Bleak Midwinter

It wasn't enough to shaft Education at the Top End, then? Or to kick out the Cornerstone of the NHS, act all surprised that it goes a bit Wobbly and stick it with a Condemned Notice before Claire Raynor has time to reach for her Spectracles? Or to fold up Welfare and Unemployment, and snip at it with a pair of scissors, like a child making a Paper Snowflake- look how clever the pattern is, oh and so many holes? No, now it's actually time for Taking Candy from Babies. Booktrust, the scheme that provides Free Books to All Children between 9 months and 11 years, which includes Bookstart, is to have its funding cut by, er, 100%. (I had a state-funded education, but thankfully, not under The Coalition, so i can work out that this is A Bad Thing.) I can give you no better Thumbnail Sketch of the Great Yawning Moral Chasm of Unremitting Wickedness that is Michael Gove than this One Act- Taking Books off Babies. It won't let me underline it twice, but for the record, that is me SHOUTING. When i lived in North Yorkshire, we had a tiny Public Library where Every Week, Nigel would come and read stories to the Pre-Schoolers, with the Look of a Man Clinging to the Crow's Nest of a Storm-Tossed Boat who knows that the Sharks are hungry. Gone. When Joyce was little, in Wales, we would trot round twice a month after Toddlers to catch the Book Bus, and hand over our tickets to a Morose man in a Paisley Shirt whose Life Work of Providing Catherine Cookson to the members of the Evergreen Club for Retired Persons had left him a little Low- Strung. Gone. And now this. Well, let it be their Epigram, Gove, Osborne, Clegg, Cameron, Cable et al: the Wise Men come to visit the Newborn Child, brought into this World as Gift for all Mankind, dressed in their finery, with their Wealth and their Position and their Privilege. And they look down at the Promise of a Life, and give it the Empty Bag that is Conservative Greed and Liberal Democrat Self-Interest. Then take the bag back.

Crackers

It would be fair to say that Town is a little empty this morning, No Doubt due to the Completely Clear roads and Cloud-Free skies. Likewise all the schools are Shut, on the thinking that the kids were only going to be having Fun today anyway and that this is the UK so this can safely be postponed until they are old enough to have sex. Or we vote the Tories out. Boots actually have a sign on the Automatic Doors saying 'Closed due to staff shortages, prescriptions only'. Though if there are enough staff for one in the Dispensary and one on Special Door- and- Frowning- at- the- Public- Duty, surely they could just let me in for my shampoo if I promise only to require one checkout at once. In the Co-op they have been so Client-Free that Fag-Counter Lady is clearly quite jealous of Till Girl, interacting with some one other than Aled Jones or Slade, and tries to join in the conversation as we walk away. When i plough into the same 'Wet Floor Warning' as i did on the way in, the Atmosphere of Joyful Bonhomie turns a bit Titanic. For various reasons, headed up by my having forgotten to book a Christmas week Tesco Slot in March, i am shopping with the Ex-Mr Alison, with whom i will also be spending the big day, At My Parents. We decide i will need Gin, and he will need Port. At some point we realise we have not bought presents for one another. We drive to the Local Garden Centre where last year the Talking Reindeer had such a profound effect on Three and Joyce that for months they would not go back, in case 'the Goat Head starts singing again.' The lads clearing the Car Park have been alone at Ice Station Zebra for so long that when i ask if it is open, they look confused, and a bit upset, like when Nick Clegg is asked why Vince Cable is in the Naughty Corner for Telling the Truth. The women inside are Delighted to See Real People, and when we actually approach the counter with purchases, they offer to Gift Wrap it.  'Is it for you, or a present?' 'Erm,' Protocol escapes me for a change. Also Tact: 'actually, we've split up but he has to buy me a gift for Christmas Day or my mother will be upset. I'll pay, then he can get himself a Coffee Maker later.' She pauses, and looks at us, then says, decisively: 'I'll put it in some Bubble-Wrap, to be on the Safe Side.'

out above the village, December 19

white flecked with brown the spray of grit
ground rising with the snow
where summer went in spray and arch of flower clothed
i go walking into winter
branch and bow below

the fields fall along the roadside
down and banking to the woods where trees
are inked against the swell
i remember flutters in the sky pale-winged or common blue
splashed the tinge of leaves

the flint inlaid under the skin
the flesh will melt to bone
yet church bells turn me on the hill and call and call and call
i am come to colour and the water welled of stone
this is no flash of inkling, but a soul

Packet Goods.

There's a Cup-a-Soup in the Fridge. In the packet, yes. Not in a Mug. That would be Just Weird. 'Dad. There's a Cup-a-Soup in your Fridge.' 'Yes, I wondered about that.' 'Right.' To my Brother: 'There's a Cup-a-Soup in the Fridge.' 'Yeah- what's all that about then?' 'Um.' How Irritated would my mother be if i were to itemize her Larder, i wonder. In the interests of Science. And this Blog. Seven (7 ) varieties of Cup-a-Soup, no, me neither: Canned Tomato Section (in-date sub-division); Emergency Chinese Curry Bank; a selection of unidentifiable Foreign Edibles Bought during a terrifying Smash and Grab in Oswestry Value Mart  (slogan: 'there's a reason it's so cheap'); 3 tins of condensed milk-
'Evaporated.' 'Sorry? 'It's evaporated milk. i may need to make a quiche, and i would require 2 tins of evaporated milk.' 'But you have 3.' 'Well, there's an extra.' Of Everything. 
My brother is emptying the cupboards of his flat, in preparation for moving out. 'Do you think mum would hear me, if i got up at six in the morning and made a list of...' (pause). 'There's a lot of Sauces in here.' 'A Lot? Not really A Lot.' 'i have filled this Whole Box. ' 'It's not All Sauce.' 'No. Some of it is Spam. You like Spam then.' 'No, i can't stand it.' Silence. 'There are Four Tins.' 'They haven't been opened though, have they?' 'Woaah'. 'What?' 'i opened the Fridge.' Defensively: 'I haven't been here for a while.' ' i need a bin bag- this is a pickled..? penis?' 'Not the pickles!' 'My mistake, it's Hot Dog Sausages. sort of.'
'Did you clear the food out then?' 'Yes. i hope you like spam.' Dad: 'No neither me or your brother can stand it.' Mum: 'We can give it to the birds, instead of lard.' (Disbelievingly): 'You can't feed a bird Spam. Oh, and, Mum?' 'Yes?' 'Why is there a Cup-a-Soup in your Fridge?' 'A what?' Walks to fridge. Picks up sachet. Frown. Puts back in box.

War of the Words.

The Parish Magazine has arrived. Late. i was not actually 'anxious' about this, though i am touched by the fulsomeness of the apology nonetheless. Also the explanation regarding the trouble with the photocopier, and effects of the Cold Snap on the Order. My favourite ever edition is still last year's Parable of the Muddy Field- where it became as hard to go back as go o'er: a LOT like life. However the image of Jesus as a Party-Loving Kind of Guy- i seem to have made him into Cliff Richard somehow- is a Keeper. Working a computer is clearly the Province of the Godly in Guilsfield, though, as Spotlight still comes Hot From the Typewriter. Better Still, would be a Bander Machine- if, for some Unfathomable Reason, you ever have to read Spotlight, you will definitely want to Inhale. There is a Quarterly Poem in Spotlight, Of the kind that makes you think it's not right, To put out in verse, Things that rhyme but don't scan or worse, Are about people's pets which is Spite (ful). There is also the Relentlessly Scintillating News Bulletins of such Village Hotbeds as Old School Committee, and Evergreen Club for the Retired Person.  If we move Higher Up, to the Giddy Echelons of The County Times we will see that this is not a Formatting Issue, but one of Locality, for this is also a Product of Half-Arsedry. Indeed it is renowned for it, to the degree that ex- residents of this area have it sent on to them, even overseas, when they are Fatigued by Photos of people With Heads. Daily Mail Letters pale beside the Correspondence Section of the CT: if Aliens ever alight on Our World and this chances to be their Point of Contact, they will proceed amongst us In Bafflement. They'll be especially unnerved by our surprise as they wander through the streets, seeing as So Very Many Folk in Powys have already Sighted them in their Hot Air Balloons and Tree-Shaped Spaceships. They will also be expecting Very Much More Rage about Dog Crap. Now, i wonder if you could pass me the scissors: there is a very interesting article here about Gritting Bins, which i would very much like to Paste into my Scrapbook.

december poem

this is my heart

here

and this is its case

a curve of
spine and skin
breast hips ribs thighs the carvings on the lid
only patterns the inscription of
another hidden and revealed past


present
 

Wonderland

There is a point, in Through the Looking Glass, where one senses Carroll could throw Anything at Alice, (Eggs in Cravats, Pig-Babies, Terrible Verse) and she would shrug and start texting her Homies about Flashmobbing  Prescott's next Public Faux-Pas armed with flamingos and placards written in white paint, no red paint, no, white. Well, that's the Electorate of This Country now. I must have read 5 Articles in the last week or so, where the Grown-Ups shake their heads sadly at the Raggle-Taggle Student Protesters Turning Up day after day to express their Outrage over the Attacks on their Future. It IS Silly that they keep Banging on about Cuts and Unfairness, when it's All Sorted Out now, and the Poor and Vulnerable are no longer getting a Total Screwing in the Finger in the Dam Budget.  Sorry? It's not 'fixed'? It's Still a Daily Sicking Up of  Ill-Judged  Bullying informed by Dismissive Class Ignorance and Revulsion For Weakness or Need? Shall i explain exactly how successful my 'Tidy Your Room or there's No Pocket Money until You Do' Clamp Down has been? Put it this way, Doc has no need to look elsewhere for power for the Dolorean. Ever. But the same approach is Definitely going to work with Heroin Addicts because they're a much more Persuasive, Soft-Living Crowd. If it rains, you put your umbrella and mutter a bit. If it pours, you Pile Invective on the Weather Reporters for telling you to buy a Barbeque and then expecting you to turn it into a Houseboat at the last minute. Well, this is the Flood, this is Endless, Sickening, Stomach Turning Waves of Edicts and Proclamations bent on washing away the NHS, the Social Welfare System, and the Precept of Equal Expectation Education. And you've picked up an Egg Cup to start Bailing Out and put it down again, because you're overwhelmed. Your Only Hope now is fetch your best Helena Bonham-Carter Dressing up Clothes, dust off your DMs and Join the Kids. Or you may as well start filling your pockets with stones.

Cold Comfort

It has now been Winter For Ever. The Double Double Daylight Saving Scheme (as we have now elected to call it after a lengthy chat with the Scots over a Yard of Whiskey, during which it was also decided that if the people of Kent continued to harp on about being only 25 minutes from Another Time Zone, they should be Sliced Off from the mainland and made to paddle their county to France and see if they will be Let In 'we bring you Oast Houses, and Maidstone, Birthplace of McKenzie Crook...') is in place. It has been adopted solely to give us time to Dress and Undress at the beginning and end of the day. Every one North of Manchester is effectively Disenfranchised until it Warms Up, surely. The Southerners will be rushing through Bills banning Northumbrian Dancing and Shortbread. Amongst my  Favourite Horror of the Freeze Stories was Newcastle Council 'reminding drinkers to put a coat on.' What's the Moral Stance on Ethnic Cleansing by Omission of the Cracking Obvious? Also, the parents whose kids were 'stranded' at school- i've tried, they weren't having any of it- after they dropped them off, 'turned their cars around as the weather worsened, and then discovered They Were Stuck.' Even allowing for the drop-off run to be, say, from here to Biddulph and to involve a Ferry navigated by a Strange Beardy Guy in a Rusty Cloak, i think there's a  Notable level of Stupidity on display here. Perhaps the snow had got clumped coming out of the cloud and all fell in a Heap, like Bad Custard. Drawing on the Wide Pool of Figures available to me, from the Accidents and Injuries that have befallen my own Hapless Children, people are in less Danger from Frost than from Kitchen Utensils. Especially Ladles. Beware the Ladle. Not only is it capable of Inflicting Damage on a Small Chap, should he fall on it, Face-First, but then you have to explain the Crescent Shaped Bruise to others, for weeks and weeks. Often you also have to Explain A Ladle. Right, i can type No More, my fingers will freeze to the Keyboard.  There will be nothing left for it, then, but to Submit Me as an Installation to the Turner Prize Committee: 'AP, Silenced At Last.'

hairdresser

'how are you George? not cycling weather, is it?' 'very much not. i am better now i have bought Appropriate Clothing. i don't like wearing it though.' 'not a fan of the vest then? probably not afraid of unwashed salad, either?' 'no. i confess i did panic in Sainsbury's yesterday and buy Bovril.' 'that is a worry.' 'i have taken to obsessively tuning in to Weather stations.' 'be careful with the radio, George. whenever i get in a car with my dad, Radio 4 skip straight to a documentary about sex.' 'every time?' 'unfailingly. i thought i was safe yesterday, when they began to talk about pandas, but it went directly to panda sex, and there we were again.' 'pandas are rubbish, aren't they.' 'totally so. they only get away with it because they are cute. there are doubtless, hundreds of sexually inadequate Lizard Species out there, numbers declining...' 'cockroaches, showing off, desperate for a bit of attention.' 'no one wants to fellate a cockroach or a lizard, that's the nub of it. turns out, that pandas are especially prone to having twins. but will only bring up one of them.' 'nah, i don't like the look of the second one?' 'yeah, basically. any way, pandas have one on one keepers because they are so coddled, and what they've tried, is whisking one precious panda baby away for a couple of hours,then swapping it back and so forth.' ' really? what, he pops in, disguised as a bush..' 'yeah, panda up his jumper..' 'look over there, it's a balloon..' 'but if this is like the panda's best Human Mate, i reckon the panda catches on at some point. he's acting a bit weird today. and how long does this go on for? till the little chaps are 24?' 'hang on a minute, there's two of you- are you staying for the Winter Show by the way?' ' what will it comprise, George?' 'well, about six floats pulled by tractors, to be honest.' 'Christmas Themed?' 'maybe- apart from one lot who always come as Clubbers. i've made a bit of a mistake there, actually.' 'in what way?' 'well, i had this american woman here, yesterday, and i told her about the parade, as i thought, quite realistically, but by the time she joined her group she was announcing a Pageant, and i was a bit panicky, like no, no, not Gay pride.' 'lower your expectations?' 'it seemed wrong to say it, but, yes.' ' it looks lovely, that's your tip, thank you so much. and if any one asks after the cheerleaders and ticker-tape.?' 'don't, don't. she might be out there now, crying. take care, bye now.'

Doing it for the Kids.

They have changed the Precept of the National Lottery. Handing over a bunch of your Hard-Earned that you could have spent on Fags and Justin Bieber Print Pillow Slips in the hope of being given a Whole Heap back under the scheme hereby known as Buckley's, is No More. Instead, what you will now be required To Do (don't panic, it still isn't Get a Job and Save up for the Things you Want) is to root around in the back of the dry Goods cupboard for Superfluous Pasta and Tinned Items, which you will hand to our representative, grudgingly, and then pay for the chance to win them back. Not you, Mother, that is Out of Date. You can't just stick a draw ticket on last year's unwanted Christmas Body Butter, i'm afraid, because the Magic doesn't Happen unless you are in a School Hall, surrounded by Hysterical Primary- Age Kids, and Trying Not to catch the eye of the woman on the Home-Made Card Stall, because she might cry. Have a Cup of Tea and a 'free' cake. Free like 'Free Schools', yes. You made that cake and now you've just paid for it, but you aren't a Penny better off.  Just as in Cameron's Big Society, how delightfully ironic. There's no point trying to escape- or Not To Arrive, for that matter: your Six Year-Old has made a Bird Feeder out of a Yoghurt Pot and a quart of Pork Scratchings and written her Name on it in Biro and now you have to find it and buy it or she'll be snotty when she sees Santa. Talking of which, Start Queuing. Santa IS free- Real Free, like, um,  National Lottery Grants. The Photo will cost you a quid though- you can't use your own i'm afraid, you have to have a form for that.  There, now every one is arguing because they each want one another's Gifts. You can go home now, see you next year- ooo a ticket with a 5 on the end, Pickled Herring, you're a Winner!

There Be Dragons

i demand that We get the World Cup. It would be Ace, Better in fact, it would be a Total Fucking Shambles. i'm not English, you understand, i'm Welsh. i do know that this is the Tippety-Toppety End of Professional Sport, yes- nothing else would distract David Beckham from his Real Job of flogging Manscara to the Japanese in order to try and win over Sepp Blatter with his Collection of Comedy Tattoos. And i do realise that the Welsh never qualify- not a Disadvantage, look how the Jolly Maltese love Eurovision. You're imagining the Cream of the Soccer Elite swanking their Shiny Ladies afore a Hello-Courting Series of London Landmarks, aren't you? Dull, ITV-Titillating Corporate Tedium.   Especially compared to my proposal, which is to hold the Whole Shebang on Welshpool Show Ground, up past Morrisons, take a right, park up on the top of the field . Catering:  Spar, mainly bagettes; drinks later in the Angel (unless it's shut down again, as during the entire chart career of Nik Kershaw );plastic glasses only; last one into Moltos, formerly Images, has to drink the Bitter . Sporting Village: tough, spread between Hidden Valley Caravan Park and Lee Bock's mum's settee probably. Wags will have to bunk down at the Royal Oak, where there are at least Soap Dispensers in the Ladies, and, occasionally, Soap. Sponsorship split between Mike the Gas and Dick the Milk (Wayne Rooney only- oh YOU wouldn't have resisted). If the Poppettes need Freebies, there's always that maroon lingerie display that's been startling passers-by from the display window of Janeeva for the last 18 months. If we can make the Booze Tent a Drive-Thru,  i'm pretty sure we can bring off an opening ceremony of Agricultural Implements and Vehicles unmatchable elsewhere in Powys.  O go on, it'll be a laugh- remember how much all that Pro-Plus and Redbull cost you during the last World Cup. Lembit isn't coming, no.  I promise on His Life. Excellent,  I'll book the Bouncy Castle. See you there.