http://sharkfishinginwales.blogspot.co.uk/2015/01/taxes-to-tincture.html "Get all your prescriptions for free" as sung the B...
Matthew Lidis is a writer. He lives in Manchester. He can be found on twitter @matthewlidis When the sharkfisherman invited ...
I am writing this Blog Post in my Writer's Room. It consists of an ancient yellow kitchen table on which sits my net book and printer un...
You will have to forgive me now as I attempt to wax lyrical. Out of all the placements on my M.A in Playwriting at the University of Sa...
This is a blog about Wales and about my reaction to it. I have strayed into the North West of England recently but I am back to write a blog...
Dwi newydd gael dadl gyda fy nghymydog! Mi roedd yn ddadl a aeth yn weddol emosiynol. Yn ddadl rydym yn cael weddol aml ynglŷn ar Iaith. Er ...
Saturday, 21 October 2017
Gyda Phlaid Cymru ar ei wely angau fel Plaid wleidyddol neu o leiaf yn troedio dwr, diddorol gweld fod 'na giang o bobol genedlaetholgar am gyfarfod yng Ngwesty Bonedd y Belle Vue, Aberystwyth yn stafell y cefnfor rhwng 1 a 5 ar Dachwedd y bedwerydd. Bobol fel dwi'n deall sydd wedi cael llond bol o anallueddrwydd y Blaid i wneud unrhywbeth o werth dros bobol y wlad maent yn honni cynrychioli. Mae'r plant newydd ar y bloc yma wedi disgrifio ei hunan yn wleidyddol ar y dde o'r canol ac o beth dwi di ddarllen ar y cyfryngau cymdeithasol maent yn sgrifennu sylwadau atgas sydd yn nodweddiadol o bobol gyda'r tueddiadau yma, gweler safle Guido Ffowc am esiamplau da yn y Saesneg. Honiad Plaid Cymru ei fod am ymestyn allan i bobol sydd ddim wedi pleidleisio drostynt o blaen. Pwy a ŵyr efallai fydd Mr Simon Thomas Penparcau, gyda'r slogan "You cannot Out Corbyn, Corbyn" yn troi i fyny i'r Bellvue ar ddydd Sadwrn y 4ydd. Fe alwodd yn y gynhadledd ar Blaid Cymru 'to stand on solid nationalist round' on beth ydy hwnna yn meddwl mewn gwirionedd? Mae Plaid Cymru wedi bod wrthi ers 1925 a fasa rhywun yn meddwl os fasa e nhw yn mynd i lwyddo cipio calonnau'r genedl ei fasa e nhw wedi ei gwneud e erbyn hyn. Mae 'na pwsh o fewn y blaid i gynrychioli dosbarth gweithiol y wlad gan 'naughty boy' Neil McEvoy ond mae o wedi cael ei wahardd cyn iddo fo allu amlinellu ei 2020 Vision. Gydag un arall o rengoedd y dosbarth gweithiol, Leanne Wood yn addo i ni gyd fel rhyw fath o Joan of Arc fydd hi am arwain ni o'r anialwch tan etholiadau'r Cynulliad yn 2021 mae'n anodd gweld beth eill cenedlaetholwyr rhwystredig i wneud yn enwedig os ydych yn ystyried eich hunan yn 'trendi lefty'. Ydych chi yn taflu eich lot gyda giang o dynion canol oed, chwerw, yn y Belle Vue neu ydych yn parhau i chwipio ceffyl marw gyda Phlaid Cymru? Mae bob polisi maent yn amlinellu fel chwythu awyr mewn i gorff diwifr.
Oherwydd bod Llafur Carwyn Jos gymaint i'r dde mi faswn ni yn anghytuno gyda'r Bnr Thomas a dweud yn blwmp ac yn blaen na agenda Corbyn ddylse fod gyda'r Blaid. Mae rhaid penderfynu os ydych yn beiriant hel pleidleisiau, at unrhyw gost i'ch hygrededd, neu ydych am ddilyn trywydd sydd yn boblogaidd gyda thrwch poblogaeth Lloegr sydd am weld diwedd teyrnasiaeth totalitaraidd y Torïaid dod i ben. Ni allwn wadu fod yna rhai yn ein mysg gyda thueddiadau asgell dde, rhai sydd yn pleidleisio UKIP a Thori ond pam chwarae i'r galeri yna os rydym am fyw gydag ein cydwybod am genedlaethau i ddod. Yn fy marn i mae Plaid Cymru wedi chwythu ei phlwc fel Plaid Wleidyddol o unrhyw bwys. Fydd rhaid cael Plaid sydd yn gwasanaethu'r 'Welsh National Interest' ond mi fyddai wedi syfrdanu os y 'Bois o'r Bellvue' fydd yr ateb.
Thursday, 19 October 2017
I'll write anything for money, me
some non erotic erotica
or some state of the art sci-fi
some half arsed bums in the air romance
on me scuzzy wifi.
I'll write yez a film script
Welsh zombies in a crypt.
I'll write yez me last will & testament
as long as its a long term investment
I don't do it for the art or to make a critic fart
I do it for the cheque in the post
the BACS Transfer
The Royalty and the Contract
is all that I'm interested in.
Who are you again?
Oh that earnest enthusiast
at the Hay on Wye jamboree
I'm sorry if I cut you with my paper thin repartee.
It's dog eat writer
in this writer eat dog world
the magnum opus in me typewriter
the edges all fucking curled.
I'm bitter and dazed at my lack of success
I should don me suspenders and slinky black cocktail dress
for if it is to be the literary casting couch for me
he can grab a handful of hairy bollocks
as I'm supping me earl grey tea.
Tuesday, 17 October 2017
Some followers & fans, the cognoscenti, those in the know have been following the adventures of Ken Frane over the last seven days on this Blog. The last we heard he'd been hit over the back of the head with a baseball bat in a bar in a No Go Zone in Amsterdam. Do you know what happens next to our antediluvian anti-hero? Would you like to know? Well you can find out by purchasing the 'Leiden Triangle Mystery' where you will receive the 'Dubrovnik Postcard' short story free as a gift from me. Thank you for your support and look out for some more Ken Frane adventures in the future on this blog and in book form. Diolch.
Wednesday, 4 October 2017
Boris is British
is a bog brush
is a body
the Clown Prince of Eton Hair
neither a Tanky nor Trot
Boris is Boris
Boris is Prime Minister
How did that happen?
Read on for the further adventures of
Tuesday, 3 October 2017
I am mentally ill
of that there is no doubt
this damn fine world is going up the spout
I'm gonna buy me a ticket to the good ol' US of A
and find me a gun shop
"You don't need no ID
you could blow away a whole reservation with that"
"Sure to be"
I'd walk up the lawn of the White House
dressed as Travis Bickle
ol' Donald Trump is gonna be in a pickle
I'd put the barrel of the gun to one nostril
and whisper up the other one
"Gun Control NOW Mother Fucker
or the toupée gets it"
Thursday, 28 September 2017
For National Poetry Day 2017
So it must be a thing then
this zombies on phones
plenty o stock images to choose frae
but I've yet to see a poem bout the
of zombies on phones
but then I have led a sheltered life
apart from that time in Amsterdam
when I saw everything through a red screen
my Dr Jekyll could not Hyde in those days.
"So wot makes dis a poem then gramps?
it's just a bunch of words man
that you are trying to shape into meaning"
"and failing"? I reply
"I am not a father let alone a grandfather"
"Wot at your age?"
"You been hiding your dingle a ling ting
from de damsels"?
"Look I'm in distress can't you see"?
"You look fine to me bruv
keep your chin up
even if you can't keep anything else up
"Yes I dig"
"I'll dig your grave
you effing zombie on a phone".
Tuesday, 26 September 2017
Cardiff Dark 3
Arthur’s long gaze pierces the sunlight across what they, the City fathers laughingly call the Bay! The day it went from the Docks to the Bay was the day that something inside Macey died. Not only were they trying to whitewash history, they were killing the darkness, the joy and the jazz. He knew students that used to come down in the 1980’s for the excitement of the North Star and the Docks Non Pol. Average people being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The wrong tablet swallowed in the wrong toilet. Some went into the gents and came out of the ladies dressed to the nines. Wouldn’t stop them coming down. The bodies found in the feeders were always young. The feeders of the Taff that fed the Dock. Deep Dock, Short Dock, Long Dock, Tiger Dock. There was no Porth yr Aur in those days. There was one Welsh Speaking Gangster of that era but another one that had been white washed from Chapel History. A man who had enjoyed the Casablanca Club a little too much. Any place is about its people.
The elites stayed up in Cyncoed, Whitchurch, Lisvane and Rhiwbina. This was working class down here. Dark, deadly and present. Not to say the bankers, accountants, councillors and local mayors didn’t come down here to pick up some rough. The girls with the shiny beads. What the punters always forgot was that these women were always somebodies daughter, sister or mother.
A pleasure boat docks close to Arthur’s vantage point. A hen party in black lycra and pink cowboy hats alight tripping over each other to get to the bars of Mermaid Quay. These were the furthest thing from a mermaid. Valleys ladies, useless but harmless. Arthur was twenty years past his last erection. He just looked down with pure disdain. He had been spotted. “Yoo hoo old man, old man yoohoo” “I’m deaf fuck off, what do you want” “Drink, we want to drink” “ Are you blind as well as thick?” “ No need to be like that you miserable old fucker” “Why talk to me then?” “We wanted to speak with a local!” A local, there aren’t any fucking locals left any more. “What a charmer, you picked the wrong one there Sue” “Sue, if you were named Sue, then you’re too old to be out” shouts Arthur after them. They had put him in one of his long dark despondent moods, ones which would and could last for weeks on end. He had never been diagnosed as a manic depressive but enough people had told him that he probably was one, people like him who had touched the stars and plummeted the depths. People who were no longer around. Why Arthur had been spared he asked the big hombre in the sky sometimes! He wanted to go, he wanted to die? Peacefully, not in the way that he had dispatched some of his victims over the years.
He had come to terms with his own mortality in prison. Always manslaughter never murder and in Cardiff always banged to rights by Detective Ken Frane. Four officially killed but it was more like eight, Frane had not been able to pin the others on Macey. Thirty five years of his life spent in different nicks. Maybe about the right amount of time. Each one of the eight deserved to die because they were a threat to Macey’s reign as Docks Gangland Boss. A right bestowed upon him by Uncle Bertram. Bertie Riggs had earned the right but had not had a son of his own. He had sewn up the Docks of the twenties and thirties. He was even able to deal with the killers returning to civilian life after the second world war. The scars on Bertie’s face were transluscent upon his death. So Arthur, an heir to Bertie’s throne through blood and there was always plenty of that on the streets of James and Bute.
There was one body left that needed burying and that was the man who had helped put him inside for so long. The problem was, that body was still very much alive. Ken Frane was back in the good books of South Wales police after falling foul of the higher echelons in the late eighties. Arthur had heard in Cardiff nick that Ken Frane had had to resort to security work and there was plenty of banging of enamel mugs on grey greening radiators on that occasion. It was difficult to be a good police officer but that wasn’t Arthur Macey’s problem. He often felt in his cell that he could have swopped places with Frane both tired, depressed and suicidal. He and Frane had been like that often but they had both come through it. Arthur was in his late seventies now and Frane must be late sixties, a decade between them. A decade he needed t make up. Both legends to each other but losers and has beens to today’s hard men and police. If he had his time again Macey would have joined the force at 18 but with the knowledge of the 'Cardiff Dock’ underworld. Many lives would have been saved, many more than under Frane. A lucky incompetent and that’s what stuck in Macey’s craw, that he had been sent to prison by an idiot. He could never make the murders stick so it was always manslaughter. He had all the evidence required but the jury would always believe Macey’s motives, so much so that another group of students, film students from the Atrium, the flashy building next to the prison in Knox Rd, had tried to make a film in 2003 called ‘Macey’s Motives’ but in the end Arthur had told them to fuck off just like the hen night off the boat. Even though he was considered a Psychopath he ironically had a strong sense of justice and fair play. If the eight had not crossed him, they wouldn’t have died. Why did the human animal always have to get above his station?
So it was a race now, to see who would die first? Cardiff gangland history would be complete if Ken Frane was to go first. Arthur Macey outlives the short arm of the long law. It would be ideal if Macey could help him along a little bit.
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