Friday, July 16, 2010

I have a sort of dream


The Radio 4 reading of Hellhound on His Tail has brought home to me one of the many differences between myself and the late Martin Luther King.

Dr King's subconscious thoughts, to judge by his "I have a dream" speech at the Lincoln Memorial in 1963, were blessed with a Periclean progression and majestic, King James eschatology that mine lack.

I resent this, as dreams are yet another aspect of my life over which I have no control. Teenage months spent sleeping with a picture of Sally James (above) and a sachet of Bird's Custard under my pillow confirm this.

Being married to Mrs Boyo means never having to remind yourself of your own essential shallowness, but History persists in doing so:

  • I read in Michael Balfour's biography of Wilhelm II that the Kaiser frittered away his evenings in witless badinage with drones and poseurs. I do the same pretty much all day;
  • Eisenstein's October suggests that epic loser Alexander Kerensky spent much of 1917 stealing into dowagers' boudoirs in over-elaborate footwear - a college past-time of my own; and
  • Along with the benign Emperor Ferdinand of Austria, I like dumplings.

My devotion to Marxism is in part a calculation, based on the 20th century record, that it might best help me to rewrite this past.

Or else I could go back to Uncle Karl himself and, instead of whining about History like some Silurian Stalin, actually try to change it. Here I'm handicapped by honesty, a character flaw the led to my first expulsion from Wales.

If I tried to emulate Dr King's speech today, for example, it would go something like this:

"I have a dream that I am sitting near the back of the Corris Uchaf to Machynlleth bus, when just about Esgairgeiliog the crypto-Welsh character actor Peter Vaughan sits down next to me.

"I have a dream that Vaughan is in the guise of 'Genial' Harry Grout, Mr Big of Her Majesty's Prison Slade out of the 1970s British crim-com Porridge.

"I have a dream that 'Grouty' begins to sing 'Two Little Boys' to me with sinister suburban sibilance. I have a dream today!

"I have a dream that little Welsh pensioners and little Brummie dole-siphons are sitting all around us, hoping that Bing Crosby might get on at Maespoeth and croon 'The Little Drummer Boy', with or without help from Mr David Bowie.

"I have a dream that, when the ticket inspector boards the bus near the Pennal turning, my fellow-passengers will not be judged by their sentimental musical taste but by the content of their wallets! I have a dream today!

"Free at last! Free at last! They all qualify for the free bus pass!"

It's doubtful whether these powerful images would have inspired the Civil Rights Movement, but Americans of all hues would have gone away a little wiser about British popular culture, mid-Wales topography, and the concessionary fares offered by the Crosville Cymru transport giant.

Have any of you Cymru Rouge cadres had a dream that might have changed history, or at least moved rather than vaguely disturbed the Wretched of the Earth?

And please bear in mind that this web blog officially supports Jung, so none of that mucky Freudian stuff about my wanting Bing Crosby to be my dad. I get enough of that from my mother.

20 comments:

Gorilla Bananas said...

The dream with Grouty has the makings of a decent castration complex. I would have expected one about being in a rolling maul in a Welsh all-stars 15 including Zeta Jones, Duffy, Tyler, Bassey etc.

inkspot said...

Cymru rouge = cum roguery.

Your jungian cover is blown boyo. In a manner of speaking.

No Good Boyo said...

Zeta Jones, Duffy, Tyler, Bassey - orgies apart, GB, that's not a bad national rugby squad.

Well, Spot, that's you in a Re-Education Camp for the duration. And don't start on "camp" - this is a Susan Sontag zero tolerance blog.

Daphne Wayne-Bough said...

Good Gawd Almighty. Don't stand on the balcony too long Boyo.

No Good Boyo said...

True, Daphers. In Bolivia they pull you off balconies and string you up - a half-Mussolini you might call it. They did it to President Villaroel in the 1940s. There's a plaque next to the lamp post in La Paz.

By the way, if you've not done so please follow the link from Little Drummer Boy to the Bing/Bowie Youtube clip. Forget the duet, it's the dialogue that's priceless.

Gaw said...

Since first reading this a couple of days ago, I've been losing sleep over Sally James' playful proffering of her capacious bucket. And that shameless, knowing smile. Those leather wellies. What can it all mean?

No Good Boyo said...

Now, Gaw, no Freud. Unless it's Emma, of course.

These dreams signify nothing other than your healthy desire to help Ms James by carrying her bucket and cleaning her boots. Just to see her smile.

Murr Brewster said...

Crap. Now all I dream about is dumplings and badinage fritters.

Gadjo Dilo said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Gadjo Dilo said...

I have a dream that I'm walking through the market here and the gypsy women are pelting me with fruit; then I realise that I'm completed naked except for my Szyszak helmet and that several of the softer fruit have become lodged in my crevices. Obviously I'd have preferred Dr King's dream, but I still feel that mine has a certain entertainment value.

P.s. the bloke playing Kerensky in that film appears to be Vladimir Putin's grandad. Spooky.

Brit said...

I used to have a terrible recurring nightmare about Mr Noseybonk, but I've used bloggery to therap it away. How many expulsions from Wales have you notched up?

No Good Boyo said...

Mrs Brewster, thank you for introducing me to your blog. I find your arguments compelling, and apologise for plaguing your subconscious with Czech cuisine.

Gadjo, are you sure that's a dream? It sounds like the consequences of over-indulgence in the afinata served at the roadside cafe in Marghinia.

The Kerensky actor was Nikolai Popov, who got himself the role by dressing up as the Great Hope of the People and sending photos to Eisenstein. He didn't do much after that, but at least Stalin didn't kill him.

Brit, I have been expelled from Wales on five separate occasions:

The first time was for questioning the White Book of Eifionydd, although I was allowed into Carmarthen throughout that period;

The second was for impersonating an eisteddfod winner (recounted here: http://alfanalf.blogspot.com/2010/04/in-me-didst-thou-exist.html);

The third and fourth were for smoking non-Welsh fags in public (only Embassy is allowed); and

the Fifth you know.

Jon in France said...

I wish I could provide some thrilling insight into the questions you posed, but frankly I've just been idling my time away thinking about Sally James and a bucket of custard.

No Good Boyo said...

Welcome, Jon. James + custard is no idle matter. It requires stamina, planning, courtesy and a funnel. Greetings to the Bourbons of La Vendée.

Gaw said...

Boyo, would you mind dropping me one of those emails at gawragbag@gmail.com? There's nice of you.

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SnoopyTheGoon said...

I am not certain it is possible to come to a conclusion about the dream without lots of additional info. Such as: was the bus narrow and long or what? where did the lighting come from? the seat - was it soft and comfy or rather tough on your backside? etc.

However, your unconscious desire to kill the above mentioned Karl and get better acquainted with his mom - that before initiating the takeover of the world by Welsh party with unpronounceable name - is quite clear.

More details to follow - if I don't succumb to a similar desire of my own first.

No Good Boyo said...

I've a feeling that I'd not be doing myself any favours there, Snoop.

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