My End of Year (food) Blog

After last year's much complained-about final blog post, my Year in Shitty Pictures (well, okay, one person complained - they wondered if I really did wish death upon Justin Bieber. Answer was: yes! This blog isn't a joke, y'know!)... Anyway, after last year's complaint, I have decided to end 2013 with a 'best of' rather than a poor and, I admit it, mean-spirited, piss-take, thereby focussing on the positives of the past 12 months as opposed to the negatives. The focus in this post, friends, will be on achievement, inspirational events, academic accomplishment, and intelligent political outcome. 

AS IF!!!!!!! :-D

I have, however, decided to take onboard the fact that food blogs are extreeeemely popular (more popular than poetry blogs, really) and use that little law to hopefully 'up' the pathetic number of hits I normally get on here (see that page counter to the right of this? I did that myself, I did, by clicking my blog all year instead of masturbating - that non-wank-o-meter stands as a sad testimony to my current end-of-year sexual frustrations... Inbox me, perverts, *please*.......!!) :-/

So, anyway *weird Hayley Cropper wannabe-sex face* - here is my list of best things and people of 2013, a sorta Top Ten, with a slight emphasis on grubb, nosh, chow - enjoy!

Top Ten of 2013 #food

1. Best Food-Inspired Headpiece: Lady Gaga (design by Weetabix)

2. Best Drink: milk, consumed on the day of Thatcher's funeral

3. Most Talked-About Fruit: Angelina Jolie's melons

4. Most Likely to Put One Off One's Food: royal baby farce/face. Bleurgh!!

5. Dessert of the Year: 'just desserts' generously dished out by Saatchi to 

wife Nigella outside a Mayfair restaurant (!)

6. Best Bank: Food Bank 

7. Scariest Story: wine is running out! Stock up while you can! More on this story HERE :-(

8. Most Secret Ingredient: horses, of courses!

9. Best Food Additive: Potassium Bromate

10. Best YouTube clip: How Animals Eat Their Food

Anyway, hope you have a great bell-end of the year, folks. See you again in 2014!!! x

Lover

Here is another new poem, inspired by a recent visit to the psychiatric unit at Llandough Hospital, Cardiff.

Lover

Your mind, like blown glass,
Has cracked.

They have taped up
What they can. Only a few
Fragments are missing.

In the tea room,
An older woman in tight jeans brags about how
You give her bear hugs.

In the hallway, a girl

Is pulling herself toward the door,
On the floor. Ragdoll thin,
Her hair streams behind her
Like a wedding veil.

You are bearded. A young prince.
Dandruff confettis your shoulders
As you hold court.

You are popular here.
It is Sunday, and I am your fifth visitor.

You tell me you love me.
You want to show me your poems but
They are in the older woman’s room.

I see two people I know:
A sex offender I taught to write haiku.
A well-to-do woman
I need to invoice for work.

You put sugar in my coffee,
Forgetting that I do not
Take it.

You kiss me. I kiss back.
I am let out and walk past traffic,
Keep walking until
I don’t know where I am.

You drink tea. Set up pieces
On a board game
You do not know how to play.

Bedroom Tax protest/poem

Today I took part in a protest outside the office of LibDem's Jenny Willott, after the MP decided to continue supporting the bedroom tax in the face of opposition from the people she is supposed to represent. I had been asked to write a poem about the fact that Jenny had ignored requests from concerned citizens to talk about this, instead choosing to spend time on the much-more important issue of - rubbish. Yes, that's right - apparently the black bags outside our homes, and their collection, is far more important to Jenny than the people currently losing their homes, and being dumped outside like rubbish themselves!

In the end, Jenny did not turn up to her own office, and cancelled her usual Friday surgery. With families being forced to sell furniture to pay the tax, many falling into debt, and still others facing threats of eviction (if they haven't been evicted already), it seemed both cold and cowardly for the MP not to turn up to meet us today. The police were there, as usual, and were very polite and helpful indeed - they are constituents too, after all. This bedroom tax is hitting many of us, and it's hitting hard. And how is Jenny sleeping at night? Well, apparently, very well, as it is a well-known fact that the MP bought an extremely expensive four-poster bed on her expense account - almost £1,800 of taxpayers' money in total, on the bed, mattress, matching curtains, and home delivery.

So... Keep fighting the fight, good people! Picture and full poem below x

Bedroom tax, here’s the facts

People made homeless

Bedroom tax, just like trash

You can’t ignore us

Bedroom tax, don’t have stacks,

We can’t afford it

Our hearts and homes broken

But you just ignored it

Here is the full poem, it should be read in order of columns (1,2,3...). Making columns on Blogger is an absolute pain, so please forgive the fact the type isn't quite straight here... Enjoy!

Mab v Scrunchies

Look. I've got nothing against Scrunchies, okay. For those of you who have seen my Facebook posts... All I am saying is that a cheapo bit of string with some tatty material wrapped round it should NOT be more popular than me. I have performed over 650 times in the past 6 years! I bring smiles and delight (and slight drunken flirtiness) wherever I go! I do charity events, I do workshops in the local community, I've worked in various schools and prisons. My whole life is dedicated to sharing and inspiring a love of the spoken and written word. What the hell did Scrunchies ever do???

As far as I can see, all they do do is wrap their smug, crap-patterned selves around people's already-dead hair strands. BIG DEAL!!! I could do that, y'know. you don't need an MA (what like I've got) for that!! Scrunchies seem a bit smug about it all, to be honest. Are their hearts really in the right place? Do they care about their local communities? Or are they just about showing off, with all their tartan and furry bits and sequins and that? All their 'look what I can do' attichood, like fat little crowns on the top of young girls' (and sometimes old ladies') heads???

I mean, even if Scrunchies ARE 'the real deal', and feel they are doing some good in the world, why should they be more popular than my good self, and have more FB likes on their fan page than moi? Is it really anything to do with their usefulness? Or is it more to do with THIS:

Yeah, that's right. A young, half-naked girl showing off her 'bits and bobs' while wearing Scrunchies. Like a sexed-up version of the Victorian Little Match Girl, innit? What is she REALLY selling here? Eh? EH????

(Wish I had legs like that, mind.... *Sigh*!)

Anyway, I think this slightly disturbing, overly-young-girl imagery just proves what Scrunchies are really all about. So - liking their page MAKES YOU A DISGUSTING PERVERT!! Please unlike it now. Liking MY page - HERE - makes you a GOOD AND HONEST (and therefore sexually attractive) PERSON! Please like it now.

Down with Scrunchies! Up with moral integrity!!!

YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO !!!!!!!

https://www.facebook.com/mabjones
https://twitter.com/mabjones

Paper Man

At first, paper man,
I admired your cutting edge,

Your inability to be anything more than
See-through. I noticed you
Folding in certain situations.
I thought it was your nature.
I watched you crumple,
Poor screwed-up you,
And I cried and cried.
You had been punched, and
You had been burned, and
I could see so many holes.
The thought of flames hurting
You, hurt me even more.
But then I saw you taking the match
To yourself, and I did not
Understand it. Tried to stop it, in fact.
But you would find those matches
Wherever they were hidden.
I told you it was over, and you
Posted yourself to me in an envelope.
Love me, you’d written on the place
Where your heart should have been.
Hate me, was written over your pencilled cock.
I crumpled you into a ball
And threw you from the window, but still
You returned – masquerading as a
Bill, a letter, a Christmas card,
An origami swan. And every time
I let you in – the fire, the smoke,
Filled my flat and my lungs. Licked at
My heart. Paper man, I am tired of this.
The water I throw just turns you to mulch,
My pleas to stop are ignored.
I finally see that you don’t have ears.
You don’t have a heart, either.
You are so thin, now,
And you are just paper,
But still you left me in cuts all over
While I in turn have changed to other
Things. Water. Wood.
Finally, to stone.

Made in Roath - Resident Blogger

V excited to announce that I will be Resident Blogger for this year's Made in Roath Festival!

Please click on the image below to visit the new blog.

Imperial

This is a new poem, a draft, not a funny one, inspired a little by thinking about the royals, because of the recent birth, and also by Wales Wildflower Day, which happened recently at the National Botanic Garden of Wales, and which I was lucky enough to attend. Who ever thought the buttercup was such a blighter? Well, it is, so here you go:

I am trying to find the beauty in you, buttercup.
I am looking only at your golden heads.
I am attempting to forget what the expert said:
That your species is invasive.
That your style is ‘creeping’.
That your taste is acrid.
That your sap can cause blistering.
You carry your poison so prettily,
You are lovely to behold, intermingled
With the daisies, as if you were one of them.
As if you could ever be ‘common’.
You will live for a thousand years
And gradually those daisies will be crowded out.
You will block the light from them, put them in the shade,
Steal the soil’s potassium from beneath their roots,
Secrete toxic chemicals from your own that
They will drink, unknowingly.
Thinking that you are a friend.
They will feed it to their children and their children
Will become weak. You will smile as their heads grow limp,
As each generation is born smaller, feebler.
One day, there won’t be any births at all.
And still the passersby will look at you,
And marvel at your pretty golden heads,
So many of them, like cups, reflecting the sunlight
From above, so beautiful, full only of themselves.
The soil beneath now richer than it ever was.

Super-Tired...

I can't say that this poem is about me... It's about some ladies I know, though, and who I wouldn't mind being like... It's about a feeling I sometimes feel, though normally I am happy to help people out... It's also inspired by this amazeballs Superman dress that was just made for me by Nelly's Treasures, who share the upstairs balcony space with my Queen Mab shop in Cardiff Fashion Quarter... Hope you like it, anyways x

I am a superwoman with a superwoman’s needs
A superwoman’s super good at doing super deeds
But sometimes, well, it’s super-swell
To not be super, just to dwell
In the ‘woman’ part of who I am and simply be
This super greed can supersede the need you have for me
And if I don’t I won’t be able
Next time that the world’s unstable
Next time there’s a perilous plot
Next time some crazed soul has got
The earth to ransom and near-ruin
I won’t be there, I’ll be doing
Other things because you didn’t let me have some rest
I’m super sorry, but don’t worry, now it’s off my chest
You’ll understand my needs which aren’t so super after all
High flyers sometimes tire, need to stop or else they fall...
So for today, I’m not that super
Go away, and let that blooper
That mistake, that fatal blunder
Be your own, I’m all snowed under
                                                            My superwoman suit has just been washed and isn’t dry, yet
                                                            I’m super sick of all of this, and want to just ask why it’s
                                                            Always me (or Superman),
                                                            When the shit has hit the fan
                                                            You call upon instead of seeing what you might do on your own?
                                                            I am a super being but before, weren’t you alone?
                                                            My kryptonite is every fight you don’t need me to do
                                                            So, go away, because today, that super being’s YOU.

This Mouth Spits Ink

As some of you will know, I was plucked from poetic obscurity during my third ever gig by iconic poet Peter Finch about 5 years ago. As a result, my fourth gig was in the Welsh heat of the BBC Radio 4 National Poetry Slam, and my fifth gig live on BBC radio.

I have always made it my joyous 'job' (if you can call it that) to pluck out and promote talent in a similar manner through my social enterprise Jam Bones, through which I have organised over 60 events in the past few years.

Most recently, I was startled and impressed by a young poet called Johnny Giles, who came to my attention during a spoken word event organised by Alwyn Jones in Tommy's Bar. A naturally gifted performer, Johnny is possessed of a compact, charismatic presence which captures audience attention from the very beginning to the always-too-soon end. Already writing poetry for 5 years, the transition from stage to page has been a relatively recent one, but one which has seen the young poet already win fans and the respect of his poetry peers, myself included.

As a result, I took the step of making Johnny Poet in Residence at my new Jam Bones event, Back of the Pub Poetry Club. It really is a rarity to find a poet who is both brilliant on the page and kick-ass on the stage, but this is one who manages it. Expect striking; stand-out simile; astoundingly original metaphor; a deeply developed sensitivity to human frailties, human cruelties; rare tenderness, quirky humour, and strong, sometimes political, passion.

The next Back of the Pub Poetry Club takes place at the Tair Pluen, inside the Owain Glyndwr pub, on Sunday 21st July, from 7pm. It is free of charge, and if you would like to read yourself please bring up to 5 minutes of poems. 

And, of course, do come to hear Johnny read, as well as many talented others. Do also take a look (and follow) his new blog (please click on the image below). Two fantastic poems are on there already, and I am eagerly awaiting more. Enjoy!!!

The Political Compass

Someone reminded me today about the fact that I am featured on the 'Aryan Untiy' website, in their 'Red Watch' section, for my rhyming poetical crimes against fascism. It's kind of like a 'most wanted' list; it means I am considered a danger to those delightful people we call neo-Nazis. I can't remember which poem it was, particularly, which offended them... Perhaps the one about pubic hair styles around Wales *wink*.

Anyway, before I nip to Newport to see the lovely Pam Ayres this evening, I thought I would take the Political Compass test to see where my politics lie... Lie as in sit, rather than tell a porky, or lounge lazing on a chez longe of course... So, I took this test, here be the result:

Yay! I am still more left wing than the Dalai fricking Lama! This makes me happy indeed. Happy Friday, comrades!!!

From Cooped Up.... to Souped Up!

I've been ill for sooooooooooooooooooooooooo loooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong - my Lord, it feels like a lifetime! I used to organise a hell of a lot of things, but at the moment I still don't feel I have what it takes to do very much... But I'd like to help make cool things happen... How, though....???!!

Ah, yes! Sunday Soup! It's a project that began in the USA a little while back... Basically, people gather together for a meal, they pay a small amount for said meal, and the monies they pay then go into funding a small creative project. People put bids in for their event/project/happening, and everyone attending votes for their fave after the meal...

What a sweet idea! If I can't actually organise something, I can at least help fund it....!

This suits me. This is what I will do, then. From cooped up to souped up in, er, well, a couple of months, really...

More details on Sunday Soup Cardiff 

HERE.

More details on Sunday Soup itself 

HERE.

Get in touch if you'd like to help out, too! x