Grand Gestures On The Coffin Lid

New Years eve is almost upon us but the resolutions, those candy eyed flights of fancy, again have failed to inspire me to make changes in my life. If I subscribe to the notion that I would be wise to alter something, for better or worse, then it implies that life right now is lacking something. And it is not so it wouldn't be fair (or just) to scribble a half hearted list to myself on New Years eve.
Why on earth would anyone want to try and live a perfectly moulded life in the first place astonishes me. A world like that isn't worth having, the fairytale would bore me to tears. Life needs calamity and chaos, it needs to feel the sharp end of a knife or gun to make everything fair in its strange otherworldly logic that is beyond our grasp.
To myself I enjoy pain at times, it lets me know I am alive and inspires thoughts within my mind that could never occur if we lived in CottonWorld with the fairies and talking woodland creatures. That place would become sterile real quick.
If you really want to give up smoking (New Years Eve's Best Seller) then do it now why wait until January 1st? Get exercise now! Be kinder to old people/children/animals/whatever now! Do it all right now! Now! Do people crave order so much they can only be spurred on by the begining of a lousy month? And these wintery months are bad times to be making changes anyway because the early dark evenings blind us and we are all mad from frostbite. (Austrailians crazed from heat).
This new year might even be the time that grim blank space currently after your birth year gets filled.
The general public might feel more secure writing lists and I feel no hostility towards anyone bringing positive changes to their lives, but its not for this booze soaked poet. I could never remain honest if ever I were to have to rely on a Do & Don't Do list. To me it is only more rules and I have a terrible allergy to those.

China Rocks

In China they have a saying regarding the death penalty - kill the chicken to scare off the monkeys - or words to that effect, and I am in total agreement. If you are greedy (or stupid) enough to attempt to smuggle drugs into China then you must accept the fate that awaits if you are caught: execution often by firing squad.
Todays execution of EU national, Akmal Shaikh, has stirred up the issue once again, with Britain condemning China and the tabloids screaming 'Mentally Ill Man Executed!' The shock! The horror! (The bile inducing support for criminals). What exactly are the UK angry at? China carrying out THEIR punishment for THEIR laws? I find it arrogant in the extreme that Britain thinks it can tell another country they shouldn't execute a criminal because he/she is British, especially a country with zero tolerance toward criminal behaviour as opposed to here in the UK where we seem to go out of our way to make criminals as comfortable as possible.
We have people who do not understand why anyone would risk smuggling drugs in such places as China and trot out mental health issues as some kind of excuse for their transgressions. Allow me to help here: there are, believe it or not, bad and greedy people in this world, people with clear minds (before they recieve a death sentence) who are more than willing to attempt to make easy money on the smuggling circuit just like there are burglars who continue to steal knowing they could end up in one of our plush prisons.
Shaikh tried his chances, lost and is in his grave because of it. Britain's lily livered can huff and puff all they want but the smuggler is dead and good riddance to him. And no, this execution won't deter another criminal to try his hand at smuggling because its plain to anyone that the death penalty isn't about deterence - its a punishment. However we'll chalk it up as a bonus if somebody is indeed put off by these events.
There should be no sympathy directed at Shaikh, nor should China be shunned for following their laws. They ought to be applauded and I only wish we treated our criminals with the same strict hand. (I doubt they have feral teenage yobs terrorizing pensioners and swigging cider on street corners).
Drugs cause an infinite amount of misery, which rots communities. One less smuggler is a reason to be championed.
'Oh but this poor man was mentally ill!' Cry the cotton hearts. Yes dears, they all try that stroke on death row, shame on you for believing it. If Shaikh had gotten away with this he would have been taking his mental illness all the way to the bank. Think about that.

Glitter On Sagged Bubonic Fowl

In times long gone it was public executions, today we have popular culture and a strange obssession with celebrity. Of course people have always taken interest in someone who stands out from the crowd; the poet Lord Byron's wife Annabella coined the phrase 'Byronmania' in reference to the interest that surrounded her husband.
But this is something quite different. A giant bullshit machine, trampling a stupefied audience while chewing innocence and spitting it into a Z list spitoon. Or a flatulent ogre stumbling through forests of camera lenses in a feeble attempt to eek out attention. What septic troughs to wallow in.
And the less said about those colon headed people that stare out from glossy magazines with sickly grins brushed over their faces the better. Oh the pearl white teeth, the marble skin, icy blue eyes without a lash out of place! Such beauty! Styles to keep the uglies at bay, as airbrushes do the same with wrinkles and nasty creases. Heaven forbid should they be caught with their gut spilling out from a tracksuit bottom, or a crusted toenail....Or actually speaking the truth.
All hail magazine covers! The new fountain of youth allowing a never ending story for plain Janes to hang their image on. Hoodwinking the gullible into believing some people are born perfect. Tasteless paper junkies.
Is anybody really attracted to those blemish free windbags? The china doll madam posing like a compound fracture breaking free from cellophane. Does it kick peoples groins? Fuel their coke?
More importantly does everyone, or even only a handful, believe the picture before them? Have the crocodiles tricked the sheep into falling for the myth that fame and wealth turn grubs into swans? Yes, miserably they have.
But beware, chasing Cinderella is a lethal and cut throat pursuit, where only plague-like diets and monstrous egos are allowed to win the day. You will abandon dignity if you decide to play and as for being spit polish perfect, one might as well put a walrus on the greasy cover for all the truth todays singing brats say about perfection.
I have kept shelter with crazy kinds of crazy in life's formidable shadows, been witness to every type of megalomania and skulldugerry but these newer flock of flamingoes on the shelves, desperate and strutting, bring bile to my throat. A rotten type of gag because the olive skin and lily powdered hair, the pencil thin waists and blood cherry lips do nothing to turn my head and swindle me. Withered scarecrows have no spirit.
I know of eagles, stern lessons and stunning views of breast valleys and ocean fronted thighs. And the glossy dolls, those pale, straw kids have nothing but heels across their fishy mouths. The carbon copy menageries do nothing for lust when one has seen the gin angels. Herd flesh all you want - the sandbags of monstrosities get taller with each page.

Christmas Saddles Under Crisp Eyes

I have already become numbed to the festive season and we are still eight days short of Christmas eve. Whether I have become jaded and cynical, or weighed down with a peculiar form of depression I do not know but there is no excitement in my bones. Im certainly not looking forward to it like an over eager child, straining at the leash.
Of course when we reach our adult years one is bound to adopt a less dizzy attitude toward Christmas as children have the upper hand in this holiday due to their innocence still allowing the belief of Santa Claus and the promise of loot under the tree, but its deeper than that. There is no 'zip' in in my soul, no spring in my step as we hurtle toward the goose feast. Even when writing empty emotions on cards I feel a giant weight in my hand (perhaps due to my brain knowing that what is being scrawled among the glitter and red robins is bunkum, total bosh).
It wasn't always this way; growing up this time of year I was as full of magic and wonder as any carefree child. As soon as December hit the calendar I would begin striking off the days, pulling the season in with every stroke of my pen. I would even listen out for bells ringing in the night sky and searching for a streak of red among the stars on Christmas eve. Nothing bad in it I believed, totally seduced by the festive charm.
How different it all feels today as I hammer (the correct word considering my mood) at the keyboard, a giant starry boughed tree in the background like some kind of green ogre threatening me to be jolly or else. A rubber inflatable Santa lurks beneath it with a deranged smile painted on its face, eager to throttle me should I turn my back on him.
Is it me or have Christmas decorations taken a turn for the worse? Cards long ago discarded any semblance of taste and now the baubels and plastic trinkets have gone the same miserable route. Shelves heave with cheap sparkling ornaments, and grotesque looking figures of the Nativity which would be more fitting in a chamber of horrors rather than a window sill.
Were it left to me I would choose a black tree and hang miniture nooses and electric chairs from it while adding bloodied fake body parts from Halloween to achieve a grisly effect, echoing the gloom in my heart. The fake cheer has rattled around my ribcage long enough, im quite ready to heave it out.
I try not being a ghoulish grinch and would welcome relief from the grey chain which sag heavily on my shoulders, but nothing is there. One cannot revive a heart so stubbornly set in gloom, especially since the spirit is gone. Perhaps im being overly melodramatic in the last sentence but things do seem rather dismal as we get deeper into December.
One thing I am grateful for is the fact I rarely watch television because if the titbits I have seen and magazine headlines are anything to go by then FSO (Festive Season Overdose) are on the cards for many poor souls. The Christmas Specials of yesteryear have disappeard into the ether, leaving way for vile bumper doses of reality based talent shows and preening, self absorbed minor celebrities caked in make up. It is truly wretched.
Everything is over done, and the true meaning of the occasion is almost ignored totally. But to remind anyone of this is to be called a sourface, or old fashioned. I enjoy a drink much more than the next man but I always have time to stop and raise a toast to the holy man. Some people think Christmas as a giant gift fest with the chance to show off astounding gluttony. (Saying that its always nice to watch these empty headed mortals suffer in the following days from the vulgar binges).
In November I decided to celebrate Thanksgiving, and a turkey was roasted and served with other fine foods. Being Welsh it was a no frills affair, there were no carols sung and tinsel giddy trees did not stand moronically in the corner like a scolded child. It was basic, a fine dinner with thanks being offered that we had it. Furthermore there was no tsunami of wrapping paper to get rid of, and nobody cried for the gift they did not get.
It was how I envisioned Christmas to have been in the begining. Before advertisers and other sharks sniffed blood and packaged and sold it to the greedy like a desperate whore.
Humanity has a special gift for ruin. Ho ho ho ho.

The Saltboy Guru

A good guide to debate or lecture should be - the less one has to say, the more people will hear it. For instance I am not a stranger to long words and technical details (the 'scientific ballads' as I like to call them during whims of grandeur) but in many arguments they are useless because ones opponent may not understand them therefore leaving the entire debate floundering in the ashes.
It is all very well having the mind of a god and the tongue of a saint but precious little it will do in a rabid, fists-in-blood battle of words with a livewire, self-depreciating redneck. One must have lighter stones to fall back on and as a wiser man said once, sometimes less is more. Much more.
Fancy talk all you want but it does no good and if someone has a message then they are best keeping it wrapped in every day words because more people will hear it, more people understand and embrace it. And this reasoning is not due to the masses being ignorant but down to instinct, people react better to butter than a stubborn walnut shell that is thrust onto their plate.
A nightingale's song is beautiful but the buzzard mews louder, not through superiority but simply by being bolder. She nails it with a solid, down to earth thrust of a mouthy beak whilst sometimes the smaller bird though big in song, stitches the words getting them trapped in a thorny gullet.
Dainty soliliquays impress but a tin whistle is deafening and will win everytime where numbers are needed to rally for a cause.
This is why the google owls get frustrated by bastards like me hogging the limelight. They try to steal a little attention, (mainly to keep themselves warm on often lonely evenings), but always end up as envious wrecks at the closing of the beer pumps, resorting to spiteful insults in a pitiful attempt to claim back a small bit of dignity. They depise me and all because I can reach into my soul and dig out a piece I am willing to make fun of, something these armchair warriors could never do for fear of their paper thin self esteem shattering into a million snivelling pieces.
This is part of the reason I look at myself in the mirror and allow laughs to tumble out of my cirhosis addled liver. I would be irritated to discover I could be hurt by an idiots ramblings. Those who spout garbage from the pages of philosophy have not learnt from Life and deserve no applause. They rest on carcasses of better men and are content in doing so for they have no mental fabric of their own. Lazy eyes in a world of mirrors and stars.
At least I have felt emotions from the cellar. I have dipped my snout into troughs of addiction and public scorn, and I have learnt in savage lessons how to build an honest and genorous spirit. No lies will fall from my gin bloated tongue, there are no curses inflamed by my self pitying balloon. All is well on Demon Street, I do not find thrills in drunken assaults on weak, unsuspecting wretches sleeping in brackets (the shop doorways of the writing world).
The funniest thing of all of course is the weak in this case are not weak at all, they are bored, tired of the bleating of the gothic herds, who in their words would'nt be called herds but of course they are. Herds of blood being sheparded into trends that the new hits and modern cinema have decided for them.

Days Of Black Figures

Finally I have it! It is in my sweaty paws like a withered cadaver that has stopped rotting and been born again. Long and bloody have the years been since last I drummed out a game from it but now its back and I intend to sink into pints of dark mild beer and attempt to rekindle an old memory.
What is it? I hear you asking, what is this magic that seems to have etched a grin onto this writers normally death's head chops? Well its a ZX Spectrum 48k computer. *Sound of high anticipation falling to the floor like stale jelly* And I feel somewhat revived; rejuvenated from a grim coma that has hung about my shoulders, earnestly picking at strips of joy.
It must be a slight case of madness because I press the familiar rubber keys on the computer, willing my 11 year old self to appear like mephistopholes from the dust. I read some of the blurb in a booklet that came with Sinclair's old gem, boasting of 'top quality graphics' printed over two decades ago from a time when Space Invaders was todays Modern Warfare 2.
The Spectrum is lighter than I remembered but the small band of rainbow colours on the bottom right corner bring the full force of memories back, nestling into my mind like lost cubs suddenly found a home.
Another thing that catapulted me back into the mists of time was the tape recorder that came with it. It was exactly the same model as I had owned in 1981 and bought at Boot's (which if im not mistaken was where my mother had purchased my original recorder). Spirit of Christmas come to visit indeed.
People forget how easy it is to play videogames these days. Simply pop the disc into the console and one is almost instantaneously whisked off to the game world. Not so with the Speccy and other computers from that garish era. Software came in the form of cassettes and before playing any games the tape recorder had to be plugged into the Spectrum and the cassette game loaded which took the best part of ten minutes. Thats if it loaded at all on the first load, it sometimes took three or four attempts.
Another thing to vex the soul was tuning in the computer to an available channel on the television. I had forgotten how testing it could be as I tried to fine tune the picture showing the white Sinclair home screen. It seemed as if the machine was stubbornly holding back its best picture quality until I found the channel number of its exact choosing.
But to be honest none of the annoying aspects of retro gaming bothered me even as the back of the television had a waterfall of black knotted leads. As a young lad on Christmas day, sipping on a pint of mild ale (my one pint ration) and stabbing Russians as a Green Beret in games publisher Imagines classic title I was in utter bliss. And so it will be again twenty eight years later I have determined.

Fresh Fish, Keyrings and Butterscotch

Pembrokeshire is the pride of Wales, and should be visited by anyone who is (A) looking for jaw dropping beauty and (B) of sound mind. There is no excuse for skipping it should you be a visitor to our green lands, (and if you are British then even the devil has no possible excuse for you if you have not been).
It is all one could ever hope for and more. Indeed a loud hearty cheer ought be heard upon passing the Croeso I Sir Penfro (Welcome to Pembrokeshire) sign. I do it every time hoping my 'hwyl' rings along its rugged coastline where both mighty legends and weekend paddlers have been awed by the scene before them. From castles to bars, and monestries to beach side chip shops, it would be a very dim (and probably close to death)individual who would not be thrilled by its charms.
Solva, Freshwater East, St Davids (Britains smallest city), Tenby, The Preseli hills, St Govans, Amroth, Porthgain, Bosherston, Carew, Milford Haven, the list goes on and on of charming little places to seek out. And each one has a different 'feel' about it.
Should peace be your thing then Solva will delight with gentle walks along the river and stunning views. For those seeking a little more then the ever popular Tenby will provide with its bars, restraunts and beaches, a magnate for tourists (or 'grockles' as they're affectionately known).
Tenby has a special place in my heart, and seems to hold the very spirit of my youth only rivaled by Porthcawl many mile away. I still remember the joy of buying rubber snakes and pistol keyrings in the seaside gifts shops that had beachballs and other inflatable toys hanging from their fronts. And these shops still flourish to this day, feeding my inner boy memories of when the sun shined always.
And the fish and chips in these towns, (fresh cod or hake usually but other fish are offered) are simply to die for. Fresh caught off the boat and coated in a batter which melts in the mouth. Food for gods and devils indeed, and factor in the busy pubs serving chilled ale and you have a irresistible menu in your lap. Of course Pembrokeshire offers a wider choice of specialities in its numerous restraunts but personally I find freshly cooked cod, smothered in vinegar to be perfect for sea towns. A mixture of tradition and tribute.
Whenever I visit I find myself going back in time buying paper bags of boiled sweets and butterscotch and playing on old arcade cabinets. Parts really are unchanged from the 1980's, and obviously if one cares to tour one of the counties many castles which are still well preserved then time goes a lot further back than 1980.

Fleeing From Blood

Vegetarianism is a funny thing. I was one for just over a year and a half and never felt worse in my life (which has included rehab and life threatening hospital stays due to alcohol). Committed vegetarians will spout about how they don't feel weak but I beg to differ. I felt weak most of the time during my stint, and not only that I become a pasty looking individual.
The fact is human beings are programmed or designed to consume meat. How far would a vegetarian caveman have got one wonders?
Yes there are clever arguments testifying to the power of the Lettuce and Tomato but truly the carnivore is king. I adore meat eating, every chunk of flesh I tear at feels good slipping down my throat. I sit eating and content, satisfied that vegetarians exist on a hollow diet. One with no substance whatsoever and as the blood from raw meat swill in my guts I am refreshed.
Vegetables are not alien to my diet but they are a side dish; straight and boring like sheet metal or beer drunk from tin.
There is nothing like dining on freshly killed rabbit or trout newly fished from a stream. With every forkful I can taste the river mixing with sweet potatoes and butter.
Another oddity regarding vegans is the food. Supermarkets are filled with vegetarian bacon, burgers, and many other meat copies. How so? Surely those opposed to eating animals ought to be distancing themselves from having meat-a-likes on their tables? In the same way as recovering alcoholics do not drink alcohol free beer, these people should want nothing to do with beefburgers, whether beef free or not. I have even heard of vegetarian duck!? Ive not seen it but presume it to be a dollop of tofu shaped like a duck. Are vegetarians so weak from lack of meat they cannot be more imaginative with their food?
Perhaps they could shape the food into snowflakes, colourful ribbons, peace symbols and doll's houses?
I am not totally hostile toward vegetarian foods, in fact I enjoy meat free lasagne and pies. But in no way would they satisfy me if I were to become veggie again. Stuffed peppers are great but stuffed lamb's hearts are infinately tastier. Blood is fabulous and makes a fine soup, there is no substance in shrubbery.
Argue the power of the sprout as much as you want, there is no denying that mankind would not be here had we never killed a beast. I put a lot of blame on Disney cartoons and others of that ilk who have humanised animals. It stirred some peoples conscience but in the same instant took away their spirit. In much the same way that good rock n' roll was made from over indulgence in alcohol and drugs, Man did not win great victories in wars by eating pumpkin pie and lettuce leaves. The man with fine meats in his stomach and fire in his heart will build empires whilst a man fed with carrots only sees better in the dark.
The vegetarians meat eating instincts are still embedded in their (wilting) spirits. When they deny this they lie pure and simple. If we could somehow read their minds accurately there would be thoughts of meat stamped all over, salivating over bacon sandwiches. An ideal setting, if this were possible, would be a barbecue where lamb kebabs, thick, succulent steaks and racks of pork ribs are being cooked. Their sensors would ring in jubilant joy from the smells and sights and they would break in an instant if only they would be honest with their bodies.
Of course people will argue until their blood boils in defence of their acquired life choices, and many will resort to violence when all rational paths have been exhausted. And this is especially true of animal rights activists perhaps proving further that abstinence of flesh distorts the brain making one susceptible to violent urges.
Nevertheless the heart of the matter (sizzling, tender lamb's hearts) is that vegetarians are wired like we raving carnivores; with a taste for well cooked flesh, served with a chilled Chablis. It is impossible to escape nature, even the type of greasy nature served at fast food places. Vegetables (like koi ponds and flowers) are best looked at than eaten. Colours are for the eyes, raw meat for the stomach.