Tuesday, 23 May 2017

Gwynedd County Counclil

I have been to the council and talked to the guy there for 2 hour's, basically he didn't care and told me that people from London can come here and park because it is a public highway, I'm not quite sure if the reverse applies to people from Wales going down to London. At any road it's obvious that it's a problem because even the receptionist in the council informed me that lots of people from Llanberis complain. Previously I have complained to the council who (conveniently get an office in Colwyn Bay to subcontract for them and do their dirty work) and they're reply was "yes we know that parking is a problem in LLanberis," yet they still went ahead and fined me for it (what the heck is the sense in that). Race day is coming up and the local parking officer's will be in a fit of frenzy issuing tickets out to every car that is illegally parked (because there is no space for them), I think this is a really good move to promote tourism in the area. North wales has the highest car usage in the U.K and add to the mix the fact that Snowden is the busiest mountain in the world then it only adds to the frustration of locals not being able to park in they're own vicinity. I went around with a petition the other day and one of the first doors I knocked on was far back from the main road up by Kevin the Cllr's house (she had just received her a dose of Chemotherapy), and she told me that it was a problem for her to have to park a massive distance away from her house and walk back. It's bedlam out there. We should not be penalised for something we're not culpable for. What do you think? Please comment and share if you agree/disagree. Thanks. Here's the link for the website go and like it if you like (this affects us all and is happening nationally)https://www.facebook.com/LLanberis-Residents-Against-Parking-Fines-for-Locals-437106226649653/
And here's a link to a song I made about it! https://soundcloud.com/serf-school/coucil-rage

Friday, 19 April 2013

Anarchism



Anarchism

How can I justify anything that I say without the mere justification of just wanting to say it? And by this very premise I cannot stand by my words as sentiments of wholeheartedness, more can I give in to their dispersion's as elements of discontent. To what effect do my words resound? Do they serve then just to act as the beat of my drum to which only I must march? Affected by all that has passed and filled with dread of what’s to come I cringe in my vanity of wanting to change a thing! The ‘hue and cry’ before they ‘sling me up’, “he did it” they shall cry, “he said it” they shall cry. What was the crime then? Was it one that had entered into this very world with my person, one that was so vaguely planted as a seed within my coloured dreams, a tantalizing glance of the “don’t be silly will you!” And a sickly shot of the ‘what the hell are you going on about?’ Far away from ‘the din of the machine that is perpetually thrusting’ just as it has always done, filled with a driving motion that cuts through the still of the night and clings on to the eddies of wind that blow the smoke from the end of my fag, away with any resolutions to change. Change is a word of the past when the ‘din of the machine that is perpetually thrusting’ takes over once again. A ‘how’s a bit of that then’ to off-balance the ‘din’ by way of means a recompense that was given to me by the attraction and wonderment that went with ‘that neon sign’ that pointed me over there. And so from that funfair, sharp stimulating noises, bellowed across the dewy trodden pathway, bellowed resoundingly, bellowed that laugh, that excitement, that ‘quick before its gone merriment’  belligerence, love, spite ‘in spite of it all’ the lardy ‘tucked in’ ‘war painted’ (she’s) that are clinging on to the ‘smoke filled’ ‘leather handed’ ‘make the world go round’ (he’s). ‘Twas not them though, no, for they were not the instillers of discontent, they were the darting brown in a stream, the ‘crayoned drawing of a child’ magnetised to the cold white metal of the master’s ‘food keep-freshener’. Twas the ‘lads on the gate’ them that brimmed with ‘the ways of the world’. “I’ll stop you here and just say to you, if it’s a good time you’re looking for then you've come to the right place” kind of attitude. ‘Quick but thick’ and with the gaudiness of ‘thick-sett moronic nothingness’ but all at once full of it, full of the world, and shouting to try and be overheard because of the ‘din of the machine that is perpetually thrusting just as it has always done.’ It is not too much for them though, it just unfortunately aids them in shouting over each other to try and be heard! “Take my money then lads” they quickly fold it into their dirty back pockets that are stained from the ‘machine’ wipe their hands on their comrades, and gesticulate to draw my eyes towards the ‘commemorate the jokes for the sake of jokes’ moment that just passed, “What do you want to abstract from me you pathetic miner?” was the thought but from my corner I did not ‘let out’ the ‘counter-joke featherweight with the glass jaw’, for it seemed like the vegan in the carnivore’s party, and it was because of this abstention  humility was lost, just ‘a child’s helium filled balloon’ skyward bound and heart sunken, a sad dot on the horizon. I’m just at the gates though and all the fun seems to be ‘booming past me’ if I opened my mouth wide enough I might be able to ingest it. The funfair has leveled all the personalities that used to give me a friendly hello and even those that I know, who know of my existence but refuse to acknowledge it with any familiarity are lost in the evocative sound. Everyone is competing to have fun, they try hard, and the sharp dressers can be seen over the noise, those ‘of the cloth that is not dapper’ have to shout enthusiastically and 'vein-poppingly' over the ‘din of the you know what’, because their clothes do not speak volumes. Some hold on to claims of knowing how the ‘machine works’ but mostly no one cares in their ‘gaze of wonderment’ that half looks like a startled wood-pigeons who possesses those ‘skittish eyes in front of a farmers smoking gun’, lest lust become an ugly matter then, that that is unsaid, just uttered what thoughts were thinking! The funfair has lost its fun-part by now; It’s more of an unfunfair now! One that can’t be comprehended, I look at the people and they’re  still incessantly laughing, disembodied sounds that sound like, well, well, well like ‘they never had an owner!’ Mimicry at the behest of some kind of wizardry! A throw back even, to a distant memory, but still they churn it out. I find no place in the lonely crowd, no! The crowd is not lonely though, for they find solace in the pretense of perpetual laughter, you know, to drown out the ‘the din of the machine that does the, you know what all the bleeding time!’ I could chip into the chirpiness and ‘chirp up!’ Resolutely there seems no viable attribution that I can cling on to; “How’s it going then, this is just what we need isn’t it? Isn’t it?  Isn’t it ‘ad nausea ’ I had repeated the phrasing until I got the pitch ‘just right’, in between I swayed as a blurred world added to my confusion. My mouth dry from chattering that clanged empty sound, aching with the laughter that ensued. For one brief moment though the machine struggled, it seemed like it was on the brink of  running out of fuel, the engine almost idling, but not quite, It was then and suddenly that I could hear my thoughts again! I just told them what I had realised all at once, and shoutedly blasted out “I just want what you all want” and with this dispersal of my thoughts came the onslaught! “What do you mean boy?” I tried to tell them, “I know a place where we could be happy, without us pretending to laugh all the time because of the noise of the machine, but it’s up to you!” They regarded me for a short while and then they all begged “please tell us where it is?” I was just about to tell them that they didn't have to go far to find it when……………………………………………………………………………………… ”The ‘lads on the gate’ had greased the machine to get her going again and the ‘din’ of the ‘you know what’ had drowned me out!          

Thursday, 31 January 2013

Just a Rant, that's all!


Smokers Die Younger and so do Junkies, Piss-heads and Fatty’s
2013

I have smoked since I was thirteen years of age, which means I have been smoking for 21 years! It was cool to smoke when I was a young’un, and I used to practise my smoking technique trying to get it just so, you know. I would adjust the positioning of my fingers trying to clasp it in a manly style copying some of my rock n role idols or film stars; jeez I dread to think of some of the people I used to idolise when I was growing up. Picture this then a grown man in tight skimpy cycling shorts who’s sporting a leather jacket and wearing some Doctor Martin type boots, to boot he has a long flowing mane and to top it all off, he has a personality that would ward off all advances from any decent minded beings; the only saving grace of this being is a voice box that can produce sounds akin to a witch who is doing some overtime on an ill-fitting vibrator. That was a short description of one of my former idols Mr Axle Rose god I used to think the sun shone out of his arse-well you know what I mean, I used to really like him, I think I would have even tried the cycling shorts look if I knew that I wouldn’t get beat up for it, but alas Bethel village is not equipped for this kind of rock n role behaviour. At any road smoking was cool and it was a past time of mine when I grew up, you know the learning how to smoke and looking cool at the same time, avoiding such things as blowing smoke into the eye whilst trying to show off in front of a girl and subsequently ending up looking like a dickhead, this kind of uncool smoking had to be evaded at all cost.
“Giz a stump on that then,” everyday down to smokers corner at school and this is what you heard the folks saying down there, if it wasn’t the stump it was the ‘little stump’ that you begged for. If you were really desperate you would ask someone who had the little stump for a stump of the little stump which was aptly named ‘letters’. Well if you were taking the letters you knew what you were in for, yes indeed all you got were the letters at the end of the smoke Marlboro, Regal, Embassy, but usually they were the cheapest fags going like Berkeley or Lambert & Butler that we used to buy. The letters were to put it mildly ‘fucking disgusting,’ it was a s hot as a volcano but with all the healthiness of a tramps armpit, all sodden with everybody’s spittle, I mean the life had been smoked out of this thing before it even got to you, the filter had been squashed from the previous smokers efforts of dragging the essence out of the thing exorcizing all remnants of the evil nicotine spirit within. We still carried on though, why I hear you ask? Well because it was cool and it was something to do.
The first time I smoked it was with my best friend at the time Lee, me and Lee had found a box of twenty Black Cats (rank) cigarettes. After finding the fags we headed on home to steal a box of matches and then headed down to our den to smoke them. Settling in with eager anticipation of doing a deed that we weren’t supposed to be engaged in, well we proceeded in lighting the cigarettes. One cigarette after another “watch out Lee it’s me dad,” we hit the deck as my dad went passed with my little brothers. Panic over and so we lit up again one after the other, Lee had gained a green colour to his face and I’m not feeling too smart, a deathly silence falls over us as we realise that we’re ‘fucked up’ off of the fags. “ I think I’ll head home now you know Lee” says I “yeah me too” he replies, none of us wanting to tell the other that we were sick from the fags. Sick may be the word to describe the feeling when one is slightly under the weather, but this on the other hand was one of those messages from the brain saying, “what the fuck have you done to me, shoving evil toxins inside me, that’ll never do!” The brain was right and the body was weak and feeble-like and withering with every passing second. “Toilet, toilet oh where for art though my beautiful toilet,” it’s coming pretty sharpish now, restrained heave after restrained heave and all of a sudden whoosh out it pops, the contents of my gut that is, or in other words spew! Hurtling out of me at breakneck speed with no let up at all, ‘twas revenge of the putrid fowl smelling kind laced with jewel like carrot entities winking at me with mirth in their eyes.
Fag after fag after fag after fag after fag habitually nowadays, that’s the routine anyhow, nervous well it’s time for a fag then, on the toilet it’s time for a fag then, in the car it’s time for a fag then, after climbing a big hill it’s time for a fag then, cup of tea time for fag then, cough well it’s time for a fag then, eaten crisps it’s time for a fag then, bored –well you get the picture there’s so many different occasions to break em out and everyone a celebration of, um something? The long and short of it is that I know I’m driving another nail into my coffin every time I start a puffin and a coughing, but I know that don’t I? So how come I have got to stare at a man with rotten teeth on the packet? O yeah it’s because the government wants to warn me of the dangers of smoking by sticking a picture of some thick cunt that smoked but coincidentally didn’t brush his teeth either. So I have to bare these shitty warnings that I know already, and if the government really wanted to stop us smoking, then why are they still selling them? Any answers? Oh yeah that’s it isn’t it, they make money off of them, lots and lots of money and if they didn’t have cigarettes to raise taxes on then they would have to raise them elsewhere; causing Joe public to grunt as if passing stones. I have to stare at this health warning every time you know, even though I am aware of the dangers. I am also aware of the dangers of sitting down on the couch for too long and rotting my brain away-where’s the health warning on the sofa then? And where’s the health warning on the T.V or MacDonald’s for that matter. By the year 2020 half of the U.K is going to be obese and not only will they be clogging up their arteries but they also will be clogging up the NHS beds at this point in time I can only hope that I do not double default and become an obese smoker. Pardon my French but je m'appelle Matthew, no really, what the fuck is going on?
The other day I was stood outside the University entrance and a jobsworth janitor or some fucking thing shouts over to me telling me I’ve got to be five meters away from the building because it’s the law. I ask him to tell me precisely how far five meters is, to which he replies and tells me to take five steps, and so I deliberately took five smallish steps. Well the upshot of it all was that I landed on the bottom step of the stairs, and so I shouted across to him “is here alright mate?” He told me that I had to get off the bottom step and then I would be complying with the five meter rule. O.K so that is what I did but I turned my head around and blew the smoke back into the five meter zone, contaminating all the fresh air that presided within it, I shouted over to him “what are you gonna do about that then jobsworth?” Jobsworth pushed off without a reply one nil for the smokers, I would have laughed in his face, if it wasn’t for the fear of setting-off my ‘death rattle’ cough.
Back to the present dilemma that nearly drove me off the edge the other day, I poppes into the supermarket to buy some fags right, and guess what? They had all been locked up, the display cabinet had now morphed into a lock-up for the fags, I couldn’t see them, and I instantly felt the urge for a cigarette draining away from my body, because you know that is what makes me want to have a cigarette, not the fact that I am physically addicted to nicotine, no no no it’s seeing them that does it for me. Yes seeing them instantly sets me off; “go and lock up the fatty foods then dickheads and the booze while you’re at it.” That’s what you think isn’t it, well I do at any road, and so, I stole over to the woman and say, “what’s with the fags, why you got them locked up? To this the woman starts going on about the government and blah di blah. I say to her “you know sometimes I like to see which fags I’d like to choose,” wham, out comes a great big list of all the fags you can buy there she hands it to me inattentively and starts to regard me with discontent. And so I just stare at the list I don’t really give a fuck about the list of fags by now and I was only trying to illustrate a point, and so I throw down the list and queue up behind some fat bird who obviously works there because she’s clad in the Morrisons attire. The fat bird must have been finishing her shift because she was buying some fags, I don’t know what fags she bought but the woman behind the counter opened ub the sliding door of the ‘cabinet of disgrace’ and gave her a box of twenty. “I saw them” I said to the lady behind the counter, “I just saw the fags inside, and I can see the fags now, why don’t you put them in a bag?” I said victoriously. At this point in time fat bird turns around grasping her name badge and indicates for me to look at it, “look” she says “I work here so don’t start” I think to myself that she doesn’t have to indicate that she’s working here by pointing at the badge as if it gives her some kind of authority, and also I can see that she works there because she’s dressed up in the Morrison’s greengrocers attire, unless she’s mentally retarded and likes to pretend that she works there. “It’s just bloody stupid isn’t it?” I say in a slightly peevish manner, all I wanted was for someone to agree and say that it was stupid, that’s all. Fat bird chirps up again saying “what’s stupid is the Welsh assembly making us pay five pence for bags,” to which I reply “no that’s better than having the countryside littered!” It was at this point that I decided to give up on the fat bird because she obviously didn’t go for long walks in the countryside otherwise she wouldn’t be al ‘Jabba The Hut-like,’ and secondly she is probably the type that jettisons all her sweetie wrappers from out the window of the car, on second thoughts I take that back, she probably eats the sweetie’s wrapper and all.  I repeat myself this time to the woman behind the counter “It’s just bloody stupid isn’t it?” To which she replies “that’s just the way it is, there’s no point complaining you can’t do anything about it!” I just think to myself that all I wanted was confirmation at least that it is stupid and that it is not me just being a ‘pointless dickhead.’ Now I am the stupid one for even thinking to complain, in retrospect though, what I should have said to her was. “Picture this, it’s a dark Tuesday night and you have just finished your shift in your second job, and so you get home about 10 ‘o clock and have your supper and go to bed. Precisely 10 minutes after you have gone to sleep you feel a sharp pain right up your arse, as you awake you find it’s just ‘Dave the Fucker’ stabbing 7 kinds of shit out of you. Dave is a civil servant from the DFPA which is an acronym for ‘The Department for Fucking the Public up the Arse,’ so what do you do? Do you turn over and try to ignore it and get some shuteye? Or do you say this is wrong!”
By the way I have it on good authority (Arwel from the guitar shop), that there is an old guy in New York that is a 105 or so and has been smoking since he was 9 or so, and he still manages to walk around. They say that no news is good news, well good news is good news and you never get to hear it, so why don’t they put this New Yorkers face on the side of a cigarette packet with the strapline ‘smokers usually die younger, but not all the time!.’ I know it’s wrong and, all I am saying is that at least we should be accommodated the luxury of having a wind-proof shelter when we do have to brave the weather to get our fix. That is all.
Thanks!

  



Wednesday, 2 May 2012

Half way right but then wrong again.


Could I awake from a slumber and collude with some sort of distant relative? One that I once held like a brother; the same one that now seems so vague in my mind.  It unrests me to think of it,  because its only like the cigarette gunk buried in my clothes ready to unleash its fastidious smell and remind me of the last nights. Ones I tried to forget! Out there though is where the timid flower clings on, almost whimpering like a dog as it braces itself in the wind; still so beautiful if not only in its symbolism, yet it seems too weak to be picked, and far more poignant would be the gesture of letting it flap hither and tither in the wet wind. Tis but a ‘come on’ for me though, I cannot let it be there, rasping against the cold stones that serve only for the purpose of eroding it. As the corner of my eye fixes on it, life does all of a sudden, suddenly stir! I pick it, romantically beholding it. “Oh!” “Cradle thee I shall!” It is now, and as I fully suspected, not so symbolic. It is an ambassador of nothing, but reminiscent of everything all at once. I beheld that flower, nursing it quickly to its shrivelled death. A flash in the sky was the flower, a red crumpled up dart it served in as much purpose, and now soggily lies in the wet rainbow filled pool, it soaks, I gloat. Have I not served a purpose today? Was there a memory that I could not tame? Or was it just an unpicked flower?

Thursday, 15 December 2011

A Bloody Good Poking!


I remember it as clear as day now. We were walking home from primary school; me and a certain Neil White and I don’t know how the conversation began but it fell into  a ‘my dad’s better than your dad thing’. I do remember this though it was him that started it. Me and Neil had a few running’s here and there and he knew not to piss me off or I would just get wild and jump on his back and smash his head on the floor. I was wild when I was younger and would often fly into fits of rage and couldn’t stop myself from going mental so to speak.
Anyway Neil told me that his dad would knock my dad out (I don’t know why) but there you go, that is what he told me. I said “no way, my dad would give your dad a hiding”. Neil came back with his snappy reply, “na my dad would give your dad a backbreaker!” For those of you who never watched WWF that’s the World Wrestling Foundation and not the World Wildlife Foundation which I find are easily confused. The backbreaker is a move from WWF and not WWF O.K.! So I say that he could try but my father’s stronger and that he would outmanoeuvre his dad and reverse the move on him. It was getting intense now and there was more and more malice lacing every word that was slung.
Neil had reached his limit or what seemed to be the limit of his imagination and to be honest with you I don’t know why he was defending his father because it wasn’t his real dad; no he was defending a man which we’d nicknamed Dafydd Cont which when translated would mean David the Cunt. He was mean to them and used to belt them; but I suppose he had to stick up for him, but then again, he did not have to initiate the mudslinging.
So apparently Dafydd Cont had a gun because he was a farmer and he was going to shoot my dad no problems. I told him that I’d phone the cops and that they would swarm his house. This it seems would not stop Dafydd Cont because he would boldly blast his way out of the situation smoking the policeman as he parted them out of his way, akin to Moses and his miracle at the red sea.
My father had a work shop in our house where he used to build the Irish pipes (Uilleann Pipes) in the evenings. In this workshop was a machine called a Lathe which is used to turn wood from blocks into conical form and also it is used to drill them out. So I tell Neil that my dad would grab his dad before he could get to his gun and commence in putting his body on the lathe; setting it spinning at a faster and faster speed, until eventually his head would come off and all his guts would come flying out of the stump of his neck where his head used to be. This did the trick and he was quiet the rest of the way home!
The ensuing day was just a day like any other I got dressed and shuffled my way to school as slow as I could, and when I got there Mrs Barlow the lollypop lady would give me her ritual boot up the arse saying to me “come on slow worm”. When I got to the classroom it was evident that the news had come from the top down through the chain of command that the headmaster wanted to see me.
I approached his door with the same air of deflation that always filled me when I had to go there. Knock knock! Come in said Mr Jones. Well how could I describe Mr Jones let me begin by saying he was small in stature and he wore pink pinstriped shirts. He wore gold rings and had tight grey trousers; the type that was specially made for teachers and could only be found in mail order catalogues with an inbuilt come in the back pocket of course! Mr Jones loved golf and he would drink from a mug that had a picture of a woman clad in a bikini, and on it there was some golf related gag about a birdie. Mr Jones was a ladies man and always reeked of some pungent aftershave. Mr Jones commanded respect and he gave me a row in front of the assembly one day because I had not saluted him as he made his way into the school, and the reasoning behind this was that I was busy playing and I did not see the twat coming and besides the wind was blowing the other way so I couldn’t smell him coming either. Mr Jones wore hushpuppies. Mr Jones had an affair with Mrs Pat. Mr Jones’s hair was always slicked back the same way.
I pushed the door open and walked in, “come here!” he bellowed and so I promptly walked over and in front of his desk. Well Mr Jones leapt out of his chair with much enthusiasm and vitality and came bounding towards me as quick as a flash. Mr Jones’s weapon of choice was his chubby little digit (index) extended firmly which he used to poke you in the chest as he gave you a ticking off. Well this time though he started off a little differently; improvising with a grab of the shirt pulling me to my tiptoes, and then letting me fall back down to my feet before he commenced his prodding. “Ginsberg” he bellowed, “now”(poke) “tell” (poke) “me” (poke) “the” (poke) “truth” (poke) “and” (poke) “don’t” (poke) “give” (poke) “me” (poke) “no” (poke) cock and bull story (poke) (poke) (poke) (poke)! By the time he had finished with me I was pinned against the wall, well I didn’t know why I was here like most of the times I was here; I just didn’t know. “I don’t know what you are talking about Sir,” I told him plain and simple because it was the truth. “Oh you know Ginsberg.” “No, no I don’t Sir”. “Your father killing Neil White’s father”, “oh that Sir I didn’t start it, it was him!” I wanted to go on but he told me to go and stand outside his office as usual.
I stood there for an age I watched my friends go out to play and I watched them come back in again; the dinner lady’s passed and smiled at me I grinned my toothless grin back at them. Mrs Roberts and Mrs Pat (Mrs Pat was the one having the affair with Mr Jones) stood there discussing me as if I wasn’t there at all saying this that and the other; I hadn’t an idea of what the hell they were going on about; except that I knew it was a ploy to make me feel worse. Eventually Mrs Roberts turned square at me and said one of those sayings that I never understood, you know one of those riddles that they always fire at you when you are a kid. “Look at him; it’s as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth!” I thought for a slight moment to myself that butter does melt in my mouth, yes it does melt in my mouth so that makes me normal, there’s no problem then, its decided! I had decided to tell them the good news and so I chirped back at her defiantly “butter does melt in my mouth!” I gazed at her after saying this and could see that a wry smile was beginning to creep across her face and so instead of letting it show; she and Mrs Pat briskly turned and trotted themselves off. Hmm I had a sneaky suspicion that they liked bad little boys.
Eventually I was relieved of my exhibitory position from outside the head masters office and was allowed to go and have dinner. Ah the sweet taste of freedom Mr Jones’s is a twat and he doesn’t know that me and Richard Peter’s stole crisps, drink, and overcharged our classmates when we were running his shop (we pocketed about 40 pence), and we watched him count the takings in front of us and didn’t bat an eyelid.
Anyway so I get reprimanded all because Neil White does not have an imagination and has the cheek to go and tell on me to his mother who in turn tells the head master. Punished for having an imagination and I thought schooling was supposed to reward us for having talents like these.
So we were on our way out of the school one day me and my older brother Raphael and all of his friends. As we exited the building we started spying into the headmaster’s office through a little gap in the blinds; low and behold Mr Jones was snogging Mrs Pat. All the lads were drawing in their breaths and making exclamatory noises. “Www yyy” they went as they were greeted by the scene. “What’s the matter?” I said as I jostled inn all elbows because I was much smaller than them because they were older. It was true Mr Jones and Mrs Pat were going at it hammer and tongs, or more to the point they were hammering each other’s tongues! The lads told me that they were having an affair, “what’s that?” I asked them. I was informed that if you are married to someone then you can’t go snogging someone else. “Oh” was my reply not really understanding the principle of the whole discussion. When me and Raph got home we informed our mam of what we had witnessed at the headmasters office; well her eyes lit up as we filled her in and she asked us if we were sure. “Of course we are everyone saw it”. I could see by her reaction that this was a bad thing, and there was that sanctimonious shithawk ploughing into me, and all the while he had been having an AFFAIR! Wait until my fingers grow Mr Jones and you are dead meat!
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Sunday, 11 December 2011

The Death of my Beloved Green Slug!


My car died today! ‘The old slug’; that’s what I used to call her and every time I went in her I used to say a little prayer. I used to talk to her trying to maintain our relationship; patting the dashboard exclaiming that we are good friends and that she should keep her part of the deal up by just clocking up the miles.
When I used to take her on expeditions which wasn’t often we would pass by people that had broken down standing by their vehicles awaiting recovery I used to exclaim aloud “please don’t let that be me”. My hands are a little shaky now; all I’ve consumed today are 2 cups of coffee a tin of beans and a child’s portion of chips. My ex-girlfriend told me the other day that I play the poor man always and that I’m trying to draw attention to my woes constantly. I am not! I am down a dark shitty hole at the moment which is my own fault and my hands ache from trying to claw my way up. If only I had not been an obsessive gambler than maybe I would be sitting in front of the fireplace rolling on the floor with the kids. (Was I playing the poor man just now)?
My money will come through tomorrow morning (hardship fund) from the University; £150 that should keep me going for a while! And so for the time being I am just going to sit here and write in the warmth of Pete’s Eats café. I only want to charge my laptop up really so I can watch a film in bed later on; oh the excitement of my life nearly makes me spontaneously combust sometimes.
I feel like the character from Crime and Punishment (Raskolnikov) more and more these days, and sometimes I even contemplate buying a toy gun from Bargains Galore in Caernarfon to try and do a ‘stick-up’ somewhere, I lie in bed envisioning the plan every strategy goes through my head; even that will have to be put off now for I am carless. Doing a stick-up and making a getaway on foot is too foolish even for me, although on the other hand it’s so foolish it might work. First I would have to check out the bus timetable to see what time they are going and secondly I would have to be able to afford the bus; hang on I could pay for that with the money from the stick-up. Alright I’ve got it! I’ll hire one of those limousines that ladies hire when they are going out on their hen-nights, at least then I could make my getaway in style maybe getting carried away and throwing some of the money through the window as I pass by the bus stops. “Oh driver could you stop at Bargain Booze please, I need to stock up on cigars and alcohol PLEASE, and anything you like!”
Anyway back to the present and I have just been phoned by some publishing company. I got quite excited at first and then I realised it was because I had been on some website last evening and they had my details. At first the website seemed very promising as they always are you know saying things like “we take the hard work out of it” and all the other garb that’s affiliated with these sites. Finally after watching their little video and signing up to their website I arrived on the final page and there it was; basic package £760 pounds and then the prices continued upwards. Well someone from the company (a lady American, sickly) phoned me up, and to be honest with you my heart skipped a beat until it dawned on me why she was phoning. I instantly informed her that I had no money and she kept pecking at me with her persistent sales techniques. I felt like telling her about the current situation that I find myself in, but ended up just telling her that she was barking up the wrong tree if she wanted money. She kept on, for gods sakes! If only she could smell me over the phone then she would see that this is the odour of a person that does not have access to money. At any road I got rid of her and I did not do it in an abrupt manner because I have done that kind of job before and so I can empathise with her (well a little).
And so I was heading for Rhyl in the car because I was going to sell the last thing of value that I had. The car had been acting kind of funny for a little while now anyway;  the heaters had conked out and it was doing the kangaroo motion when I started it up and so I had to rev the fuck out of it until it got going. Well today on the motorway a funny knocking noise decided to make its début just as we were nearing our destination, the power went as we were going up a hill and smoke plumed from out of the bonnet. “Oh fuckinell”, I rev her up pushing my foot down as far as it would go hoping that this would remedy the problem. No such luck, she was dying on me there and then. I was it seems a little naïve to think that I could fix the problem by merely slamming my foot down on the accelerator. Luckily we were headed down a bit of an incline and I managed to get her into some kind of layby before she spluttered to a sudden abrupt ending. I suspected that this was the last of her.
I had to phone my mother  because she had donated the car to me because in these area’s you essentially need a car, that is if you do not want to squander the major part of your day waiting in bus stops for buses. Besides this I needed it to take the kids here and there. So she got on the blower and gave me a number to ring.
“Was the smoke black or white”  “erm white I think”, I answer. “Do you know what’s the matter with it?” Goes the guy on the other end of the phone as I answer, “Well it’s broken”. I did not proclaim to be a mechanic and the chances are that if I were a mechanic then my car would probably be running O.K and then I wouldn’t need to phone to get road side assistance. It’s like when you phone 999 for emergency assistance and the person asks on the other end of the phone if you are the injured patient, and then they ask if you are unconscious, and you think to yourself if I’m the injured patient and I am unconscious then how the hell can I be phoning you? This is the way things have gone though, and you can’t rage against it because there’s nothing there to rage against, just a system; some other person whose fault it isn’t on the other end of the line, or some forms. Dead end roads that lead you to the ever familiar feeling, that you are just shit, at the bottom of a ladder.
I stand by the side of the car as the smoke bellows out! It’s cold and wintery and I am starved! Luckily I had left a tin of beans in the car with the foresight that times might get tougher. Well that thought had come home to roost and so I grab the tin of beans and snap off the lid with the ring-pull and proceed to slurp down the beans with much vigour; so much so that I actually inhale one of them and it makes me gag. I cough it back up and then swallow it again. A train passes by and I think to myself what a sorry sight I must look to the onlookers.
I went to the boot of the car because I remembered I had some of my work clothes in there, a pair of waterproof trousers and a lumber jacket. I put them on over what I was wearing already which was a long grey trench coat, jeans and a sheepskin hat and scarf. Well I must of looked nuts with the trench  coat protruding out and flaring from underneath the lumber jacket. Last night I had watched a film called Mongol it was about Genghis Khan’s child hood and his rise to power. Well it inspired me and in it there were scenes of him walking for miles through the snow over the mountains and falling through ice into lakes and all the rest of it. I don’t watch many films to be honest with you so when I do they tend to have a lasting effect on me; you know like when you watched Goonies when you were a kid and instantly wanted to go out with your friends for some similar adventure or similarly thinking your some kind of karate expert after watching ‘Enter the Dragon’. Well anyway I stood there by the side of the road exclaiming to myself “come on Matt, this shit’s nothing”, pretending that I had some of Genghis Khan’s spirit in me to fend off the cold and the shitty situation in general. As I said it, it worked, and then after a short while it wore off and I started to shiver and curse the wind and rain, it seems that Genghis’s spirit was not strong enough, I’ll have to find a new one!  
Finally the road side recovery man turns up and assess the damage “your head-gasket’s gone mate”! “Oh fuckinell, that’s bad”. It is bad you know, I have heard people talk of this happening and it is always in a bad light. “How much do you think it will cost to fix it?” “Well you won’t get much change from £500 mate”! I think that means it will cost about £500 to fix or there abouts.
After a brief discussion with my mother it is decided that scrapping the car is the best thing for it, and so I relay the instructions to the recovery man that we are to head for the scrap yard in Bangor. I noticed that he had a photo of his children in the cab of the van (three girls), and so I started a discourse on kids, he obliged and filled me in on his situation telling me of his daughter and her study’s in child care and this that and the other. I thought that he had the ideal set up being a constant father with a steady job and his life filled up with the comforts that all these things bring. It turns out that he had a daughter from a previous marriage, after he told me this he went a little quiet and withdrawn. In a strange way this made me feel better about myself.
We got to the scrap yard and weighed the car in. Not long after this I asked the woman in reception if I could get a bag off her to put all my possessions in. She told me that the car would have to be weighed-inn again and so I went back and shoved all the stuff that I wanted in. I couldn’t be arsed at this point so I just got the stuff that was most important. I told the lads that they could keep the rest, rigger boots, some golf clubs and bits and bobs; you know just shit that I had horded and thought would become useful one day; most of it was from my days of working on the skips. I got £110 for the car.
My mam turned up and drove me home and as I was leaving the car she asked me for the money- well it was only fair she did give me the car, but I thought she might let me keep it (kick in the balls, but justly so). And so I have just asked the guy in the café at what time they close and he told me “now”, and so I’ll have to go back to the refrigerated dark house and try to find a DVD to watch to set me off to sleep! So “goodbye cruel world.” Well at least until tomorrow!...........


Thursday, 1 December 2011

Creating a Mantra!

I grew up in a house that was awash with riches; not that I appreciated them at the time. At any road all the exposure must of ingrained its mark on me, for when I was a pup I recall asking my old man if he would get the Sherlock Holmes instrument for me. He pondered on my prerequisite for a while before ascertaining a solution for my demand; I had asked him to get me a Saxophone, (because Sherlock Holmes’s pipe looked like one)! We never used to receive any of the things we asked for usually; no fancy computers or any of the stuff that the other kids got, but if we asked for something like this our old man would do his darndest to get it.  Well he obliged and one day we set off for Bangor to go and visit a man named Rustle (he was the one)! He was the one who had a collection of saxophones besides other paraphernalia, and his house was wonderful; it was crammed with all sorts of things like ‘fog horns’ and this that and the other. For me it was like some treasure cove and I just stood there in awe; I don’t know if my recollection is spot-on but I’m pretty sure that Rustle was vested in Safari gear!
We procured the Saxophone and it was mine! It had an old beat up case – now I had to figure out how to play it; I do not recall if this was instantaneous or if the urge caught me at a later date but whatever I started to play somehow.
When I was thirteen I received lessons in school from some dry bitch whose (big thick yellow moustache) name escapes me for obvious reasons now. Well I used to turn up to her lessons freshly laced with the smell of stale cigarette smoke and play those boring tunes that they try to teach you when you begin to play. At this point I had been playing along to my old man’s jazz records with artists like Cannonball Adderley, Rahssan Roland Kirk (Roland Kirk) and John Coltrane. So her attempts to get me to play ‘Oats Peas Beans and Farley Grow’ were wasted on deaf ears, and so in the process of trying to play these ‘turn-offs’ I used to stray off the script improvising what I thought was a passion filled jazz type improve. Her face was an encapsulation of disdain (sad bitch), and so I used to stick to the script.
One day the old bag music teacher turned up no more, and in her place was an old gent whose name escapes me as well now, but not because I just forget the shit people’s names; no on the contrary I just forget things sometimes, because I’m slightly fallible. Well this guy was cool and he played along with you on the saxophone. His saxophone was a nice one and when he played spit bubbles appeared around the corner of his mouth. My Saxophone had a bunch of elastic bands wrapped around it because the spring mechanisms had broken. He told me that I reminded him of a guy that used to play in a band with him; they had played here and there - in places such as Butlins and the like; I respected him for this; well at least he had been around and was not a dreary bastard like the other one! Ha!
We had a recital to give in the school assembly one day and news had reached the music teacher that I was good on the saxophone and so she decided to give me a forefront saxophone driven recital piece. The piece we were to play was ‘Abide with me’. It was a hymn and the rest of our class were to play it on the glockenspiels whilst the teacher accompanied us on the piano.
We were given sufficient time to practice it, and so I did, every day after school. I spiced it up putting little jazz runs in here and there and playing it this way and that. I was totally comfortable with it. Well days and weeks passed and I did not notice that the day was upon us, until I was cutely informed by someone that tomorrow was the day that we were to give our recital.
No problems then; well not for me anyhow! The headmaster gave his usual shitty speech about some current affairs and things that were going on in relation to the school and the mandatory religious offerings that had to be thrown in. Well finally it was our turn to go on (yes)! We walked on from the side-wings of the stage to our respective positions; the rest of the bunch sat at desks where their glockenspiel’s had been placed and the music teacher sat at the piano. Me well I was front and almost centre.
I looked out in front of me and the assembly room never looked this way to me before and before me sat a sea of people that I knew, the hardy lads, the sexy girls, the funny ones, the geeks and all the in-between. She struck up the chords on the old grand piano and everyone started up on the glockenspiels. I waited until my part kicked inn counting the beats off, ‘O.K here I go’; eyes pierced me expectantly.
I can only describe the following sound that ensued as follows; an evil spirit had accosted my body and used it to express the sound of its tormented soul; funnelling it through my bloody saxophone!  “Go away evil spirit and fuck off dry mouth”. My heart pumped like a thing that pumps a lot; O.K it was like the thrust of a horny frog.  Out pour the hideous sounds again! It was music, yes - it was it was freestyle jazz, but then again not even I knew that I could get this kind of sound out of the god damned thing! On and on I go in what seemed to be an age; trying to regain my skills, but it was no good though the laughter and tittering from my comrades was destroying me. My heart pounded!
Wait a minute I had an idea that would regain my prestigious status as a musician and so I stopped. At this point everybody else did as well, a barrage of laughter kept on coming from my comrades. I turned around and said this “can we go from the start?” The bitch was trying not to grin, and so she put her head down and I turned to face my comrades. At this point I think I would have preferred some jeering instead of the raft of laughter that kept on coming.
They struck up on the piano and glockenspiels again. I had to hold it together but all self-reasoning had gone and only fear; adrenalin and that evil spirit that had come to possess me remained. This time it was worse; I mean the noises were worse; try donkeys shitting barbed wire out continuously! That is the only description that even comes a little close to the out of worldly shit fuck noise that kept coming. TIME DID NOT ELAPSE ETERNALLY! Knees were being slapped and the odd tear of joy had come to my comrades eyes helping their quests for camaraderie.
Finally oh finally as if the day would never come; emancipation arrived and we all proceeded to make our way off the stage. When I arrived  at the wings of the stage; the chemistry teacher was there to congratulate me on my performance; he patted me on my back whilst he battled with the fits of laughter that were making his body vibrate and he uttered these words, “well done Matthew, it’s the first time that is always the hardest”. What a twat!
For about two to three weeks after this debacle when I strolled around the school yard I encountered the odd bunch of comrades here and there pointing in my direction making donkey noises ” Aw-EE, Aw-EE”. I put my head down and carried on, well that’s all I could do; well it was the best start that I could get! At least I knew what it was like and not what it was supposed to be like, and so:- “head down and carry on”! I adopted this as my mantra.