish people
Where do they all come from?
All the selfish people
Where do they all belong?

Aristotle joined a perceived majority of his countrymen in condemning those who sought only to profit themselves.
Lack of empathy has been seen as one of the roots of selfishness, extending as far as the cold manipulation of the psychopath.

All the selfish people
Where do they all come from?
All the selfish people
Where do they all belong?

Ah, look at all the selfish people
Ah, look at all the selfish people

With the emergence of a commercial society, Bernard Mandeville proposed the paradox that social and economic advance depended on private vices – 

on what he called the sordidness of selfishness.
Francis Bacon carried forward this tradition when he characterised 

“Wisdom for a man's self as the wisdom of rats”.

All the selfish people
(Ah, look at all the selfish people)
Where do they all come from?
All the selfish people
(Ah, look at all the selfish people)
Where do they all belong?

Call me Old Fashioned

Call me old fashioned

but those who have no time

for politeness and manners

have no time for me.

Not that I possess either in abundance

but it is those 

who just fall out of bed and greet you as stranger than strange as if you are standing stark bollock naked in their front room and they are the ones who are affronted.

Let us engage in a little foreplay

Don't greet me like the twat who wronged you all those years ago.

But please greet me in some shape or form.

If I say "Good Morning" or even better "Bore Da", please reply

If I hold the door open for you please say "Thank you" or even better "Diolch yn fawr"

Some kind of acknowledgement to a shy introvert goes a long way.

I know that we live in a 24/7 Drive - Thru World where looking at others as if they are shit on your shoe is easier than remembering those who have been ignorant to you. 

But we have to make an effort? Or don't we?

Perhaps we have been brought up incorrectly,

to put others before ourselves?

They never said we should, but we assumed it.

Perhaps there is a critical mass that despise people pleasers.

These are the wheeler dealers who know the truth

That you must only have time for those you love

or those who you think love you.

Dog eat Dog & "Diwedd y gân yw’r geiniog"

Well I wish that dog would eat the coin.

Call me old fashioned

but those who have no time

for politeness and manners

have no time for me. 

The Ripper of Rhuthun

"delightfully different dishevelled detective" ? 🕵️‍♂️

— IAWN (@IAWNyarc) July 3, 2019

Ken Frane did not want to go back to North Wales, but he had to. Bermo had left a bad taste in his mouth. The taste of burnt sausage. It wasn't the fact that it was North Wales per se. It was the fact that he didn’t own a car and he didn’t particularly like driving but the case that he had been handed looked like a humdinger. He needed to get to the medieval town of Rhuthun spelt Ruthin in the English. There was no train station in Rhuthun. Somebody called David Garland Jones had written a song about it. So how was he going to get up there from Fidlas Avenue, Llanishen, Cardiff? Train to Wrexham, Prestatyn or Rhyl was his safest bet, or he could hire a car.

Again, Frane chose the train and still could not get his head around the fact that he had to go into England to get to Rhuthun. The marcher kingdom of Shrewsbury. Neither Denbigh, Mold nor Rhuthun had a train station. Mold! What kind of a name for a town was that? Not the kind of place for a food festival.

As soon as he arrived, he checked into the Hotel on the Square which doubled as a well-known pub chain. From his bedroom window Frane could see the clock, which had kept good time since the 19th Century. He was going to be briefed about a spate of killings, 3 so far, a serial killer. Ken Frane noticed the attractive raven haired green-eyed young lady on reception. Irish looking. He nodded and half smiled but hid his teeth as he did, so acutely aware of the yellow staining from his 40 years of Cafe Creme cigars.

WNP

WELSH NATIONAL PARTY

Centre Left & Social Democratic

Ok folks, I am going to be deliberately provocative here because desperate times call for desperate measures. Plaid Cymru have been in existence since 1925 and won its first parliamentary seat in 1966. There is now a definite drive for Welsh Independence under Yes Cymru and AUOB. There are new old kids on the block who claim to be Welsh Nationalists but keep using the dreaded word 'Populism' and referencing right wing European leaders on their news portal. Their name Ein Gwlad. So you have Plaid Cymru and Ein Gwlad fighting or should I say bickering for Welsh Independence.  They could just as well be called Ein Cymru or Plaid Gwlad or Ein Plaid or Cymru Gwlad. These four words mean very little to non Welsh Speakers and anybody who has been out on the knocker in the name of Welsh Independence will be familiar with the refrain "Sorry I don't speak Welsh". Now, as a Wenglish speaker myself I am going to propose something that will send the cultural nationalists scuttling for cover under their embroidered quilted blankets. I am going to suggest getting rid of the Welsh Language from the name of the Party that will in future contest in the name of Welsh Independence and the name of that party? The Welsh National Party. You've heard of the SNP haven't you? The Scottish National Party? Look how well they have been doing. Plaid Cymru is not going to start winning anything until there are a million Welsh Speakers to vote for it in 2050. We have thirty years until then for a Welsh National Party to secure Welsh Independence from the United Kingdom in whatever form that may take. Personally I am not in favour of the word 'sovereignty' because it smacks of Kings & Queens and the Independent Wales I have in mind would be a Republic but we can iron out all these problems under one banner. The banner of the WNP. The Welsh National Party will look after the interests of the Welsh Language and will enshrine in law at the Welsh Parliament its historical and contemporary status but until everyone in Wales can speak it, the Welsh National Party will not have a Welsh translation to its name. No longer will voters be able to rub that old chestnut. So my appeal to Plaid Cymru and to Ein Gwlad in light of recent events is to disband and to reform under one banner. One banner that will take votes from Welsh Labour and that will hopefully render the Tory party moribund in our nation. The Leader of the Welsh National Party will be Neil McEvoy.   

https://sharkfishinginwales.blogspot.com/2015/12/syriza-cymraeg.html

https://sharkfishinginwales.blogspot.com/2018/01/blaidd-cymru.html

https://sharkfishinginwales.blogspot.com/2018/03/johnny-come-lately.html

The Road to Marrakesh

GUEST BLOG POST by MATT LIDIS

I am sat next to the window of a Ryanair flight from Marrakesh to Manchester. When I look out, I can see the dry, featureless plains of North Africa separated from me by a few clouds and a couple of panes of discount glass. I have spent the last week mooching about Marrakesh, partly because I have never been there and partly because it seemed the cheapest and easiest way to say ‘I’ve been to Africa.’ Although, now, 20 minutes into this flight it doesn’t feel like I’ve been anywhere. I had big plans for this trip. Plans to detox from my phone, to lay off the pizza and chocolate and mostly to get some fucking writing done. I knew I would have to use my phone on the first day to call the lady whose Air BnB I was staying in and negotiate my way there. But then the phone would go off and out of my life for a week. That was the plan. Before I left, I had looked up roaming charges. It would cost me £6 a day to use my data allowance. I could absorb £6.
£6 was not a lot. Especially as I am such a tight bastard I had already decided to walk if from the airport into the city centre (or Centre Ville – Grade B GCSE French 1996). When I switched my phone on in the terminal, I had a voicemail. This was almost certainly someone telling me I had won a writing competition. Or one of those millions of Vodafone competitions I had entered It had to be. This was going to be a great holiday. Turns out it was the Air BnB woman wondering what time I was going to turn up as the current guests weren’t planning to leave on time, and it would be cleaned by half 2. It was 11.30 so I had three hours to run riot in a new continent. An hour later I arrived in the centre of Marrakesh completely dehydrated with lungs full of motorbike petrol, the like of which I have not inhaled since the 80s. I had used my data to find my way around and finalised the details of my arrival via Whatsapp. I had also, very foolishly, worn a brand-new pair of Sports Direct fake Converse baseball boots so my feet were cut to pieces. I drew some Dirahms from the machine, sat down at a café and felt sorry for myself. Rather than lose myself gazing at the throngs of people sailing past on bikes, camels and horses I decided to get my phone out. After all, I’d paid £6 for the day and there were nearly 12 hours of that left. I was just getting my money’s worth. So, for the next hour or two I drank Sprite whilst going through my Gmail, Hotmail both of which had no new emails. I Whattsapped a few people to tell them I had arrived safe. I looked at my calendar – fuck me – a week in Morocco - what were the odds? Then twitter. The Instagram. I read the BBC news, The Bolton News, had a stab at the Guardian crossword. Had a look through my photos. Cleaned the junk from my cache. Updated my apps. And basically, went through the entire fucking palaver that seems to happen every time I look at my phone. By now of course replies had come back from the messages so I had reason to be staring at my phone. Replies became conversations and before long I’d checked all my emails again and gone round all the apps just because that is apparently how I spend my time on my phone these days. A few more of these and it was time to go. Thank god of my phone. Who knows what might have happened otherwise? I might have been forced to read, write or even think. I’d like to tell you that this was me flushing the phone blues away on the first day but I paid £6 a day every day of the remainder of my holiday just so I could keep Whatsapping clichéd photos to people I barely know. I was right up to date with the crisis at Bolton Wanderers and I spent my Saturday afternoon listening to the football on Five Live wishing I’d had the foresight to put an accumulator on before I left the country. I listened to Man City squeeze part Burnley on Sunday, Spurs lose 0ne-nil to Ajax on Tuesday and Liverpool lose three-nil to Barcelona on Wednesday. Three matches I would happily totally miss back home. But in the clammy, balmy, creeping heat of a North African evening - they were unmissable. But why? Why was I choosing Marks Chapman and Pougatch over my own mental health? There were exotic strangers to meet, mountains to be explored and tiny, labyrinthine medieval streets to get lost in. While I did my fair share of sightseeing and exploring I did not do Marrakesh the justice I did the 37th week of the football season and that is a shame in anyone’s book. With the possible exception of all those racist football fans. I genuinely hoped I would be able to switch my phone off and disconnect from the world I had ostensibly left behind. But I simply couldn’t. So embedded in the always on, constant flow of information lifestyle we all lead I went on holiday in body but not in mind.

As a kid I remember coming home from holiday and the world I had not seen for a couple of weeks seemed like a long lost friend who had changed since the last time I saw them. But that was because I had changed. I had been forced into a world a strange smells, unfamiliar flavours and textures. To live a different way for a fortnight’s self-catering In Menorca was a big upheaval for seven-year-old me. In the intervening 32 years I have been to 28 more countries. I walked around the souks of Marrakesh thinking ‘This place is a bit like Istanbul and a bit like North India.’ What a bell end. My advancing years meant I had been reduced to categorising places to make me feel safe. To make me feel like the me that I should’ve  left behind. Holidays should be a bit scary, a bit uncomfortable and a bit weird. That’s how they broaden the mind and make us see ourselves a little differently when we return. All this is undermined when all that we are can be carried around in our pockets. I wish I had had the balls to switch my phone off. Walk more, read more and write more. But it’s so, so easy to retreat into the comfort of our phone screens. And so comfortingly easy. Everyone we know is just a few glass presses away and all that really means is that we never have to spend any time with ourselves anymore.

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Annibyniaeth trwy Ysbrydiaeth

Fydd rhai pobol wedi peidio darllen ar ôl y gair ysbrydiaeth ond fyddant wedi cael ei chynhyrfu gan y gair Annibyniaeth. Ar hyn o bryd yng Nghymru rydym yn gweld cynnydd yn y meddylfryd 'Annibyniaeth i Gymru'. Raliau a mudiadau ym mhob man ond dydi’r mudiadau a phleidiau yma ddim yn rhannu'r un wleidyddiaeth. Maent yn rhannu'r un nod, sef Annibyniaeth i Gymru o fewn y Deyrnas Unedig ond sut mae cyrraedd y nod yna ydy'r cwestiwn. Mwy o raliau ag mwy o areithiau? Efallai. Mae o yn ffasiynol i fod o blaid annibyniaeth ag mi rydych yn beryg i gael cael eich galw yng ngamwn os ydych yn erbyn, neu yn Brit Nat. Mae'r rheina ar y dde o sbectrwm gwleidyddol wedi cael ei alw yn Ffasgwyr ag yn Natsïaid gan y 'Totalitarian Left' a dwi ddim yn meddwl fod hwn yn helpu neb ond mi wnaeth llewpard ddim newid ei sbotiau. Mi fydd wastad giang yn galw enwau ar y garfan arall ond rydym mewn cyfnod cythryblis iawn yn wleidyddol ar draws y byd. Yn bersonol dwi ddim yn meddwl bydd y nod o gyrraedd annibyniaeth i Gymru o fewn y deyrnas unedig yn digwydd yn y ffordd draddodiadol. Mi fydd rhaid i ni gyd ollwng teilyngdod i ein gwleidyddiaeth benodol sef Phoblyddiaeth, Sosialaeth, Rhyddfrydiaeth a phopeth yn y canol. Yr unig ddyn i guro'r Ymerodraeth Brydeinig oedd Mahatma Ghandi. Os am Annibyniaeth i Gymru o fewn y Deyrnas Unedig mi fydd rhaid efelychu'r dewin yma ym mhob ffordd. Gwisgo yn yr un ffordd, tyfu bwyd ein hunan a cherdded i bob man. Does dim pwynt i gael Bws i Gaernarfon, mae hwnna yn rhedeg ar olew o'r ddaear. Y peth gorau i wneud ydy cerdded o Gaernarfon i'r man nesaf fydd Rali AUOB. Pwy a ŵyr efallai fydd miloedd yn cerdded o Gaernarfon i Gaerdydd rhyw ddiwrnod i ail etifeddu ei gwlad. Yn debyg i Mohandas Mahatma Ghandi ar orymdaith halen. Efallai erbyn hyn mae rhai o fy narllenwyr ffyddlon yn chwerthin llond ei bol. Mae'r dyn yma ddim hanner call! Well mae hwnna yn ffaith. Dwi wedi sgrifennu digon am hwnna yn y gorffennol ond os ydym ni yn wir feddwl ein bod yn mynd i gael ein ddi-coloneiddio yn defnyddio'r un ffordd o fyw ar coloneiddwyr rydym yn mynd i gael 'rude awakening'. Dwi'n siŵr mae 'na Heddlu Cudd a rhyw adran yn MI5 wrthi ar hyn o bryd yn ceisio gweithio allan sut i ddenu rhai o bennau poeth y mudiad i droseddu ac i roi enw drwg i'r achos. Mi fydd rhaid bod yn ofalus ond yn y cyfamser daliwch chi ati i ddosbarthu taflenni.  

Darllen Pellach

https://sharkfishinginwales.blogspot.com/2016/05/sponsored-walk-or-protest-march.html

https://sharkfishinginwales.blogspot.com/2017/12/re-welshing.html

Head in the Clouds

I've got me head in the clouds

I'm not proud

I'm too old to be on Instagram

listen fam

most of me pictures are of clouds

it's what I remember from Geography

Cumulus, Cirrus and Nimbus

What cool sounding names I thought

I hadn't heard of Stratus

cos I had no status

Call me an Idealist

Call me Impractical

but just don't call me on the phone

because I am a loud mouthed introvert

with one head up me arse

and the other in the clouds

Hydra

the useless twat.

I never thought I'd end up a doleite

on the scrap heap of life

pretending to be a writer

Anybody can do that!

"I can do that" 

Yozzer would say

Every day, I while away the hours on the keyboard

better than banging your head on the sideboard

or is it the same thing?