Et in Arcadia Egos

It looks like we're in for another jolly bout of Tory government in a matter of months, so we in the Cymru Rouge are ready with some advice for Master Cameron and his swanky swan-guzzling chums.

"What can Welsh Maoists possibly have to say to Old Etonians that can't better be expressed with a mattock-blow in a paddy field?" you may ask.

As it happens, some of us have read The Independent and know all about Gramsci, hegemony and the like. Having acknowledged that our own electoral uplift is not going to burst out of the Thames Valley Bustier, we are happy to have the Conservatives implement our policies for us.

If there's one thing hemp-clad, slogan-shrieking Silurian child-soldiers have in common with whale-shaped grandees it's a love of wholesome country living. They eat nursery food in unheated piles, compare bowel eruptions and mount one another with bellies full of port. We sit and wait in thickets, endlessly, like the owl Blodeuwedd.

The greatest crime of the Blair Government was to persuade the grimy urchins of the Labour Party that it is acceptable to be a ponce. It is not. New Labour then cast its Mabuse shadow over the Tories, so that you now hear distressing tales of Cameron's Notting Hill "lifestyle":

• sober dinner party discussions of personal finance,
• foreign, non-curried food eaten with sincere relish,
• public education - indeed, any education, and
• ladies taking ministerial responsibility for more than milk-snatching and nurses.

Any more of this and our democracy will be in serious danger. A choice between three political parties of middle-class bores is no choice at all, and the drinking, smoking, rutting and recreational-fighting classes might well march on That London with the heads of estate agents on pikes come Imbolc.

To effect national reconciliation and avoid the reign of King Mob, I would like to resurrect an idea Gyppo Byard and I developed some years ago. Then we considered it a diverting television programme; now we understand it could save the Crown.

The instigation was an American programme called "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy", in which five shameless inverts sought to undermine the not-at-all repressed male obsessions with contact sports, body odours and drunken fisticuffs by a strict regime of couture, musicals and salad. The result - the eventual election of President Obama - signals the success of this cultural osmosis.

We proposed to take ownership of this device in a uniquely rural way. We would take a representative group of metropolitan degenerates - Peter York, Yasmin Alibhai-Brown, Wayne Hemingway, Polly Toynbee, Madelaine Bunting, the Bishop of Southwark and The Pet Shop Boys - in the back of a Land Rover to the Welsh Marches.

We'd con them into coming by saying it's an all-paid trip to a delightful converted farmhouse in Le Marche Gallese.

Once esconced at Taff's End, an underheated Tudor nightmare of noisome plumbing and over-familiar beagles, they would be matched up with a local type - poachers, arsonists, Gypsies, matrons of the Ladies Fellowship, hereditary Fenian prisoners, the colonels who detained them, and the usual selection of unqualified doctors, Welsh policemen and shell-shocked Classics masters.

These would introduce them to antic pursuits that we deemed least suited to the individual drone/harpy. For example:

• Miss Kilgore ("It's Miss! Miss!!") would have Yasmin buffing St Oswald's chalice in good time for his feast day,
• Major Tarry the magistrate and amateur gunsmith would demonstrate the finer points of Lex Despenser in the Ludlow usage ("Guilty as a Frenchman, fetch the barrel!") to York and anyone in a quarter-mile radius who dares to wear cologne,
• Ms Bunting would expand her understanding of different faith traditions with the help of the Rev Elias's collection of Medieval shriving tools ("Yes, sinners were smaller in those days, but I'm sure you'll fit once Miss Kilgore's finished the preparations."), and
• Wayne Hemingway would have an entire episode devoted to his adventures with Tinker Mullins, simply entitled "Eels".

Our aim was purely fun at someone else's expense but, as is often the case, we had stumbled upon a solution, or at least a solvent, for our fractured fiefdom. Instead of meretricious televisual entertainment, an imaginative government could make much more out of "Let Fly at Their Back Eye" (no more than a working title, it's true, but it captures the essence of violence, colloquialism and bigotry).

I propose a Department of State, devoted to rooting the deracinated firmly in the soil of the pays réel - whether literally or not will be left to local referenda, on a property-holder's franchise.

Any members of Central Office who might be reading, please feel free to get in touch by cleft stick.

I Sing the Body Dai-alectic

A press release by the Grievances and Slights Amelioration Committee of the Cymru Rouge ("Mon coeur est un luth suspendu"):

Our plenipotentiary representative in Occupied Swydd Henffordd (Herefordshire) has passed on a communiqué by coracle about further English exploitation of the Welsh people.

This time, the English have adopted the cunning ways of their comprador overlord Edward Longshanks (who is dead, while we are still alive, let us recall) in using a Welsh to attack a Welsh. That frankly is our job, and we're not having any of it.

The plutocrats who have literally usurped the name of Martyr Commandante Dic Penderyn and appended it to a distillery have done themselves no further favours at all by promoting their "Brecon Five Vodka" through the medium of challenging the Philosophy Department of the Valley College of Further Education.

The charges laid before the Flying Court (Marsupial Division) of the Cymru Rouge are that the Penderyn Distillery did knowingly, and with knowledge aforethought:

1. Waste Wales's scarce water resources on vodka - a drink favoured by prostitutes, "pop" singers and mink-trappers - while the hemp-clad toilers cry out for yet more ale to slake their Cambrian thirsts;

2. Usurp the name of Martyr Commandante Dic Penderyn, which belongs to the People (and is held in trust for them by the Cymru Rouge);

3. Denigrate the name of the Brecon Five, pioneers of Welsh Maoism who vanished while attempting to cultivate rice in the River Honddu;

4. Misspell the name of the Valley College of Further Edjucation.

5. Promote the cult of the rootless intellectual over the native wisdom of the Welsh Wise Woman.

6. Admire Existentialism - a philosophy banned by Cymru Rouge Edict 456/26(XIX/b:iii) "On The Rationing of Thought Allocation";

7. Verbally apply the English "language" without due consultation with the Cymru Rouge Unnecessary Surgical Procedures Subcommittee;

8. All the above, with "Conspiracy to" prefixed.

How have the bourgeois running corgis of Welsh liberalism responded? By complaining to the Advertising Standards Authority - a watchtower of the capitalist Panopticon that imprisons the workers, peasants, revolutionary-minded soldiers and public-sector employees of Wales, and possibly elsewhere too.

The answer these Dic Sion Dafydds received was a contemptuous rap on the pizzle for daring to question the Laws of Mammon.

We, the Rouge, follows the Laws of Mabon and reject the infantile, anti-Cambrian deviation that is Existentialism. With the exception of the clerical reactionary RS Thomas, no Welsh has ever sought a personal encounter with God, or yet believed in creating individual meaning in his, her or anyone else's life.

A. Our dealings with God have always been handled by highly-trained specialists, with disastrous results.

In pagan times all religious matters were the domain of druids, who prepared our troops for battle against the Romans by getting monged on 'shrooms in an oak glade, stripping off and taking orders from an astral badger.

Later, we left it to monks, until they challenged the autocracy of top Welsh lothario Henry VIII Tudor and lumbered us with the imperialist Act of Union.

Since then, it's been the preserve of Calvinists, Methodists and sometimes weird The-Fly-like combinations of both. In consequence we dropped polyphony, sex and novel musical instruments for male voice choirs, tea and piano lessons with the late Miss Roberts.

Given the failings of these theologians, the Welsh people have as one decided that they themselves as deracinated individuals are unlikely to do any better.

B. "Meaning in life" is an inherently un-Welsh concept that seeks to distract the People from their revolutionary tasks by promoting the sort of brooding self-doubt that makes the Scots what they are today.

The case of the People vs Penderyn Distillery will be heard in the coming days. Appeal against the sentence is permitted before it is carried out anyway.

Henffych!

Ta Moc Tudor - Brawd Rhif Un
Huw Samphan - Brawd Rhif Dau
Paul Pot - Brawd Rhif Tri