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!

Greer? No Fear!

I recently had the very great pleasure of compering Germaine Greer at the first of a series of events at the Gate in Roath. 'An Audience With' aims to bring the good people of Cardiff a variety of high-profile personalities, including actors, writers, sports stars, and politicians. Simon Weston was this month's guest, and next month's is Roy Hattersley - but our first kicked off, in a high-kick style, with the nation's most famous feminist.

Like most educated ladies of my age, I read The Female Eunuch at university, and was affected by it greatly. This was to the point of me managing to quote Greer (and my other favourite writer at that time, Helene Cixous) in every English essay paper - even Chaucer! Greer's writing made clear so many things that I was unconsciously aware of but unable to put a name to; I'd already realised that there were about a thousand swears featuring female terms (cow, bitch, tit, etc.) and very few for male, but many of her other assertions made other, more subtle subjects, crystal clear. It became a kind of bible for me, for a while.

So, to meet Greer now, was extremely exciting. I also felt nervous. The septugenarian has a 'rep' for being outspoken and opinionated, and for stirring people up with controversial opinions... I wondered how she would be with me.

I needn't have worried, of course. Germaine was as friendly and personable as you would've hoped, though with strongly-held, and freely-expressed, opinions. I spent about 45 minutes with her backstage while we waited for the show to begin; one minute we'd be talking about the difficulties of parking; the next we had leaped (not because of me!) onto discussing the penis and popular opinion of it. Germaine's conversation casually veered from the mundane to the remarkable, from writing to keeping accounts to her recent, much-enjoyed talks to young girls in schools, to the terrible topic of sexual assault. Once Germaine was on stage, I realised that, like most great performers, she had been practising some of her material on me - little bits and pieces that had seemed so (wonderfully) random then, were now spoken here, and to great effect. Anyone who came along to the evening will be aware that Greer is as funny and engaging as many a stand-up. The fact the house was full (370 people!), with both men and women, spoke volumes.

In all, I would say that I found Germaine to be a person who perhaps enjoys playing devil's advocate. Her 'rep', I feel, comes from her deliberately wanting to poke at people's thoughts, to get them to question their own assumptions. Perhaps this is then portrayed in the popular press as wilfulness. I also found Germaine to be less a 'feminist' than a 'humanist' in what she was saying. She struck me as a fine mind with a good heart - a sage older person who simply thinks everyone should have equal rights. The image of the younger Greer, I think, has forever thrown a fanatical, 'wimmin's rights' sorta shadow over the philosopher she has become.

The happiest moment of the evening came, for me, when an unprompted audience sang 'Happy Birthday' to Germaine - this event co-incidentally marked her 73rd birthday. As compere, I had intended to arrange something like this, but the fact it happened naturally, again, says a lot.

The only other question I'd like to address, of the many I've been asked, is - is Germaine still hot? Well, for a 73-year old, yes, I suppose she is. I guess it really depends on whether you find a brilliant mind sexy in itself. Certainly, many do, as you can see from this guy's blog. I'm not sure what Germaine would think of the question, but since it's a woman who asked it of me, perhaps she wouldn't mind (?).

Anyway... This is the longest post I've ever written! Hope to see you at some of the future events, bye for now!

Please join the Facebook group for An Audience With here and the Twitter account can be found here.

Cardifference

(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

Cardiff Song

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...

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

The Thickopedia Guide to Cardiff and Surrounding Areas

#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!!!

Blog The First

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