Mosey & Mooch at large

Mosey and Mooch had a pooch called Hooch

their favourite music was Cab Calloway's 'Cooch'

Sometimes Mosey would like to smooch with his girlfriend Moose

but Mooch kept telling him she was fast and loose.

They had business to attend to,

 people to bump off,

 sometimes they knew not who

a note on the leg of a pigeon

an arrow fired into the office

an email at 3 am.

A grainy picture, a description and an address

was all the deadly pair required.

They were always one step ahead of the Bizzies

who'd had one too many fizzies the night before.

Half of Birkenhead had been laid waste

before they turned their attention to Wallasey & New Brighton

a lorra local people had a cob and a fright on!

They were able to disappear at will,

no surprise then, that no chance had Old Bill.

They could cut keys and necks

they could fit new soles and get rid of old souls

Who knows? they might end up calling the shop

' Just Brown Bread'     

  
https://sharkfishinginwales.blogspot.com/2020/08/mosey-mooch.html 

Mosey & Mooch

Mosey & Mooch 

They were Birkenhead’s answer to Burke and Hare 

They ran a Keys & Kitten Heels Bar on Hamilton Square. 

When closed for the day they’d head out and away. 

They weren’t grave robbers per se but they were hired by a solicitor to get rid of people, pay per play. 

You think the Bizzies are mustard, the Bizzies are in charge?

How is it then that Mosey & Mooch are still at large?

Merseyside Police were waiting for the big sting, for the i phones on their desks to ring. 

The law is an ass we all agree and the world is over populated, don’t you see?

Mosey & Mooch were doing Social Services a favour, bumping people off as an endeavour. 

They gave the lawyer the shove and applied for an enterprise grant, please see above. 

The sign upon the shop front now read 

Keys and Kitten Heels and Brown Bread

Mosey & Mooch are trademarked names by the nonsense verse writer David Williams and an International Patent has been registered at Newport as of yesterday so keep yer hands off. 

Can you see the Liver Building from Birkenhead Park?

Can you see the Liver Building from Birkenhead Park? 

I found it, the memorial stone to Hedd Wyn,

Yr Ysgwrn Dafydd, roedd yn bererindod oedd wedi dod a fi draws ar y fferi
Dim syniad ble i fynd, gofyn i ddyn caredig
“ It’s miles away” 
First a breakfast in the Wimpy, Grange Precinct, Princes Pavement, Pyramid shopping centre, spotlessly clean and hand sanitisers on the door 
“ Give us a mention on trip advisor would you, it’s the out of towners that keep us going” 
A gentleman of the old school variety, so polite that I thought I’d entered a time warp to the last century. 
He was like a man from the 1970s and 80s 
Dapper Dan 
And then I found it, 
Birkenhead Park, again what I remember parks used to be like, untouched by human sanitised hands, natural, organic, rustic. 
Are you reading the Bosses of Bute Park? 
The rain clouds start their darting hit and runs. 
Maybe this was how the weather was that day on Pilkem Ridge 31/7/1917

My Litherland Lil, lovely Litherland Lil

Liverpool can be a mournful melancholic city where the weather decides the mood. On Monday it was baking and Williamson Square was buzzing to the sound of Karaoke at Sweeneys Bar. Tuesday was pissing it down and I ended up on a bus to Garston. I returned to the centre as soon as I could. I felt down and fatigued, weary of the lamenting underbelly. St Vincent de Paul on one side of the road and the Lynsey de Paul on the other. It’s a brave man who dares to criticise the Pool of Life. The aftermath of the Covid plague is everywhere and it does not sit well with sociable scousers. Buses that used to be vibrant with the craic, now silent as the church we are passing. Religion has laid its heavy hand on Liverpool, the two opulent cathedrals and the poverty surrounding them. Chinatown looks like Wuhan at the start of the outbreak. The Baltic Triangle, eulogised by estate agents appears cold and drab. I return every so often, this my first visit in five years. I return but I’m not sure what for.* The down to earthedness of the people. The music in the soles of the feet of the drug addicts. Man can they move. There seem to be less beggars. The ones that are left are more respectable and will engage in witty repartee and banter with the people they have just asked for money. I see other places in Liverpool. I see Newport, Gwent. I see Rhyl. Here also is a Southern Glasgow. You know I was going to say English and you know I’d be wrong. Liverpool is a celtic city, a cauldron of Irish, Scots and Welsh.  It is a Republic. I’m surprised that they don’t burn effigies of Boris Johnson or Prince Andrew in full Navy regalia on Williamson Square. I am staying not a stone’s throw from the bust of Carl Gustav Jung who dreamt of the Pool of Life in 1927. I thought that synchronicity would lead me to it but I was wrong. I had to walk past the cavern club and walk around and approach the old boy from a different direction.

 Well, I have bought a Day Pass on Stagecoach Buses and here I am with my feet up on the bunk at 2.00pm. Best get out there again in the pissing rain to get my money’s worth. Money’s worth of melancholia, old ropeworks and bus tickets. 

You’re dying to know where I went to get my days pass moneys worth aren’t you?! No? Well I’ll tell yez anyway.  Crosby but there was no sign of Stills and Nash. It was pissing down so I didn’t go and see Anthony Gormley’s non gender specific iron folk. A woman in a black bomber jacket with shimmering sequins in the shape of angels wings got on and she gave me a filthy look. I was wearing a mask so I can only presume it was because I am a man.  I only took the bus to dry off so orft in a beleaguered Blundell Sands and back on the next bus to town or the City Centre. Who got back on the same bus but ‘Angel’ who gave me the same filthy look she’d given me on the way in. 

I know how to live eh? Getting me money’s worth out of day passes. It beats running back from Croatia and France. Stay Wet, Go Local. There’s no point mentioning the British Weather. “But your Welsh shouts a man from a bridge” I like Liverpool but I don’t think it likes me. I love its indifference. If you’re not a Scouser you can do one. In fact the Liver Birds could be replaced by a pair of cats. Licking their paws in a “I couldn’t give a toss if you drowned in the Mersey type of fashion”. The auld place has been here for hundreds of years, 1207 in fact founded by King John and it asks of the visitor “who are you by the  way?” As I write this I’m wondering what year Blacklers shut down? When did George Henry Lees close? Seeing parents queuing in the rain for school uniform while a busker played the power of love by Holly Johnson. This is a city like no other. Arrive unannounced and it will have its curlers on in marching down Bold Street. Tell them your coming and somebody will shout “Ya Divvy” from across the road to Lime Street Station. I admire this city and everything its been through but it doesn’t want you to romanticise it. They’ve done enough of that in the past.



I couldn’t find the bust of Carl Jung but here’s one of a man called Flan.

https://sharkfishinginwales.blogspot.com/2013/10/my-liverpool-lou.html

* I remember why I return, to get inspiration for me writing.

Cesspit Britain Part Two

As I mentioned in my 'sensitive content' Cesspit Britain blog post, I, the fisher of sharks on this side of Offa's Dyke see the civil unrest UK wide in Class Terms. 

Middle Class Vigil for Refugees

Working Class Vigil for Refugees

The poorer you are, the more pissed off you are that even poorer people than you are making daring and darting runs across the English Channel and are successfully living lives of abject misery in hostels and hotels across the country. The Upper Class Hotel Inspector, the monocled Rupert the Bear look alike Nigel Farage is keeping us all notified on a daily basis how our taxes are being spent looking after people who don't look like us. 

Now it's a sweeping and frankly downright insulting generalisation to call the Working Class racist but I would wager my monthly Universal Credit that there are higher numbers of the prejudiced among who might be considered as the Working Class today. It is not the bicycle riding, blue collar, pipe smoking weekend rambler of the 1950s anymore. It is the "Get your facking poxy hands off of our statue of Winston Churchill and Baden Powell's love child"

The brave topplers of the Edward Colston Statue in Bristol were mostly middle class. I'll wager my weekly Carer's Allowance on that. Sure there would be your sprinkling of Socialist Workers Party but they looked a well educated bunch to me and once again I return to my 'bete noir' of education. The ladies and gentlemen in picture 2 are likely not to have had a University education especially the Veterans who would have been recruited from their sink school at 16 and then returned home by their late thirties, early forties to an area and a country that they do not recognise. "They have moved in, the people wot we were fighting in the dust of Afghanistan and Iraq. My comrades have got PTSD fighting for this country and they can't even get any decent accommodation"  

Now I could probably make a convincing argument for either side marching in Cesspit Britain at the moment but my argument, my beef is with those in the corridors of power, is with those in the staff room of Eton College and the even darker corridors of Buckingham Palace.

Britain's elite, backed by Russian oligarchs and Saudi Princes are the Portable Toilet Operatives of Cesspit Britain. It's yer Jacob Rees Mogg's, yer Stanley Johnson's ably assisted by the Brylcreem Boy on the opposition establishment benches who are protecting the status quo and keeping everybody down with their face masks and hand gel. As long as everybody sends their kids to school to keep feeding their herd immunity, they are happy. While we, the middle class educated are fighting the working class prejudiced, Prince Andrew will continue to be in his counting house, counting out his money.

Septic Tank Emptying at Liberal Democrat HQ 

Henaint ni ddaw ei hunan

Henaint ni ddaw ei hunan. Yn fy achos i, mae o wedi cyrraedd gyda dos o sinigiaeth ag anhapusrwydd gyda'r mudiadau annibyniaeth i Gymru. Dwi erioed wedi pleidleisio i unrhyw blaid fuaswn allu ddisgrifio fel un unoliaethwr sef Llafur neu Geidwadwyr. Mae'r nod o Annibyniaeth yn un hollol ddilys ond mae'r ffordd o fynd o gwmpas y peth yn fy nrysu. Dwi meddwl fod y Cyfryngau Cymdeithasol wedi rhoi rhwydd hynt i'r byd a'i betws ag yn yr achos yma'r, y Betws* sydd yn ennill y dydd, un ai'r Coed neu Gwerfyl Goch. Y peth wnaeth corddi fi fwyaf yn ystod y pandemic oedd gweld gwladgarwyr yn bloeddio dros annibyniaeth pan oedd cannoedd yn marw bob dydd bob ochr o Glawdd Offa. Roedd yn dod ar draws yn oeraidd a ddigalon. Roedd dyn yn teimlo fod cenedlaetholwyr Cymraeg wedi darganfod y brechlyn am Cofid 19 ac yn gwrthod deud wrth neb neu efallai mai mor syml ar ffaith fy mod i yn gwario gormod o amser ar drydar ac yn gam ddehongli pop peth dan haul. Mae'n hawdd gwneud. 

 Yn wahanol i Genedlaetholwyr Albanaidd oedd yn dangos parch a difrifoldeb i'r sefyllfa roedd pennau poeth Coedpoeth yn mynd o gwmpas yn ei chylchoedd cyfryngol yn diawlio'r ffaith doeddent ddim yn gallu gorymdeithio fel roedd ei arferiad. Esiampl o Gaerdydd, Caernarfon, Merthyr a Cofid-19. Mae pethau mawr 'pandemic' yn effeithio'r byd a dim yn unig blwyfoldeb y Cymry. Dyma beth sydd yn wrthynt i mi ar hyn o bryd, fod y nod sef 'Annibyniaeth i Gymru' o fewn y wladwriaeth Brydeinig yn bwysicach nag unrhyw beth arall. The end justifies the means? 

Mae 'na fwy na un ffordd i'w gael Wil yw wely a dwi yn meddwl fod y ffordd bost modernaidd o wthio a gwthio gan obeithio bydd rhyw floedd o bont yn taro gartref yn wrth chwyldroadol. A ydym ni yn edrych am ffordd 'Calonnau a Meddyliau' yn y mudiad Cenedlaethol neu ydy'r dyddiau yna drosodd? Dwi ddim yn meddwl bod ni wedi trio fo eto! Mae popeth yn wrthyn.
 "Os ydych chi ddim gyda nii, i chi yn ein herbyn ni"
Dwi'n siŵr mi gai fy ngalw yn Dic Siôn Dafydd neu fradwr am sgrifennu'r fath beth yn 'iaith y nefoedd' ond mae rhaid deud hi fel y rwyf yn ei gweld hi.

"Mae'r iaith yn bwysicach na hunanlywodraeth. Yn fy marn i, pe ceid unrhyw fath o hunanlywodraeth i Gymru cyn arddel ac arfer yr iaith Gymraeg yn iaith swyddogol yn holl weinyddiad yr awdurdodau lleol a gwladol yn y rhanbarthau Cymraeg o'n gwlad, ni cheid mohoni'n hiaith swyddogol o gwbl, a byddai tranc yr iaith yn gynt nag y bydd ei thranc hi dan Lywodraeth Loegr."
TYNGED YR IAITH Darlith radio flynyddol BBC Cymru gan Saunders Lewis.Darlledwyd 13 Chwefror 1962. 
   

*Betws- beadhouse (plural beadhouses) (historical) An almshouse for poor people who pray daily for their benefactors.   

Yng Nghysgod Comedi: Stori Fer Ffuglen

Mae hwn yn waith ffuglen. Mae enwau, cymeriadau, busnesau, lleoedd, digwyddiadau, locales a digwyddiadau naill ai'n gynhyrchion dychymyg yr awdur neu'n cael eu defnyddio mewn modd ffug. Mae unrhyw debygrwydd i bobl wirioneddol, byw neu farw, neu ddigwyddiadau gwirioneddol yn gyd-ddigwyddiadol yn unig.

Sbïodd Greta i fyny at adeilad y Senedd. Na ddim y Greta yna. Greta Franks o Pentrebane, Ysgol Plasmawr, Caerdydd ag nawr yn sefyll yn sbïo ar yr adeilad mawr hyll. Pwll Nofio oedd ei thad yn ei alw fo gyda gwleidyddion doedd ddim yn gallu nofio. Doedd gwleidyddiaeth fel y cyfryw yn golygu dim i Greta. Roedd hi'n ymwybodol fod hi gyda'r hawl i bleidleisio a dyna gyd.Yn edrych o'i gwmpas ac yn gweld yr un hen wynebau roedd hi'n gweld ar y teledu bob nos.

"Fyddai'n falch fod nôl ar y bws" dwedodd ffrind gorau Greta, Catrin, "Mae'n fflipin oer" 

"Beth oedd syniad Mr Rhys i ddod lawr fan hyn beth bynnag?"

"Gwleidyddiaeth Greta" ynganwyd Catrin yn llais Mr Rhys "Cig a gwaed bywyd"

Wnaeth Greta chwerthin ar hwn a chodi ei chalon dipyn bach.

Roedd Mr Rhys yn ei elfen, yn siarad da pawb ac yn amlwg yn diflasu gyda'r ffaith ei fod o ddim yn gallu ysgwyd llaw gyda mawrion y genedl. Roedd penelin ddim yn gwneud y tro o gwbl.

"Efallai fyddi di fyny mewn manna rhyw ddydd?" dwedodd Catrin

"Huh, ti yn fwy tebygol na fi"

"No Way, dwi eisiau fod yn comedienne, yn pwyntio tuag at y Glee Club,mewn manna dwi eisiau bod"

Glywodd un o fechgyn ei dosbarth beth ddwedodd Catrin

"Maen nhw yn edrych am lanhawyr a phobol tu ôl y bar" 

"Hey Griff, ti'n gallu mynd yn ddall yn gwneud hwnna?"

"Gneud be?"

"Gwrando ar sgyrsiau bobol eraill"

"Sut hynny?"

A gyda'r cwestiwn mae Catrin yn esgus rhoi ddau fys yn ei lygaid o

"Dim ond trio helpu o ni"

"O ia? Bachgen un ar bymtheg oed yn ceisio helpu? Ar y llwyfan yn fanna dwi eisiau bod yn gwneud pobol llefain da chwerthin."

"Mi wneud di nhw llefain yn sicr"

Roedd Greta i ffwrdd gyda'r tylwyth teg, yn edrych yn bell ar draws y môr glawdd tuag at Benarth. Roedd hi'n gwybod yn barod fod popeth mewn bywyd yn ffals. Rhyw bantomeim oedd addysg, jwmpio trwy gylchoedd er mwyn cael cymwysterau i swyddi doedd dim yn bodoli. 

Roedd hi'n gwybod na'i thynged hi fasa’n gweithio mewn rhyw siop, TK Maxx neu rywbeth tebyg. Fasa Gwleidyddion Mr Rhys ddim yn gallu stopio hi rhag gwneud hwnna ag basa’r Gweinidog gyda chyfrifoldeb am yr Iaith Cymraeg ddim grym o gwbl dros y ffaith nag yr eiliad fasa hi yn gadael tir yr ysgol am y tro olaf fasa’r tro olaf iddi siarad Cymraeg.

Yn dringo fyny'r bws mae Greta yn troi at Catrin "Yn Gymraeg neu Saesneg fyddi di yn gwneud dy gomedi?"

I wanted to write a poem today

 So I wanted to write a poem today

But I really didn't know what to say

I was back in the exam hall

the year of no Covid

It was a long time ago

I never thought I would get to my fifties a failure

I never thought I would get to my fifties

Young pedantic pups are standing on bridges

while I'm working out how to fill my fridge

'Yes Cymru'&'Free Wales'

 Those goddam bastards are marching

to fill the stage

Don't know if I'm jealous or apathetic

See it just wouldn't have happened in our day

So used to being the underdog, the loser

that fooling yourself that you're a winner?

Just give me the sack cloth and ashes sinner

🕈

So I wanted to write a poem today

and you guessed it, I still don't know what to say.

Happy Birthday Buke

You were a 100 yesterday

My old man is older than you and he's still dancing

on the linoleum in his slippers, half asleep.

Your writing spoke to me, it still does,

like finding a volume of John Tripp in the Oriel bookshop in Cardiff, 

a Charles Bukowski poem helps those men who never want to grow up

 and mature and marry 

and have children and take responsibility,

 to feel that it's OK to be an outsider.

An outsider in your own freaking country

where the learners speak better Welsh than you.

I am a mongrel man Mr Bukowski

and I thank you.

🕈  

  

The Staff of Life

I am an endomorph of the Ronnie Barker variety from the Class sketch above. At the moment I weigh in at 15 stone and at 5 foot seven and a half inches in my socks, this means that I am 3 and a half stone over my ideal weight of 11 and a half stone. If you want that converted to kilograms please ring the speaking clock. I am obese. The shark fisherman is of a certain age and vintage which means that weight loss needs to take on an urgency if I am to extend my up till now quality lifespan of 16 years unemployed. I need to lose weight to get in shape for Universal Job Search which I know with tens of thousands more unemployed by Christmas I need to be trim to get to the front at interview. I want the HR department to ignore my straining girth, graying goatee and thousand yard stare. I want them to see the man I could be rather than the man I am.

My relationship with food is awkward.I don't enjoy meal times. They are a survival function. I don't plan my meals. I don't think about food. Maybe that is why I am 3 and a half stone overweight. If I am to lose weight I need to eat less starch and sugar. When you consider that the sugar industry is worth $97 BILLION and the wheat industry a further $17 BILLION you know who this little fat boy is up against. At the moment I am consciously considering my relationship with bread. If you are to kick any addiction, it has to begin in the mind. You have to turn against the thing that you are addicted to. You have to politicize it. You have to realise that thin, tall people are making money from your misfortune. You have to learn to hate bread like you learnt to hate cigarettes, alcohol and psychotropic medication. There can be no lukewarm feelings towards the substance you are addicted to. They are comforters. Emotional comforters that we have learnt to rely upon. We weren't born with a cigarette in our mouths nor a loaf of bread, nor a bottle of gin or a packet of pills. We have been conditioned and groomed to rely on these substances as children and young adults and these habits often accompany us into later life until we wise up. 

So this is my 'Wise Up' blog. I am not making any promises or deadlines on this one. The reason being is that I am still in the same environment that has contributed to my obesity. If an alcoholic is to kick his/her addiction on release from prison they have to change their living environment and their so called friends, the enablers. They move to another end of the country and start afresh with the 12 Step Programme and Alcoholics Anonymous. The last time I checked in Yellow pages,which is a lot thinner these days than the fat bastard that would land on our doorsteps of yesteryear, there is no 'Bread Addicts Anonymous'. The bible has led us to believe that it is the staff of life and that we must take it daily but when Jesus was walking the earth, there was no such thing as genetically modified wheat. Here is a video I came across in my research and I will keep you posted as to the ongoing battle with this particular addiction.

The Walrus & the Carpenter

The Walrus & the Carpenter

"The sun was shining on the sea, Shining with all his might: He did his very best to make The billows smooth and bright— And this was odd, because it was The middle of the night. The moon was shining sulkily, Because she thought the sun Had got no business to be there After the day was done— "It's very rude of him," she said, "To come and spoil the fun!" The sea was wet as wet could be, The sands were dry as dry. You could not see a cloud because No cloud was in the sky: No birds were flying overhead— There were no birds to fly. The Walrus and the Carpenter Were walking close at hand: They wept like anything to see Such quantities of sand: "If this were only cleared away," They said, "it would be grand!" "If seven maids with seven mops Swept it for half a year, Do you suppose," the Walrus said, "That they could get it clear?" "I doubt it," said the Carpenter, And shed a bitter tear. "0 Oysters, come and walk with us!" The Walrus did beseech. "A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, Along the briny beach: We cannot do with more than four, To give a hand to each." The eldest Oyster looked at him, But never a word he said; The eldest Oyster winked his eye, And shook his heavy head— Meaning to say he did not choose To leave the oyster-bed. But four young Oysters hurried up, All eager for the treat: Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, Their shoes were clean and neat— And this was odd, because, you know, They hadn't any feet. Four other Oysters followed them, And yet another four; And thick and fast they came at last, And more and more and more— All hopping through the frothy waves, And scrambling to the shore. The Walrus and the Carpenter Walked on a mile or so, And then they rested on a rock Conveniently low: And all the little Oysters stood And waited in a row. "The time has come," the Walrus said, "To talk of many things: Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax— Of cabbages—and kings— And why the sea is boiling hot— And whether pigs have wings." "But wait a bit," the Oysters cried, "Before we have our chat; For some of us are out of breath, And all of us are fat!" "No hurry!" said the Carpenter. They thanked him much for that. "A loaf of bread," the Walrus said, "Is what we chiefly need: Pepper and vinegar besides Are very good indeed— Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear, We can begin to feed." "But not on us!" the Oysters cried, Turning a little blue. "After such kindness, that would be A dismal thing to do!" "The night is fine," the Walrus said, "Do you admire the view? "It was so kind of you to come! And you are very nice!" The Carpenter said nothing but "Cut us another slice. I wish you were not quite so deaf— I've had to ask you twice!" "It seems a shame," the Walrus said, "To play them such a trick. After we've brought them out so far, And made them trot so quick!" The Carpenter said nothing but "The butter's spread too thick!" "I weep for you," the Walrus said: "I deeply sympathize." With sobs and tears he sorted out Those of the largest size, Holding his pocket-handkerchief Before his streaming eyes. "0 Oysters," said the Carpenter, "You've had a pleasant run! Shall we be trotting home again?" But answer came there none— And this was scarcely odd, because They'd eaten every one."

This is the first time that I have read Lewis Carroll's nonsense poem all the way through but it makes complete sense now in August 2020. Boris Johnson is the Walrus and Rishi Sunak is the pragmatic Carpenter sponsored by Goldman Sachs. The eldest oyster is Jeremy Corbyn who prophesied that this would happen, the Government now having to deliver on a social infrastructure investment programme (Socialism in old money) and yes you guessed it, we are the other oysters, wet behind the ears, the blue wall oysters who voted for the lies on the side of the Walrus's Bus.

We have been played boys and girls! None of us knew what Covid-19 was back when lockdown started on March 23rd and we're not much the wiser now. Because I was caring for two adults in the vulnerable category I swallowed the wash your hands to happy birthday and bang your pots and pans mantra hook line and sinker but now like a good few others I'll wager, I'm being a little bit more devil may care.

This Coronavirus is very real but this Government is an artificiality conjured up in one of Lewis Carroll's opium filled Llandudno staycations 'Doyle' style. Old Etonian Boris Johnson loves nothing more than a guffaw and a jape at somebody else's expense and because we have been so concerned about self preservation and looking after our nearest and dearest we didn't see him convulsed with laughter being led away to his ventilator. "Your Prime Minister is in danger of losing his life to this strange disease from the Orient" We shrugged our Ted Heath shoulders and hoped that the old cove would succumb but Wilfred's Dad is back in harness in the new Ealing Comedy "Walrus eats Carpenter" He turns to look at Rishi Sunak and says that "I am going to eat you next, because you know too much. I created you, now I am going to have to kill you".

Even though he wants all the genetically modified oysters to lose weight, Walrus Boris Johnson intends to go out like Mr Creosote in the Meaning of Life.   

He knows now how far the UK population can be pushed about. He wont need no water cannon when it's time for Martial Law.