All right-thinking people will enjoy the thoughts of evil honorary Welsh Laban Tall on the subject of Marcus Brigstocke, the Mark Steel of Maidstone.
Mr Brigstocke should certainly leave the big issues to comedy colossi like Tarby and our own Owen Money, for God has given him the precious task of stuffing David Blaine and "DJ" Tim Westwood in the knackersack - something he does well.
I can't help thinking that Westwood ought to change places with Chris Eubank. Mr Eubank is genuinely black, and could pick up the intricacies of putting records on turntables in no time. Tim would fit in as Lord of Brighton Manor, given that he was born to that sort of thing as hereditary Bishop of Peterborough.
And I for one would pay good money to see Tim Westwood go four rounds with Nigel Benn, himself a distinguished DJ.
The BBC has successfully driven all well-born, classically-educated Englishmen from its news and current affairs division, but it's inevitable that they would find a niche somewhere - in this case among the "wrap" and hip-hopping fraternity of Radio One.
Indeed, at his drug-smuggling hearing in Dubai last month it emerged that DJ Grooverider is one of the Ludlow Grooveriders, and that he would have got off if Judge Kif Fil Argilah hadn't had to fag for his Uncle Jasper at Harrow.
14 comments:
The jester who turns preacher is asking for a good kick in the pants and usually gets one. I can assure you that Eubank is a much bigger name in the Congo than any of these well-born nonentities. Frankly, I would pay good money just to hear Mr Eubank utter the word "pugilism".
Perhaps Mssrs Eubank and Benn could administer the pantattack once they've packed Timmy off to casualty in a fleet of ambulances. Might make Marcus a neocon, as mugging is what turns liberals into Iraq-manglers from what I gather.
Not that I, this blog or Welsh Maosim in general in any way advocate violence against members of the bourgeoisie unless they're being particularly cocky.
I've admired Benn, ever since he was interviewed live post-fight by a soon-to-be-flustered Harry Carpenter and made the memorable charge, "To all those who doubted me, you ain't worth an 'andjob!", complete with graphic gesticulation.
His comment could as well have been directed at public schools and their cloven-hooved progeny.
Why thank you.
(I put together a while back a tribute to the bard of no good boyos, RS Thomas, which you may appreciate :
http://tinyurl.com/39ajkz
)
MC, Nigel goes up further in my estimation. It couldn't have been easy being lumbered with the name Nigel (or Benn, for that matter) when he was growing up.
Laban, you're very welcome. Your blog's a constant revelation, and it's good to see someone in England taking an interest in Wales. Hope you don't mind my filching the photo of the Viet-German reeferee. He was Saigon's most popular Johnny-Depp-O-Gram in earlier, happier days.
My mam's from Swansea ... went to school there for a year when I was little - still think of the place as 'home' somehow.
It's not what it was though ...
That makes you a half-jack, Laban. A proud title.
I went to college in Swansea - happiest five years of my life. I haven't been back for a while now.
A mate and I have toyed with the idea of a film set in a German-occupied Britain of 1940, in which the last redoubt of resistance is the Swansea Jack public house. All attempts at capturing it have failed amid scornful cries of "ffyc off, you Frenchies!"
Writes itself, really.
I remember Ralph's second-hand bookshop, the Norwegian sailors' mission, smoking in the Odeon and some fine curries.
"Paris change, mais rien dans ma mélancolie n'a bougé..."
Here is my favourite Bill Bailey joke, it bit late but always welcome I trust.
Bill
It is a delight, thanks MC. If you ever fancy a glance at the Welsh equivalents of Chaucerian bawd, I can recommend the bilingual Canu Maswedd Yr Oesoedd Canol/Medieval Welsh Erotic Poetry by DR Johnston. Spicy!
I just got back from Blighty and find, like The Prodigal, that I can get all the Bill Bailey I need right here at home!
Nice to meet Mr Laban: the poem's as least as good as anything RS Thomas came up with. Any chance of you putting some Welsh erotic poetry on your blog, NGB?
Here's a taster, Gadjo, by Dafydd ap Gwilym. You may know it from the Ted Hughes/Seamus Heaney collection of the same name:
Y Rhugl Groen
Fal yr oeddwn, fawl rwyddaf,
y rhyw ddiwrnod o’r haf
dan wŷdd rhwng mynydd a maes
yn gorllwyn fy nyn geirllaes,
dyfod a wnaeth, nid gwaeth gwad,
lle’r eddewis, lloer ddiwad.
Cydeistedd, cywiw destun,
amau o beth, mi a bun;
cyd-draethu, cyn henu hawl,
geiriau â bun ragorawl.
A ni felly, anhy oedd,
yn deall serch ein deuoedd,
yn celu murn, yn cael medd,
dyfod a wnaeth, noethfaeth nych,
dan gri, rhyw feistri fystrych,
salw ferw fach sain gwtsach sail
o begor yn rhith bugail;
a chanto’r oedd, cyhoedd cas,
rugl groen flin gerngrin gorngras.
Canodd, felengest westfach,
Y rhugl; och I’r hegl grach!
Ac yno cyn digoni
gwiw fun a wylltiodd; gwae fi!
Pan glybu hon, fron fraenglwy,
Nithio’r main, ni thariai mwy.
Dan Grist ni bu dôn o Gred
can oer ben ffon yn sonio,
cloch sain o grynfain a gro.
Crwth cerrig Seisnig yn sôn
crynedig mewn croen eidion.
Cawell teirmil o chwilod,
callor dygfor, du god.
Ceidwades gwam, cydoes gwellt,
Groenddu, feichiog o grynddellt.
Cas ei hacen gan heniwrch,
cloch ddiawl, a phawl yn ei ffwrch; greithgrest garegddwyn grothgro, yn gareiau byclau y bo.
Oerfel I’r carl gwasgarlun,
Amen, a wylltiodd fy mun.
The Rattlebag
As I was (easiest praise)
one day of summer
under trees between mountain and field
awaiting my soft-spoken girl,
she came (it's worthless to deny)
to where she had promised, an undeniable moon.
We sat together (splendid topic,
a hesitant thing), the girl and I;
I exchanged (before a claim should fail)
words with an excellent girl.
And as we were thus (she was modest)
the two of us understanding love,
there came (a feebleness bereft of [good] nurturing)
with a cry (some stinking feat)
a small ugly noisy (the bottom of a sack [making] a sound)
creature in the guise of a shepherd.
And he had (hateful declaration)
a rattle-bag, angry, with a whithered cheek [and] harsh-horned.
He sounded (yellow-bellied lodger)
the rattlebag; woe to the scabby leg!
And then without gaining satisfaction
the fair girl was frightened, woe me!
When she heard (breast made brittle by a wound)
the winnowing of the stones, she would stay no more.
Under Christ, there was never a sound in Christendom
(a sow's fame) as harsh:
a bag sounding on the end of a stick,
a bell's sound of small stones and gravel;
a shaking vessel of English stones making a sound
in a bullock's skin;
a basket of three thousand beetles,
a surging cauldron, a black bag;
guardian of a meadow, cohabitor of grass,
black-skinned [and] pregnant with dry wood-chips.
It's voice [is] hateful for an old roebuck,
a devil of a bell, with a pole in its crotch.
A scarred scab with a stone-bearing gravel-womb,
may it be buckle-laces.
[May] coldness be on the shapeless churl,
(amen) who frightened my girl.
Wow, that's terrific! I'd assumed that Mediaeval Welsh poetry was rather formal. I didn't quite get the horn but the sap was certainly risin'; makes me think of Lorca's poem The Unfaithful Wife. I did have the aforementioned Rattle Bag book but can't remember this being in it. Think I'll buy of book of this Boyo's stuff.
He's a fine poet. There's a good academic site of his stuff here, including much of the formal material you'd expect:
http://www.dafyddapgwilym.net/
Merched Llanbadarn and Trafferth Mews Tafarn are lively.
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