'How Green Is My Valley?' was the predictably cliched title of one of BBC Wales's programmes in the Real Valleys season.
   'How Real Is My Valley?' might have been more apt, since the two presenters chosen to debate the state and fate of y cymoedd were Jonathan Adams from Caerleon (architect of the Millennium Centre) and Prof. Dai Smith, historian, writer and Chair of the Arts Council of Wales, who has long lived on Barry Island, though is a 'bachgen bach o Bontypridd erioed, erioed.'
   The controversial starting-point of this discourse was Adams's theory that up to 250,000 people would need to be 'moved' from the Valleys (especially the Heads) and into the cities ( or 'city regions' as they are now termed).
   Adams's reinforced his argument by showing us what has already happened in two north Wales communities.
   He showed us the former slate-mining community of Treforus - now an Ozymandias ruin - as a warning and then a huge former slate mine tourist trap with wires and underground trampolines.
   Adams believes tourism is the way forward and turning hubs of population like Merthyr into market towns like.....well, Caerleon.
   I was expecting him to suggest that Merthyr FC's pitch should be dug up and the Roman remains there opened to the public at a price.
   There are serious problems with this contentious vision.
   How are you going to persuade at least 100,00 people to up sticks and move to Cardiff when property prices there are nearly double those in the Valleys? Moreover, there aren't even jobs to accommodate those kind of numbers, even apart from the dictatorial actions required.
   The notion that we aren't already embracing the 'new tourism ' is absurd, with a large Climbing Centre and Mountain Bike tracks close to Merthyr.
   These can create employment, but hardly enough to compensate for the thousands of jobs lost when works, mines and factories have been closed.
   To Adams and his supporters the Valleys are treated with too much sentimentality and are a 'predicament' rather than place.
   Dai Smith found all this infuriating and argued forcefully that neo-liberalism  had failed the Valleys.
   He used ex-Burberry workers and a project called Valley Kids to show how the co-operative spirit still existed and creative artists like writer Rachel Tresize and photographer Paul Cabuts to show how they drew on the unique people and places for inspiration.
   The problem with Smith's theory is that he made a sentimental journey back to his past.
   He was filmed chanting alongside Ponty rugby fans, who would never be sucked into the city to support Cardiff Blues.
   This, to Dai, was a symbol of Valleys camaraderie and resilience.
   Yet, he used stereotypes to reinforce his views.
   The male rugby fan may be a part of the present, but most people are just as likely to support football teams and there are many families who have moved here to get away from city life: a middle class only touched upon by Tresize.
  'We need a poet's answer!' declared Dai.
   He never asked one, so I'm providing mine.
   Although I find Adams's blueprint frightening, I did see some glimmer when he stressed the need for 'a sense of hope'.
   The most telling comment came from one of the ex-Burberry workers, when she stated that 'the Government needs to fetch some work up here for the kids.'
   Prof. Smith nodded and agreed.
   However,  what she said perfectly illustrated our enduring colonial mentality, which has made dependence so integral to our lives.
   While Smith propounds the case against neo-liberalism from an Old Labour perspective , he totally fails to analyse our history as a neo-colonial one.
   In this respect I think of the Labour MP for Ceredigion at the time of the 1979 Referendum. Elystan Morgan was, with Newport's Paul Flynn completely isolated within the Labour Party in Wales as a strong advocate for their own policy of devolution.
   Devastated by the 'No' vote he condemned the Welsh people for their inferiority complex.
  He was duly ostracized.
  He was also absolutely right.
  With the ensuing 'Yes' vote and our own Assembly that 'inferiority complex' has been gradually denuded and replaced by a growing confidence, indicated in the Arts and especially in rock and folk music.
   Yet it remains, because we still expect so much to be done for us.
   Despite the inspirational example of the Tower Colliery workers, we're conditioned to wait for the 'powers that be' to provide.
   Prof Smith , with his Old Labour loyalties, is as much part of the problem as the aloof planning of Jonathan Adams.
   This dependence comes from being abandoned when our raw materials and cheap labour were no longer needed.
   It comes from our subservience to a foreign monarchy and, of course, from the Thatcherite mentality which has destroyed society and left the individual to cope on their own.
  But crucially, it comes as well from the very Labour Party which Smith sees as a solution( though he didn't take a party line on the programme, it must be emphasized).
   Apart from totally embracing neo-liberalism and giving the bankers free rein, they now carry out and support austerity measures just as the ConDems do.
   Their running of this country - from Senedd to Council - represents their adherence to Stalinist attitudes, based on 'We know what's good for you' ,rather than ' You decide and we'll support you'.
  To my mind, the future of the Valleys lies neither with Adams's  totalitarian vision or Smith's harking back to a past that was full of union and rebellion, but also of a macho and chapel-narrow society. 
   We must build our own industries producing sustainable goods and base them largely on crafts and high technology. Though communications must be improved, a hi-tech future doesn't need to relocate to any city.
   Above all, we need a political solution which rids us of this neo-colonial situation once and for all ; we need control of our own lives in every institution, from school to factory.
   Smith is right when he says we are 'slaves of capitalism'. But as misguided as Adams in his analysis.
   We need encouragement for co-operatives to be set up and a Welsh  bank owned by the nation which can support them.
   We are slaves to more than capitalism. We are slaves to an 'Ich Dien' ( I Serve) tradition, worn on every Welsh rugby shirt. 




                           ABANDON THE VALLEYS


Let's all abandon the Valleys
so they can turn them into an industrial museum,
a theme park of past glories


they could drown every one
and it would make Tryweryn
seem a piddling puddle by comparison


they could leave it to the animals,
bring back the wolves and wild cats
and let the adventure- tourists loose


they could cultivate market towns
with lots of cutsy craft shops,
places peopled only by Groggs


let's abandon the Valleys,
they've outgrown their uses ;
let opencast prevail without protest


let all those wasted Valleys folk
move coastward to the cities ;
it'll be like one long Saturday


let's all abandon the Valleys
to the march of conifers and SAS training courses,
shift every building to St. Fagan's.



     

   Musical taste is such a personal thing and everyone thinks there's is the definitive one.
   I just wish that some people would open their ears to different sounds.
   I don't think it's a problem with age either.
   Young people can be just as fixed in their own grooves.
   As someone with eclectic tastes, I like to think I'm willing to embrace anything, from classical to jazz to folk.
   I recently made the mistake of sending an old friend Fflur Dafydd's 2009 cd ' Byd Bach.'
   I've seen her perform live, but came across one track from this album, 'Aberaeron', on Facebook and followed it up with looking at others on You Tube (many have the translations, which is helpful). I downloaded the album and wasn't disappointed.
   In fact, it's one of the best ever Welsh language albums.
   My enthusiasm was rather undermined by the friend's reaction - 'Thanks...but give it to someone else. I can't understand Welsh and it's not my kind of music.' 
   And this from someone who requested I send them Huw M.'s last album!
   A number of both friends and relatives do share my catholic tastes, but this person isn't one!
   The greatest influence on my discovery of sounds wasn't John Peel or even the Whistle Test, but my good friend Andrew Bartz.
   Andrew has introduced me to so many truly remarkable recording artists as well as great individual songs over the years ; I owe him so much.
   Two of the ones who really stand out are John Cale and Tom Russell, though I have a feeling the first Thea Gilmore I ever listened to was also on one of his many tapes.
   Since then I have managed to collect and savour most of the albums by these amazing singer-songwriters, a journey begun by those brown reels and celebrated by a poem in my new book 'Shedding Paper Skin' called 'From East and West' ( a tribute to the Bartzman).
   Each of his tapes would have imaginative and often hilarious titles and each would contain an astonishing diversity of songs, from Aboriginal band Yothu Yindi to the blues of Link Wray.
   Andrew could hire himself out as an album titler if such a role existed, because these tapes had such memorable titles , like 'Formula One Elastic and a Bag Full of Rats', 'File Under Unwanted' and ' The Saga of the Psychotic Chair'.
   Which brings me back to opening ears......
   It's vital not to dismiss any genre of music.
   To say you're averse to Funk and then ignore Dr. John is to miss so much.
   Above all, while I can only celebrate the emerging musical talent of Cymru ( and Merthyr, in particular), I have an awful feeling that a lot of these musicians aren't paying enough attention to the very best lyricists.
   Discussing this recently with fellow Red Poet Al Jones, his suggestions were pertinent.
   What Al called for was a tv series of masterclasses, where individual singer-songwriters would talk about their craft and demonstrate it through songs.
   Just imagine a showcase like this for the likes of Dylan, Waits, Thea Gilmore, Karine Polwart, Meic Stevens and so on.
   At present ( with few exceptions like Kate Tempest) all lyrics are beginning to sound the same.....like a Bullingdon Club of pop, divorced from the realities of society.
  Maybe such a series could help make that important connection with the truly great wordsmiths, many of whom ( such as Tom Russell) remain relatively unknown.
   It might just bring home how much words matter and how it's possible to be poetic in song without being too hard to decipher.
   With Dafydd's 'Byd Bach' I can, as a learner, just about appreciate the intensity and meanings of her songs, where the interrelationships between place and people are so strong.
   But language shouldn't  be a barrier.
   For a long time we have embraced the likes of Youssou N'Dour, so why should Cymraeg be any different?
   Even if you aren't a fan of it's jazz-pop, there are tracks on the album such as 'Penrhiwllan' and 'Llwybrau' which are closer to folk and which cannot fail to move even the most sceptical listener.
   Even without the benefit of Mr Bartz's infamous reels, I'll still be trying to sniff out new sounds.

   This poem couldn't have been written without the influences of Kevin Coyne  and earlier Dylan songs.....

                                    
                                     FAIRWOOD  DRIVE


The woman in the armchair's screaming
sitting up but buried alive


and they say there's somewhere for you
down on Fairwood Drive


another's arms are flailing
her mouth is catching flies


they tell you it'll all be fine
when you get to Fairwood Drive


the tv's always blaring
but nobody listens to its lies


all that you can think about
is moving to Fairwood Drive


you jump at every loud noise
you need to paint to survive


there is light and high room
waiting for you on Fairwood Drive


visitors bring you fruit and music
but you only want keys to outside


you wonder if you'll ever get
to that place on Fairwood Drive.

   
   

   I thoroughly enjoyed the first episode of the new comedy drama series 'Meet the UKIPers'.
   Quite how it's going to develop is a mystery though, as already many of the main characters seem to have written themselves out of it.
   It was one of the funniest programmes I've seen for a while.....well, along with 'Fortitude' a Nordic noir murder thriller set on a fictitious island where all the Nordic natives conveniently speak English and the real villain is a perfectly preserved Woolly Mammoth dug up out of the snow.
   The UKIPers could easily be renamed The Clangers , as they proceeded to drop them, in typical fashion, from the off.
   One candidate was caught describing  a local food van owner as 'A ting tong from somewhere...' Surely an echo of Bloom's 'Bongo-bongo Land' comment?
   The character playing Nigel Farage bore an uncanny likeness to the real Barage Balloon himself, except that he hardly raised a pint and only once let off one of his characteristic grins.
   His role in this comedy was peripheral anyway and when he was due to visit a town in the area where he's due to stand for election, UKIP fooled the local Labour Party by sending in one of his minions to stand around with purple rosette and take all the flak.
   Flak he certainly took, as a story had hit the national press originating from a local twitter account.
   A survey in London about UKIP's chances in the General Election had been conducted outside Westminster Abbey.
   Unfortunately, this local had mistaken the all-hallowed-and-oh-so-English building for a mosque and tweeted sarcastically about that.
   Labour had a field day, but never got near the beloved Barage.
   You couldn't make it up.....except that fiction is stranger than truth, as they don't say.
   The comedy centred on a UKIP couple : earnest, genuine and completely insane, who ran a hotel for dogs in this fading seaside town.
   The entire local branch of the party used the dog hotel to drop off their dogs and bitches.
   As well as being over-run by very English-looking spaniels , the couple also housed hundreds of clowns : each one remarkably resembling the very UKIP candidates who later gathered to listen to their leader.
   The couple found these clowns very amusing and, in a Royston Vasey kind of way, they were.
   As the drama unfolded, the husband (long grey hair and apathetic as a pupil force-fed Shakespeare) was asked to stand for the local Council.
   He wore a tie for the first time in years and looked strangled as his wife put it on for him. He attended the selection meeting and mumbled that he 'wanted to do something' ( sounding like he meant 'jump off a nearby pier').
   To the delight of his Press Officer wife, he was instantly accepted. He only attended the Barage Bash for the beer!
   Apart from the expressive dogs, the Press Officer was the star of the programme.
   In her address to candidates she threatened to dig her stilettos into anyone who dropped a clanger.
   Unfortunately she wasn't wearing them when one local UKIP Councillor visited the dog hotel to pick up her spaniels.
   There were a series of gaffes , of course : when the ex-National Front man leading Barage's campaign told radio reporters to 'Eff off!' and another candidate claimed that the two main parties had 'created racism'.
   But these were minor compared to Rozanne ( with a 'z', as in Nazi).
   She couldn't be stilettoed as she sat in the dogs' hotel describing her aversion  to all 'Nigroes'.....their curly hair, shiny skin, big lips.
   She eventually had to resign, but protested loudly as others in the party who had talked about 'poofters' and 'chinks' still remained in the fold.
   Ultimately, this comedy is all about a party in self-destructive mode, as even the Press Officer resigned in disgust with Rozanne and her reluctant hubby gave up his political ambitions to have two knee operations.  
   The UKIP foot-soldiers came over as a dysfunctional Dad's Army : overwhelmingly white, middle-class and aging.
   I'm not sure how this comedy drama can proceed.
   Perhaps the Barage lookalike will return to the area and recruit only the dogs?
   Perhaps the focus will turn to Heale, the former Nazi and Tory Party member, who reminded everyone that he'd never been in the SS, in front of a large photo of Mrs Windsor? 
   For a comedy drama it all seemed amazingly realistic.
   Funny that, isn't it?




                        THE UKIP DOGS' HOTEL




In the UKIP dogs' hotel
all the breeds are pedigree British
from spaniels to Queen-love corgis.


A Councillor sits and pares long, purple nails,
explaining how she's never a racist :
' It's only the Nigroes!', she rails.


'It's their curly hair and white teeth,
those flared nostrils and bulbous lips
and that incredibly shiny black skin.


Something must've happened when I was young.
I must've blanked it out since then.
I couldn't even sit next to one!'


Her two spaniels cocked their ears
and boggled eyes at her description.
The Press Officer forgot to put stilettos on.


Every wall and shelf packed with clowns :
Hamilton, Farage, Gill and Bloom,
red lips and stary eyes, ruddy round noses.


'Free speech,' she adds, filing and sharpening,
'is what I joined this party for.'
The Press Officer harries her to the door.