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’

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!!!

PC World

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

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

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!

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

(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?

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