The Despicaple SaVile

Fixer of fiends

Look at his face up there, mocking us from beyond the grave with those long bird-like features and hollow eyes like two black onyx of vileness. (Or in other pictures his eyes a hellish glow, brought to life by red tinted glasses.) SaVile the Despicable, the Despicable SaVile. Now that the truth is seeping out from the sewer of entertainment, this creep has been exposed for the foul specimen he really was. A modern day bogeyman who belongs in a pit of evil where unimaginable beasts roam, leaving their souls at the door.
Police are currently investigating 300 offenses against children by this ManVulture and I wouldnt be suprised if there were many many more. (There are investigations being made over others too but this post is only about the Despicable SaVile.) To me, with his white straight edged hair, he looked like a nasty wraith with dead skin, a sinister creature to be avoided at all costs. Although a more accurate comparison would be to Baba Yaga the cruel hag of Slavic folklore who kidnaps and eats children, and has a hut that stands on chicken legs. Both were loners (their disgusting habits forced solitude) whose carcass bodies were topped with white straw hair and of course both preyed on innocent children. But while the Despicable SaVile owned no shack built on chicken legs (however much his ghoulish appearance indicated he could have), he did have a lonely cottage stuck in the wilds of Scotland which would have made the perfect lair for this heartless predator. Baba Yaga loved to feast on young, pearly flesh and the Despicable SaVile hinted he would have liked to as well, just take a peek at the photo below and the quote on his tee shirt. A quote by the ogre himself. Yes my dear readers, these two hellions were two rotten peas in a pod.
He may be one year dead now but I get the feeling the monster is with us still and not just grinning eerily from pages of tabloid newspapers either. A thing so foul is hard to die and should you find yourself walking alone at night through dark skeletal woods or on thick, foggy hills have a care! The Despicable SaVile might be close with dread fingers and cigar stained fangs ready to pounce and take you as another victim. The chains of death will struggle to contain a thing so evil, a thing so SaVile. The wicked Gein of our time, a terrible Krueger-like celebrity, clad in tacky gold, disguising his perverted lusts by offering a hand to charities.



Fear the creature

Yes let us never forget that charity was badly hurt and decieved by this skinny shard of darkness. A true scholar of the devil, able to hoodwink unsuspecting good causes (including hospitals and childrens homes) in order to gain access to the most vulnerable in society. Hideous bastard, may he now rest in agony under the rocky wing of hell. No sympathy should ever meet his fallen soul, and as his tombstone lies in broken pieces in a forgotten landfill so should our memories of him.
Indeed it is cast iron certainty that the memory of the Despicable SaVile is in ruins (understatement of the year) and he will and should be remembered only with revulsion and hate.
Rightly so. The man was an abomination and however much good he may have done for charities up and down the country can never excuse him of his sick crimes. Why should it? The feeding of a hungry kitten with my left hand will not undo the pain I inflict by strangling another cat with my right. There exists no savings bank to collect good deeds in order to be able to 'spend' them on doing bad.
The Despicable Savile was a ghoul and it is obvious now that any good he did was not done out of the goodness of his soul but rather driven by an insatiable need to do bad. This is what the unspeakable do.
There are other even more disturbing tales attached to this man but because they wander into the realms of necrophilia and this is a family blog (as newspapers are fond of saying) we will not be mentioning those. Suffice to say they only seal SaVile's reputation as a perfect monster, the stuff of nightmare.
So there you have it. The 1970/80s: a golden age of television, a time incidentally I grew up with, now forever tarnished with stories of perverted deeds by the rotten Despicable SaVile.



Legacy of hate

The Facebook Caper

Web advice: Never tell Facebook anything you don’t want the whole Web (and world) to know about you.

Yup sage advice indeed and pretty obvious too. Besides from my work and other serious things like private messages, the other more outlandish stuff I post on Facebook should be taken with a mighty pinch of salt. Especially after 6pm on a drinking night. That is when my naughty twin comes out to play *wink* I think most people know when im stepping into the world of fantasy but just to be clear: my poetry, views, philosphies (and sadly the alcohol) bits are all very much my real world. Nothing but honesty there. The panda eating and prison stories are most certainly not. I would eat dog but not panda, and I dont have a criminal record of any kind.
Why do it? Well simply because I love the absurd. It entertains me on the grainy alcohol evenings when my mind is awash with wild stories. I don't see it as 'trolling' at all, its more a new form of entertainment and it works too because one friend even told me I was better than te;evision. I just dont see the point in telling the world what books im reading, or songs im listening too. Id rather create a kind of Batman & Robin episode where adventure and escapism is the order of the day. It keeps my Facebook wall very interesting and no harm is ever meant. (I would never dream of calling someone out personally anyway, I wasn't brought up that way.)
I do have some wild stories which are true. I have climbed a 100ft quarry face with no equipment, explored underground mines and I have come very close to death due to alcohol and other vices but by and large I am a quiet man just getting through this life as best way he can.

Ton Dernier Acte

When I am gone, distant from this green and woody earth
remember to leave tears out of my eulogies ~
they are neither wanted or needed
for I am in a kingdom no mouth shaped love can touch.
I am not laden with ageing flesh and cataracts,
nor feel tender pain through gums and fingertips.
The hand-me-downs have left my heel
like eels in lather;
cigar smoke breaking free from rats on a leash
and there the tides meet coral raptures.
The hands strike for armageddon,
slap for the dawning of human chains.

Welsh. In Blood. In Spirit. In Tongue.

I am bringing up my daughter Elwen, the same way I was brought up; speaking fluent Welsh. Everyone on my mothers side of the family were Welsh speakers (and fiercly proud of being Welsh) and so naturally it will be carried on through Welsh stories, schools and everyday chatter.
It would be a tragedy of the highest order if Welsh (Cymraeg) ever died out and I will do my damnedest to make certain it doesn't. And if everyone in Wales followed suit our beautiful language would be safe. I have very little time for those who stick to english when conversing or singing with their children. They ought to be ashamed of themselves. Would you see this happen in Italy or Greece? Their children sticking to english? Never! Babes there are taught Italian and Greek first, english second (if at all in some areas) and we are a poorer place for not doing the same.
Not poorer in cultures and lands of course (we Celts can rival anything on the Mediterranean) but poorer in day to day ways. We should ALL, each one of us Welsh make sure our children speak our mother tongue.
If you dont speak it yourself, LEARN it! If for nothing else the good of your children (and country.) Should our 'iaith' fade out due to laziness it would, as I have said, be a terrible, terrible tragedy. I see so many people claiming to be proud of their Welsh heritage, then PROVE IT! Embrace our language, speak it often and ingrain it into your children. Language is vitally important to a country; it is one of the seeds from which so much can grow.
Do your child and Wales a huge favour ~ Siaradwch Cymraeg. Nawr!

No Wind In The Sails

If I were to predict the age of my demise I would place a bet on either forty two or forty three. And since I am thirty nine right now, it doesn't leave me with much time left. But am I concerned? Does this early journey to the casket have me chewing on my thumbs and basted in a worried lard? Well quite frankly no. And I'll try to explain why.
Having sat in the hood of death, and under the stalks of misery, for a number years now I have reached the decision that dying at forty would not be as big a tragedy as many seem to believe. It might be 'young' but to me it is almost the perfect age to shuffle into the ether. And NO I am NOT 'depressed' or 'down in the dumps' or whatever other flimsy diagnosis could (falsely) be heaped upon me.


Abide with me

I have done enough in my nearly four decades; drank enough to sink a battleship, kissed enough horny lips, banged a head to metal until the cymbals woke the dead, eaten more snakes than eagles. The list goes on and on, way beyond the last mile that condemned prisoners are fond of speaking of.
So forty doesn't look as bad a year to drop from the tree to me. Afterall what can I do at forty that I couldn't do at thirty? And do it quicker too.
When I reach forty I will be able to do whatever I did at thirty (only slower) and when I get to fifty I will be doing the forty stuff (again only slower.) On and on the bandolier of time is fed through the same tedious chapters. To me there is only so much repeats I can suffer before wanting to throw in the mortal towel.
At twenty I wasn't too impressed by those in their thirties, who seemed dead on their feet to me, and now that I am coming to the end of my thirties I can say with feeling that I was correct in my younger assumptions. Life is thoroughly unimpressive.
Now that I think of it, there really is no young and old to my mind. Its all one, long stretch and I do not really wish to string out another four decades doing the same things but taking longer to do them.
However (and heres where those who see my thoughts as 'suicidal' are proved wrong) I do not WANT to die. Why on earth would I? I have recently become a father to a beautiful, adorable girl who I love with every fibre of my soul so eventhough death looks quite attractive, I will not be taking the dirtnap for a long while. If I have any say in the matter.
I want to live, I really do! Jingle bells, jingle bells, dashing through the snow all of that. Its a wonderful thing is Life (even for the permenant hospital dwellers and those scrotes on death row.) I have so much to live for, but in the same breath I don't see the tragedy if some miserable disease were to strike me down this instant. All im saying (in my rambling kinda way) is I am prepared to fall at any time, and if one is able to complain and whinge in the EverWorld (afterlife) then you certainly won't here whining from my soul. Forty is a long time, anything beyond it is a bonus. If I live a life as full as a eighty year old in half the time, I don't mind dying at forty.

The Wisdom Of The Clueless

Heroin users in the county of Carmarthenshire are being encouraged to smoke the drug by a 'community partnership' (whatever that means) in an attempt to cut down the use of needles among drug addicts. Utter madness ! And a perfect example of how removed from reality some people are. Well intentioned they might be, in tune with addicts they are not. But I am, and can safely say without fear of being proved wrong that trying to get junkies (or recreational users, there are a few) to inhale heroin rather than inject it is like trying to control a hurricane.
The kind of people who are out to get high don't care much how they achieve it and I know there will be old friends reading this local news report with mile wide grins on their faces. Just as I would be if I were still filling my arms with that rubbish. Its like trying to preach the virtues of beer drinking over spirits but at the end of the day it will ALL kill you DEAD no matter how you achieve your blotto.
In fact the more I think about it, the mpre dangerous this idea is; drug users are none too bright to begin with so this could be a green light for them to go out and get blasted on smack. 'I saw it in the paper,' they'll slur. 'Its okay to use foil as long as its not needles.' Mark my words, someone somewhere WILL use this while attempting to justify their drug use.
However most of them will ignore it and carry on shooting up. There is already a mistrust (even contempt) toward 'suits' among the users and this will only further the animosity. Who wants to listen to advice from people who clearly have NO IDEA about taking drugs? The general consensus would be 'get back in your company Mercedes and leave us the hell alone!'
Sure their barmy ideas make the councillors and yoghurt knitters feel good about themselves and thats fine, tap yourselves on the back dears, but don't carry on like these ideas will do any good. They won't, believe me. As I have already said, things like this are only good for supplying the addicts with just more excuses to use.
Replacing foil with needles is like giving alcoholics benzodiazepenes (valium type drugs) to take instead of booze, effectively cutting off one dragon's head and replacing it with another. Addiction is addiction is addiction! You can never hope to help people caught in this type of vicious whirlwind by keeping them in the same toxic broth, or giving them the OK for one method of abuse while dismissing another.
One of the people who supports the 'needle for foil' scheme told the Llanelli Star newspaper. 'It's actually a step down. It sounds ironic in a way but it is encouraging people out of using needles and taking the first tentative step into getting treatment.'
My goodness, really? Does he really believe this gumph? Surely 'getting treatment' requires the addict to make an honest decision to get clean and seek the relevant help, not just switching from injecting to inhaling the drug. The first steps should NOT be toward snorting heroin fumes off foil but finding professional help in opiate withdrawal. The methadone route had very limited success (most of the people I knew where using heroin on top of their methadone prescription) and I don't hold a much better forecast for this idea.

Ignorance Is Not Bliss

British crime and the leniency of judges are highlighted yet again with the tragic case of a woman who was savagely murdered by a cruel, thuggish ex lover. Nurse Jane Clough, 26, had only recently given birth to a daughter, who now due to a daffy justice system will grow up never knowing her mother.
Miss Clough had split from her partner after having horrendous brutality forced upon her which nobody should suffer but even apart from him she still feared for her life and kept a diary which proves her fears were very real. Its a damning piece of evidence that shows just how little faith the British people have in its criminal justice system to protect us from the bad elements.*
How right Jane Clough was to be afraid because instead of refusing bail and letting him stew in jail, the judge in his wacky wisdom decided to grant the man freedom. A decision which has now allowed MURDER to be added to the list of crimes with which he was accused of. I have tried looking for this idiot justices' name but it has eluded me thus far.
Another tragic case where our softly softly approach to crime has clocked up yet another senseless killing. Dickens was right, the law IS an ass. And not only an ass but its willing to sacrifice the very lives of innocent people in favour of light sentences for the guilty. This is truly monstrous.

* If I were to witness a violent crime I would ignore it completely because reporting it and relying on authorities to keep me safe during any subsequent trial would be too stressful and I would not trust police or judges to keep me safe from criminals intent on retribution.
I am not alone in this train of thinking, many others feel exactly the same way and this is how leniency towards crime in Britain has led to vicious thugs gaining the upper hand. Justice ought to be ashamed. And reviewed.

A Poet's Last Meal

In an attempt to stir some appetite into my gin soaked stomach and to satisfy the morbid urge which permenantly resides in me, I am going to compile a list of foods I could never live without and which would certainly be on my last meal wish list should I ever find myself on death row.

1. Welsh Fry Up

An obvious first choice for me as my life would be unlivable without this fantastic meal. Scientific fact right there. But the bacon MUST be crispy and not undercooked so that the rashers look like pale straps of leather and NEVER under any circumstances 'cooked' in a microwave. Thats just committing a terrible culinery sin. Not to mention wasting perfectly good swine. Eggs must be done 'sunny side up' too as our American chums call it. None of this frying on both sides like I have witnessed in some cafes. Why do it? I want my yolk yellow and runny not resembling a burnt offering. Nice premium pork and apple sausages of course. And a few black pudding pieces and a slice of fried bread to complete the job. Never add hash browns because contrary to what some believe, hash browns DO NOT go with a Welsh Fry Up. Ever.


'Thats enough for me love'

2. Cawl

A Welsh dish and strong contender to be our national food. It contains lamb or mutton (with the fat trimmed off the broth during cooking), beef, pork or bacon. Vegetables used also vary, though leeks are often included, as are potatoes and carrots along with celery and onion and parsnip or turnip.
'Cawl cennin' on the other hand is a leek cawl that is made without meat but using meat stock. Cheese is a delicious addition. Cawl is best made by grandmothers and old aunts as they have the right skill required to make the sacred stew. There is truly an art to cooking it. Get it wrong (as young 'uns usually do) and you end up with a watery bowl of soup. That is not cawl. Cook it correctly using the old traditional way and you have a broth fit for God Himself.

3. Roast Dinner

Sundays were the highlight of the week for me (food wise) when I was growing up. We would go to my grandmothers house for Sunday dinner and boy the beautiful aroma would hit you even when walking up the garden path! It could be roast chicken, beef or pork with mashed potatoes, roast potatoes and the offending veg like swede, parsnip, carrots and sprouts. (I tended to eat the vegetables first in order to get them out of the way quickly.)
Pork was my favourite. One of the reasons was because my grandmother made great pork crackling/rind. Im not sure why but Christmas dinners were never the same as these dinners and of course all a festive dinner is is a Sunday roast on steroids. Maybe thats the answer, too big.

4. Roast Duck With Mushrooms

Get this dish from a Chinese restraunt and its a cracking eat. The giant mushrooms compliment the fleshy, juicy pieces of duck perfectly. And never go the chips route with this meal, always egg fried rice. Putting chips on the plate makes it 'feel' wrong because all the food is chunky. Big pieces of duck and mushroom with rice go much better.

5. Fish & Chips

The great British seaside favourite! You cannot go wrong with fish and chips when done well. Nice golden, crispy batter which melts off the fish to reveal white flakes of cod or hake. (And indeed a lot of other fish too.) If the chip shop gets the chips right and they are not the soggy type offered usually at funfairs, then all the better. I am certain I can smell vinegar even as I type this! Ah yes, vinegar is ESSENTIAL to this meal.
I went through a time of ignoring fish in chippy's, opting instead for pie and chips. What a fool I was! Cod is far superior and healthier too. (In terms of fish meat and the beef in pies not the batter and pastry.) Happy to report that my ignorant palate is now cured and I am in love with fish and chips these days.
But be warned! The shoddier places can make this fine dish a mushy, horrible mess where the batter is soft and the chips are swimming in grease so always choose a chip shop that don't have dead flies on the window sill or slabs of battered fish which have been left in the heated part of the counter for what looks like the best part of a week. (Every town has one of these chippys.)
My personal recommendation is Park Road chip shop in Tenby. I can guarantee you the BEST fish and chips here. Honestly they are divine.

6. Lamb Moussaka

This is a relatively new meal for me having only discovered it 2 years ago but as soon as I tried it I absolutely loved it. Different countries have their versions of moussaka but its the Greek type which sirens my tongue to the dinner table. The dish includes layers of meat (lamb is my preferrence) and aubergine topped with a white sauce. Also thrown in are courgetes, part fried potatoes andsauteed mushrooms which is all then baked to make a mouth watering feast. Delish!

7. Cheese On Toast

An old favourite of mine since boyhood days, a timeless classic that I have never (could never) get bored of. And as simple as boiling a kettle. Toast a slice of bread on one side, turn over and put sliced cheese on top and grill until the cheese has melted and the edges of the toast are...well toasted. Ive tried a few different types of cheese but mature cheddar seems to work best. For added flavour you can also put a dash of Worcester sauce over the melted cheese.

'four slices ta!'

8. Lamb Vindaloo

Can you tell im a big lamb lover yet? (And im Welsh too, ooer!) And this is another newbie for me since I only tried one at the beginning of this year. Amazing stuff! Its famous for its ability to scald the linings of your gob off and do severe posterior damage when on the exit route, but to be honest thats one of the reasons I enjoy it so much. I love extremes. The lamb is tender, the sauce and chili tingling with every bite. This is what curry should be all about, not those lightweight pretenders.
It would also be hilarious to order one of these as a final meal before execution as the clean up crew and autopsy lad would have an 'interesting' time.

9. Welsh Cakes

The only sweet thing on my list and it has to be the beautiful Welsh cake. In Welsh they have many names like Picau Maen, Picau Bach, Teisen Radell or Cacen Gri, depending on which part of Wales you are in. (Picau Maen is the commonest here in West Wales.) They are one of the few cakes that, in my personal opinion, go well with a cup of tea. (Glengetti of course!)

10. Noodles In A Scotch Egg

This is one that you won't find anywhere else. Its a concotion that I myself came up with a long time ago. (Roughly 200 years. Or feels like.) I was rummaging in the fridge during a rare break from drinking and upon noticing nothing more enticing than a scotch egg I grabbed it from the shelf. Now being a man of LARGE appetites (both drink and food) one puny scotch egg just wasn't going to cut it. So I headed to the cupboard and the first thing I clapped my famished eyes on was a Pot Noodle. (Chicken and mushroom flavour for the record.)
The idea hit me in an instant; pull the egg from the....er scotch and fill it with freshly boiled noodles! Don't waste the egg of course, just pop it in your mouth like a yolky gobstopper. And believe me, it tastes great! You only need to cut a small hole in the breadcrumby scotch shell, just enough to get the egg out and then simply tip in the noodles.

N.B. ive not tried any other flavour Pot Noodles so don't know if the beef or curry flavours would work.

A Man In A Witches Hat

The pope is visiting Great Britain this week. Should I be happy? Should I be falling over myself to touch his hem like tone deaf idiots did with The Beatles in the 1960's? No I should (and will) not. The man has so much evil under his collar that its a wonder he is not crippled. Not him personally of course but the Catholic church as a whole.
I find the whole organised religion thing quite sour, and where there are organisations like these there will always be trouble. What shocks (frightens too) me more is that these papal visits draw crowds in by the hundreds, if not thousands. Granted they have pockets of protestors but there are more yelling as if a successful rock band has just hit town.
Funny thing human beings. A species that, while technologically advanced from apes and hippopotamusses, are really very backward in most other ways.

Words On Fire

Two words to send me to the valium cabinet - Political and Correctness. Put them together and they have me running to the hills, shotguns in both paws and looking for targets. Does anyone really get upset over descriptions that 'don't fit right'? If so there are some seriously insecure people wandering around.
Pull yer socks up you feeble minded and soft centered people! To think we are not 'allowed' to call tramps tramps or a drain a manhole is actually insulting. Remember the gollywog debacle? Hundreds of hairy women (it was probably them) decided that the name 'gollywog' was offensive to black people and thus not to be used. What happened? Black people admitted it was ridiculous and much hilarity ensued. The supposedly offended party wanted NOTHING to do with it.
Where do these people come from? Do they sit around knitting yoghurt all day while trying to decide what other words are offensive to people? We can't even sing nursery rhymes anymore because these wallies have said that lines like 'ba ba BLACK sheep' might be derogatory to black people. Yes this nonsense is what Britain has come down to. Pen pushers with degrees in sociology (probably) puffing up their wimpy chests and demanding we dumb down to everyone. Nothing can be said anymore before checking up that every word is acceptable to everyone.
Well im sorry (actually im NOT) but I for one will not stand for it. Get your silly little heads from out of your lentil spewing backsides you liberal horrors, a tramp is a f**king TRAMP and my GOLLYWOGS are gearing up to kick your petty suggestions straight into touch.
Its actually insulting to the minorities they speak up for but of course these cloth eared fools will never understand this.

Only Stone Lieth Here

Allow me to say before I start that I do not believe death to the End, quite the opposite in fact. I believe there is a rootin' tootin' howler of a party when one crosses the veil into the Afterlife, a place where I can personally thank Coleridge for his wonderful poetry and ask Freddie Mercury what he was doing in Queen. I really do believe in that stuff regardless of what my fellow poets and writers have written so it may not come as a suprise to read what im going to say next.
Graveyards. Why do people visit them? Is it because they are the place which holds a loved ones bones? Or is it because in this ever increasingly busy world, a cemetery is one of the few places left one can find any semblence of peace?
Allow me to set my stall out fully here. Two years ago my mother passed away at an early age. Naturally I was devastated but since she crossed over to those platinum pastures I can count on two hands how many times I have visited her grave. Heartless? Hardly, I weep for dying deer in the middle of the road, it is simply because I know (really know) that she is not in her grave. Sure a shell of what was once my mother lays there but her spirit is now enjoying a very different plateau. She is with me every day so why would I want to visit a slab of marble? That makes no sense to me and in fact looking at cold stone only serves to make the mourner even more miserable (if that were possible) because nothing echoes sadness better than stone.

Mister Ed Burger and Lassie Curry

By now you will realise dear reader that I am more carnivore than omnivore and today im willing to push the boat (or cleaver in this case) out further and suggest adding horse and dog meat to my already bulging at the seams diet. And why not? I know we have a close relationship with these animals through work (farms, police, etc) and entertainment (My Little Pony, Lassie, etc) but would it be so wrong to dine on them also? Afterall meat is meat and some countries do partake of these meats so its not entirely taboo.
Different places have different attitudes of course; for instance in Ecuador guinea pigs are eaten much like chicken is here, whereas we British keep them as pets but I wouldn't turn my greedy nose up at a guinea pig casserole. In fact it sounds delicious. But going back to horse and dog, is it so wrong to make curry out of doberman or shire horse? There are certainly plenty of them and I would feel more comfortable snacking on horse than say alligator.
I know that dogs and man have been living together, helping each other, for more than 30,000 years. Some studies say its actually closer to 100,000 years. But so have chickens. And cows. Ditto pigs. Oh and sheep. And living with an animal for close to 100,000 years? This is probably why I am so utterly sick of the creatures and do not find my Labrador Lasagne idea the least bit offensive.
Look im already snacking on the rest of the natural living world, I might as well add more variety to the menu. Cats don't taste too bad as it happens, similar to rabbit but more 'livery'. Bit of onion and thyme would sort it. Horse meat is okay, enjoyed the meat in burgers that ive tried but that was smothered in sauce. Another meat I kinda ruined with sauce (tobasco) was snake and I regret that.
I don't believe there is anything I wouldn't at least try. (Perhaps bat soup or buttered mice.) And im keeping good company with another animal lover here too.
What gives some countries the right to try and stop other countries from eating what they want? YOU might not like the sound of Alsatian, egg and chips buy THEY do. I find it downright bad manners. They are not savages just because what they eat offends your precious 'morals' (or whatever it is that gives you the urge to interfere.)
Iys quite simple ~ eat a pig you might as well chow down on ANYTHING else.

Fake Tan And Window Dressing

Supermarket own brands; yay or nay? I must be honest, when I was in school I used to frown upon the cheaper Happy Shopper products and insist on grand labels. I was a spoiled child/brat and if my beans were not Heinz or my cola not Coke, I would refuse to have anything to do with them. The budget things were for the tramps and I truly belived this. (Sorry dear Mother!)
These days im less fussy, and in fact see little point in buying certain 'big' named foods because they taste INFERIOR to the stuff which is cheaper. In fact I got so intrigued by it all that ive been experimenting with different products. Noodles are a huge rip off if you choose the popular brand (they also make crisps) over the supermarkets own because there is no difference whatsoever in taste. Especially if you eat them like I do from the inside of a scotch egg. (I remove the boiled egg, pour the noodles inside the breadcrumby ball and eat it as one would eat an apple.) Price between the two is a steep rise too, we're talking over £1 here.
Those packet soups are the same (im really highlighting my shabby diet here) and in fact the branded ones are WORSE as the sodium content of these things is so high one might as well drink a mug of salt. Again the difference in prices is sharp, tho not as sharp as the salt in the pricier labels' versions. Give me Morrison's soups anyday over those potentially lethal snacks.
Healthy food too such as fish can be found if one is not too bothered with plain packaging. A pack of 4 'branded' tuna cost £4 for 4 tins whilst if the shopper dismisses the name (and with fish it really is only a name) they can pick up 3 tins for £1! Fish is fish whichever way you look at it, there is no way im shelling out more for something which was hoiked out of the same ocean. Ditto crab.

Stealing The Dragons Claw

Spirits should be served and enjoyed NEAT, either with ice or not but they should never, EVER be mixed with cola or orange, or any other sickly soft drink. Why do people do this? Are they mad? Do they know of what they do? Ive watched them in taverns order beautiful smokey bourbons and whiskey only to go and ruin them by insisting on having a splash of cola added. And vodka, which seems to be the most abused spirit, gets orange, cherry, lime and God knows what else thrown at it.
It truly is like discovering the fountain of youth only to then go and piss in it.
Neat whiskey, gin *insert favourite spirit here* are grand drinks, the perfect way to wind down the days labour and tricks and ought to be treated with respect, not cheapened with fizzy pop. Its like giving mortality to the angels.
Mixing is a grave sin (in my peachy eyes) and if it were up to me id make it a punishable offence. People found to be cruel with animals are forbidden from owning them and this is what I would do to the mixers. Discovered lacing your shots with fruit flavoured soda? Banned from ever drinking spirits again, no ifs or buts, you get to drink lager for the rest of your days. *Shiver*
I wonder why they do it? Is it because they dislike the taste of spirits? If so why bother drinking them at all? Stick to those wretched WKD type drinks and leave fine stuff to we who enjoy the finer things. Perhaps its to make the drink last longer but if that is indeed the case then people are sacrificing QUALITY for the rather shabby QUANTITY. They deserve the most savage of hangovers.
I will never understand those who are happy drinking WKD and the like. Those are foul tasting drinks filled to the glassy gills with sugar. Vile nonsense. However they do compliment the cheap gold often worn by the fans very well. Nothing says CHEAP quite like alcopops, Argos gold and a dangling cigarette but I digress.
Whiskey and the rest should never be candy flavoured and is utterly spoiled as soon as the liquid sugar hits the glass. Imagine a nice Glenlivet, Aberlour or a 16 year old malt Longhorn getting that sort of treatment? Its vandalism, nothing more.
Resist in the temptation of the lemonade route and try enjoying your libations NEAT. There is a world of difference as all the aromas and blends come alive in your mouth, tasting it in all its raw perfection. Wonderful!
I might be persuaded to understand why people put energy drinks in Jagermeister because the caffiene in those type of drinks combined with alcohol is similar to a speedball of morphine and cocaine and can keep one in the game (drinking) for longer but I still prefer my Jag neat and WELL chilled.
Also apart from the appalling taste of mixed spirits there is the hangover. In younger and more ignorant years I myself wrecked drinks by tipping cola into them and the hangovers which resulted in such stupid behaviour were the most violent and miserable as I have ever known. (And as one who has almost drank himself to death on more than one occasion this is saying a good deal.) Little wonder people are sick outside bars and clubs. But like ive said, they deserve it.
Ive experienced little to no hangovers from keeping it NEAT. Heck more often than not im enjoying a full fried breakfast after a night of whiskey. Or gin. Or Jagermeister. You get the picture. And it has nothing to do with a being snobbish. You are reading an article written by someone who eats mostly with his fingers, belches proudly like a hippo and is as easy going as you're likely to find. Drinking is one of my favoured past times and when I indulge I do NOT want to be tasting soft drinks and I do NOT want to feel as if I am drinking them either. When I open a Strathisla I want to taste WHISKEY not cola. Simple.

The Monday Which Is Really A Friday

The headline is exactly what it says on the tin. I shun the usual 'weekend celebrations' of a Friday in order that I am able to partake of a drop (or ten) on Monday. I find Monday a thoroughly depressing day, much worse than Sunday, and I never intend to spend any Monday sober as long as I live. And even with a bottle it is only TOLERABLE, never HAPPY. It is a giant itch that only my brand of liquid relief is able to soothe.
And why not? I find Fridays a particularly busy day and write a good deal on those days. Perhaps my creative antenna is tuned better, or the ideas in my mind have a better Feng Shui about them? Who even cares? It is enough to know that Friday nearly always brings a bountiful crop of sonnets and wordy imps to my door and if I ignore the pleasures of wine on those days, then surely I have earned the right to treat Monday as part of the weekend and indulge accordingly.
I don't need an excuse to get erased (a better word for blotto) but I do need discipline. Even the most shambolic among us need the big D or else it all falls to bits in a worthless mess. So discipline it is then on a Friday so that it makes Monday far more alluring, dolled up in its 35% proof garments.
I don't see anything pretty on the M day. Its as if the drizzle of the day (even in sunshine) completely blunts my otherwise keen ability to see BEYOND words and events. It is like a shroud over inspiration, pretty words are hard to jemmy out of a Monday and so I shall do the sensible thing and pass on it. Im betting Wordsworth and his pal Coleridge did the same.
It is a grand day to be born on (guess what day I was born?) and not such a bad day to die on either, but as for getting anything of real substance written it is a wretched, miserable day, fit only for firewood. And alcohol. However lets back track a little here. Perhaps pornography is best written (if it can be called that) on Mondays.

Lament To Mother

Two years ago today you crossed that barbed path and the silence weighs heavy but not still. As I look to Pickles kicking I am reminded that nothing ever truly dies to those with open eyes, and you know me Mother, my eyes are wider than most. The songs of forever after don't hide from me on this wretched earth and I play them repeatedly knowing End is not so final or frail, and knowing you are not at End.

For You

There is hole now where once I ran to hide
from bitter things that would eventually pass;
a shelter where comfort was in abundance
and I knew to be safe.
A beach where all things were possible
even a peaceful world,
where I indulged without war or anger.
It has withered now you have gone
and I no longer find sanctuary.
I miss you mother
you were my peace,
my cotton swab -
all roads lead to you...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

The Rain In Spain Falls Mainly On ....Wales

One would think sitting here on the tail end of July with a fan buzzing away at my side as I croak out these words that I was bathed in glorious sunshine. That my Crocs (rubber shoes not pets) would be smoking on the back porch from yet another blisteringly hot ramble through the Welsh hills, while the cat sought relief in shade with a shrew puppet. Thats how it would be in a lot of places. Barbecue smoke ascending from every garden as toddlers and beer bellied men wallowed in flimsy looking paddling pools.
Alas it is not to be as I live in West Wales, on a tiny corner of the United Kingdom and it seems we don't 'do' good weather here, its just not British. We do real ales and fried breakfasts, seasides and young hoodlums (often together) but attracting a bit of lasting sunshine is beyond our Sceptred Isle. (Who said septic? Go to the back of the blog.)
Oh we get it occasionaly when theres nothing interesting happening elsewhere in the world. If its quiet on the Mediterrean front or nothing doing in Australia, then the sun will show its buttery face over Blighty but by and large we are persona non grata to the mighty orb. Even if the beer is COLD and pinball tables twinkling.
I wonder why this is? I know we can be a grumpy bunch but surely the sun can't hear our whining? Not from that height.
My guess it was down to one of those pagan druids who damned us to everlasting rain. They were always potching with spells while dancing starkers on mushrooms. Probably offended the Weather God who is not the most content of chaps to start with. (Well He DOES change his mind often but as He's a God I guess He's allowed.)
Its sad really because we have some beautiful places to visit for both locals and tourists alike. Look at Pembrokeshire doer example with places like Solva, Tenby and Newgale, which when the sun is out are truly stunning, almost like relics of fantasy lands dropped into reality to keep the notion of paradise alive. Places definately gauranteed to soothe away the anxieties of even the most restless spirit.
But anyway enough of sounding like the West Wales tourism board, lets get to the (vaguely) serious topic of British weather. Having a near constant grey canopy to live under can be extremely daunting because it robs one of the OOMPH (Americans would call it ZIP) to get out of bed in a positive and jovial manner. Its little wonder that across the pond you are greeted in shops with a merry 'Have A Nice Day Sir/Madam,' whilst over here its more like a gruff 'paper? 40p mate now sod off!' And while the last few words might be exaggeration on my part its not too far off the mark, but can you blame us? Our climate would take the grin off a dolphin.
And this whiny rant (oh I know when im whining don't worry) is coming from someone who rather dislikes the sun. Living in somewhere like Australia would send me around the bend. (Make that another bend.)

The Walrus Stole My Bicycle

Queen and The Beatles, two of the best known and most successful groups ever to have existed on this crusty old planet. Their combined albums would probably generate enough hit singles to actually power said crusty planet and their live performances are legendary (or so im told.) And yet for all of these successes and glories I am not, or ever have been, a fan.
In fact it goes a little deeper than simply disliking them, I thoroughly detest their music and not a tune I have heard convinces me otherwise. Actually thats wrong, there IS one track by Queen which I don't mind but can't for the life of me remember the title, such is the impact these two acts have on me.
I don't know why but I find the songs childish and listening to an entire album by The Beatles would be a torment for me. In all honesty I would rather suck blisters. In fact I know very little of their songs having never knowingly listened to them but what I have heard ive thought rubbish. And im not saying this to appear different or be a cool kid apart from the masses, I genuinely think the music to be juvenile and in some instances clutching at straws.
On the flip side I do regard Freddie Mercury as one of the best frontmen to have stepped on stage, he had the glamour and a commanding presence which DEMANDED the audience to look at him. A fine voice too and a guy who was destined to be famous doing whatever he chose. The trouble was (for me) that Freddie was in the wrong band. Controversial thing to say to fans of Queen but of course im merely stating my opinion. I would have loved to see him front a band like AC/DC or Whitesnake. (There was another fantastic frontman - Bon Scott.)
The only redeeming feature of The Beatles was George Harrison. I enjoyed his tune about a weeping guitar (however tacky) and the Travelling Willburys were cool but The Beatles left me cold. How Lennon can be called a great songwriter is beyond me. And that Imagine jingle was the biggest pile of rancid phlegm ever to have seeped from a speaker. Drugged and lost in his own pantomime where he thought himself some kind of guru, Lennon was a man who believed everyone loved him. He saw himself as a walking piece of art and im convinced that as soon as he closed the door on the world and retreated to the privacy of his inner sanctum, he laughed at everyone. Thats right, laughed AT his legions of fans. I don't wish to sound heartless but im glad he's not around today.
But enough on the band members, lets look at their music. The reader will have to excuse me not knowing many titles but ones I do know are 'Help' 'Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds' and im struggling now. One about an octopus in the sea, oh yes and a Yellow Submarine! Its all very tiring and there is nothing fantastically creative there, any teenager given enough acid could come up with it. I think a lot of people believe that because its The Beatles then they MUST love them because surely I can't be the only man alive who think they sound like chimps with xylophones?
Nothing they or Queen have written (apart from the nameless Queen song) have ever shaken my spirit and got my foot tapping merrily along. They're just a boring bunch of acts and I will always be STUNNED at how well they both did. Still as the old saying goes, there is none so queer as folk eh Fred?

Eagles and Sea Birds

It is the start of the 150th Open on the Old Course at St Andrews, Scotland and as is the way for any prestigious sporting event held in Britain the wind and rain have been their predictable selves and turned up to greet both players and fans. Its as inevitable as a dangerous animal finding its way to Australia.
Anyone not from Blighty is looking around thinking 'THIS is summer for you guys?' Better believe it. In order to have the privilage of being home to Shakespeare, Coleridge, Barry John and myself the UK had to agree with the WeatherGod to near constant rain. (This agreement was also supported by the SportsGod, who not being a fan of CCTV and speed cameras preferred US sporting events but thats another story.)
They shouldn't plan these things, what the organisers ought to be doing is waiting for one of those rare scorching days to come along (they do sometimes if not doing anything interesting) and then immediately announce the Open to be erm...open so the players could rush to their private jets and all pile over in a mad rush. It would be much more fun that way, like a big international gang running when the school bell chimes.
Not that golf needs to be made more fun, its fine as it is and those who think it boring don't have any concept of risk or skill. Not this kind of sporting risk anyway. Does the player go for an easy shot down the fairway? Or try and drive it over the lake to get a (hopefully) simple lay up on the green? Play it safe or send a ball sailing over the pine hazards? The bold favour the daring strategy and the glory it pays out in. If you get it right of course.
Still this vulgar British weather is spicing everything up like an albatross in the henhouse. Or a badger. Perhaps they should shoot for badgers instead of birdies? Not shoot as in shotgun sense of the word but shoot with 3 wood drivers. It would be like Mario Kart Does Golf.
One thing before I start to get REALLY silly is the hazards at the fabled Old Course, and more precisely the bunkers. Why are they considered trouble if a golfer lands himself in one? The sand is raked so even and flat that it can hardly be called a hazard to a professional. Ok if a player finds his ball pressed up tight against the bunker wall its tricky but more often than not they find the ball in the middle of the sand, propped nicely due to the iron smooth sand. And from what im watching right now the guys are more than able to free themselves out of the giant holes. Neither coffins nor hell if you ask me. (The bunker on hole 6 is called 'Coffin' and the one on hole 14 is 'Hell'.)
Far better hazards would be craters you would need a ladder to get out of and something wild (and hungry) running around the fairways. Baboons anyone? Or perhaps a few pirhana in the Swilcan Burn? Okay daft but at least have the bunkers live up to their names by actually being HAZARDS. Stop raking the damned sand for God's sake! You can bet your caddie's shirt that when St Andrews was first played, nobody tinkered with the sand. And they had rubbish clubs back then too making the course doubly hard to play. With the type of NASA designed golf equipment on offer today I think its a cheek that the organisers make a round easier by making the bunkers as level as a billiard table.
To be fair there ought to be two choices; either playing the course with new equipment but with old style NON raked bunkers, or play with OLD clubs but allowing for the hazards to be fluffed and smoothed.
But life is never as fair as that so hazard gripe over. And nothing could ever top the roaming baboons anyway. (Well topless lady caddies would but I won't go into that here.)
Interesting to learn that 150 years ago the winners cheque was a mere £10. Today its a little bit more than that standing at around £850,000. (Excluding the accompanying sponsorship deals of course.) Now that may sound a lot, and it IS a fair chunk, but when you figure that the golfer must pay his own air fares and such then at least the prize moolah is actually EARNT. As opposed to a lot of other sportsmen who only have to turn up to get paid. (Stand up footballers.)
You see to earn the big bucks in golf you have to have consistency and keep featuring in the top 20 or 30 otherwise you win very little prize money. And what you do earn as ive said goes to hotels and airfares. I know the sponsors keep the wolves at bay but play rubbish and you wont attract them. So golf keeps it real in a sense, in that they play not only to win but put wine on the table.
The winner of this years Open Championship at the Old Course was South African Louis Oosthuizen, a little known player outside the world of golf and im very happy he did. I get bored with the big names making off with the trophy all the time so having Louis win here and an Irishman (Graeme McDowell) win the US Open last month its very refreshing. It gives the sport a shot in the arm, especially when young exciting talents like Rory McIlroy emerging on the scene. Bravo to golf!

Death On The Internet?

So its 8.18pm on a Wednesday evening and here the author sits on the floor, half propped up by a foot stool and gulping for breath. I have over abused myself (again) with booze and fast food and sweet Janine (whoever she may be) I am paying for it now. It is a scenario I have re-enacted a thousand times - binge and gorge, fade to repeat but this first night without the comforting sauce never gets any less frightening.
The only light I have is the glow from the computer screen as I prefer the creeping darkness and there is a weight atop my chest like there was a mill stone placed upon it. Oh the thoughts of heart attacks or strokes are beating at my mind, almost daring me to take a sip of alcohol to loosen my nerves but I must resist. I simply have to cleanse my system for a while. I know I am charging headlong into death as a result of an insatiable and wreckless appetite but the wise streak in me is at work tonight.
Everytime I feel a twinge I look for death around the room, praying that if tonight is the dreaded time then I may leave with courage and not whimpering like a scolded pup. Do not be mistaken, this is not the alcoholic delirium tremens that heavy drinkers often find themselves battling after a decent binge. I am not hallucinating or trembling or anything of that sort, there is only the heavy chest and dread feeling that the time of dying is so very near. I feel other men would crack under this utter doom I feel right now.
Of course my eerie surroundings only enforce the grim atmosphere that clouds me at this minute. And the heavy rain outside battering the black windows sound as if a hundred different phobias have taken a physical form and are headed for my front door riding grand steeds, both phobia and horse clad in velvet and diamonds.
At times my chest lifts giving me some time to breathe freely again, pulling on air as if each gulp was giving me strength, settling me back down to earth. Often when some terrible specteral vice has my lungs gripped I feel a brush from a feather could knock me into the grave so the relief when it ceases is instant.
It comes and goes, breathing fine the breathing heavy, breathing fine then struggling like a landed fish once more. Not pleasant but the amount of times I have gone through this I feel like my soul is shrugging its glassy shoulders as if to say 'you really enjoy this drama don't you?' And naturally I don't but the scent of over indulgence is able to seduce me at whim. I don't usually struggle too much either so my route looks to be only ONE way. For every fear that stabs me when I heave or gasp there is a bigger hunger for excess which drives me ever onward.
After this anchor on my breastbone begins to lift another blow is aimed at my bloated shell - sadness. I feel tears welling in my eyes over nothing! Well nothing sad in particular because a daft picture online might be enough to set me off or I remember a great quote; the trigger can be so bland and yet it arrives with such force, almost pressing me into the floor. And with it comes a mighty despair. I sit defenseless on the floor, sobbing, not in any theatre of self pity but at the amount of arrows and rocks I have aimed at my own body. Suddenly the grim reality hits home, shattering any shred of confidence I have and all I can think of is a desperate future. One of coffins and bramble thickets.
All of this foul moods and feeling last around 7 or 8 hours depending on the abuse the night before, but it FEELS like weeks, feels like Chinese water torture or death by a thousand cuts. Feeling a whisker away from death both physically and spiritually is extremely wretched. I cannot switch a bulb on and instantly show the reader what its like but rest assured the results from my lifestyle are as miserable as any medieval dungeon. In fact something tells me a dungeon would be a hell of a lot more comfortable.