Poet Patrick Jones , with his band the Quarks
' I'd be fine leaving the whole thing alone ; the trouble is it won't leave me alone. Last week Harry & Meghan showed up in my kids' book bags - they'd been invited by their schools to celebrate the wedding by wearing red, white and blue or buying cupcakes or both.
This is propaganda through tasty pastry.' - Gary Younge, Guardian
I was recently insulted online by a staunch Corbynite identifying me as a 'Guardian reader'. I am not ashamed to say that I enjoy columnists like Younge (quoted above), Monbiot, Owen Jones ( also a Corbynite, of course) and Aditya Chakrabortty to name just a few.
Younge's reluctant republican article was in last Saturday's paper and showed how he could be angered by fanatical propaganda in Britain akin to N. Korean levels of brain-washing.
The Hewitt Bash dominated the media despite massacres in Gaza and the USA and there was a ludicrous presumption that all 'the nation' were enthralled by it.
There were virtually no alternative viewpoints proffered, and the only dissent I saw came from singer Pauline Black of the band The Selecter, who voiced her antipathy in no uncertain terms.
Not even Graham Smith of Republic was wheeled out as he usually is, to suggest it's all down to a one-man show!
To me, the assumption this has anything to do with the history of my nation, Cymru, is an insult.
The only relevance is to expose divisions in society, as I walked through Cardiff then Newport that day and saw many people ( mostly quite young) whose only homes were doorways of closed-down shops not mansions or palaces, cast off by a callous system.
In Newport one doorway consisted entirely of a blue tent and dog's bowl and many sheets of cardboard marked patches ; so many begged for small change.
It was pertinent that one of the few republican events organised on the day of Hewitt's betrothal should be at Le Pub, a well-known Newport music venue and vegan/ veggie pub.
This was organised by Patrick Jones, long-time Red Poet, to raise money for local food-banks alongside musicians against homelessness.
Patrick had been there when Carlo ( Charles Windsor) opened Redhouse in Merthyr, once so important to that great republican Keir Hardie ( our then Labour Council had no sense of the irony!).
We greeted Carlo with megaphone poems after the police told us ' No swearing, or we'll arrest you!'
I got away with it by doing 'The Fracking Crown Estate!', but as soon as he saw Carlo, Patrick yelled out 'You fuckin cunt!' He got away with it.
Day of the wedding I suffered dreadful food poisoning ( maybe a dodgy wrap in the Diff) and a speeding bus almost ran me down.......are there no lengths that Special Branch go to?
It's revealing to quote Younge again, who explains that a recent poll said 46 % were 'indifferent' to the whole thing, while 29% were 'happy'; suggesting a great deal of the hype was media concocted.
Patrick's 'Royal Bedding' event was a welcome alternative at a great venue.
He opened the evening with his band the Quarks, comprising son Ethan on guitar and Dean Meyrick drums : heavy and aggressive music perfectly complementing Jones's forceful, rebellious verse.
His next cd should be excellent judging by this set.
I followed next and nobody danced to my political and dialect poems, though I did a blast on the trusty mouth-harp and someone called out 'Pretty Vacant'.
( I couldn't help reflecting on the fact that the Pistols had won Young Businessmen of the Year awards, even as 'God Save the Queen' was so popular).
Most of all, I enjoyed reading a poem called 'Ballad of Mahmoud Sarsak' as I'd earlier attended a rally in Cardiff to demonstrate solidarity with Palestine. The poem shows how an apartheid exists in Israel and I compare the footballer Mahmoud with Bobby Sands, both struggling for political status, both of whom went on hunger strike.
Next up was singer-songwriter Selena In The Chapel, whose fine voice wove patterns over and around us and served a contrast to Rick Parfitt, once of 60 Foot Dolls and still a legend in the Port.
Rick wowed the audience just as the Dolls had done in the 1990s.
Final act was the amazing Rufus Mufasa, based in Ponty but originally from Ammanford, with a rapper buddy.
What I liked about her music was it's refusal to be classified.....dub-rap-soul- r n b and more......and her voice , so full of emotion.
These were songs / poems straight from the same streets I'd walked through that day.
Younge dubbed that wedding ' a cross between Red Nose Day and the Eurovision Song Contest' .
Patrick's republican alternative raised a fair amount for food-banks and the homeless of Newport, and was an event packed with the power of poetry and song.
I was delighted to be part of it, even though I nearly had my skull smashed to smithereens afterwards on the pavement.
As we left I stood next to a bouncer and we heard a resounding crash, frighteningly close! A large pot lay broken, its base like a thick, jagged missile.
We both looked up at the stories above Le Pub. Darkness and no open windows or sign of life......pretty vacant, in fact.
It had been a day of dichotomies : of Palestinian flags waving outside Nye Bevan's statue against Union Jack bunting on a few shops and pubs ; of sad and desperate homeless against the opulence and insistent Brutishness of Windsor ; of vacuous pomp against passionate poetry.
( This is a poem I wrote especially for that event........Diolch i Patrick a phawb eraill!)
Markle’s Wedding Dress
In amongst the sparkle
And thousands
The diamonds and gloss
Of Meghan Markle’s wedding dress
Are hanging
The plastic shrouds
Of burnt cladding –
Each hole screaming out
For a person lost –
No matter how many layers
She wears to cover it up
Its black mourning
Glowers through –
It weighs her down
As she walks the aisle
A burden she cannot dismiss –
Not all the gold and silver
Can suffocate and smother
Those shapes, lettering
Of terror and distress.
This is propaganda through tasty pastry.' - Gary Younge, Guardian
I was recently insulted online by a staunch Corbynite identifying me as a 'Guardian reader'. I am not ashamed to say that I enjoy columnists like Younge (quoted above), Monbiot, Owen Jones ( also a Corbynite, of course) and Aditya Chakrabortty to name just a few.
Younge's reluctant republican article was in last Saturday's paper and showed how he could be angered by fanatical propaganda in Britain akin to N. Korean levels of brain-washing.
The Hewitt Bash dominated the media despite massacres in Gaza and the USA and there was a ludicrous presumption that all 'the nation' were enthralled by it.
There were virtually no alternative viewpoints proffered, and the only dissent I saw came from singer Pauline Black of the band The Selecter, who voiced her antipathy in no uncertain terms.
Not even Graham Smith of Republic was wheeled out as he usually is, to suggest it's all down to a one-man show!
To me, the assumption this has anything to do with the history of my nation, Cymru, is an insult.
The only relevance is to expose divisions in society, as I walked through Cardiff then Newport that day and saw many people ( mostly quite young) whose only homes were doorways of closed-down shops not mansions or palaces, cast off by a callous system.
In Newport one doorway consisted entirely of a blue tent and dog's bowl and many sheets of cardboard marked patches ; so many begged for small change.
It was pertinent that one of the few republican events organised on the day of Hewitt's betrothal should be at Le Pub, a well-known Newport music venue and vegan/ veggie pub.
This was organised by Patrick Jones, long-time Red Poet, to raise money for local food-banks alongside musicians against homelessness.
Patrick had been there when Carlo ( Charles Windsor) opened Redhouse in Merthyr, once so important to that great republican Keir Hardie ( our then Labour Council had no sense of the irony!).
We greeted Carlo with megaphone poems after the police told us ' No swearing, or we'll arrest you!'
I got away with it by doing 'The Fracking Crown Estate!', but as soon as he saw Carlo, Patrick yelled out 'You fuckin cunt!' He got away with it.
Day of the wedding I suffered dreadful food poisoning ( maybe a dodgy wrap in the Diff) and a speeding bus almost ran me down.......are there no lengths that Special Branch go to?
It's revealing to quote Younge again, who explains that a recent poll said 46 % were 'indifferent' to the whole thing, while 29% were 'happy'; suggesting a great deal of the hype was media concocted.
Patrick's 'Royal Bedding' event was a welcome alternative at a great venue.
He opened the evening with his band the Quarks, comprising son Ethan on guitar and Dean Meyrick drums : heavy and aggressive music perfectly complementing Jones's forceful, rebellious verse.
His next cd should be excellent judging by this set.
I followed next and nobody danced to my political and dialect poems, though I did a blast on the trusty mouth-harp and someone called out 'Pretty Vacant'.
( I couldn't help reflecting on the fact that the Pistols had won Young Businessmen of the Year awards, even as 'God Save the Queen' was so popular).
Most of all, I enjoyed reading a poem called 'Ballad of Mahmoud Sarsak' as I'd earlier attended a rally in Cardiff to demonstrate solidarity with Palestine. The poem shows how an apartheid exists in Israel and I compare the footballer Mahmoud with Bobby Sands, both struggling for political status, both of whom went on hunger strike.
Next up was singer-songwriter Selena In The Chapel, whose fine voice wove patterns over and around us and served a contrast to Rick Parfitt, once of 60 Foot Dolls and still a legend in the Port.
Rick wowed the audience just as the Dolls had done in the 1990s.
Final act was the amazing Rufus Mufasa, based in Ponty but originally from Ammanford, with a rapper buddy.
What I liked about her music was it's refusal to be classified.....dub-rap-soul- r n b and more......and her voice , so full of emotion.
These were songs / poems straight from the same streets I'd walked through that day.
Younge dubbed that wedding ' a cross between Red Nose Day and the Eurovision Song Contest' .
Patrick's republican alternative raised a fair amount for food-banks and the homeless of Newport, and was an event packed with the power of poetry and song.
I was delighted to be part of it, even though I nearly had my skull smashed to smithereens afterwards on the pavement.
As we left I stood next to a bouncer and we heard a resounding crash, frighteningly close! A large pot lay broken, its base like a thick, jagged missile.
We both looked up at the stories above Le Pub. Darkness and no open windows or sign of life......pretty vacant, in fact.
It had been a day of dichotomies : of Palestinian flags waving outside Nye Bevan's statue against Union Jack bunting on a few shops and pubs ; of sad and desperate homeless against the opulence and insistent Brutishness of Windsor ; of vacuous pomp against passionate poetry.
( This is a poem I wrote especially for that event........Diolch i Patrick a phawb eraill!)
Markle’s Wedding Dress
In amongst the sparkle
And thousands
The diamonds and gloss
Of Meghan Markle’s wedding dress
Are hanging
The plastic shrouds
Of burnt cladding –
Each hole screaming out
For a person lost –
No matter how many layers
She wears to cover it up
Its black mourning
Glowers through –
It weighs her down
As she walks the aisle
A burden she cannot dismiss –
Not all the gold and silver
Can suffocate and smother
Those shapes, lettering
Of terror and distress.
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