The World According to Queen Mab

Goodbye, Merlin

2012-01-27T14:48:00.000-08:00

I was very sad to learn this week that Nicol Williamson, the actor who played Merlin in Excalibur, had passed away. Okay, so he was 75 years old and, unlike Merlin, not immortal... But it is still a sorry shame. Excalibur is a favourite of mine, and Williamson's Merlin a madcap magician with *the* most 'mazing tonal range of any film character *ever*. I don't know what the hell accent it was, but it seemed wondrous to my young Welsh self who'd never heard anything of the like. Merlin's poetic style of speaking also had an effect; as he says of Excalibur, it was

"Forged when the world was young,

and bird and beast and flower were one with man,

and death was but a dream!"

Anyway, for all you Excalibur fans, here's the trailer for the film, re-made, as it should have been at the start. Enjoy!

Poetry Changed Me

2012-01-20T09:35:00.000-08:00

I wrote this little piece for Apples & Snakes' 'Shake the Dust' project just before Christmas... Thought you might like to read it, please click on the logo below (I promise it is a very short piece! Only 100 words) :-)

The Joy of Books

2012-01-15T12:29:00.000-08:00

I came across this video on Facebook recently, and thought I would share it with you all. Enjoy!

Boobs, Rude Words, and a Man in a Gorilla Suit.....

2012-01-07T11:26:00.000-08:00

My latest blog for Write Out Loud, on my recent poet-y adventures:

http://www.writeoutloud.net/public/blogentry.php?blogentryid=26627#.Twd-obsf-Vc.twitter

which includes a link to this article I wrote, on the art of festive flirtation:

http://www.walesonline.co.uk/showbiz-and-lifestyle/style-and-shopping-in-wales/2011/12/23/survive-christmas-when-you-re-single-flirt-flirt-and-flirt-says-mab-jones-91466-30003615/

Write Out Wrong!

2011-11-22T15:04:00.001-08:00

I wrote a blog for Write Out Loud about all my recent poet-y adventures. You can read it here:

http://www.writeoutloud.net/public/blogentry.php?blogentryid=25437

And my previous one for them is also online:

http://www.writeoutloud.net/public/blogentry.php?blogentryid=24675

Happy reading!!!

Exciting News!

2011-09-29T09:05:00.000-07:00

Here's a little update on recent events for you...

1. 100 Thousand Poets for Change - was a brilliant success!! An absolutely packed-out event with 26 poets reading in total, including the wonderful Labi Siffre who very kindly came along and did a set for us! A wonderful afternoon.

2. RSC Open Stages - a recent meeting with the National Theatre Wales TEAM yielded a good result, with the promise of assistance and advice on this project from TEAM members. Thank you Devinda of NTW for this!!

3. My own career arches ever-upwards, with gigs coming at me from all sides! You can see me perform in Sheffield and Bournemouth next week, as well as on the streets of Cardiff this Saturday eve in Everwake - the game - a live experience on the streets that's been taking the UK by storm! I'll be in Dylan Thomas's Swansea house on Friday the 7th, as well as adjudicatng the World Schools Debating Championships in Cardiff, too... Much to do! Onwards and upwards!!

100 Thousand Poets for Change in Cardiff

2011-09-21T06:04:00.000-07:00

A worldwide poetry reading, with over 450 cities in 95 countries involved, takes place this month on Saturday 24th September. Of the 600 events, only one of these will be in Wales, with selected poets and open mic readers performing at Shot in the Dark, on City Road in Cardiff, from 1pm.

The Welsh poets will join others around the planet in a celebration of poetry as a vehicle to promote serious social, enviromental and political change, with poetry demonstrations being organised in such political hotspots as Cairo, Kabul and Jalalabad. The Cardiff event places its focus on mental health, creativity and well-being, with an event theme – ‘the doors of perception’ – and donations going to Lapidus Cymru, although these are voluntary as the event itself is free to attend.

The many poets taking part include local authors Bob Rogers and Susie Wild, Somerset Maugham award winner Mark Blayney, storyteller Amanda Rackstraw, spoken word artist Liam Johnson, as well as a reading from Labi Siffre, the poet, musician and songwriter whose hits include “(Something Inside) So Strong” and “I Got The”, the sampled rhythm track of which provides the basis for Eminem’s hit single “My Name Is”.

This will be Siffre’s first public performance in roughly 12 years, with the star reading some of his poems, rather than the songs which have, variously, been covered or sampled by Madness, Olivia Newton John, Fatboy Slim and Jay-Z.

The event organisers, poets Gill Brightmore and Mab Jones, will be streaming the event live via the internet for those who are unable to attend -http://bambuser.com/channel/mabjones. Those who are able to attend are very welcome, and further information can be obtained from mabananajones@gmail.com

Yes, it's the Royal Shakespeare Company, dah-ling!!

2011-09-05T15:08:00.000-07:00

So, as per usual, I have committed myself to a massive project, the breadth and depth and height of which I was very, very unprepared for.

Earlier this year, the RSC announced it was holding a massive competition called Open Stages, which involved inviting amateur theatre/performance groups to hold a performance of a Shakespeare play or some related activity.

http://www.rsc.org.uk/explore/projects/open-stages/taking-part.aspx

I decided I would re-write Troilus & Cressida. For those of you who don't know, this is considered Shakespeare's most problematic play. I decided to write it as a modern, spoken word-style satire. I decided I would direct it....

Considering the number of characters in the play (two whole armies' worth) and the fact I've never directed before, this is a massive undertaking. No, let me re-phrase that - ma-HOO-sive.

So. There is much to do. As bloody usual!!! Anyway, if you'd like to take part in my play, please drop me a line. By which I mean, message/email, or find me jittering in my usual corner, if you know where that is...

And, here's the Facebook group, if you'd like to join it: http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=158332134249479

It's the RSC, dah-ling! That's the important thing, I guess . . . . . . . . . . . .

A Funny Short One

2011-07-07T06:18:00.001-07:00

I've razed a field of rye

Sheafs of wheat I've strangled

I've made some maize to die

Heads of barley I have mangled

I've spelled the end for spelt

My job title is 'miller' -

But in my heart I've always felt

I am a cereal killer

Ten of the Best

2011-07-07T05:03:00.000-07:00

I have been published!! Every poet's dream, made glorious reality... This lovely anthology features 10 poems each by 5 upcoming young Welsh writers. I am one of them!! It is part of Parthian's Bright Young Things series, with me definitely putting the 'Thing' into that particular phrase... Anyway, if you'd like to buy a copy, please message me, or go to

http://www.parthianbooks.co.uk/content/ten-best

You are also very welcome to attend the Cardiff launch of this and the Nu2 anthology of nu Welsh writing (which I happen to be in as well!) on Weds 13th July at 7pm, Chapter Arts Centre in Cardiff

http://www.chapter.org/23395.html

Useless/Useful Things Competition

2011-05-18T04:40:00.000-07:00

Spurred on by the useless/useful nature of the Banana Guard, I have decided to conduct a small competition. Write a poem (ode, ballad, villanelle, blank verse, etc) dedicated to, or inspired by, one of the least, or most, useful things you know of, and you could win a prize!!

Since I am going to be in a book called 'Ten of the Best', the best of the poems received shall win a copy of the book as 1st prize. Second and third will win smaller prizes, taken from the Mountains of Crap I seem to accumulate (cool crap, tho! I promise).

Please send your poems to: mabananajones(at)gmail.com

Winners will be announced on the 13th July, at the Ten of the Best launch at Chapter Arts Centre, Cardiff.

http://www.parthianbooks.co.uk/content/ten-best

Banana Guard

2011-05-12T10:33:00.000-07:00

You never know what you need until you find it. Yes, *neeeeed*!! A banana guard is a wonderful idea. It will guard my banana (singular?) from potential banana thieves. This could happen! No, really....

I found this in a charity shop in Canton, Cardiff today. To find out more, see:

Banana Guards Website

NaPoWriMo - Poem 12 - Bankers Rhymes With...

2011-04-27T11:23:00.000-07:00

This is a poem inspired by the news images of bankers waving monetary notes above an NHS demonstration in London: http://politicalscrapbook.net/2011/03/grinning-deutsche-bank-staff-wave-money-at-nhs-protesters/

So let the bankers wave their notes
At nurses from their bunkers;
The buggers will have empty purses
One day, for their deeds.

Ignore the wankers with their bills
Above the noble workers;
They'll wake up in that other world
On bended f***ing knees.

NaPoWriMo - Poem 11 - It Could Be You

2011-04-22T04:52:00.000-07:00

It Could Be You

That big white finger
In the sky
Could split the clouds
And come on down
To stop above
Your little house
And turn you
From a pauper
To a prince

But then that finger
Could come down
To point out
To the whole world how
You’re guilty
Of some unknown crime
And turn you
From your bed
Into a straightjacket or cell

We read our
Sunday papers
And marvel at the luck
Of those
Who win
And those
Who lose

But when a knock
Comes at
Your door
Remember that
This time
It could be you

NaPoWriMo - Poem 10 - Bone Poem

2011-04-22T04:50:00.001-07:00

By mistake, you break a bone;
Take a smashing trip, or lose your grip
On a stair, somewhere.
Unable to get up
Because your tibia’s in two,
Your fibula in need of glue,
Disabled by your humerus:
Not humourous
At all. So, you could try calling the
National Accident Helpline. But all they’ll do
Is help you sue
Whoever made you fall.
And if that who was you,
Well, then – your bank account
Will be in two ‘n’ all.

NaPoWriMo - Poem 9 - Whatifyou

2011-04-10T12:20:00.000-07:00

Whatifyou
(Or, better call the National Accident Helpline!)

Whatifyou have an accident at work
Whatifyou get tangled up in wires
Whatifyou trip or stumble,
f
a
l
l
Bounce on your bonce
Like a rubber ball, neckbones
Mangled, eyeballs
Angled so that you look
At everything sideways?

Whatifyou slip on milk in the supermarket
Whatifyou go flying arseovertip or
Headoverheels, whatifyou trip
On the trolley’s wheels
And all your microwave meals
Go f l y i n g ?

Whatifyou crash in a smash
With your car, or a bustumblesoveryou,
Or you’re walking along and a long
Lorry worms your way
Resulting in a terriblecase of
Stubtoe or
Backbreak or
Headinabrace?

Then you’d better call
THE NATIONAL ACCIDENT HELPLINE

Well, either that,
Or stop being such
A clumsy PRAT.

NaPoWriMo - Poem 8 - Llantwit

2011-04-10T09:09:00.000-07:00

Llantwit Major is one village down from St Athan, where my mum lives. While I realise people from Llantwit are known as 'Llantonians', this is just a bit of fun, okay...??

Llantwit

If Cardiff’s the Diff,
and Newport’s the Port,
then what

is this?

NaPoWriMo - Poem 7 - Hey bud

2011-04-10T09:00:00.000-07:00

This is my 2nd poem inspired by the Puya bud that is blossoming for the first time in 10 years at the Botanic Garden of Wales. It's a shorter n funnier one, and is meant to be read in a Cardiff accent. My longer (n better!) poem is below. Forgive me - this is written as part of the NaNoWriMo poem-a-day challenge. I'm - getting t i r e d . . . !

Hey bud

Hey bud. Stickin out the mud
Like tha - like summin rude.
I yurd you wuz the biggest in
The wurld. Well -
Yuh no’ so big tuh me.
I’ve seen biggerer, an berruh-
Ruh... I’ll gerruh measurin tape
An chuck ir at yuh, in a min.
Fatso. Freak. Yuh nor as brillyunt
As wha they says. Yoo-neek?
Nah. Bud? Hey bud??
Uh you listenin
Tuh me....???

NaPoWriMo - Poem 6 - Poem for the Puya

2011-04-07T06:37:00.000-07:00

This is a poem inspired by the fact the biggest bud in Wales is now beginning to bloom! A marvellous sight I am hoping to see within the next week... The Puya, as it's called, is on view at the National Botanic Garden of Wales, and this is the first time it's blossomed for a whole decade! Quite thrilling news... and the first of a few poems I feel inspired to write about the thing.
Find out more here: http://www.gardenofwales.org.uk/news/biggest-bud-in-wales/

Poem for the Puya

Puya, they call you. The word sticky
In their mouths. You prickle the roof
Of the glass house, unsettle the groups
Of visiting classes. Like a nettle, your
Leaves are stingsharp, laced with thorns.
“Cruel”, they remark. Your taste is for
Animal flesh, which they hook, pull in, and
Starve to death. Their blood is your food.
Your bed more wet with this than dew.

From the Andes to Llanarthney you
Came. A monster baby in a way: eight
Feet tall and closer to a mutant than
A flower. Towering above the others,
A giant in the nursery. Cursed to slowness,
Reliant on your new owners, still you
Grew, your brontosaurus neck too thick
For them to prune; a Chilean imposter
That loomed above its human masters.

But now, a decade later, you’re in bud,
About to blossom. Your body as round
And fulsome as a woman’s. Crowds
Come to marvel, wondering at your
Beauty. Eyes hunger for your form.
Cameras snap and looks are thrown,
But sweeter than before. You ignore
Them; take no note. Your name now
Sweet as nectar in every thirsting throat.

NaPoWriMo - Poem 5 - This is a poem

2011-04-07T06:31:00.000-07:00

This is a poem

with a title that tumbles into the first line,
headlong, headstrong, with a sense of
entitlement. A trickster poem, its first offence
that thing you think a name. This is a poem
that doesn’t wait for you to collect or gather
thoughts; doesn’t sit there while you pause,
and then, begin. This is a poem that takes you in,
a sales pitch to itself; that shifts the posts to kick
you into some uncertain goal. But, don’t fret.
You don’t have to wait til the end. You can leave
at any point, grammatical or otherwise.
If this is a poem you really despise then please,
stop reading. Leave. Don’t bother with courtesy.
We won’t pause, won’t even remember because
this is a poem like life, you see.

NaPoWriMo - Poem 4 - Snowdon Poem

2011-04-07T06:28:00.000-07:00

Snowdon Poem

Shake that shawl
From your collossal shoulders
And let your golden hair
Fall down.

I’m here, my dear,
To conquer your boulders
And with boldness emboldened
Step on your crown.

With my bootheels I’ll kiss you,
On your foothills I’ll climb;
When the fog falls I’ll curse you,
But still -
You’ll be mine.

NaPoWriMo - Poem 3 - Wringing True

2011-04-07T06:26:00.001-07:00

Wringing True

Must be my inner raincloud,
Trying to get out.
That miserable dishcloth
That’s been about since I was young,
Blocking out my inner sun and
Soaking up each goddam ray,
A smoky thing that pisses
Grey, its coke-like kisses
Stinging, wringing curses and dismay...

My mucky puddle eyes reflect
The murky drizzle
In my depths that lets my freckles
Grow from specks to
Massive resevoirs.

My murky wishwash smile implies
Some inner grey
That seeps through sighs
As weeping for no reason
I recede to my boudoir.

My inner cloud’s
A dishcloth veil that hides all trace of sun...
I wish that I could smile, my face
A clear
And not a clouded
One.

But that, I cannot do. And yet -
Raincloud, greycloud
Dismal as a frown, I’ve found
That only you
Wring true.

NaPoWriMo - Poem 2 - Bra Poem

2011-04-07T06:23:00.000-07:00

The bra was invented
In two places
Simultaneously.
By Herminie Cadolle in France
And Mary Jacob in America.
Both sprang up in
The two countries
Almost instantaneously.
Twin buds of an idea,
Fleshed out and
Eventually ripening.
But no-one really knows
Who is the true
Discoverer.
Tho one of them,
Like the things they cup,
Is bigger than the
Otherer.

NaPoWriMo - Poem 1 - Under Wraps

2011-04-07T06:18:00.000-07:00

Under Wraps

From a young age, my tits gave me trouble.
Got me pinned by girls in the shitter as they
Inspected those things they hadnt yet got.

Made that man on the French tube slide
His hand onto mine, escargot eyes sliming
A trail over my pink sweater, me just eleven.

Impinged into the rear view mirror of a chap
Who happened by the motorway, that time;
Who licked his lips when I asked why and what

He wanted. Opened his car flaps and came
Towards me. And I ran away,
Into a teenagehood of hiding, myself and

These things: bubs, boobs, baps.
Twin bumps I only saw through the target eyes
Of others. And which from that last day

I kept, like the rest of me, hidden; under wraps.

NaPoWriMo - What IS it???

2011-04-07T06:00:00.000-07:00

NaPoWriMo, or National Poetry Writing Month, is an annual project in which participating poets attempt to write a poem a day for the month of April.

NaPoWriMo was founded in 2003, when poet Maureen Thorson decided to take up the challenge (modeled after NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month), and challenged other poets to join her. Since then, the number of participants has gotten larger every year, and many writers' organizations, both national and local, organize NaPoWriMo activities.

I will be taking part this year. Keep posted on my posts, and check out the website - it isn't too late to take part!

http://www.napowrimo.net/

Forked Up!

2011-04-01T08:16:00.001-07:00

Just a little blog to say what a *brill* time I had at Forked in Plymouth last week... Thanks to Gina and all at Apples & Snakes for the booking!!

The next day, I was very happy to visit the National Marine Aquarium and see all sorts of amazing fishy things in their *huge* tanks and pools...!!

Next up: All You Need is Fluff at Cheltenham Poetry Festival this Sunday! Hope to see you there!!
http://www.cheltenhampoetryfest.co.uk/

Come On Down! To World Book Night

2011-03-04T12:09:00.000-08:00

On Saturday nights there are all kinds of giveaways. Gameshow contestants win holidays, cars, and wide-screen TVs. Countless millions win however-many-quid on the Lotto. In town, there are drinks promotions, free entries before 11, and all kinds of deals to get you into the various rival restaurants. Literature, on a Saturday night, is normally off the menu; the crowds crave fantastic wealth, via their hopefully held lottery tickets, rather than a wealth of words; bookings for dinner, rather than books themselves.

This coming Saturday will be different! World Book Night is the largest book giveaway ever attempted, with one million of the lovely things being distributed at over a thousand bookshops and libraries around the country.The books themselves are being donated by roughly 5000 “passionate readers” who want other readers (perhaps those with less access to, or less experience of, books) to have and enjoy them. A sort of literary ‘pay it forward’, which includes distribution in places where people may not be able to attend the event themselves, e.g. hospitals and prisons.

Supported by the Publisher’s Association, the Booksellers’ Association, the BBC, and a host of other Guilds and Agencies, World Book Night is a breathtakingly BIG event, stretching from Glasgow to London to Abergavenny. Twenty-five titles have been chosen for distribution, and the range of these is, like the event itself, w i d e – classic tales rub papery shoulders with lesser known gems; adventure-led romance walks tantalisingly alongside gripping travelogue; award-winning pages flicker themselves at the merely adored. Something for everyone in the selection, which was chosen by a panel of even more “passionate readers” (those who make books their life’s work, as well as love).

Those who receive the books are encouraged, once they’re been read, to pass them on to other potential readers. And the givers themselves can track the progress of each book, via the Book Crossing website, in which each book is ‘tagged’, like an exotic animal, before it is “released into the wild”. In effect, you get the pleasure not just of reading the book and sharing it with others; you get the satisfaction of seeing the thing literally ‘take flight’. Who knows where that well-thumbed copy of Seamus Heaney’s Selected Poems, Philip Pullman’s Northern Lights, or Nigel Slater’s Toast will end up? Wherever it does, you can be sure, via the Book Crossing system, that it will be passed on, and on, and on again, the bookish equivalent of pass-the-parcel, in which everybody wins.

Yes, that’s right, ladies and gents, everybody’s a winner, here! World Book Night takes place just two days after World Book Day, and it is calling you to come and take part. So, log in to the website (http://www.worldbooknight.org/), and see what’s going on! As well as FREE books, there will also be readings, performances, fun, games, and (if you are very lucky) a glass of wine! I will be performing in Abergavenny Library this Saturday from 8pm, for example – attendance, like the books themselves, is free – and you are invited to attend. So – come on down! The price is right! And, strike it lucky, with a book (or 25), on the inaugural World Book Night.

Find out more: http://www.worldbooknight.org/

NTW Soul Exchange Reflections

2011-02-10T06:54:00.000-08:00

I really enjoyed taking part in the Soul Exchange recently (which also doubled as a Germs Exchange – hence this late blog post!!!) and thought you might be interested to see some of the photos I took (on my rubbishy, 2 megapixel camera – apologies – I only got it because they me a free Wii), as well as read my spoken word piece(yes! A poem), written specifically for the event. It’s basically a first person piece in the voice of a Christian grandmother, whose daughter marries a Muslim sailor, around the same time Butetown’s first ever mosque was built, in the 1930s. She is unhappy that her grandson might be given a Muslim name – so, steals the baby away and gets him secretly Christened. It’s based on real event of the time, with real nans nicking real sprogs and getting them really named, without their parents’ prior consent. If this hadn’t happened, there’d probably be more Achmeds in that generation, than Peters and Paulines, which would make hardly any difference to us, now, but for the innocent babies, angry parents, and adamant nans, must have been a huge hoo-ha.

In any case, I tried to keep the piece as unjudgemental as possible, and as much from the view of the old lady as I could, rather than paint her as a busy-body or, worse, some sort of interfering old witch. It’s likely these naughty nans really thought they were in the right – if a baby wasn’t Christened, and died (more of a possibility in those days of Suchandsuch Fevers and Smallpox), the its soul wouldn’t go to heaven, they believed. Information on this (mal)practice is largely anecdotal; the Butetown Museum can provide some documentation, however. My thanks to Soul Exchange director, Kully Thiarai, for suggesting the topic in the first place. I’m really glad my own nan only had enough power to give me a middle name (youwillneverknowwhatitis!), anyway!

You can read my poem here > > > > > >

(Note: this is a performance poem, so made for hearing rather than for reading. Also, it begins by talking about Welsh cakes, and finding a hair in one – this is a real event, that occured in the WMC cafe, when I asked the Fates for a bit of inspiration. Then result was long, dark hair embedded in the Welsh cake I had ordered. Thanks, Fates!!!)

I remember, long ago,
I found an hair in uh Welsh cake.
And I remember, even though
The hair was black as coal and as long
As from yur tuh the back of beyond and not
The sort uh thing you'd expect tuh be in
Uh cake uh that make
Like the shilling they puts in at Christmas, well -
Still, I ett it.
Said nil, because I bet it
Fell from the one who baked the cake.
I knew from who the hair escaped
Like the leaves that fall intuh Roath Park Lake
That she took us to when we were small.

It was my mother's hair, wan' it?
So I kept stumm, forgot it;
Ett and never spoke of it
'Til now.

Cos in those days if you found a thing
In food you knew exactly who
And when and where
And how it got in there
And didn't really care
For that reason.

But you never know what you'll find, these days.
Like when I go round my daughter's place...
There's other cakes made by other hands.
Her husband comes from other lands
You see.
Skin as dark as my mother's hair...
And he
Cooks, an' all! Little cakes but not cakes, really.
My mouf, it got all hot, and nearly
Burned! My stomach turned, and I have learned
Not to eat round there.

In my day, we had only three types of spices, for cakes:
Cinnamon, ginger, and cloves.
I’d never yurd uh CAR-duh-MON!
And when she said she was three munfs gone, well -
My mind was reeling.
Some things are wrong
And so is stealing –
But, I didn’t want no grandchild uh mine having no funny name,
Some strange word I could hardly say
Like car-duh-mon.
It isn’t wrong, is it?
To pop along on a visit
To the local church, taking the baby wiv me,
And at the same time incidentally
Having him Christened.
It isn’t a sin
To save a baby’s soul...

Of course, they didn’t know –
I didn’t ask!
Just took the baby and fast
As I could, got him named
As he shoulda been at the start.
Paul is what he’s called.

My daughter was appalled uh course
To have her baby named by force
By me, but see
Tuh name the baby any other way
Would uh been –
Like carduhmon in a Welsh cake,
Or an hair off an head of someone you ain’t met –
Just plain wrong.
He wouldn’t belong,
My grandson, with a name like Achmed
Or Mohammed.
Paul is what he’s called
And I’m glad, by God, that I done it.

Soul Exchange!

2011-01-24T16:48:00.000-08:00

This week, I'm very busy rehearsing to be in National Theatre Wales's SOUL EXCHANGE, in which I play a 1930s nan from Butetown/Tiger Bay. It's a really interesting exsperience, meeting people from all walks (and runs, and sprints, and -in my case, stumbles - of life)! Specifically, I am working with an actress called Pauline who, a while back, co-wrote this pretty great film about the landing of The Windrush, the ship that brought the first immigrants from the West Indies to Britain. You can watch this here:

ME REACH (White Lantern Films)

The Soul Exchange itself is the culmination of 2 years' work, researching into the history of the once-Tiger Bay, interviewing residents, collecting stories, and so forth. I have written a spoken word piece based on true incidents: basically, about a white woman (as I am!) who doesn't want her mixed-race grandson to be given a Muslim name... Can you guess what she does to achieve this??? Well, you'll have to come along if you want to find out...!!

Hope to see you there!!!

FIND OUT MORE / BOOK TICKETS

After Snow White

2011-01-17T05:09:00.000-08:00

And after Snow White went away
The dwarves decided not to stay
In the house that by her absence she'd left hollow

They sold up, separated, split
Found lines of work that seemed to fit
Them better than that one they used to follow

So, Grumpy works in a contact centre
Takes ten thousand calls a week

And Doc's a wannabe inventor
I saw him on Dragon's Den last week

And Sneezy works in a factory
Where I think they pack M&S food

And Bashful went into comedy
I heard that his stuff's really rude

And Dopey became a huge celeb
After he went on Big Brother

And Happy just sells fruit and veg
On a stall he runs with his gay lover

And Sleepy, well, Sleepy never
Seemed to find his happy ever
After, rather he just spends all his time asleep

Slumbering instead of waking
In a mine of his own making
'Cept unlike the others this one runs too dark and deep

In his dreams he reminisces
About the princess, and the kisses
That she lay like gold dust on his round and wrinkled head

Now that dust is lost and scattered
Hearts and mirrors, all have shattered
Snow white lies to broken ties and broken home have led

Better, then, to lie alone, a stone inside his bed

To close his eyes and fantasise, not weep, but sleep, instead.

Check out my website!

2010-12-17T05:45:00.000-08:00

For all the latest news, see:

www.mabjones.com

x

First Flag

2010-08-06T06:03:00.000-07:00

that first dragon was
a ribbon of blood;

that first grass was
a river of mud;

that first sky
was a streak of spit;

that first flag
was a wound just split;

the first men who hauled it
tore it out their gaping hearts;

the first wives who wore it
bore it from their just-raped parts;

the bastard child
of love and hate

that first flag
was hard as slate

a kite's sharp beak

a harp's wild shriek

a brittle tongue

a battle won -

like coal it burned
it had no choice

that flag was birthed
because no voice

was ours

those powers

we had, forgotten

that first flag
took what was rotten

and burned it
spurned it
spun it into this:

first flag
our flag

wrongs righted by its fist.

No Maybe Baby

2010-06-23T09:18:00.001-07:00

My friend came to visit me with her new baby
And asked would I like one? I smiled and said maybe
But really the creatures are not to my liking
One end’s constant feeding and one’s constant wiping
One end is all scream and the other’s all splatter
Like tumours they grow, getting bigger and fatter
And louder and larger and soon they can talk
You have to talk back to them, then they can walk
You have to walk with them, then they can run
They run away from you, they take all the fun
Out of living the giving you get no thanks for
Then the grieving their leaving begets, what a bore
Are these children, these chilblains, these horrible kids
Who turn all your might-haves into never-dids
Who take all your time and your money as well
Who constantly whine, it was funny as hell
To see my friend croon and moon over the critter
She recently pooped out, the first of a litter
Of many, I thought, as her smiling daft face
Gurned googoo and gaga with all of the grace
Of a loony baboon, a baby-mad momma
Cartoon-y buffoon, and maybe tomorra
I’ll change my opinion but probably not
As I looked at my friend and her child all I got
Was a shivering sense of all she was missing
That quivering mass was all she was kissing
While I get the whole world to choose from and take
Boys, booze and bonbons are mine, that mistake
Is one better left to birds who feel a need
To fetter and cage themselves i.e. to breed
While I with my words will live happy, no baby
With unending turds will tie me down, no maybe
About it, without it I’m glad and I’m glowing
And instead of a child I give birth to this poem.

Everything At Once

2010-06-12T05:40:00.000-07:00

Ive been very busy recently - maybe overly so. No time to write, gigs cancelled and even missed, almost sacked at work, suffering baby bouts of burnout... I think I may be at that thing called 'a crossroads'.

On the other hand, Im very happy to report that recent gigs with National Theatre Wales, at the Wychwood Festival and the new-but-lovely Trip Festival went well.

Next up: Nozstock Festival, Green Man Festival, Cardiff Comedy Festival, and Edinburgh Fringe Festival.

Watch this space!!!

M x

Poem of the Month

2010-05-24T06:05:00.000-07:00

My poem 'Beautiful Girl' is poem of the month on the lovely perf poetry website Write Out Loud. You can read it here:

http://www.writeoutloud.net/public/features.php?year=2010&month=5&tag=Poem%20of%20the%20month

Slam!!!

2010-05-17T06:54:00.000-07:00

I have been SO busy... Gigging all around, doing workshops in prisons and schools, trying to be on the telly (ITV Wales came to film me... this will hopefully be out soon!), organising events (including a SLAM to take place on May 31 - see www.jambones.webs.com for details) that I have been rather remiss in these missives. I am a misgiving miss who misses her mission, which is:

to write, rather than organise
to wrong, rather than right
to write, rather than left-overs
to left, rather than right

and so on.

So! Here is another blog post for you. Did you enjoy it????? Me too. x

C H R I S T M A S - an acrostic poem

2009-12-31T06:14:00.001-08:00

C rap in wrap a
H appy chap in
R eindeer trap has brought us.
I n his burlap
S anta sack there's
T acky pap for all us.
M illions flap
A s money's sapped and
S anta's lap grows fat with stacks of cash from shit that bores us.

Xmas Time

2009-12-18T10:58:00.000-08:00

Fucking house is like a grotto
Fucking dad is fucking blotto
Fucking lost the fucking lotto
It's fucking xmas time

Fucking sister's fucking here
Her fucking brats a-fucking-ppear
Her fucking fella stinks uh beer
It's fucking xmas time

Fucking brother fucking rings
He's fucking doing other things
I fuckin wish I'd fucking wings
It's fucking xmas time

Got my mum some fucking chocs
Fucking dad gives me a box
Fucking 'ell, it's fucking socks
It's fucking xmas time

Fucking cabbage, fucking sprouts
Fucking nephew fucking pouts
Fucking sister fucking shouts
It's fucking xmas time

Fucking mum is fucking chuffed
To see her fucking family stuffed
Wha's tha' stink? Dad's fucking guffed
It's fucking xmas time

Fucking mum says raise yuh glass
Thinks she's fucking middle class
Fucking dad falls on his arse
It's fucking xmas time

Fucking house a fucking sty
Fucking children fucking cry
Fucking time tuh say goodbye
It's fucking xmas time

Fucking xmas, fucking tree
Fucking food, tee-fucking-vee
Fucking shit if you ask me
It's fucking xmas time

(with thanks to John Cooper Clarke)

2009-10-27T13:37:00.000-07:00

A sorta quick-written simple (for kids?) poem what I wrote:

Close the door and come to me
Sit yourself upon my knee
Let me tell ya
‘Bout this fella
Called himself the Bear

Great an’ grizzly, way too wide
Stooped so he could come inside
Fierce with fury
Face all furry
This fella called the Bear

Lived up in that mountain shack
Hail an’ snow rained on his back
A mountaineer
Who know’d no fear
That’s why they named him Bear

No family, he lived all alone
Ghouls an’ ghosts filled up his home
Memories
Of family trees
No more, haunted the Bear

Those who knew called him a beast
What he’d done to those deceased
Wife an’ daughter
Brought to slaughter
By that big bad Bear

In the village, whispers, rumours
Bear was sick, all full of tumours
Alone up there
But no-one cared
Or dared to ask the Bear

Grizzly, lonely, middle-aged
Living like a beast that’s caged
Enraged village
Chose to pillage
The home of that poor Bear

Went up there all full o’ fight
Wanting to put that Bear right
All the town
And burned it down
His family home they set alight
Let it burn down to the ground

And only later did they find
Not by him his family died
But by causes
Natural, forces
Not ruled by the Bear

Now up there
Without a care
That star they call the Bear

I Am Born (or, All the World's a Stage!)

2009-09-29T12:05:00.000-07:00

My mother broke birth to me,
And there I was:
A silent lump of flesh and blood,
Entwined in afterbirth,
Wearing the placenta as a hat.

And immediately I started
Entertaining the doctors and nurses.
“Burble burble waaah!” I said,
(Which translated to the audience
As a scream)
“In the next thirty years,
I am here to entertain you!”

My mother lay quiet on the metal bed.
I had ripped her badly.

I shimmied a blood-red boa
And smiled. But then,
The doctor picked me upside down
And I hung mid-air like a joker
And I realised:
I’d left something backstage.
But I couldn’t remember what.

And then I screamed for real
As the doctor sewed and sealed the
Red curtains I’d rag-tagged through;

And the nurse measured me
With pincers;

And there was no happy father there.
And despite my initial confident
Entrance:

I was filled with stage-fright.

Poem for Pentwyn

2009-09-24T14:18:00.002-07:00

Pentwyn (pron: pen-twin) is an area of Cardiff. It is on the outskirts, physically and in other ways. It's not all bad, but being a misery guts I have zoomed in on the sadness and dilapidation of the area, rather than its more positive points. This be the result:

Poem for Pentwyn

This is where the houses look like weeping heads
This is where the children sleep in unmade beds
This is where the washing hangs itself on lines
This is where graffiti obliterates the signs
This is where you find discarded clothing in the park
This is where the daytime’s just as dangerous as dark

Pentwyn
Twined with no-one
Pentwyn
A place penned-in
Pentwyn
Pent up with sadness
Pentwyn
More lose than win

This is where the bluebottles breed inside the bins
This is where the beer bottles lead to other things
This is where the lampposts blink like frightened men
Then black out when young girls shout beneath their gaze again
This is where the ragged woods are all choked up with cans
This is where the boys in hoods steal from each others’ nans

Pentwyn
Twined with no-one
Pentwyn
A place penned-in
Pentwyn
Pent up with sadness
Pentwyn
More lose than win

This is where the gardens grow busted-up TVs
This is where the needles that you find don’t fall from trees
This is where the sun beats too hard upon bare backs
This is where the rain falls down broken pavement cracks
This is where the women have one too many kids
This is where the kids end up in those ‘most wanted’ vids

Pentwyn
Twined with no-one
Pentwyn
A place penned-in
Pentwyn
Pent up with sadness
Pentwyn
More lose than win

Top Tips for Travellers

2009-09-18T14:53:00.000-07:00

(1) Starbucks, to the weary traveller, with its air con, Earl Grey (with soya milk), and washroom facilities, is a godsend. Starbucks RULES! There can never be enough of ‘em.

(2) If waiting in a queue, try to stand behind Indian people (they are used to lining up, and seem to get ahead quickly – you can follow in their wake) and in front of Japanese people (they never push – if they try, look them in the eye, and they will fill up with shame and stop).

(3) NEVER stand in front of Russian people!!! Pushy buggers.

(4) The best hostels are the ones with free breakfast and cheap laundry/internet facilities. These ‘extras’ usually mean that the essentials are AOK.

(5) If you are walking about in America (say, NYC), and see a lot of very attractive, beautiful people, do not be disheartened. The ‘real’ people are in work! This lot are merely failed/wannabe actors/models.

(6) Try not to speak when buying items that have no price marked. Once they hear your accent, the shopkeeper will double (or even triple) the price. Give a confident smile and you will be fine.

(7) ‘Salad bars’ are the best thing in the US. They are made up of self-serve salad/hot food/fruit. You can try lots of different food in a plastic bowl. There is no excuse for not getting your 5-a-day.

(8) Speaking of which: never declare fruit to customs officials. Unless you WANT to spend an hour in ‘agricultural inspection’ just so they can dispose of it (‘it’ being that apple you took off the plane, and were only given cos you couldn’t eat their wheat-filled cake dessert). Just put it at the bottom of your bag and you will (probably) get through.

(9) If the fruit is discovered, say (in your primmest, plumiest Queen’s English accent): “Oh dear! I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise! Oops!” And, flutter your eyelashes. Again, you’ll probably be alright.

(10) Remember, outside of Wales you are a Brit. Do not confuse matters with talk of “Wales”. Unless you like explaining yourself over and over again to looks of total incomprehension. Which I don’t.

TUESDAY 14th July

2009-07-14T07:17:00.000-07:00

Am in Toronto. Took the night bus here from NY but the bargain fare wasnt quite worth it in the end: I tried to sleep, but cos my neck kept getting bent/crooked, and the bus took some twists and turns, at 5.30am I woke up - and spontaneously vomited over myself.

Things I Have Done & Enjoyed Recently (In No Particular Order)

2009-07-08T13:58:00.000-07:00

(1) Bicycle ride to Great Falls in Maryland state (yes, I cycled 14 miles! My thighs thanks me)

(2) July 4th fireworks in the capital (Big Bird & Obama onstage was a cheese-laden high!)

(3) Visited the Native American Museum in Washington

(4) Ate crab cakes at Dupont Circle, a cooooool place

(5) Saw fireflies!!!

(6) Went on twilight bus tour of DC

(7) Saw Obama!!! (Yes, I really did!)

(8) Saw lots of houses with bars on the windows (Washington outskirts)

(9) Saw some Amish people (at Reading Terminal Markey, Philadelphia)

(10) Visited East State Penitentiary (that's where Im off to now....)

Fun! :D

RADIO!

2009-07-03T06:36:00.000-07:00

I will be appearing on BBC Radio Wales at 7pm on Sat 4th July (tomorrow!). Please listen in for a new poem about my experiences in America! :)

http://www.bbc.co.uk/wales/radiowales/sites/celticheartbeat/

SYD: Day 4

2009-06-28T06:36:00.001-07:00

Yesterday (fourth of the festival, I think) was a weird/good un. I had a bad dream in which I was cutting off my own arm (my writing hand, as I later realised) and woke up with a really bad crick in the neck. Walking slowly sideways to breakfast, I discovered I also had (1) a blister, from new flip flops (2) sore legs, from gym OD and (3) general bodily stress, from not having my boy about to give me impromptu massage, and from the daily performance-ing, I guess.

So, I went to see a little Chinese man who massaged me to within an inch of my life (including arse area - Ive heard this is normal) then used the whirlpool, angling my body so that the jet stream hit my neck (as well as fatty bits - to help reduce em, like). To no avail, so I then took some medicine at the festival site. I told the audience at our afternoon poetry stomp that I was under the weather, and, perhaps because of this, won the stomp, and consequently the use of a rather un-fetching plastic fake-eisteddfod "chair". Joy.

After the meds had kicked in, I was feeling a lot better, so I decided to go to Artomatic (www.artomatic.org) - an unjuried art show covering 5 floors over by the river here in Washington. Wow! A brilliant standard of work on show, some really amazing artists. Since Lady Luck likes me, there was then a poetry slam on the 6th floor of the building by Busboys & Poets, the cafe/poetry group that us Welsh lot will be performing with next week! So, I met the MC ("Two Deep") and listened to their work... Wow again. A VERY high standard of stuff, kinda confession (to the point of discomfit - "my daddy dont come into my bedroom no more like he abused to") but, still, and maybe because of this, VERY powerful, captivating...

On the way home, then, I had discovered that my drink had slightly leaked in my bag, causing my name (nothing else) to be wiped off from the front of the notebook (writing book) I was carrying with me. Added to the dream of cutting my writing hand off, I wondered if my subconscious was trying to tell me something... (???)

I got home at 2am, anyway, and that was my day done. Am now to wash out some pants and then off to the festival site again. Tally ho!!!

THE KING IS DEAD

2009-06-27T14:51:00.000-07:00

I wrote this poem yesterday after hearing about Michael Jackson's sudden death. I then read it to an American audience a few hours later - it went down well. This is very definitely a spoken piece, as the rhythm changes several times (I have tried to indicate change by keeping space between sections). I hope you like it.

THE KING IS DEAD

Michael Jackson's dead
What a taxing life he lead
All that moving and shaking
But now the pigs will have his bacon
All that dancing and singing
But now his false friends will be grinning
All of those world tours
But now those lawyers are licking their jaws
All that money he made
But now there are vultures who need to be paid

Blood hounds lying in wait
To pounce and devour Michael Jackson's estate
Leeches waiting to suck
The death of a star to them's a stroke of luck
Wild dogs sniffing about
To get what they can from this, while I don't doubt

That Michael Jackson was strange
He never acted his true age
He had a very squeaky voice
He liked to hang around with boys
He had a monkey for a friend
Called Bubbles
Still now in the end
His troubles

Were no more or less than ours
He did not have super powers
Like us, he felt pain and stress
Like us, yearned for love's caress
Like us, he was full of feeling
Like us, just a human being

Son of a mother and brother to others
He had some children and he had some lovers
In bed at night he would pull up the covers
And dream.....
.....like us
Of what might have been.....
.....like us
Of what is, and what will be, and what was

"Wacko Jacko"'s just too easy
Like a pack o' wolves the sleazy
Media will take his life
In his death and with a knife
Like a chef cut it up finely
To sell papers speak unkindly
Of his capers, what a thriller
Now that Jackson's in the chiller

And they'll beat it, just beat it
Now Mike's not here he cant delete it
They'll take his odd personality
And add to his inhumanity
By pointing out his impiety
And giving him notoriety
Immortality, maybe even
But whatever you read, dont believe em
The press will impress just to sell
If there IS a heaven or hell
Then its not up to us to make judgement or say
If Michael Jackson went this or that way

All human beings get confused
All human beings make mistakes
We never walked in his shoes
We never knew his heartaches
In Neverland this Peter Pan
Who never quite became a man
Mightve been happy, mightve been sad
But we'll never know all the feelings he had
Except that he had em
And we have em too
He was a child of Adam like you
So although the papers will run his heart through -

I wish his troubled spirit well
I hope his heart's now free
That Michael Jackson is up there relaxing
With angels and our deity
Because life CAN be too taxing
So I hope that he WILL R.I.P.

SYD: Day 2

2009-06-25T14:23:00.000-07:00

There are lots of differences and similarities between Wales and the US, and I am making new discoveries daily. Here are some things I have noted so far:

(1) American toilets have bigger seats, and the water level is much higher up (so, more danger of "splash-back"), than our own. Logically, I guess this means (a) that Yanks have larger bottoms than ourselves, and (b) that their detritus is - a different density (!?)

(I am sorry to put this first, but it IS the first difference I discovered when I got off the plane!)

(2) When you enter a store, staff will say "hello, how are you?" - but, you are not expected to answer.

(3) Americans are more curious, and more friendly, than I would have supposed :)

(4) If you say something funny, Americans will say "you're so funny" - every time.

(5) Americans are very fond of wearing 3/4 length trousers, a little bit like combat trousers, made with quite thick material, and ofter khaki coloured. Its like a sort of summer uniform.

(6) Americans DO understand irony!!!

(7) They have bigger everything here, and more variety - people, plants, animals, etc. I have eaten yellow watermelon and chicken thigh as big as my own, so far.

(8) They are very polite here, and even young people will move out your way saying "I'm sorry", without any trace of resentment/sarcasm. (wow!)

(9) If you express even a slightly negative opinion, then you are "cranky". Positivity rules aok.

(10) People tend to follow the rules. They dont break them for the sake of breaking them (unlike me). However, the rules in many instances are more relaxed than our own eg in art galleries, where there are less "watchers" (staff) and you can go closer to the exhibits. Everyone assumes the art work will not be touched. But, they assumed wrong...

Im off to the National Gallery now, frends. See ya!!! x

Sporadic Yank Diary: Festival Day 1

2009-06-24T05:56:00.000-07:00

Since internet time is limited here, I will be writing about each day after it has taken place, the following morning. Today is the first day of the festival proper, but I will be writing about the "prep-day" we had yesterday.

Most people here are very busy. All craftspeople/demonstrators have to be in their tents for the whole day (11-5.30) - so, thats like a REAL job. Next, musicians have several performances each day. Then, there's the poets/storytellers - we have maybe one or two (sometimes 3) slots per day, of 20 mins up to an hour. So, either we are the least busy - or, we are the most relaxed - both I think, and of course this means we will get to see all of the festival for ourselves, unlike the poor cooks/Welsh teacher/clog-maker etc etc

Yesterday there was an orientation in The Dragon Tent for all participants. This took about half an hour. The rest of the day was our own! I spent some time talking to this really interesting guy, Pat McGee, who is a veritable knowledge of offbeat, quirky knowledge. I now know about Manchester comic poet Les Barker and understand the Scottish drinking phrase "a wee drop of the creature". Awesome stuff. :)

Later on I DID sample said creature - a reception/party took place on the top floor of our lovely hotel (s'posh, like) and first minister Rhodri Morgan flew over to join us. Apparently, there is a "trade mission" riding on the coat tails of this here Folklife Festival - 80 Welsh companies are over here right now, making presentations/contacts/sales/propositions... Not sure where they are exactly, but they are here. Apparently.

Speaking of propositions - it was free booze at the reception, and I spied more than a few participants participating in some improprietous behaviour... Naming no names (though I COULD if I wanted to; or even start up a profitable blackmail sideline) but, due to the fact that they dont seem to understand the concept of "spirit measures" here, quite a few people took a tiny tot too much of the demon drink. As I did myself, in fact - I then ended up drunkenly chatting with some near-7 ft tall submarine engineer who was wearing enough gold and designer linen to suggest he was bloody LOADED (plus the fact that this IS a swanky hotel). I - think I scared him off with my quantum physics rant, however - "everything is made out of ENer-geeeee". I then made some new "friends" amongst the other participants, and they were deadly impressed with my psychic abilities, the greatest of which is the power to tell people how old they are, "spiritually" - "you are 11"; "youre 12, you are"...

Oh dear. :(

Needless to say, this morning I was a bit Nevada-mouthed (desert - geddit) and a lil cactus-bloom-cheeked. But! Live and let live. And, I intend to.

More to follow!

My (Sporadic) Yank Diary!

2009-06-23T07:41:00.000-07:00

As some of you may or may not know, I am in America at the moment, taking part in something called the Smithsonian Folklife Festival in Washington DC. It's an annual festival that focuses on a different culture each year - this year, that focus will be on Wales.

The festival itself receives about 1.5 million visitors and runs for a total of 10 days (spread over 2 weeks - it closes for 2 days in the middle). It's a very big hoo-hah, and I am one of 6 poets representing our country.

WAAAAAAAAH!!!!!! *gulp*

I arrived here yesterday and am in the hotel lobby now waiting for a shuttle bus to the festival site. The festival proper begins the morrow, today there's an orientation in "the Dragon tent" on the site. The site is the size of several football pitches stuck together, which will undoubtedly assist in the acheivement of one of my current mini-aims - firmity of thigh and "middle area".

I was told by several people not to worry, as Americans generally are overweight. So far, I am unable to confirm this as per my own experience. All I CAN say, is that I had a very cliche-type mind image of what a Native American person would look like. And then I saw one, standing outside the elevator in the hotel lobby. She looked to weigh at least 20 stone - in no way the slender Pochahontas I had been expecting (or, hoping for - I dont HONESTLY take Disney characters as anything close to resembling reality!).

In any case, that is one "want-to-see" ticked off in my mental book. There are a lot of other things I want to see too, and so far there have been myriad small happenings that I could fill whole pages of writing with.

What has happened so far? Well, the flight itself was only 8 hours, and most people representing Wales were on there. If the plane had gone down, that'd have meant no festival what so ere - luckily, it didnt and we got to Tulles airport just outside DC safely.

Safely, but not sanely. Some of us were pushed almost beyond a healthy mental state by the huge queue we then had to wait in to get through US customs. I had accidentally brought an apple and an orange off the plane (I put them in my bag, remembering how they'd been put ito the toe-bit of our mum's-tights-turned-into-stockings at Xmas)- unfortunately this meant another half hour of waiting for me as I was re-routed into Aggricultural Insprection just so they could dispose of the fruit "safely" (?!)

Poor Clare Potter (fellow poet) was subjected to an actual interrogation due to the fact she still had her permanent residency card/status from when she lived in New Orleas some years ago. Of course, terrorism comes in many guises, and poetry itself can be pretty political... but the "interview" they gave Clare was apparently a bit heavy-fisted, and I was glad my American visit began only with the fruit-related palaver rather than anything more serious.

It was cool seeing Gillian Clarke on the plane. Since she is national poet of Wales, I had decided to keep a vague eye on her as I was slightly worried about getting lost. Gillian, I thought, is going to be a priority - if I follow her, I will get to where I need to be. And, sure enough, I did.

She has no idea who I am, but then, most of the time, neither do I.

The weather here is hot, though not as humid as I expected. I think living in Japan (temperatures up to 40 degrees) meant I was maybe more prepared than the average Welsh person (by which I mean, my Ely-based, havent-travelled-much, Tenby-is-our-favourite-holiday-destination family - bless em).

The meals here have been, as I anticipated, HUGE in size and calorie-heavy. My thighs are only slightly bigger than the chicken pieces we had for dinner last night (and, I have BIG thighs!). On the festival site, there will be special places where we can get food: two places in the Welsh section (which is the main focus of the event) but two others also, one in the African American Spoken Word section (wow!!!) and another in the Latin American Music section. These are the smaller programmes showing this year.

Really, everything has been v v V exciting so far, and Ive only been in the US less than 24 hours! It was great to meet so many artists, poets, musicians, craftspeople etc on the plane... There are no big-heads or full-of-themselves sorts in those Ive met, and Ive met most due to a pre-festival gathering we had in Llandrindod Wells some months back. Everyone is open, friendly, positive... My dark heart feels actually gladdened - the creative spirit, it seems, is not a stingy one. Everyone is talking, collaberating, sharing stories and information. Despite the slight grudge Ive always felt towards the (to me) insular-seeming Welsh-speaking community (and, yes, most people here speak Welsh, and everyone knows everyone)Ive had some lovely chats with people, and havent felt excluded at all. I - might even learn the old mother tongue when I return (the Welsh language, I mean - my actual mother's tongue is a foul-spouting beast of a thing...).

So, am beginning (and ending)on a positive note. Am off to the festival site now, and will write again shortly!

You can find out more about the festival here:

http://www.festival.si.edu/

Sod's Law

2009-04-29T15:19:00.000-07:00

(in a Cardiff accent)

Bratcher and Bestie and Boppo and Biff
Went down the drope for a beer an a spliff
It was July they was all sweating conkers
Cos they was still wearing shell suits the plonkers
An Bratcher was wearing a Burberry cap
Thar he got down Bessemer Road
An Bestie fake filas he bought from a chap
Who said he had come by a load
An Boppo a chain thar he nicked off some bloke
When he beat him up outside the legion
An Biff just had acne but he liked a smoke
An dealt all the blow in the region
So Bratcher and Bestie and Boppo and Biff
Smoked up the grass till their eyes went skewiff
An drank down the beer an smoked a bit more
An soon they was all out of carling an draw
An lay on the grass an talked about stuff
Like who of em got Hayley Jones up the duff
And which one done Kayley an which one done Kelly
And did they all fink tha tha Laura was smelly
An who raped Shanice did she call the police
A pie or her pasty, which had more grease?
And should they all go up and do her again
They'd teach her to be more respectful to men
They'd slap her the slapper and kick wiv their Kappas
And rape to the rhythmic rhymes of their fave rappers
And then they'd nip off down the Knap for a nap
And hope that the cow hadn't give um the clap
Tho if she had least they'd all have it together
They was good mates and would be mates for ever
In a world full uh sluts, they was firm butts
And so saying that they lay down on the grass
And slept, in such a way that they all had their nuts
Facing the crack in their firm butt's firm arse.

But as they slept -
From over the woods and far away
Came an elf sprite bright and gay
A fairy with a magic wand
That liked young boys brunette and blonde
It sprinkled moon dust in the eyes
Of these macho mashed up guys
Or maybe it was Martian dust
Or from Uranus, for with lust
It filled each lad, each loyal brother
Not for birds - but for each other...

When Bratcher and Bestie and Boppo and Biff
Woke from their nap they was all feeling stiff
Not in their arms or their backs or their necks
But down in their white low-slung bri-nylon keks
They had this weird feeling, a strange sorta itch
They looked at each other and started to twitch
They was block up on drugs and block up with juice
They'd lost all their senses - their shell suits come loose
Stark naked they stood, down Ely wood
And their own Ely wood was soon up to no good
As they fondled and thrusted and twisted and kissed
For years they'd repressed, now they couldn't resist
They forgot about Hayley and Laura and Kelly
They forgot about raping that slut
For they had discovered the best kind of cherry
Is covered in dark chocolate
And it tasted good, and they all chose to swallow
The first course was semen, with chocolate to follow
And Bratcher buttered the baps of each boy
And Bestie snacked on each sweet saveloy
And Boppo found that a finger of fudge is good enough to eat
And Bratcher discovered he did like salami
And with Bestie's white bread made a nice sarnie
And Boppo turned all of his fingers into a chocolate-y treat
And when Bratcher and Bestie and Boppo and Biff
Was all fulla fluid like bottles uh Cif
Their itches all scratched, their urges unblocked
They broke like a jigsaw, their bodies unlocked
And they all fell asleep on the grass once again
And into sweet dreams, four satisfied men…

But of course some hours later when they awoke
They couldn’t believe what they done
The spell had worn off, they all blamed the dope
They put on their shell suits and run
Away from the Drope and back to their mums
Four shell-shocked blokes with very sore bums
And got in their beds and all sucked their thumbs
And cried, cos inside, each of em knew he was homo
But if you are tough, then being a puff, is always a definite no-no
So all four repressed it and never discussed it
And in fact never spoke they was all so disgusted
They all blamed the fairies, the goblins, the elves
They couldn’t accept they was fairies themselves
And they married or moved as soon as they could
And forgot what they done that day down Ely wood

And the moral is this: the most macho fellas
Who usually treat women like slags
Will often turn out to be real Cinderellas
Lady boys, homos and fags
If gays make you feel queer then you’re queer
If they don’t then you’ve nothing to fear
But sod’s law dictates, if you feel strong distaste
Then that fairy will, one day, appear

The End

2009-04-23T12:34:00.000-07:00

I was watching television
When the picture went astray
And there came a strange transmission:
“The government is sad to say
That there’s been a nuclear fission
In this land we love today
So we’ve made the swift decision
To leave you here and go away.
We bring this message, in our wisdom
Hours later – as you lay
Asleep we were already risen
And halfway on our holiday.
Yes, there’s been a cataclysm
And yes, we would’ve liked to stay
But we thought the best thing isn’t
To remain, and like you pay
The price that radioactivism
Will wreak in your DNA.
Take heart, dear United Kingdom
Tho of sunshine there’s no ray
(Literally, for the frisson
Of the fission caused a grey
Mass to mass up, and all vision
Is, inside a fiery spray,
Lost thanks to this foul emission -
It rose just like a blown ashtray
Or a sudden apparition)
We would still like to convey
Our sorrow, and we do envision
Our return some future day.
Until then, it is our mission
Still to rule the dear UK
Tho we’ll do it from a distant
Base out near the USA.
T’will be hard, but do not listen
To what cynics will convey;
It’s not time now for suspicion,
But to face this sad melee
With the guts befits a Briton
Fighting in a fresh foray.
Challenges there’ll be, so kiss ‘em,
Embrace suffering we pray;
Do not stoop to pessimism -
It’s too late now anyway.
Forgive your local politician,
Think him not a popinjay;
In such times we turn tactician
And must prevent our own decay
In order to aid your condition:
Which we’ll do from this far bay.
Be of cool, calm disposition
And try not to feel dismay
If your skin’s in poor condition
With huge blotches on display.
This is fine, in your position,
And, if you have time, survey
The other people in your vision:
They’re mottled in a similar way.
There might perhaps be a physician
Who, with poultice, can assay
The pain that this swift demolition
Of the skin will cause, but they
Cannot cure it; no magician
Could, so, like a flesh bouquet,
Let each bloody acquisition
Flourish in a red array.
In short, against our own volition
We left, but we did not betray
Your trust: we recommend submission,
Do not make cries of “foul play”.
We have here some ammunition –
So before you speak please weigh
Up your verbal composition;
Every school, house and café,
Has, by a council technician,
Been fitted with a hidden ray
Device, which picks up with precision
Every word; so if you sway
A little left of our petition,
We’ll turn your bodies back to clay.
Now, I must make an admission -
I am late for a soiree.
There will be a fine musician
And a freshly made soufflé.
I leave you then to your new prison.
Please don’t cry, you’ll be okay
As long as you accept tradition:
Us to rule; you to obey.

CAP'N COLEMAN, TO HIS LOVE

2009-04-09T02:09:00.000-07:00

A poem written in 1569 by the famous pirate, CAPTAIN COLEMAN, only just discovered in an attic in Pentwyn

CAP’N COLEMAN IS MOY NAME
BEIN’ A POY-RUT IS MOY GAME
OY’D LIKE T’MAKE YOU WALK MOY PLANK
CEPT THAT ALL THAT RUM OY DRANK
HAS MADE MOY PLANK A LI-UL SHOY
GIMME AN HOUR AN’ THEN OY’LL TROY
TO PLUMB YOUR DEEP, OY’LL MAKE YOU WEEP
WI’ PLEASURE, TREASURE, THEN OY’LL SLEEP
COS FIVE MINS IS ENOUGH FUR ME
DON’ PULL THAT FACE, MOY LOVE, YOU’LL SEE
THAT IN FIVE MINS OY’LL MAKE YOU QUIVER
MY TIMBER, LASS, WILL MAKE YOU SHIVER
FUR OY’M A POY-RUT WHO HAS GOT
A MAP, LOOK ERE, “X” MARKS THE SPOT
THIS ERE MAP’S SHAPED LIKE YOUR BOOTY
AND IT IS MY POY-RUT DOOTY
TO FOLLOW THE MAP, OY WILL NOT REST
UNTIL MY ‘ANDS ARE ON YOUR CHEST
I WANT YOUR JEWEL, OY WILL FIND IT
YOUR SECRET CAVE, OY’LL GET INSIDE IT
AND THEN OY’LL TAKE THE WHOLE DAMN LOT
COS, MY DARLIN’, YOU HAVE GOT
JUST WHAT OY WANT, MY SEXY SLUT
LET’S PUT THE “RUT” INTO “POY-RUT”
SO WAIT A WHILE AND LET US SUP
AND THEN THIS POY-RUT WILL “POP-UP”

Ode to Middle Class Poets

2009-04-05T04:13:00.001-07:00

The poets of the middle classes
Can kiss the working classes arses
With their sonnets and their farces
Written on soft vellum

Their empty drivel fills the bookshop
They churn the fucking shit out non-stop
Any educated posh fop
Can write crap books and sell um

Their subject matter’s really serious
The style employed is dry and tedious
These posh pricks are so imperious
Thanks to their cerebellum

They think because we’re not so bright
Is why we shun that poetry night
No, it’s cos your work is shite
Is what I want to tell um

There still exists a class division
Your dad’s a teacher, mine’s in prison
The working classes work, your jissom
Won’t ever compel um

But I doubt these poets would listen
And so I make it my own mission
With words to repel um
And here’s the first word:
CUNTS

I Am a Comic Poet

2009-03-23T17:00:00.000-07:00

I am a comic poet
A comic poet am I
I’m not a proper poet
In another poet’s eye

I like my verse to rhyme
A proper poet don’t
I try for laughs each line
A proper poet won’t

A proper poet’s published
They won’t publish me
Not because I’m rubbish
But cos comic poetry

Is looked upon as low-brow
And so just doesn’t count
In fact I’ve got more know-how
Than many poets about

I could write a sonnet
A serious epic verse
But then I just think sod it
Can’t think of nothing worse

Than being so pretentious
I’d rather eat dog shit
If I could beat them senseless
For all the shit they’ve writ

Then that is what I’d do
I’d punch em in the head
I’d beat em black and blue
I’d hit em ‘til they bled

I’d run this through their heart
Their serious little eyes
I’d tear their bowels apart
And kick em ‘tween their thighs

I’d stamp upon their faces
I’d bend their knees right back
I’d cut em in weird places
I’d rip em a new crack

I’d like to see them suffer
To watch their eyes grow dim
Okay my verse is rougher
But in a fight I’d win

And as they lay there weeping
I’d read my poetry
And watch their black blood seeping
Oh, what comedy!

Jam Bones

2009-03-07T16:31:00.000-08:00

Ladyboys and gentlemen, whores and girls -

Apologies for my long blogspot absence. This has been caused by many, er, causes, not least of all the fact that I have now set up my own events organising group, name of JAM BONES. Here is our blurb:

Jam Bones is a new n original organising organism which promises a sexciting n sintittilating soup of performance poetry (meat), as well as stand-up, sit-on-it, musick, magick, n more (veg).

Basically bi-monthly, but with the odd inbetween happening, Jam Bones will offer unique n unusual one-off events: events that put the come into comedy and give the word "funny" an unmistakable capital "f", whilst simultaneously placing a pinky into the pulsating poop-shoot of our poetic capital shitty.

With a preference for "finales" rather than "headliners", and with a definite anti-PC ante, each event will be a thematic theatrical spectacle, succulently suckable and unashamedly amiable; a sonorous assault that will shiver your timbres and leave your grey cells singing for mooooore.

Key words: dark; satire; punk; fun; wit; glam; edge; amoral; ambient; amorous; cliterary; surreal; free-stylin'; anything goes!!!

Please see here for more:

www.myspace.com/jbonesevents

I will be back within the week with new poems n writings for y'all. Until then - thanks you for your follow-age!

M xxx

Cardifference

2008-12-12T04:54:00.000-08:00

(italics in a strong Cardiff accent)

I say tomato, you say tum-AH-toe
I say potato, you say spud
I shop at Sainsburys, you shops at Tesco
I can’t stand their value brand
But you can’t get enough

Between us there’s a difference
I’m middle class – you’re not
My family think that you’re a dunce
Yours think that I’m high maintenance
But viva la Cardifference!
We’re going to tie the knot

I play the clarinet, you plays Nintendo
I like the theatre, you prefers the box
I admire Fred Astaire, you acts like Rambo
Particularly in the bedroom with me
Though I wish you would take off your socks

Our love inspires incongruence
They say we shouldn’t wed
Your family hates intelligence
Mine hate your constant flatulence
But viva la Cardifference!
We get on well in bed

I read the Telegraph, you reads the Metro
I’d like a country house, you gorruh council flat
I’ve got a PhD, you’ve gorrun ASBO
When we go out if people shout
You swing your baseball bat

At times I feel ambivalence
You’ve got a nasty streak
I’ve seen your taste for violence
You’re put blokes in the ambulance
And even punched my face in once
For giving too much cheek
But love, is love, is love, is love…
So viva la Cardifference!
The wedding day’s next week

Lords Prayer

2008-12-10T07:51:00.000-08:00

Lord,
I’d become a Christian if I thought I’d see a burning Bush
If I thought You would set young George alight
I’d go to church each Sunday, even weekdays at a push
And I’d pray to Jesus morning noon and night
If only You would push Bush into a fiery furnace
If only You’d engorge George in hot flame
Then I’d become a Christian and I’d make it my own mission
To see other politicians get the same….

I wouldn’t just burn them with Christian zeal
I’d burn them with flames that were red hot and real
Tho I’d like to ignite all the buggers on sight
Instead I would burn them all sleeping at night
If You burn Bush, Lord, there’ll be no deterrent
Each MP, AM and PM past and present
Will die, every hypocrite, thief, whore and liar
I’ll retire to their pyre and expire via fire.

Imagine: Portillo asleep on his pillow
I’d say a hail Mary then make those flames billow
Tony Blair lying there like a babe unaware
I’d pray for his sins then set fire to his hair
Jack Straw like a straw would easily cinder
And Thatcher like thatch would soon catch
Boris a forest of fine human tinder
Paddy Ashdown I’d burn down to ash
David Cameron I guess would prove highly flammable
And Major I wager would too
In Your Name to Pete Hain I’d whisper a parable
Then bid him a fiery adieu
Mo Mowlam has plenty mo’ fat I could burn
Ann Widdecombe some I’d ignite in its turn
And good Gordon Brown in Gordon’s I’d drown
I’d pour liberal spirits on him
His fat filthy body with fire I’d melt down
His illiberal spirit send off with a hymn
These pig politicians and empty MPs
I’m sure I could track down with relative ease
If the UK’s a body then they’re the disease
It’s foolish to fight ‘em, let’s just ignite ‘em
The country would thank me again and again
Dear God and Jesus, please won’t you please us
Forever and ever and ever
AMEN

Cardiff Song

2008-12-06T10:08:00.000-08:00

He was from Ely and ‘er from Pontcanna
She lived wiv ‘er mum, and him wiv his nanna
Nowhere tuh go so they went to the park
The grass was so green and he had a full bag
Skin up, block up, feel up, knock up
But she was firteen so he went to the lock up

I likes you like
I dunno why
Yuh face aint tha’ good
Bu’ the rest is urrigh’

She wore ‘er skirts right up tuh yur
Real leather boots and white fake fur
Clothes from Primark, gold from Argos
Orange foundation and too much lipgloss
Little white thong and black push-up bra
And she found love each night standing outside the Spar

I likes you like
You knows I do
Last week I loved ‘er
But now I loves you

She liked a Chinese, bur he liked a curry
She said less get married, he said woss the ‘urry
She patted ‘er guts, I’m expectin’ she said
He fought of ‘er dad, next week they was wed
Seven munfs later he gorruh surprise
The baby was fine, but ir ‘ad Chinese eyes

I likes you like
I don’ like yuh sister
You’re my true love
I swear I ain’t kissed ‘er

Their eyes met ‘cross a crowded chippy
He played wiv his phone, she pur on some lippy
She ordered a sausage, he asked fur two cones
They knew they was cousins, their last names was Jones
They started tuh date, they was mad fur each uvvuh
And found out too late that they ‘ad the same muvvuh

I likes you like
I don’ do lying
I didn’t go wiv ‘er
So bloody stop cryin’

Pat Answers! A Message at Christmas...

2008-12-02T05:29:00.000-08:00

My great-great-great grandmother, Pat Price (52), is agony aunt for a local newspaper (www.thecheek.co.uk). She’s a well-known figure in our home city of Cardiff, and a well-known lack-of-figure too, due to the amount of chips and Stella she eats/drinks. Like me, she grew up on Europe’s largest council estate, the suburb known as ELY; unlike me, however, she didn’t escape over the bridge in time, and so found herself up-the-duff at age 13 (tho for 8 months of the pregnancy they believed it was just natural, savaloy-induced FAT). Seven kids, twelve “husbands” and several million pints later, she now has enough wisdom to advise on all human problems, whether of the head, the heart, or - other parts of the human anatomy.

This is her message to you all.

Now, I loves Christmas, I do, bu’ from my extensive fella-peutic trainin’ (whar I done in THE UNIVERSITY UH LIFE – see my column fuh details) I knows there’s some silly wazzos don’ like ir at all. In fact, they starts tuh feel all down an’ depressed an’ tha’, when they sees a birruh pound shop tinsel selluh-taped to an aertex ceilin’, or yurs an advert fuh 2-4-1 Christmas food offers in Lidls, or smells the smell uh fags an’ booze an’ wacky baccy an’ vomit outside the Legion when they ‘as their Christmas do - an’ so on. I don’ ger i’, bu’ there’s these fings called “statisitics” (?), an’ they says iss true. Iss gorruh be a mental illness, like!!
Anyway, the editor said whar I should do is make up some advice whar’ll stop any readers wiv this disorder from feelin’ i’ too much. I ‘ad a fink, an’ I done some research, an’ yurs whar I reckons you should do, like:

1. Try an’ keep fings to uh normal Christmas schedule. Wa’ this means is, go furruh drink tuh yuh local on the Christmas eve; gerrup abou’ 2 the next day, an’ try not tuh be sick on the kids’ presents (if you are, pretend thar it’s a “game”); ‘ave a snowball or uh can uh Stella soon as you can, an’ stay drinkin’ an’ eatin’ in front uh the telly all day, until the evenin’, when iss back tuh the local furruh knees-up. Repeat on boxin’ day, an’ the followin’ days if you don’ work, which loadsa people in Ely don’t. You might even keep i’ goin’ until next Christmas!!

2. Spend time wi’ family an’ friends. Iss a right laugh, seein’ ‘ow fat my sistuh’s go’ since I last saw ‘er (the cow); watchin’ my Jimmy ge’ drunk an’ violent towards ‘is missis again; yur-ing the kids fightin’ over who gets tuh watch wa’ on the telly an’ tha’… Christmas time is family time!!

3. Remember tuh eat an’ drink properly. Recommended drinks is: Stella; snowballs; vodka an’ coke; Lowes pop (fuh the kids). Recommended foods is: cookie dinner wi’ all the trimmin’s; turkey sarnies; Tesco value gateau; tin uh Quality Street; “choobs” (Smarties is the most popular). If you don’ mind abou’ “animal rights”, you can gerruh huge turkey fur under a fiver, an’ i’ ull last you bloody YONKS. Tho’ i’ depends on ‘ow many family an’ friends you go’, I spose. If you ain’ go’ none, you’ll ‘ave tuh guts i’ yerself, an’ at least tha’ ull keep yuh mind off bein’ miserable, won i’??

4. Don’ do anyfing ponsey, like readin’, singin’ carols, or gerrin’ the kids tuh “make stuff”. Stuff like this is to’ally artsy-fartsy, an iss wha’ kills the spirit uh Christmas stone dead. Iss depressin’!! If you can’ watch i’, eat i’, drink i’, or smoke i’, iss no’ f*ckin’ Christmassy. End of.

5. Tinsel!!! Iss cheap, an i’ makes everyfing look magical, like. Ge’ yur arse down tuh Poundstretcher, an’ don’ jump the queue, cos last year someone go’ stabbed fuh doin’ tha’. Tho, i’ wasn’ my Leeroy, like wha’ the pigs said i’ was. Tha’ blood come from ‘im skinnin’ a cat down the Drope earlier tha’ day. Everyon’s gorrun ‘obby, ‘aven’ they??

6. Don’ worry abou’ money. Life’s too short, like! If you ain’ gorruh lo’, don’ be afraid tuh cut corners – ger a birruh “poor man’s tinsel” (grass or summin) tuh decorate the ‘owse; some “poor man’s baubles” (empty crisp packets, blown up an’ pur on a bir uh string) tuh decorate the tree; an’ fuh the tree isself, an old chicken carcass can wurk wonders! If you can’ be arsed wi’ this (an’ most working class people can’t – we weren’t brung up on Blue friggin’ Peter, was we??), then do wha’ most families round yur does, an invest in a case uh “poor man’s rose-tinted spectacles” (STELLA). Drink a few uh these, an’ you’ll be seein’ magical Christmas lights all over the place, screamin’ babies ull be transformed into smilin’ cherubs, an’ you won’ feel like eatin’ tha’ much. Also, when yuh finished wi’ yuh can, pu’ the widget inside an’ i’ makes a great ra’ull – PERfec’ fuh baby’s first Christmas!!

7. Don’ spend time on yuh tod. If you go’ money, ge’ yur arse down the Legion or yuh local furruh few halves; if you go’ none, well – ‘ave a dooly-tap, an’ ge’ yerself intuh Whitchurch hospital fuh the new year. Iss like Butlins, ir is, ‘cept the entertainment’s a bi’ more nutso, an’ the drugs is to’ally free!!

8. Don’ watch the Queen’s speech. I never yurd anyone wi’ such a borin’, dronin’ voice, on my life. She don’ speak proper English, neivuh – I dunno wha’ she’s sayin’, sounds like she’s gorruh mouth full uh mixed nuts, or summin?!?!

9. Some people suffers from S.A.D., like – tha’s when, cos iss a bi’ darker in winter, they starts feelin’ all depressed an’ gloomy an’ tha’. Luckily, scientists ‘ave invented a cure. Iss called TELLY. A li’ull glowin’ box tha’ ull act like a second sun, wiv bright glowin’ rays and specially programmed images (“adverts”) tha’ ull make you feel all warm an’ cosy inside. Tha’s whar I reckons, anyways…

10. If the worst comes tuh the worst, an’ you starts feelin’ bad, don’ do nuffin stupid, ok? “Oblivion”’s a place we all likes tuh visit, bur iss berruh tuh ger uh return ticket than take uh one way trip there, like. Or even a Day-tuh-Go. So, CHOOSE LIFE – an’ ge’ drunk, stoned, stuffed an’ ‘ammered as much as you can this Christmas. You won’ regret i’!!

Anyway, if you takes these ten tips an’ puts ‘em into play, I guarantees you’ll ‘ave a brill Christmas this year. Any probs, jus’ le’ me know – I’ll be down the Legion most days, or you can write tuh the editor. Jus’ remembuh tha’ Christmas is twelve days, though, an as I’ll be followin’ all the good advice whar I jus’ give you, I won’ be in a fit state tuh repeat i’, like.

‘Appy ‘Olidays!!!!!!!!!

Pat x

Bonfire Night Poem

2008-11-10T10:07:00.001-08:00

Remember remember the 5th of November
Gunpowder treason and plot
Remember remember each parliament member
And all of the money he's got
Remember the commons so plush that they sit in
More comfy than our common homes
Remember the shiny white toilets they shit in
Remember who cleans out the bowls
Remember their parties, remember their do’s
Remember who waits at their table
See their posh clothing and expensive shoes
Who pays for that designer label?
Remember the exotic trips that they take
And how you stay home cos youre poor
Remember remember the laws that they make
And who those twats make the laws for
Remember the taxes you pay like a fool
Remember the wages they get
Who put their children in posh public school?
And who made ours illiterate
Remember remember their butlers and maids
Remember their nannys and cooks
Remember remember how much you are paid
And how much we give to these crooks
Remember their limo remember their yacht
Remember how you take the bus
Remember that nice country home that they’ve got
Where are the villas for us?
Remember the homeless folk out on the streets
Remember their Westminster flats
See them in the commons sat fat in their seats
And us lot all out here like rats
Remember your bills, remember your debt
Youll be paying it off til you die
You slave away but they never sweat
Except when theyre telling a lie
Remember those fuckers who pay to get sucked
By working class women and men
Remember us suckers who keep getting fucked
Over and over by them
I swear on the bonfire we shouldn’t be burning
Guy Fawkes but these parliament pricks
It’s the government these days that needs overturning
Who’s tired of their sly little tricks?
In that case Im starting a brand new tradition
It’s Gordon on Wednesday we’ll burn!
“Penny for the Brown”’ll be our new rendition
And every penny I earn
Will go into planning the next revolution
Gunpowder treason and plot
These parliaiment fuckers are human pollution
I hope to blow up the whole lot

phlegmployee of the month

2008-11-01T13:45:00.000-07:00

part 1: honesty

unemployed i go sweating round the agencies to look for work. in the windows are ads for jobs available. i make note, then go home & change my own cv to fit description. if it’s sales, i've had 2 years’ experience. if it’s marketing, i've done a year & a half. i left my last job (reluctantly) because i was a temp (in a way, this is true. i never intended to stay). most agencies never check. in the interview for this job i lie beautifully & laugh at all jokes. i am successful.

part 2: know-how

peanuts per hour is better than no nuts per hour. i quite like peanuts. 1st day in this job the promise of peanuts gives me an air of enthusiasm & capability. but i lied in the interview about my typing skills & this slows me down. i’m put to work in half an hour on a job i’m not really sure how to do. i fumble, say um a lot. when boss walks by i make use of my fluency in Bull. i accidentally bollox the system but leave it for someone else to sort out. i usually scrape by, & as long as no-one notices the scratch-marks i might just see next month.

part 3: customer empathy

my cv speaks opposite of truth: i don’t really enjoy meeting new people. new people are same as old people in their tiny tyrannies and babyflares of rage. i hate to lose my rag but i can be quite forgetful. i should put it on my keyring. then the temptation to say fuckyou instead of thankyou, the overwhelming urge not to send that letter or that check. the customer is always shite, & to be treated as such. my fellow employees unknowingly drink my spit. i’m really starting to enjoy my new job.

part 4: team work

some people work, some people shirk. i prefer the middle way – do enough to get by, & no more. when boss looks over i’m busy as a bee, keypad buzz & headset hum; when boss look away, i’m slack as a used rubber. in front of colleagues i pretend a mask of knowing efficiency, & blame my bungles on someone else. that person then the team scapegoat. as long as heat’s deflected from me, i don’t really care who ends up being sacrificed.

part 5: motivation

i sit square at my square desk, pretending to work – but my head’s full of bubbles. i put some stationary in my bag; i drink tea out of someone else’s mug. boss comes over for a word. i suck up and ensure at least another week of employment. then i take a comfort break. then i go to the breakout area. then i go back to my desk & draw some cartoons in artpad. payday a week away but i will find stuff to do. colleagues look sideways as phone rings and i answer. accidental cut-off occurs when they look away. “yes sir, yes sir” i say to thin air. three bags full, sir. but full of what, only i can know, as boss walks by, & i SMILE.

The Thickopedia Guide to Cardiff and Surrounding Areas

2008-08-20T04:07:00.000-07:00

#1 ADAMSDOWN

“And on the sixth day, God created Adamsdown. And it was Not Good. And thus, on the seventh day, He decided to Give Up…”

Adamsdown is a sticky inner suburb of Cardiff, about 5 minute’s walk from the throbbing city centre. According to some sources, it was named after Adam Kidyounot, who worked as a porter at Cardiff Castle around 1330AD. Due to the nature of his work (looking after poshos before the word had even been invented), he suffered from severe bouts of depression, and the then residents of the area were often heard to remark, in response to the query “how be Adam”: “he be down”. Being thickos (before the word had even been invented), the peasants at that time took “Adam’s down” less as a statement reflecting the psychological and emotional state of a particular individual, and more as a sort of fact, reflecting the anti-inspirational feeling that the area at that time (and to this day) invokes in many of its residents, and nearly all of its visitors.

Alternative sources, in particular the people who live in Adamsdown, think the name may be “summin religious, like”.

Adamsdown is home to such landmarks as Cardiff Royal Infirmary, Cardiff Magistrates’ Court, and Cardiff Prison. The atypical Adamsdown resident, liking a bit of a weekend drink, followed by an alcohol-induced scrap, will ideally pass through all three of these erstwhile institutions, usually in that order.

As if to offset the grim starkness of the suburb, many of its streets are named after metals, precious stones, and astronomical terms. The delicious irony of wandering along “Gold Street”, dodging dog crap as you walk (quickly), meandering around single mothers with their pushchairs full of little accidents, the garden-free terraced houses to either side reminding one of the discoloured teeth inside a tramp’s mouth, is something not to be missed. Unless you live in another area, of course.

There are several Sikh temples in the suburb, as well as a Reform Synagogue, but most residents are not seeking to reform, and spend all of their time in the far more numerous public houses therein.

Adamdown is part of the STAR area of Cardiff. STAR stands for Splott, Tremorfa, Adamsdown, and Roath, four inner city areas born out of the industrial revolution. Again, no-one is sure which bright spark thought up such a wonderfully sarcastic name, but, believe me, no-one actually living in this piss-hole is the least bit duped. Broadway, one of the main streets running through Adamsdown, is the precise polar opposite of its American namesake: there are no stars here, and the splotches of gullshit liberally splashed over the pavement are a very poor substitute indeed. There are no stars in the literal sense, either: as far as Thickopedia is aware, no famous persons have emerged from this particular Cardiff ’burb, and we can safely presume that none ever will.

In brief, Adamsdown is a less than superb suburb, and potential visitors are warned that the only stars they will be seeing here will be the ones in front of their eyes post-punch-in-the-face mugging experience. Lying dazed upon the shit-spattered sidewalk, you will be down both in terms of your feeling and your unfortunate physical position.

And if your name happens to be Adam, well, that will be the funniest thing about your visit.

This Cardiff location article is a stub. You can help Thickopedia by f*cking off and smoking it.

Next time: Butetown!!!

PC World

2008-07-22T11:19:00.000-07:00

It isn’t her hormones that made her like that
It was Kipling, Kentucky, McVitie and Greggs
But we’re not sposed to say that the woman is fat
Tho there’s less on my body than one of her legs
We have to say curvy or fuller in figure
We can’t say humungous we have to say bigger

Cos this is – PC World

It isn’t her thyroid or one of her cells
It’s simply the fact that she eats like a pig
12 curries a day is the reason she smells
8 burgers at once explains why she’s so big
But the way things are now we can’t just tell her straight
That her 5 chins are thanks to the 5 cows she ate

Cos this is – PC World

Her arms are like jellied hams, legs are like porks
Her breasts are so huge that they rest on her knees
Her facial fat shakes like a quake when she talks
Her arse sucks your hand like frogspawn if you squeeze
She needs the damn truth but we tell polite lies
She’s too bloody fat but we say she’s outsize
And so she’ll keep eating like that, ‘til she dies

Thanks to – PC World

The Ballad of Angharad

2008-07-12T06:07:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time there lived a young girl
A princess although she was raised as a pauper
Born into dirt but really a pearl
A diamond, a gem, a blue-blooded daughter
Descended from princes whose reign is now dead
But of course no-one knew that this girl was a treasure
As a baby the princess was dropped on her head
As she grew men who knew her IQ was low measure
Used the young girl for their own secret pleasure

She put the cum into Cymru all right
A few blokes each day and a few more each night
A Welsh Cinderella who’d let any fella
Try her for size if the payment was right

Carbuncled uncles and toad-featured teachers
Misused Angharad, this young girl so precious
Because she was simple these perverted creatures
Bribed her with Mars Bars and packs of Refreshers
And tho it was seedy, the young girl was greedy
She liked getting sweets in return for her use
Sweets turned to cash as the blokes got more needy
They felt if they paid then it wasn’t abuse
Not much, being tight, but it kept the girl loose

She put the cum into Cymru okay
A few blokes each night and a few more each day
A Cardiff born beauty who’d give all her booty
To any old beast who both asked and could pay

She should have grown up into a princess
Instead she was selling herself on the streets
She would undress for a tenner or less
Sixteen but she’d been on a million back seats
Her low IQ gave her a baby-like smile
Which most of her clients found very disarming
The most popular girl on the Riverside mile
She made every customer feel like Prince Charming
Except that she screwed at a rate quite alarming

She put the cum into Cymru its true
There wasn’t much else that the poor girl could do
A celtic snow white who wasn’t quite right
In the head though in bed she still knew what to do

In stories a princess will often get wed
And live happily ever after
But this one was dropped on her head as I said
Her tale ends in tears not laughter
Pure-bred Angharad, unread, underfed
Caught a disease in some sick fucker’s bed
It spread, now she’s dead
And she has gone to the hereafter
So, unhappily, you’ll never shaft ‘er.

Beautiful Girl

2008-06-20T08:36:00.000-07:00

People supposes that under her clotheses
This beautiful girl has a body like Venus

What no-one knows is that under her clotheses
This beautiful girl has a very large penis

They look at her from top of head down to toeses
They see this great swell of two bosoms like roses
They note her fine boneses and feminine poses
And think: ‘what a beautiful girl’

But if she don’t shave for a month then her nose is
Choked up with hairs, she is bearded like Moses
And if she uncloses her legs then her hose is
Proof, she’s no beautiful girl

But people supposes on clotheses and poses
Their ideas are based on our outer regalia

What the girl knows but will never expose is
The fact that down there she has male genitalia

On external looks people make diagnosis
Their eyes see some things and their mind then imposes
An idea on which it then somehow closes
And which it will never unfurl

And if this is true, men, then what I propose is
Don’t feel obliged to wear doublets and hoses
If you want to oppose this, wear the right clotheses
You can be a beautiful girl

Oh, I Wish I'd Looked After Me Tits!

2008-06-17T05:34:00.000-07:00

Maybe not by Pam Ayres…

Oh, I wish I’d looked after me tits,
Those two great front wobbly bits,
All the bad bras I chose,
And the ill-fitting clothes,
Oh, I wish I’d looked after me tits.

I wish I’d been that much more able,
When me front bits was firm, like, and stable,
To choose a twin cuppin’,
To hold me boobs up in,
That were wired up with big bits o’ cable.

When I think of the brassieres I wore,
That made both me bosoms feel sore,
They was either too tight,
Or too loose, like, and slight,
But I didn’t care – I could score!

Me mother she told me no end,
“Don’t you follow that lacy bra trend!”
I was young then and gormless,
Me bras was all formless,
I never had much time to spend.

Oh I slung cloth around em alright,
But I chose things that didn’t fit right,
The lace scraps I bought,
Didn’t give much support,
But I didn’t mind, in the night.

Me mother’s advice did I spurn;
Too late, oh, too late did I learn,
If I’d chosen a brassiere
That looked much less jazzier,
Me boobs now would be much more firm,

Now I lays in me bed and each breast
Do slope down each side of me chest;
They wobbles and jiggles,
Like fat worms they wiggles,
And sits on me knees when I rest.

How I laughed at me mother’s front bits!
Now it’s mine that flop down when I sits.
Me proud, pointed shooters
Now two flabby hooters -
Oh, I wish I’d looked after me tits!

Things Not To Do If You Have A Tendency Towards Depression

2008-06-09T13:13:00.000-07:00

(1) DON'T stay at home, on your own, on xmas day, watching 'The Pianist' and reading 'The Big Book of Holocaust Poetry' *holds up 'Big Book of Holocaust Poetry'*

(2) DON'T eat so many Freddo bars that you start referring to him as if he is an actual person and people think you finally have a new boyfriend and haven't turned lesbo like they thought.

(3) DON'T visit your mother too often, especially if she is a fake-blonde, foul-mouthed, tough-titted, rollie-smokin', my-head-master-at-school-fucking, milkman-flashing, weetabix-and-kipper-smelling, can't-even-read, skanky gyppo Cardiffite slut.

(4) DO stop taking that box of Ritz crackers to bed with you. Some women wake up lying next to attractive men. Some women wake up lying next to crumbs. Try to be the former, rather than the latter.

(5) DON'T try and figure out which of your "uncles" is your real dad. Chances are it's also the one who felt you up when you were 12.

(6) DO eat enough leafy green vegetables, such as kale, broccoli, and spinach. Lack of essential B vitamins can make you feel ever so blue!

(7) DON'T go in front of a microphone and tell people about your life cos 5 hours later you will feel sick and embarassed and disgusted and end up punching your own arms in hopeless despair and give yourself a huge bruise *holds out arm to reveal huge bruise*. And if you show that bruise to the audience, you'll feel even fucking worse.

(8) DO go to comedy clubs. Laughter is good for the soul!

(9) DON'T go to comedy clubs if you are a fat, jew-looking woman with nothing to talk about except your bad eating habits, lack of success with men, and fact that your mum is a nasty chav cunt who won't tell you who your real dad is.

(10) Smile! Smile, when your heart is breaking... Smile, even though it's aching... Even if you're a secret alcoholic self-harmer currently taking anti-depressants, when you meet other people, just - smile.

Who Am I?

2008-04-22T05:33:00.000-07:00

This was the Q above the temple at Delphi, is wot they say.

I'm in "work" again. I "work" in admin (parentheses "rabbits" a go-go today!!). But, I hate it yur. The ions from the glaring screen are ruining my eyeballs at a fantastic rate. The re-routed excuse-for-air they pump through the air con gives me bi-weekly mini-flu. The work itself is morphing my brain from world's fastest computer into world's fattest com-poo-turd (dunno what that means exactly. Except, it sort of suggests the shift from brain as organ of quick-fire-thinking to brain as inanimate, dross-heavy lump of shit. Which is what seems to happen after I clock in here).

In the office, then, I am a grey-clad drone, mumbling and sighing to myself as I type, click, and robotically whirr.

Away from the offfice, of course, I am - Queen Mab! Performance poet extraordinaire!! "Pam Ayres on methadone"!!! Screeching harpie with a penchant for rude ryhmes and vivacious (sometimes vicious) verse!!!!

"Mab" was queen of the fairies, is wot they say. The name comes from the Irish "Medb", meaning "intoxicating", or "drunk". How very apt... Queen Mab, apparently, was v attractive to men, but few were able to stand up to her powerful, warrior-like nature... I'd like to think this is the reason behind my own lack of success with the opposite sex. And not the fact that I am a bit fat with a jew-seeming nose and too many chin-hairs... :(

So, I live as a split-personality. Sometimes I am M---: bland and boring office worker, wearing her Primark polyester trousers with whatever the opposite of verve is. And sometimes I am Mab: a titchy bit more glam, a tiny touch more exciting and excitable, especially when she has that substitute penis they call Mic (Mike) in her chunkly little fist...

Perhaps one day, the two parts of my character will combine and make me more normal-seeming. Until then, I am a Mr Bean/Stig-of-the-Dump female tragedy by day. By night, I am a wannabe Oscar Wilde who struts and spouts almost-literate bits of half-rhyming twaddle.

But - which of these creatures am I?

Both. Either. Neither. I dunno....

I am here, in existence. That's all. As you are as well.

Fantabulous....!!!!!!! :) :( :) :( ;)

M x

Blog The First

2008-03-13T03:01:00.000-07:00

First blog demands: extraordinary! Momentous!! Fantabulous!!!

First blog is precursor of all blogs to come, it is the mother and the father, the Adam and the Eve, the Alpha, the Originator, in the beginning were these Words... All future blogs are progeny of this first and, therefore, the first has got to be something - amazing. Like - really super-dooper....

Unfortunately, I live in Wails, armpit of the earth: and today is a day as grey and glamour-less as an old man's scants... This in turn affects the affectation I call "personality", and makes me feel all drab, and droopy, and durrrrr...

I am a performance poet, living in the capital shitty of Cardiff, and "on stage" I seem to breathe fire, of a sort (or I try to)... Away from my friend Mic I am as colourless as a drool of spit. I sit in the office, now, writing this away from the terse glare of boss-woman's eyes, computer thankfully at "an angle"... At 11pm I will drink a coffee with "the girls" and we will ogle Sandwich Man's slightly flabby rear end... At 1pm, I will enter the Break-Out Room, therein to eat and sip at another machine-spewed caffeinated drink... At 5pm, Fred Flintstone-style, I will yabba-dabba do outta the office and away, home, to my little flat-packed-furniture-filled flat, flat-screen TV, flat little existence, in fact...

Yes, I hate working in an office!! I want to be a free bohemian spirit, writing in woods and wandering lonely as a raincloud...

The only plus, is, I get to use office time/facilities to write things, including this all-important Blog The First. Hopefully future blogs, like future generations, will be more upbeat and age-of-aquarius-ish....

Nice to (not) meet you, anyways.

Mab x x x