Salmond Fishing in Scotland

Trout Fishing in America, Shark Fishing in Wales and now Salmond Fishing in Scotland! Whatever Next?

On the front page of the Western Mail (Llais y Sais) this morning, an action shot of David Cameron in bright blue tie with the headlines 'It's made us safer, it's made us stronger, it's made us richer, it's helped us in times of difficulty. We shouldn't give up this great thing-Our United Kingdom'

Now who are you calling 'us' paleface? Don't drag us into it! Now you see if I was Editor of the Western Mail, the National Newspaper of Wales(Ha! Ha!) I would have had a huge photograph of Alex Salmond with the headline:

"Go back to England, and tell them there that Scotland's daughters and her sons are yours no more. Tell them Scotland is free." 

I am not Editor however, thankfully, of this shallow rag with its emphasis on twirling the Prince of Wales feathers in your face and telling you on an almost weekly basis who the top 50 'hottest' men and women are in Wales. Shallow drivel bollocks! By their National Newspaper shall ye know them ! Now its all very well for this crazy little Welshman to write admiring words about the situation North of the Border "Ye dinnae have to live here". Well put it like this, I'd rather live in a country that teaches its children its own history than the Imperialist, sanitised propaganda that they force feed us this side of Offa's Dyke. I had the 1832 Reform Act, Sir Robert Peel, The Corn Laws. Whose History do you want us to learn?

Now I know there is a danger for some to feel alienated by such talk but perhaps we would be better off getting rid of certain words in the dictionary because they carry such heavy connotations. Here are my short list of words that I would get rid off because they carry such baggage.

• Nationalist: Not a helpful word this one, it can be used by academics and conservative politicians to make you feel like a Fascist. Ironic what?
• Schizophrenia: Not a helpful word or concept at all. So much media representation of this condition has given it such a heavy burden that the word needs to change. R.D Laing, the Scotsman Psychiatrist from the Glasgow tenements knew this when he wrote 'The Divided Self'
• Death: Not a good word. Apart from the most enlightened, we are all 'shit scared' of death therefore might I suggest 'The Long Sleep' or 'The Long Rest'. 
• Ethnicity: This word enhances the differences between human beings. A 'bad' word. Ethnic Minority is a ridiculous concept which just goes to strengthen the weakness inherent in the two words. 

Perhaps it would be better if the Scottish Border were brought down to just South of Liverpool. The North/South Divide would then be more equitable. The people of the North of England have suffered just as much if not more from the elitist ruling class of London and the Home Counties than we in Wales or Scotland. 

Cameron knows only too well the baggage of the word 'Tory' but I'm sure he's glad that he's called Cameron and not Campbell.

A Plan Stan!

Have you got a plan Stan? Well I haven't and I never have had. This state of stasis or limbo feels like it has lasted forever. I've never had ambition, never been a competitive sort. This was drummed out of me at my 'Public School' unlike my alter ego 'David Cameron'. I am slightly older than him but look at him, look at how he has risen up the greasy pole. He is in No 10 and I am still in my two up, two down in Grungetown.

Feel the Fear and do it anyway! Fuck that! I'll stay here behind my blinds and observe the comings and goings and dog shit freezing on the pavement from a safe distance. So this is my 'I could have been a Contender Blog' carrying on from my learned helplessness blog. After graduating with my cape and mortar board and a piece of plastic piping that was used by the photographer instead of a certificate that would wilt and warp. Well since graduating I have wilted and warped. I must re-visit my Victim/Survivor Blog to buck myself up. "Cheer up, it might never happen". The best advice of all, of course that you can give to someone who is clinically depressed. The Buddhist phrase above received a number of likes on my facebook page so methunks "this has struck a chord with folks" and it was my Psychiatrist who said 'we are all so similar'. Going about our daily business we would never concur with this statement because every day appears to be an exercise in futile lying! We hide behind the veil, we suck in the air on the bus and pop in the ipod!. We switch off because we're worried that someone will point out to us the futility of it all. The Emperor isn't wearing any clothes. We all know it, yet we carry on pretending because that's what everyone else is doing. Power to the Sheeple!

I think it is important to have a plan. You can create a 'Vision Board' and cut images out of papers and magazines reminding you of the things that you aspire to and the people who inspire you! On my vision board is a picture of Steve Berkoff and Charles Bukowski. There is a picture of me in the middle with the Anarchist symbol on one side and the Hammer and sickle on the other. Below is 'Tafod y Ddraig' the symbol of the Welsh language Society. Written on my vision board are the titles of the plays and monologues I have written. I shall have to remember to add sharkfishinginwales.blogspot.com to it. I have put this piece of A4 in a Red Frame purchased from Ikea and I have nailed it to the wall so it is the first thing I see in the morning when I wake up. I have also written the words ACTOR, WRITER, DIRECTOR, PRODUCER in Capitals at the top because these are the roles that I aspire to fulfill. Therefore I share this dream with 80% of the population as the Arts Degrees and Stage Schools alumni are a testament to. I am also obsessed with age and even though I am kindly reminded by those that care that it is only a number, 46, is probably too late to embark on a career of this sort especially in Wales, that ugly, lovely country, that graveyard of ambition! So you bright young things, have a plan, pull up your pop socks and go for it!  I had the dream many moons ago but let the oppression of economics and work and other peoples' well meaning scripts get in the way. It made me mentally unwell.   

GIZZA JOB

'Gizza Job'! I will be 46 years of age on St David's Day. I have been a Head of Drama in a tough, inner city secondary school, I have been a development officer for a Youth Organisation. I haven't worked in the 'traditional' model, you know labour in exchange for pay and taxes for six years. I have been a Benefit Scrounger since January 2006 when I was diagnosed with 'Bipolar Affective Disorder'.

This blog is my C.V.I don't have conventional referees unless you wish to contact my 'Occupational Therapist'.

Watching 'Boys from the Blackstuff' recently after thirty years I realised that Yosser Hughes was a man who was losing his mind. A man whose mental state was degenerating due to the circumstances he found himself in. Thatcher's Britain with obscene levels of unemployment. The behaviour he portrays in Yosser's story could be 'psychosis'. Lurching between fierce optimism and a catatonic state of depression. That far away, glazed look in the eye. 

Thirty years on, we have yet another Conservative Government, and from the debris of the austerity cuts will grow another army of 'Yosser Hugheses'. Bashed from pillar to post by the Nazi Atos so that the comfy  readers of the right wing newspapers can feel that their taxes are being used in the right way, ie to keep the underprivileged down. 

There are men and women of my generation who have placed themselves by circumstance or choice outside the circus ring that is the reality of life in the UK today. Because we grew up with Thatcher, her policies and their effects have been ingrained on our sub-conscious. We cannot believe that History has repeated itself. We cannot believe that we have allowed it to happen. The Government is hoping that the August Riots of 2011 were a flash in the pan. Well they weren't! Those that can feel the vibe know that great anger and hurt is festering within the walls of Her Majesty's prisons. Give a critical mass of people enough time, to work out that they have been living off crumbs, in an unjust society and more unrest will follow. Guaranteed! And it won't be in another thirty years. It will be soon!

Gissa Job! Go on Gissa Job! I don't want just any old job. I want your job David Cameron!

Fe Flogiwn Ni Eto!

http://www.bbc.co.uk/wales/eclips/pages/cym_11to14_mam_llenyddiaeth_hon.shtml

Rwy'n caru'r Gymraeg! I love the Welsh Language. I wish I could write this blog post in my mother tongue. My Welsh is not good enough and if I wrote it in Welsh then I would be preaching to the converted.
It was 50 years to the day, yesterday, that Saunders Lewis broadcast 'Tynged yr Iaith', the Fate of the Language. Out of a population of 3 million, 585,000(This keeps changing, this is an optimistic if not realistic figure) allegedly speak the language. Census figures will update us but these do tend to be massaged. 3000 people less are speaking it fluently every year. I have mentioned before about the context in which a language is spoken. Language cannot exist in a vacuum but it appears to be doing so in Wales. I love the language but I don't love the artificial context that it is used. In business or media or over a pint! That is why I am writing this blog on Valentine's Day and not on Diwrnod Santes Dwynwen. The Glass half full/empty scenario might say that it is a miracle that it has survived so well as it has living alongside and amongst the second most spoken language in the world. English, the language of the Empire which is now the language of America and Australia and Canada. Welsh is spoken in Wales which is a country the size of well....Wales and in Patagonia where seekers of religious freedom settled in the 19th Century.  Language is an Oppression, even languages that we have an emotional attachment to. In one of my last attendances at an organised congregation of worship, the Minister encouraged us to say the Lord's Prayer in our chosen language. The Welsh and English were spoken in prayer, almost in competition and having started in Welsh, I went to silence and my wish was that the universal language of the world, be silence. 
We all make excuses and we all pass the buck. I wish to make a contribution. I write monologues in Welsh or Wenglish to be un-exact. They reflect my use. My written work reflect the experience of those who are on the fringes of mainstream society. I am uncomfortable with a reality that has an emphasis on profit before people. What use a language which is used, in the same social context as others? Learning a language in order to secure a better job or to make more money does not cut the mustard with me. You are then using the language as a vehicle. You are more concerned with the destination than the journey.   Living once again with mortality is a responsibility that perhaps we wouldn't choose but those who speak it and those who live within the artificial borders of Wales, also have a responsibility.


Here is a link to the book 'Burning down the Dosbarth' by David Greenslade
http://www.ylolfa.com/dangos.php?ISBN=0862432715

Adios Amigo!

So in 1991 I left the Parks Department to go and begin a degree course at the University of Glamorgan. Once again without a plan, like a cork on the waves, tossed about from place to place I chose a general Arts Degree. The only reason I was accepted was that I had gained an A level in English at night school when I was still in North Wales. Whilst living with Mrs Bailey in York Street, Colwyn Bay, I went twice a week to study A levels in Llandrillo College. A BA in Humanities at Trefforest was to introduce me to the field in which I am still passionate to this day. Drama. I graduated in 1994 majoring in Theatre & Media Drama. I studied for the whole three years whilst self medicating my Manic Depression. Clwb Ifor Bach on a Saturday night with its sticky floors and plastic glasses. I was that much older than the other students 25 when I started and 28 when I finished and from there I went straight to Caerleon to study a Post Graduate Certificate in Further Education. By completing the degree course I was trying to prove to myself that I was not such a failure after all. Interestingly there is no psychological profiling required to enter the teaching profession and I never mentioned to anybody in those days that I had had 'an episode' whilst younger. Learning about Teaching was tough, as similar to Drama, what I was attempting to do was to work against my default setting of being shy and withdrawn. It required you to be outgoing as you were working with people. It was an effort. An effort that needed anaesthetising. 

Whilst working for the Parks in 1989, my interest in Politics began and I took a weeks holiday to go and leaflet and canvass for Dr Dewi Evans, the Plaid Cymru Candidate in the Neath By-election. He was opposing the Labour candidate Peter Hain. I believe that my passion for Plaid Cymru came from the fact that it was emotion based. It was when the Party was more of a protest party rather than the mainstream affair it is today. I was exorcising the ghost of my English Medium education by becoming a Welsh Language and Culture activist. In my purple blazer, I had joined Cymdeithas yr Iaith Gymraeg in Eisteddfod yr Urdd in Rhyl in the early nineteen eighties. I was training to become a Teacher to be a better Teacher than the ones that I had. To be somebody who would have empathy with a young person growing up. 

At University we studied a broad base of subjects for the degree and I remember a Lecturer in History called Neil Wynne who had become aware of my politics and it seemed to irk him somewhat. In those days I was pretty active, canvassing, leafletting, standing as Council Candidate in Cardiff South and Penarth and going to a number of summer schools. There had been an election in 1991 and a gang of us had gone up to Ceredigion to support Cynog Dafis who was the joint Plaid/Green candidate. At University, Mr Wynne went round the seminar group and asked each one of us why we had voted in the election. Halfway round he came to me and my response was 'Language and Culture'. "Aha" he announced with relish as if catching me in a trap "That's what Hitler's followers were voting for in the lead up to the war". He was trying to equate Nationalism with Fascism and what made it obvious that it was a set up was that he stopped the questioning with me and left the other half of the seminar group with their mouths agog having been denied the opportunity to answer. It had been a mistake to choose history as this gentleman brought my marks right down at the end of the course and if it hadn't been for a distinction in Drama then my final grade would not have been the 2:1, I finally achieved. Mr Wynne was obviously not to know that I was a Manic Depressive but this little episode was to lead to a confirmatory bias in my mind, that there were individuals who seemed to take a pleasure in belittling others or pulling the metaphorical rug out from underneath you. There was another lecturer who diminished my enjoyment of another topic, Creative Writing, a Professor of Poetry no less, Monsieur Tony Curtis of Barry, a lecturer with a bombastic manner who reduced some members of his classes to tears with his observations and critiques and was not very encouraging. In tutorial he said that my poetry " was clench fisted" and was not too his taste at all.

At this point, my Mental Health was triggered mostly by other people and their behavior and reactions. I would either rise up and rage very quickly or more commonly withdraw and brood like an old hen, neither reaction was very healthy really.

Toilet Blocker

the Khazi, , the lavatory, the loo, the john, the privy, the outhouse, the shithouse, the crapper, the dunny, the bog, the latrine, the water closet, the little boys room, cludgie, y tŷ bach.

I block toilets.

I’ve blocked one at Central Library.

I’ve blocked one at the Hospital where the Community Mental Health Team gather.

I’ve blocked them in hotels and I blocked one on a bus.

If blocking toilets was illegal, then I’d be a lifer.

I keep forgetting about all this CCTV.

It is the ones, that provide no brush or plunger that cause the most constipation...er...I mean consternation.

Because dark panic grips you after the relief of unloading when you realize that you have been flamboyant in twirling the role on its holder.

It’s an act of judgement and mine has always been askew.

You’re just never sure what the house rules about ‘Blocking’ are.

Do you admit or do you run? As a rule, I run because unless the establishment want to go down the route of stool analysis then its very difficult to prove that it was you.

However you have to live with the guilt and the shame.

You could call this a  kind of ‘Khazi Confessional’

I have dreams you see about narrow u bends and about fluffy paper taken down on the backs of amphibious labrador puppies.

Andrex, Soft, Long and very very strong.

Bring back Izal, Bring Back Izal.

It was shiny and smooth and you could feel every contour of your hairy, pimply arse and sometimes given the corresponding law of Chemistry/Physics your finger would go through which was appropriate because it was schools which had shares in the company. 

Why am I admitting to such dark, heinous deeds and why am I doing it in a Cape Cod American Accent? 

Well it’s one of those things that if you suppress it to long, it turns into a watery, runny neurosis. 

When I was a younger man 

I  left a trail of blocked u bends across the United States of America. 

The First was in Boulder, Colorado. Home to Mork and Mindy. 

It was 1985 and I had gone with my mate Keith to stay with many of his relatives and friends. 

I remember it was a Sunday and Marian and Tom had gone up to the mountains or the lakes and left me and Keith to look after the house. 

In American houses you walk down to the basement and there gurgling away was the John. 

I went in with my copy of MAD magazine. I squatted and waited. I shat which is the past tense of I shit and I wiped and I flushed. I looked down. It was blocked. Nanw, Nanw, Shazbat! 

I went upstairs and told Keith. 

He called me a dumbarse, he’d gone all American you see. 

I got the Yellow pages. I should have used them instead. 

It was twenty three years ago but I remember the name of the guy and the company. 

It was Ray from ‘Roto-Root’. Look I’m going to have to charge you $50.00 because it’s a Sunday. 

$50.00 I could buy a new toilet cheaper from Wickes. 

He ascended the stairs in his blue mask and overalls and gasped. 

“What the hell did you put down there?”

“Did a toothbrush get stuck or something?" 

“Thank you very much indeed for coming out at such short notice”. (North Wales Accent) 

I spoke like that in those days because I was brought up in North Wales. 

“I didn’t understand a word you said then”

“Could you slow down and say it again” 

I waved goodbye to Mr Raymond Roto-root and looked at Keith who had a face like a smacked arse. 

There’s a theme here aye. 

Next a greyhound bus depot was my target in El Paso.

 “No Problemo”. 

I came out of the cubicle bemused and a guy in a leather jacket was combing his hair in the mirror.

He said ‘Çan you spare some dough’?

“I thought how does he know”.

"How much I asked?"

"$5.00".

"No"

"Anything then".

"No"

"Why did you ask how much then?"

"Because I’ve just blocked another Goddamn toilet now buzz off greasball.

I’m a student from the UK and I’m on a mission" 

We stayed with Keith’s auntie’s friends in San Diego.

We were going out to the cinema with Cousin Carmine. 

I headed to the bathroom. 

We came back from the Cinema Complex full of dunkin donuts and cheerios and there was Uncle Buck, he was ashen faced. 

“While you were gone, Mary used the bathroom and it overflowed. We’ve spent the night drying out the floor. We’re a little shaken by the experience”. 

I looked suitably concerned and shook my head. 

“Blocked in the U.S.A, Blocked in the U.S.A”(a la Springsteen) 

Shit, the Feds were on to me! Men in Black were tailing the bus. 

Sigmund Freud was my constant companion on that Greyhound Bus Trip across the U.S.A.   

He was saying “Look, there will be global warming in the future and it will be your responsibility. You are using too much paper my little Welsh friend. They won’t be able to cut enough trees down for you”. 

"But Sigi", I replied, "they make the U bends too small. There’s not enough room for my defecation and the paper especially if it comes out like a Mr Whippy, Nine Coiler."

The Vernacular proved too much. He sat back next to me on the greyhound bus. He looked exhausted. I offered him a cigar. 

He told me that I was his most difficult patient. 

I was very proud. 

I  blocked so many toilets on my trip to the States I was thinking of getting them marked up on the side of the bus like the shoot-ups on the side of the Memphis Belle. 

After all these years I have finally learnt my lesson. 

Poo Plops, then Flush, Wipe, Wipe, Flush. 

Shit I’ve blocked it again. 

The next time someone describes me as anal as they very often do. It means that I’ve blocked their toilet.

The End

Capital 2

London is to England what Cardiff is to Wales. Very busy places with lots of shops and a pace of life that would knock a widow from Waunfawr off her walking stick. It's all about vibe! Many reading this blog will have spent time in London, either living or working there or visiting. Capital Cities engender mixed emotions. The oft used expression 'a Time and a Place'. I suppose the stretch of road between Victoria Coach Station and Victoria Railway Station, Buckingham Palace Avenue would not be the ideal place to hold a Shamanic Sweat Lodge calling out the Spirits in a Vision Quest but it does appear to be the ideal place to go very fast in a vehicle or on two legs, belch out toxic coach exhaust fumes and offer you quick, soulless, no strings attached (Looks round furtively)....food. Anybody who has bought a sandwich and because of hunger have ripped the packaging off in a frenzy of desire will know the disappointing flatness that follows as the last piece of cress is pulled from your teeth. It goes in one end and out the other, if you are fortunate enough to find a WC, or in London what might be called an inconvenience. I have walked the length of Fleet Street, looking for a Toilet, all the way from the Strand, finding a Tardis finally next to St Paul's Cathedral. With trepidation you enter your 50p or 1000 Euro note, at any moment expecting a Brass Band to appear with Dom Jolly.
In Cardiff, London or anywhere for that matter, how much time do we spend thinking about what happens once the fast food has passed very quickly through our digestive systems and into the sewerage systems. Not a lot of time I would wager because it's not our problem anymore. The food has done its job in hardening our arteries or giving us energy, its hit the porcelain and gone. Somebody else's job! The Sewerage Meister's job! We are surrounded by Crap on a daily basis, metaphorical shit, much of it visual! Have you seen Leicester Square recently? You'd be wiping off builder's rubble before you get on the Red Carpet. There are so many of us 'bods' that I suppose tis only in a blog post that you can take the required time to 'muse' upon such matters.
This Post catchingly titled Capital 2 as a head bow or nod to St David's 2, the all new singing and dancing shopping emporium in Kairdiff City Centre. Not satisfied with one St David, we have to have 2. With our Patron Saint's Day fast approaching and this Blogger's 46th birthday on the same day, the latter has to wonder, apart from being an energy sump what a capital has to offer apart from shops and rugby. Much more I'm sure, but I'll leave you with this urban myth. Twas said on the streets of the old city that when St David's 2 was under construction, that the developers wanted the land that the Tabernacle Baptist Chapel lies on. The Chapel was offered £1,000,000  big ones to vacate (to make way for Capitalism/Progress). The Capel refused in Welsh to this request.
It's nice to know that not everything can be bought! The Spirits are calling.