Brex-i-dee Brex-i-da

Brex-i-dee Brex-i-da

So, Brexit Day Mk. 1.0 is rapidly looming, to be swiftly followed by a sequel next month it seems. I’ve been taking a rather unhealthy interest in the proceedings in the House of Commons of late. Something that shouldn’t be surprising given as I’ve been living in Germany since shortly after the vote in 2016. I’ve also been relentlessly scrolling through #Brexit on Twatter. I don’t even like social media, let alone Twatter! Yet I just can’t help myself. It’s like picking a bloody scab (rather than lobbing rocks at them like you’re supposed to. He-he-he).

Obviously I really want the whole shit show to be cancelled. I live in Germany but I’ve not been here long enough to guarantee that I’ll be able to stay here with my partner. I really like that I can travel anywhere I want in the EU and move anywhere that I can find work. I also really like that anyone else can too. It makes things more interesting.

It’s staggering to look at it from the outside, whilst still having a vested interest, and to see the utter nonsense being spouted in the media and in parliament.

One thing that’s clear, especially when watching parliament, is the fear that politicians seem to have of annoying the people that voted to leave. Regardless of whether a) many of them have now died and been replaced with remain favouring young people, or b) many others appear to have changed their minds. Now, they’ve never really given much of a flying fuck about what the people of the UK want. We all know that.

Back in the days of cheap drugs and free parties the Neo-Labour government, and the rest of them in parliament, decided that they really really wanted to murder a bunch of people in Iraq. Something like 1.5-2 million people marched against that. The largest movement of people in the UK since the Peasant’s Revolt in the 14th Century. They basically see the British people in the same way that Richard the Second saw old Wat Tyler. They’re clearly more frightened of the right wing press like the Mail and the Murdoch.

They also make a big hoo-hah about “respecting the referendum”. Despite the clear fact that the Leave campaign were lying through their teeth. Shouldn’t they be up on charges for something like that? I suppose not because we’d have to arrest half of parliament as well. The lying bloomin’ liars.

Some of them have balls of steel mind you. The ability to keep a straight face whilst saying that a second referendum would be undemocratic is impressive. Balls of steel.

“Respecting the referendum”. What a joke. The question was basically “Who’s your favourite Star Wars character? Doctor Who or No?” The whole thing was a farce.

Shit. Are there any people on the island that don’t really, in their heart of hearts, not realise that this is all a result of a power struggle in the Conservative Party? A Conservative Party made up of millionaires who are so disconnected from normal people that they didn’t realise that many people would vote leave just to say “Fuck you” to politicians in general. Twats.

Now, given that I’m a lousy “Remoaner” who has a selfish interest in Article 50 being revoked, you could be forgiven for initially thinking that I’m some sort of EU fetishist. You know, like those tits with wanky placards and blue faces like some low-rent version of William Wallace you saw on the People’s Vote march last Saturday. See below.

EU’ll never take our CRINGE!


I get most of my UK news from the news feed on my phone so I mostly end up with articles from The Grauniad or the Indescribably Boring Independent. Middle class liberal papers that speak to and for middle class liberals. Also the only major newspapers that are predominantly remain. They often run little pieces about how “Brits in the EU” are going to be affected by Brexit. Every single one of these stories is about posh people. As I said on Twatter a while ago:


It isn’t people like this, your Tarquins and Jemimas, that will be most affected by Brexit. It’s your regular workers, both EU in the UK and UK in EU, that will be shafted. People working on ‘flexible’ contracts or working multiple jobs to make ends meet. It’s not just people with cross-border businesses that will be affected. Europe is full of borders, even if they’re only marked by a wee blue road sign, and it’s really common for people to work in an area that’s not defined by the old national border. It’s easy to live, for example, in the south of Germany and work one day in France, the next in Germany, and the day after in Switzerland. You’re screwed without freedom of movement.

So, am I ‘pro-EU’?

Not at all.

The EU is a neo-liberal club that serves the interests of the parasitic rich in siphoning wealth from the work of ordinary people like us. Fuck that shit. I’m also not one of those people who want the UK to stay inside the EU in order to reform it from within. Capitalism can’t be reformed.
Please see this instructional video for more on what needs to be done to sort that out.


But! There is no way that leaving the EU helps the people who are suffering the ravages of neo-liberalism in the UK. It isn’t austerity measures brought in by the Tories that have caused this (though they have certainly made things worse) but the way that successive UK governments have screwed over working class communities all over the island. Leaving the EU will hit in the pocket those on the island with the money. Therefore that pain will rapidly will poured downhill to hit even harder working class people from Dundee to Doncaster to Dartmouth.

There’s no credible left wing in the UK (and no, the Labour Party is not left wing) that can realistically fight to protect people from the immediate hits of Brexit; and parliament represents interests that are not ours.

Staying in the EU won’t solve the problems faced by the workers being hit hardest by government policies of impoverishment and abuse. The only thing that will sort that out is people working together to fight against said policies and said government.

Leaving the EU won’t do anything to solve these problems either. All it will do is give succour and strength to people like Jacob Rees-Mogg. And do you think that Lord Snooty gives a toss about people killing themselves because of being screwed over by Universal Credit or having to carry piss bottles with them because they’re too scared to take a bathroom break in the Amazon warehouse? Does he fuck.

As I’m writing this the muppets in Westminster are about to start voting on a raft of motions that the government has already said they are probably going to ignore. Because, you know, democracy and stuff. We’ll see whether they’ve chosen the Shit Sandwich or the Giant Douche in a couple of hours. I think though that I can firmly predict that they won’t vote to revoke Article 50 and admit that they’ve just been a playing silly buggers for the last three years. It’s like they’re in too deep with the lie. You know, like when you tell your wife that you know nothing about the massive porn bill and then she calls the papers?

Look at his face! XD Click the link for the story.

So, basically. The EU isn’t good for ordinary people but leaving the EU isn’t good for ordinary people and it also strips them of opportunities to live and work elsewhere.

Revoke Article 50
Kill the Rich
For Fully Automated Luxury Communism

A True Story from a Stone Mountain

A True Story from a Stone Mountain

I grew up in South Wales on a blue hill; my bedroom looked north towards the mountain of stone and Mynydd Twmbarlwm -the twmp. When I was a child the twmp of Twmbralwm occupied a special place in my young psyche. Looming above the valley below drawing the horizon into the forground -dark and haunted as the sun sank, green and verdant when it beat down from the clear summer sky.

twmbarlwm

As I grew I asked about the strange shape of the far/near horizon. The general theory amongst the kids my age was that it was a Norman fort or a prehistoric burial mound, some also said that it was where the Romans kept an eye on the subjugated but ever rebellious Silures -the tribe who gave their name to the nearby Roman fort of Isca Silures (which later became the birthplace of Arthur Machen, Caerleon). It turned out that all of these theories were right and that the site had been in use from the Iron Age through to the Norman invasion. Until relatively recently it was still a site of a pilgrimage of sorts for local people on Good Friday.

Whilst I found the history of the site interesting my young mind was turned more and more by the folklore surrounding the mountain. Folklore that was, in its entirety, dark and grim and therefore of great fascination for a prepubescent boy such as I was. When I was 10 my mother, who worked in the giftshop of the local museum, brought me home a pair of books by local author Alan Roderick: Ghosts of Gwent and Folklore of Gwent. I was thrilled by these books and read them until the binding crumbled and they were but a collection loose leaves. The volume on folklore had plenty to say about Twmbarlwm.

According to Roderick in the early 1800s (the exact date escapes me though I think it was the 1830s) a local antiquarian led a team of navies up the mountain to excavate the mysterious mound. It was a clear summer’s day as they climbed from the village of Risca yet as they approached the summit the sky rapidly darkened as storm clouds rolled from all directions. As the team neared the summit lighting began to strike the ground all around the twmp causing the superstitious navvies to flee and the excavation to be abandoned. To the best of my knowledge there still hasn’t been an archaeological investigation into the mound itself.

Some years after the aborted excavation it seems that people noticed that the number of honey bees in Britain had dropped drastically. Their whereabouts were soon discovered when thousands upon thousands of bee corpses were discovered to be covering the twmp and the top of the mountain. As if all the bees in Britain had migrated there and fought to the death.

Then there were also the tales of missing children on the mountain. In stories dating back to, at least, the 18th Century children playing on the slopes of the mountain hear the sound of music, and no I don’t mean Julie Andrews, drifting on the breeze. One of the children inevitably goes to find the source of the music and is never seen again.

Like I said, dark stuff.

As I grew into a teenager the place continued to dominate my mental landscape and, as a young teen, friends and I would cycle up the mountain and go camping on its slopes. Then I grew older and discovered the various alternative subcultures that thrived in the local area I began experimenting with all the usual things that kids experimented with at that age -drink, drugs, and as much sex as possible.

Being as this was South Wales one of the main recreational drugs that we experimented with were the local mushrooms -Psilocybe semilanceata or Liberty Caps. ‘Camping trips’ soon became a regular feature of autumn and early winter for me and my friends. We would spend days wandering the fields picking mushrooms in order to make insanely strong ‘brews’ from hundreds, sometimes thousands, of the strange little mushrooms. We would then go camping in the coniferous woodlands below the twmp and spend an evening expanding our consciousness. In fact I had my most powerful and vivid hallucinogenic experience on that mountain, at a friend’s bachelor party, which had me seeing clockwork maggots crawling red hot from the embers of the fire, stars swirling in the night sky above our clearing and figures on horseback ducking impossibly through the trees around us.

These experiences were all fun and games as I completely understood that the things I was seeing and hearing around me were the product of imagination and Wales’ most famous botanical product. However one evening we did have a genuinely strange experience. An experience that has many explanations, none of which are satisfactory.

It was maybe 17 years ago that this occurred and it was right at the end of mushroom season so it would have been early November. We had the last of our super brews bottled and were just waiting for an excuse to indulge. Just such an excuse cropped up, though I forget what it was, and so we decided to drive up the mountain one Friday night. Five of us drove up the mountain to start setting up the camp at around 9 o’clock in the evening. Four of us got a fire going, gathered enough firewood so that we wouldn’t need to gather any whilst we were altered, and the fifth returned to town to pick up the last of our party who had been working in a local pub.

Well, it turned out that our bartender friend had gotten home from work and fallen asleep on the sofa. Our driver having something of a crush on her decided to wait, rather creepily now I think about it, outside her house until he could wake her up.

Whilst we were waiting we opened a beer and those that smoked rolled a couple of spliffs to pass the time. After a while of sitting around chatting we inevitably experienced periods of quiet where our gazes were drawn hypnotically to the fire. It was during one of these lulls in conversation that we heard twigs snapping in the forest around us. Now bear in mind that it was approaching midnight in November and we were a good half an hours walk away from the nearest houses. So the sound of multiple people walking in circles around our camp did unnerve us slightly.

We shone the one torch we had into the narrow gaps between the oh so straight trees around us but we couldn’t see anyone, even if we shone the torch where just a moment before we had heard a twig snap. Over and over this happened and then, as we were starting to get seriously freaked out and called into the night “Hello, hello, who the fuck’s there?” We heard it. A child giggling -first to one side of us, then the other. A high pitched giggle that would sound right and natural on a primary school playground but at midnight in November far from the nearest houses sounded decidedly unnatural.

Those giggles were the final straw and we poured water over our fire and struck out for the road. As we walked in single file following Ryan, the only one of us who had thought to bring a torch, the sounds of people running around us continued, as did the giggling. It would get nearer then farther making us jump and urging us on until we were as close to running as we dared in the dark.

It was such a relief when we finally cleared the trees and bundled out into an open field bathed silver by the moon. We walked rapidly away from the woods glancing back over our shoulders at the giggling woods as little voices rang out “Goodbye! Goodbye!”

That was the last time we went camping on Twmbarlwm.

Dream a Little Dream…

Dream a Little Dream…

So, I’m currently on attempt #1726 to give the evil cancer sticks the old heave ho and, five days in, it’s actually going pretty well. I’m doing an overnight job dismantling the Rolling Stones gig in Hamburg on the weekend though. We’ll see how well it’s doing after four or five hours of lugging lights and speakers about for geriatric millionaires.

One side effect that I’ve noticed on this attempt is that I’m starting to remember my dreams. Now, for some (or even most) of you this shouldn’t seem like anything strange. Well, I think it’s probably more than ten years since I really remembered my dreams, probably closer to fifteen. So to have them return now is, to be honest, pretty bloody awesome. Especially given how vivid and downright weird they have been.

I want to record some of this one here before it completely slips away. That I can still remember it more than twelve hours after waking is also pretty amazing for me.

So, from what I can remember, the dream mostly featured me and a friend with their young daughter. The friend in my dream wasn’t anyone I recognise and nor was their daughter. I also don’t recall much of their personality. But we’re travelling together. Actually; fleeing is a better term. We’re fleeing through my home town in South Wales desperately trying to escape a terrifying woman who is pursuing us.

The woman is only walking after us but she never seems far behind. She has shortish dark hair and is wearing a hospital gown. She can’t walk properly and her one foot drags slightly behind her as though she is heavily medicated but fighting through it. In one hand she limply holds a sawn off shotgun whilst her other twitches and clutches at the air to her side. Her face is contorted in either anger or fear, or possibly sorrow, and she’s screaming. She’s screaming and wailing and it’s the most terrifying sound that I’ve ever heard.

No matter how far or how fast we run, we even steal a really classy 1950s American car at one point, she is always just behind us. We can tell when she’s drawing near as the people around us begin to get paranoid and begin to blame us for things that have gone wrong in their lives. One of them, a bald man in his late fifties or early sixties, was blaming us for his first wife leaving him decades ago and the way that his father treated him as a child.

At one point we were stood high upon a hill, a cartoonishly steep version of the hill I lived upon as a boy, and we could see her walking along the road far below us. As she walked; those around her stopped what they were doing, those who were driving slowed and stopped before stepping out of their motors. They stood staring blankly ahead as she shuffled between them and, after a few moments of staring, their jaws dropped open and blood poured from their mouths red-washing their clothes and pooling about their feet.

I’m not sure how the dream ended though I get the impression that we were in a Gothic European castle in the American outback. Which was also South Wales. Dream logic eh? 🙂