TAKE COVER

Turn that old t-shirt into a face mask,
Get on train with The Beatles on your face,
Soon only a Dune Stillsuit fits the task,
Public transport now total smile free space,
Pubs get ready to open doors again,
Menus can be scanned onto your smartphone.
Without Android or Apple, well, what then?
No beers, no meals, carry on home alone?
Processed meat workers go down like ninepins,
Hairdressers ready to shear lock-down locks,
High street store windows sport clean mannequins,
Stock market braces for new fiscal shocks.
With secateurs and saw I start to prune,
Ain’t gonna be normal anytime soon!

Harry Rogers, In the Red Bedroom, 23rd June 2020.

CALAMITY COMING

An economic calamity comes
Said a radio presenter today,
Watch the Chancellor struggle with his sums,
Quantatively easing pipedreams away.
Rags and calumny fall from Tory lips,
False promises bring incredulity,
From home cooked meals to greasy fish and chips
The lock-down ends without human pity.
We must cram children back in classrooms small,
Labour Lords crawl out from obscurity,
The second wave now looms above us all,
No fiscal vaccine brings immunity.
Theatres are closed but tragedy plays on,
The tinted spectacles are almost gone.

Harry Rogers, In the red bedroom, Sunday 21st June 2020.

LEVEL THREE

From alert level four
To alert level three
Now we start panicking
About economy.
Let’s reopen the schools,
The pubs and restaurants,
People meet in bubbles,
Wear masks upon the bus,
Stay home and watch football,
All one metre away,
We scrap the test and trace,
Soon we’ll have the finest,
Test and trace in the world,
Expect teachers to teach,
Only those who turn up,
Can’t go down to the beach.
Us fogeys, locked away,
We don’t know what to say,
So we fill bird feeders,
The woodpeckers need nuts.
Soon all do what they like,
We wait for second spike,
Or the permanent spike.
In the nineteen sixties
Janis succinctly said,
“It’s all the same fucking day man!”
She was not too far wrong.

Harry Rogers, 2.00am In the Yellow Room, June 20th 2020

PAINTING PLANES?

Somebody has to do it,
You know? Red, white & blue it,
We watch as Johnson blew it,
Whilst, mostly, we go through it,
The Tim Tam suck, don’t chew it,
Union Jack jet? Who flew it?
Globally we outgrew it.
Murdoch’s chums will review it,
Donald tries to outdo it,
Pandemic? Oh, just screw it.
They told us they would do it,
Now lockdown’s dead, eschew it,
Still, we all fucking knew it,
Austerity? Renew it.

Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, Thursday 18th June 2020.

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DEMAGOGUE DOGS

The dogs of demagoguery
Run rampant on the streets
Defend statues of butchery
And working class defeats


Built palaces on stolen land
Given to the gentry
Whilst priests do up in pulpits stand
Supporting no entry


Meanwhile all across Africa
Where once tribes owned the land
Slavers shipped to America
With bibles in their hand.


Fear gas used in ninety eight towns
To scare off protesters
It’s theatre for orange skinned clowns
Whilst racism festers.


Fox News would have us all believe
Trump wins in November
Whilst he pulls fake tweets from his sleeve
All now will remember


The whole wide world is in danger,
We have been here before,
Cenotaph goons look no stranger
Heiling Hitler’s lost war.


I can’t take it much more…..

Harry Rogers, in the Yellow room, Pencnwcau, June 17th 2020.





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SHALL WE GO SHOPPING?

You can go to Primark or Debenhams
You can’t go visit your dads or your mums.
Did you hear Boris’s spud headed spad
Spilling his Durham beans in the garden?
The whole country tuned in to his blather,
Together we say, “We beg your pardon?”
The things we hate most are fucking liars,
Piled high on Westminster funeral pyres.
Cornered with cabinet floor paint on hands
Drive through bluebells, oh the sheer arrogance.
The sun shone so kindly there by the lake
This then is the truth some claimed to be fake.
Get out our wallets, Covid is stopping,
So soon we can all go fucking shopping.

Harry Rogers, in the red bedroom, 26th May 2020.

PANTO ON FIRE

A nest of incestuous investors
Lies behind cloak of bombed out BJ
Hand grenade drops through Brexit pill box slit
Wounded spads analyse pin puller disguise
Desperate to find who will benefit
Us cannon fodder voters, smoke in eyes,
Watch in stunned terror as panto unfolds,
No-one shouts Look Behind You, in the wings
Waits latest parvenu, heart all a quiver
Soon, on centre stage, where he will slither,
Highwayman new shouts Stand and Deliver
Fresh spads snivel as the people shiver.
Democracy turns to patrician mauve
I really do hope it’s not Michael Gove.

Harry Rogers, in the red bedroom, Monday 25th May 2020.

CHOMSKY’S PEKINESE

Chomsky’s Dog chews papers in the background
Every now and then makes a growling sound
Naom proselytises without pause
Dog scratches purposefully with all claws
Advice for activists flows out freely
Words spoken softly yet no less steely
Offers hope for future generations
Twenty years to save the fate of nations
Wretched theives and crooks, wrecked economy
Post Covid climate, lockdown anomie,
Our world in danger, soon we will be toast,
All now take action, don’t give up the ghost.
He is compelling, get up off our knees
Shred Tory lies like Chomsky’s Pekinese.

Harry Rogers, in the yellow room, Pencnwcau, 24th May 2020

SHITTY LINGO

Afflicted with addiction to power
Vote with nasty right in new concensus
Such news disconcerts me by the hour
Perhaps Blairites are non compos mentis
Whoever can reason for such madness?
Strange bedfellows, bold enough to say
Keep asylum seekers filled with sadness,
Pander to the basest racist today
Clap now for points based immigrant carers
Phase out free movement, enlist unemployed,
Conscript the workshy, we hear the bearers
Of Brexit promise to the overjoyed.
My radio sails through open window
Enough of shitty BBC lingo.

Harry Rogers In the Yellow Room, Aberbanc 19th May 2020.

SUSPENDED ALIENATION

SUSPENDED ALIENATION

Capitalism hangs by a thin thread

Sways above piles of Covid nineteen dead

Desperation fills petty bourgeois eyes

New liberals fall on sharp pointed lies

Westminster idlers caught with trousers down

Call clarity not claret for blond clown.

Watch wartime ghosts conga along your street

But grandchildren you’re not allowed to meet

Spirit of the blitz stirred into your spritz

Union Jack clad Brits get on fucking tits

Try to be normal is as normal does

Listen intently to bumble bees buzz

Think back to good times, so simply smashing

Close off your mind, economy’s crashing.

Harry Rogers, Pencnwau Aberbanc, 12th May 2020.

GASLIGHT GOING ON…..

Pangolin scales fall away from our eyes

Wuhan bat blood? More spewed out alibis

Spread wide by buffoons to fill us with fear

Man made or not, too late it’s fucking here.

Warmonger language, heroes and fighters,

Troops on the front line, phony gaslighters,

Furlough is shrinking, as crops fill with mould,

Promised land army locked down on the dole.

Old habits long gone will never come back

Crumbling pubs boarded up, painted black,

New York dispossessed ride subway all night,

On empty beaches? No one there to fight.

Crass false flags flutter from ten Downing Street,

Left forces gather in multi ZOOM meets.

Harry Rogers, Pencnwcau, Aberbanc, 7th May 2020.

PAST THE PEAK?

Teifi, afternoon, flash of bankside blue
Kingfisher searches elver wriggles new
Beneath Henllan bridge otter, trout in paws,
Crunches his lunch whilst Senedd makes bad laws
Guided by science there will be no tests
Crashed trees block the falls, robins fill their nests
Nurses in London block Westminster bridge
Vulnerable kids stare at empty fridge
Birds sing louder, the skies are bluest blues
I burst into tears at the newest news
Tenants evicted as they lose their work
MPs and the spads won’t give up their perks
Sun sets brighter now, we are past the peak
So Boris tells us, when he deigns to speak.

Harry Rogers, Mayday in the red bedroom, 2020.

Oh The Things That We Do

Go down to Creek Road, get drunk on free beer,
Walk through Greenwich Park, shoot a fucking deer
Venison’s better than cheap minced beef pies
Share surplus with neighbours, what a surprise

Oh the things that we do when we are poor

Take rod to river, hook stale bread on,
Cast into slipstream, then pull out a swan
Play bird as it flys up high in the sky
Then kill it and pluck it, try not to cry,
To roast in oven cut swan into four
One more of the things we do, when we’re poor.

Go down Tesco’s fill up trolley and pay
Go out to friends car, stack shopping away
Go round aisles again load exactly the same,
Plus one pack of brillo, forgotten, you claim
With first bill in hand you’ve already paid
Thus shopping’s half price, good game that, well played.

In desperate days we ignore the law,
Oh the things that are done when we are poor.

Harry Rogers, In the Yellow Room, 23rd April, 2020.

FIN DE SEICLE

Today I watch a video report of fucking Covid-19 denying murderers in California on the way to their personal raptures who have forgotten their own sky god commandment, thou shalt not kill. Idiots. I am angry.

Meanwhile in Hackney a thirty year old Sri Lankan single mother incinerates herself in the back garden during lockdown. I am crying.

Elsewhere a young English father is locked down with his wife and son unable to take him to McDonald’s for his fourth birthday party. He tranforms his kitchen into a mock up drive through take away with himself in a YouTube video on the tv in their kitchen. The child is happy with french fries and chicken nuggets. His wife loves the ingenuity of it all. I laugh and cry at the same time.

I feel twitchy, never has there been such social fragility in all my 72 years. The Brexit talks pale into insignificance as the rise of populism grows daily. Italy is on the brink of leaving the EU. You can smell something ancient in the phrases that are bandied about. Phrases such as ” It’s the media that’s the cancer, all their news is fake.” and “All the politicians are useless, all they do is lie.” and “China is to blame.” Even the middle classes are dazed and confused by the consequences of the lockdown as their jobs also disappear and they slip into negative equity. I have read about a similar situation in my collection of 1930s left book club publications. I lie in my bed unable to sleep easy.

Still, the sun is shining this week, yesterday it was the same temperature in Antarctica as it was in Los Angeles………

Harry Rogers, Locked down in Aberbanc, 21-04-2020

LECTERN VICISSITUDES.

I have been sat in front of our TV as 24 hour coverage of this pandemic unfolds for weeks now. I am over 72 years old, I am not supposed to go out unless it’s absolutely crucial. At first I watched all the bulletins as the prime minister and a variety of high faluting experts stood at lecterns flanked by carefully folded Union Jack flags with the white background and red cross of St George clearly and deliberately to the fore. The early strategy where herd immunity was considered to be the way forward, where every bulletin encouraged everyone to wash their hands every time they touched something but otherwise everything carried on as normal, the roads were full, the trains were full, the airports were full, sports venues, bars, gigs, theatres, cinemas, restaurants, pubs, political meetings, all functioned as ever. This laissez-faire approach was allowed to continue for weeks despite the fact that the government knew in advance that the country could not handle a pandemic such as this because it had participated in an emergency planning exercise, Operation Cygnus, which spelled out exactly what would happen in the event of a virulent respiratory virus running rampant through the world. One question sticks in my mind, if the government knew that the exercise showed that the NHS was under staffed, under equipped and under resourced, why did they not address these issues? What is the point of spending millions of pounds on full blown civil and war emergency planning exercises if you’re not going to take any notice whatsoever of the advice given from the plethora of front line experts, strategists, and senior civil servants involved? And yet, despite all the delay, as the daily death figures rise exponentially, as the economy falls into a slough of despond, as draconian measures curtail freedom of movement, somehow large numbers of people put their faith in the newly elected prime minister, one Boris Johnson. This man who eventually encouraged us to adopt social distancing, made us aware of the dangers of shaking hands with anyone outside of your in house family, and then promptly ignored his own advice, shook hands with all and sundry including a wardful of Covid 19 sufferers and finished up in ICU narrowly avoiding his own demise, some people believe that he is some kind of hero of the people. How can this be the case? He had been infectious for some considerable time and yet continued to bustle around in Westminster and elsewhere, in all kinds of meetings where he will have put untold numbers of staff, colleagues, acquaintances and contacts into harms way. A monumental case of don’t do what I do, do as I say. It’s unacceptable behaviour of anyone, let alone the Prime Minister. The daily broadcast with the Trump style flag frame moved further backwards, where substitutes run through the same sets of statistics that are designed to show how well the country has carried out the government strategy continue unabated. Ministers come and go and continuously state the obvious, the roads are empty, the people, on the whole, obey the rules, all is hunky dory as long as we remain in lockdown. And yet, and yet, PPE levels are disastrously low in hospitals and care facilities, meanwhile health ministers say the government response is phenomenal. Health workers are told not to use equipment unnecessarily. Economic forecasts say that the crisis we are heading into is massive. The number of unemployed in Britain is set to head North of three and a half million. The current universal credit system that penalises those people who have fallen into poverty is not going to be accepted as sufficient by people who have done nothing except lose their jobs as a result of the pandemic. Current levels of benefit will not meet family commitments. Only a government prepared to crack down on tax avoidance and evasion by the richest could address this future catastrophe. The country currently is being run in a totally undemocratic way without adequate parliamentary scrutiny. These are scary times and we now appear to be trapped in the middle of a classic Catch 22 conundrum. Stay locked down, save lives and crash the economy, or ease the lockdown, save the economy and bury a lot more people. Either way it’s a grand disaster. At first I wasn’t sure whether this was just a straight folk devils and moral panics scenario with the government and the media cooking up a false flag emergency to get the ruling class in a position to carry on austerity led business as usual. Now that the death levels here are not falling it is clear that the reality of the situation is that we have an incompetent government, unable to act in favour of saving lives because the economy and their pals in the City of London come first, above human lives. The Prime Minister is possibly going to stand down due to viral fatigue, he will likely be replaced by Raab or Gove, either of which, in my view, are strictly second division when it comes to leadership. It’s a giant deprression filled mess which only ends in tears whatever the outcome, and whenever the end of lockdown occurs. Many people won’t be here to see it, for some of those death might be a blessing in disguise. The aftermath to this ain’t going to be pretty. I’m getting older by the day, there ain’t much I can do about this shitshow. I would like to be able to drive my partner Jenny down to Llangrannog Beach for a pub lunch and a walk by the sea this summer, but the chance of such a simple pleasure looks ever more remote.

Harry Rogers, West Wales, 20th April, 2020

DREAM DIARY

Looking out through lockdown windows
The world in view is too sombre
My mind wanders to pastures new
To party times with good old friends
To singing in the Poppit dunes,
Picking those lost forgotten tunes.
Of how we’ll change the world to come
A glass half full for everyone
The gig economy we’ll shun,
Eugenicists? We’ll make them run.
Hold hands together down The Strand,
Spill wine to our favourite band,
We’ll dance together after dark
Like lovers smooching in the park
All this for future enquiry
Written now in my dream diary.

Harry Rogers, a la Chambre rouge, 2nd April 2022.

COVID PANDEMONIA

It’s bizarre to sit and watch images and words flash across the myriad of screens each of us own at this time early in the third millennium and watch with a sense of horror as the major cities of the globe descend slowly into a state of anarchic pandemonia. Each city has the potential to a greater or lesser extent to metamorphose into, what Milton named as the Capital of Hell, Pandemonium.

What sickens me the most is the realisation that there is absolutely nothing I, or for that matter you, as individuals can possibly do about it. The major news media outlets are busy trying to portray the Covid 19 pandemic as just another major news story that can be presented to the people in the same old time honoured fashion that they done since the birth of Television. However, this time the story is too big for corporatations to control. Little snippets of truth about the sombre reality of this dreadful situation are poking out and are revealed on a daily basis. The never ending howling of ambulance sirens echoing along empty streets, the conversion of skating rinks and other civic amenities into makeshift temporary morgues, the requisition of football grounds and other sports stadia and conference facilities as sites for massive health treatment and combined hospice style centres. All this clearly visible for everyone to see but once the full horror of this disease takes hold then it is right to ask the following question. For how long can the media hold the line and continue to showcase reports that, it’s true, show the level of distress the people will be suffering?

To watch as country after country pass Draconian legislation enabling them to take extreme decisions when it comes to social control is alarming and will precipitate outbursts of fear, paranoia and anger. In Europe this might be easier to control than elsewhere, and in particular the USA. At the same time as we were stocking up with pasta, lentils, rice and canned vegetables, there were queues around the block at all gunshops and purveyors of ammunition across America. With politicians in leadership positions making difficult decisions on a a daily basis the pandemic is hard enough to deal with, but to have somone that makes last minute decisions based on his gut instincts instead of listening to experts in a plethora of important fields as President of the USA is not only frightening but is also indicative of the fragility of the whole geo political system of governance.

In my view The United Nations should be convened and should take over the handling of this crisis. It is too big for crazed egoist individuals to be allowed to have control over the future wellbeing of billions of human beings through the creation of artificial states of emergency designed to prop up their own deformed political, and often corrupt, ideologies for their own gratuitous economic gain. I doubt this is going to happen until after the grisly masquerade has played out and the whole world has to clean up in the aftermath.

The plural of Pandemonium is Pandemonia. Unless there is a global approach to dealing with COVID-19 it’s quite likely we will witness the emergence of a whole swathe of cities that, for a significant period of time, will become replicas of Pandemonium, the Capital of Hell. I hope I am wrong and Trump is right when he posits a miraculously speedy recovery. Somehow though, judging by recent history, I doubt it.

Harry Rogers, March 31st 2020.

Spud Headed Spad

SPUD HEADED SPAD


A gaunt gangly spectre haunts Downing Street
This spud headed spad who speeds out the door
A Monty Python type praying mantis
Giant rucksack strapped to it’s skinny back


He runs in a John Cleese funny walk style
Away from plague infested number ten
To it’s nihilist lair to self isolate
Whilst it forces the rest to self hibernate.


The new default set to procrastinate
Journalists learn new ways to masticate
Fake four five leaches from across the pond
Key workers die in the back of beyond


The servers creak and wheeze with new data
We watch irrelevant adverts, later.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, Pencnwcau, Aberbanc, March 30th 2020.

ICE RINK

Ice rink in Madrid turned into a morgue

Dublin old bill point guns and send you home

Football stadium dormitories

Spring up all around Paris, London, Rome.

Whilst Macron freaks out his Euro neighbours,

Four five locks New York into Quarantine.

Brexiteers dreaming daily of the Blitz,

Wonder when buffoons will wheel out the Queen.

Cumberland to Devon, Cornwall to Kent,

We’re told to look out for one another.

Fuck the hoarders and all those selfish gits

Who gave Covid nineteen to my brother.

Downing Street did not practice what they preach,

I’ll not watch one more propaganda speech.

Harry Rogers In the yellow room, Pencnwau, 28th March 2020.

MILLIONS OF BRAZILIANS

Millions of Brazilians
Have witnessed all these scenes before
Paliamentary pantomime
Has locked down everybody’s doors
The army ringed now around London
Stock markets fall down through the floor
There’s no knowing where this leads us
The MPs bluster on, so sure
Their nationalistic reactions
Echoed loudly on radio four
Butterfly show goes on and on
No dreamliners fly anymore
We are told it’s for our own good
For the aged, for the poor
Evoke the spirit of the blitz
Best wishes from second world war
Spout about spiritual health
Whilst televising martial law
Soon round up any dissidents
Is that what this is really for?

Harri Rogers, in the red bedroom, Pencnwau, 19th March 2020

C O V I D 19

C O V I D 19
1 – Cover old values in dirt
2 – Career over, virtuous institutional doings
3 – Complicated oversold vast international developments
4 – Corrupt outsized voluminous imperial druglords
5 – Callous orange voterigging incorrect dirtbag
6 – Consciously order vilification intending death
7 – Call on visionary inspirational dominoes
8 – Correctly overturn Victorian inept dukedoms
9 – Constitute octagonal video introductory deals
10 – Consult outmoded vehicular inbound data
11 – Crave oxygen vial infused datura
12 – Consider overeating vegan imported Dhansak
13 – Collect Obama virtual introduction ditties
14 – Cynically obtain villain’s imperative doldrums
15 – Climb outside votive iron dormitory
16 – Crash our vituperative invisible dogsbodies
17 – Congregate onboard Venusian interstellar dreamliners
18 – Coronaviral overkill visualizes instantaneous deprivation
19 – Collapse onto virus infected deathbed

Harri Rogers, Pencnwcau, in the Yellow Room, March 11th 2020

Now See The Vengeance

Now, see the vengeance
Reaked on the many.
Gimcrack politics,
Shone up for one day,
Like fake silver plate
Polished away, through.
Truth? Justice? Honour?
These tattered flags fly
Blown on the rubbish
Tips alongside rolled up
Banknote snorting tubes
Discarded by spads
Infected deeply
With Randian lies.
Whilst they “Get IT done”
We drown on sun drenched
Flood plains developed
By slick racketeers
Who sail sunseekers
All over the globe.
Pangolin virus,
Classless, ironic,
Infects me and you
As well as the few,
Who will more likely
Stand within six feet
Of a carrier
In an airport queue,
The automatic
Democracy of
Nature in action.
Too late, all fall down,
Red in tooth and claw,
Hail natural law.

Harri Rogers
In the red bedroom
Pencnwcau, Aberbanc
28th February 2020.

NO MORE WILD SIDE

NO MORE WILD SIDE
There is no wild side to walk anymore
All is normal now, we all know the score.
Sky God worshippers lay down holy law
Virus, hurricanes, capitalist war
Perfect storms rage together, globally
No wild side to walk, not for you and me
This is how it ends, locked in misery
No wild side to walk, not for you and me.

Lou said
Hey babe
Take a walk
On the wild side

Hey babe
Lou’s dead
Walk the talk
No more wild side

Wild Side No More

Wild Side No More

All normal now
All normal now

Wild side?
No More!

Harri Rogers
In the yellow room,
Pencnwcau, Aberbanc
28th February 2020

NO STONE ROLLING BACK

No stone rolling back across front of tomb,
The land of hope has run right out of room
No resurrection allowed this time round
No angels arise above hallowed ground
These modern Neo liberal Romans
Busily launch their shiny slick showmen,
Believe they have cracked it once and for all
Tear down our leader and smile as he falls
Crucify disciples, don’t hesitate,
Nullify their love, replace with fake hate.
Spinners turn his words inside upside down
Whilst drooling sheep vie obsessed with The Crown
In another place crooks get something done
Turn taps on fully, soon the pound will run.
J C, warns like so many times before
Of rabid Etonian dogs of war.
Nobody listens, the few rule alone,
Rise quickly, we need a new rolling stone.

Harri Rogers in my red bedroom, Aberbanc 16th February 2020.

Boomtime In Dystopia by Simply Spiffing

In November 2019 my friend from Atlanta Georgia, Chris Ricker, came to Wales for 22 hours. Whilst he was here with his buddy Sean from Florida we recorded this reworking of my lyric Boomtime In Dystopia at LTS studios in Llanon.

Listen to Boomtime -Simply Spiffing by Harry Rogers on #SoundCloud
https://soundcloud.com/harriboy/boomtime-simply-spiffing

FROM HEARTBREAK TO HOPE

A poem written as we began canvassing in the 2019 election campaign. Seems kinda prophetic now.

From heartbreak to hope as losers we row,
On past winners boat where slumped bodies loll,
Tomorrow another race day beckons,
Tactics change, different strokes to be pulled,
Cox chooses channel, allays all our fears,
Our blades cut the water at course’s end
Row on past winners, once more we must pull,
On down that river from heartbreak to hope.
Way down,
Way way down
From Heartbreak to Hope
Row on, on, on,
Row on,
From Heartbreak to Hope.
Never stop rowing
From Heartbreak to Hope.

Harri Rogers
Pencnwau, Aberbanc
19th November 2019

BURNT FEATHERS

A sonnet from home.

BURNT FEATHERS

I smell burnt feathers adrift on the air,
Mingled with sharp seasoned, iron blood everywhere.
Fires roar round L.A. , deluge tears across town,
Sidney burns,almost, Fukushima frowns.

Acrid taste endures, pain insane, rain blame.
Not my fault, or yours, Johnson mops, plays game!
Inhale burger weed flavour on street breeze,
Weekender – London, beggars on their knees.

Miserable band cuts straight through to me,
Lone trumpet soaring over red blue screen.
Anyone would think, with stench all around,
We might waken up, find some common ground.

But no, drink warm gin, ginger lemonade,
World goes up in smoke, burnt feathers pervade.

Harri Rogers
In the hut
11/11/2019

Tippy Toe To The Boogie – episode one Superman’s Belt Buckle

I published my new episode Superman’s Belt Buckle Mar 26, 2019 17:18, please check it out
https://www.podbean.com/media/share/pb-ge8nz-ac0b55

https://www.podbean.com/media/player/multi?playlist=http%3A%2F%2Fplaylist.podbean.com%2F4568366%2Fplaylist_multi.xml&vjs=1&kdsowie31j4k1jlf913=367408e87db25b468adfde17a5a48d3dc6d57ccb&size=240&skin=7&auto=0&download=1&pbad=1

THE RETURN OF THE GOLDEN DRAGON

THE RETURN OF THE GOLDEN DRAGON
A Fairy Tale
By
Harry Rogers

Thence, beyond this time, a vengeful orange coloured king with yellow hair named Oswald ruled his people with a heavy hand. The unhappy people spent their lives devising ways to make the king feel happy because in that way he might be persuaded to turn his attention to those from other countries whom he also frightened. King Oswald lived in a fortress with wife Queen Emeralda, two sons, Prince Victor and Prince Wyn and daughter, Princess Lusha.
Every person in the land secretly hated Oswald but were too scared to do anything about it. Even his wife could no longer find anything to love about him. Queen Emeralda knew enough to always wear a painted smile when ever Oswald looked in her direction. Prince Victor adopted the same traits as his father, listened to nobody, believed he was as big a genius as King Oswald professed himself to be. Prince Wyn, however, read books and understood the needs and the feelings of the people.
One day King Oswald overheard Prince Wyn speaking with Princess Lusha in the garden.
‘I wish I knew how to make our father behave better towards our subjects. He is cruel and everywhere I go people are sad and poor. If I were king I would change things. I have ideas from old manuscripts I found in the crypt below the fortress. Lusha, there is a better way, Life was once so much happier.’
‘How do you mean happier?’ asked the princess.
‘In the days before our grandfather there was a golden dragon who filled the world with peace and wisdom, all the peoples of the planet loved each other.’
‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘The dragon was summoned to another galaxy where there was much trouble and strife. He left our kind grandfather in charge and all was well until his death when our father took over and brought cruelty into the role of kingship.’
King Oswald became angry, his skin turned a deeper shade of orange than usual. He sprang out of hiding and shouted at his son,
‘How dare you speak of me, your father, your one true king, in such a disrespectful manner. I am minded to have you locked away in a cold dark dungeon for the rest of your life.’ He looked around and bellowed
‘Guards, guards, come here immediately.’
Two royal guards rushed forward and the king ordered them to seize the young prince. Princess Lusha began to cry as she loved her brother dearly and she said,
‘Please don’t lock Wyn up father, I beg you, let him free.’
The king looked at his daughter, then at the young prince and he said,
‘This is your punishment, I banish you from this kingdom, you shall be transported to the other side of this world where you must stay, never to return. Guards, take him to the harbour, put him on the next ship with the other deportees.’
As the guards took Prince Wyn away, Princess Lusha thanked her father for being merciful.
Life continued under King Oswald’s rule. The people became more miserable as the King extracted larger taxes. Oswald enjoyed starting wars just for the sake of being able to boast about how powerful he was, but, of course, he was not a warrior, as he quickly pointed out, being so intelligent and clever he could not be put into harms way because the people could not do without him. He organised gigantic displays of his might and power with grand parades and colourful tournaments in his honour that everyone in the land were ordered to attend.
After six months Prince Wyn arrived in the most inhospitable land in his fathers territory. The captain unceremoniously discharged him from the prison ship with only the clothes he stood up in, no money, and a gold ring in the shape of a winged dragon given to him by his grandmother at birth. Eventually he found poorly paid work as a stable lad and lodged with the horses. This suited him as he loved animals. By day he looked after a team of large horses used for dragging logs out of the forest. One night he dreamt as he slept on a straw pally ass. A golden dragon appeared and said,
‘Prince Wyn, you must go into the world and let the people know that I am returning. I am a long way away at present but will be back and I need a good person to prepare for my homecoming. Nearby you will find a boat builder called James Butt. Seek him out. Ask him to build a special boat to take you home. Show him the ring I gave your grandmother that sits on your finger. He will build you the finest dragon boat ever seen. You must sail home, stand in the square outside the fortress and read out a prophecy that you shall have written.’
‘Will you be there?’ The Prince asked.
‘No but I will send a sign and all will start to change for the better before I arrive.’
The dream ended and Prince Wyn awoke with sweat on his brow. The next morning he set off to seek out the boat builder. After two days he came to a small bay with a single whitewashed stone cottage, a pile of lobster pots, a dinghy, and a large open sided barn with a slipway down to the sea at one end. Beneath the barn he spied a wooden bench covered with wood working tools and paint brushes and large hunks of pungent oakum. A sign nailed above the door said James Butt, Master Shipwright. A broad man emerged from behind the lobster pots and said,
‘Who you be?’
‘I am Prince Wyn and I have been asked to command that you build me a boat.’
‘Asked to command have you? Well I don’t takes a lot of notice of commands, I only builds what I wants to build and when I wants to build. Why should I build for you?’
The Prince was about to reply when the man’s eyes fell upon the glinting golden dragon ring as the Prince held his hand out. He immediately took the young Prince, clasped him in a powerful embrace and said,
‘I’ve been expecting you for some considerable time, at last we can gets away from the madness. Come inside, I have crab and lobster and fresh made bread a plenty, we have much to talk about before I starts the work.’
The shipwright worked diligently for three months and Prince Wyn helped where he was needed. In between times he wrote the prophecy. Eventually they launched the boat. The clinker built boat stood proud and sleek made from the finest juniper and cedar woods, and at the prow James had carved a magnificent dragon’s head and neck covered in sheets of gold leaf. Two giant rubies in the eye sockets radiated a bright red light. All was ready, they toasted each other’s fine work with cups of mead. Prince Wyn carefully rolled up the vellum scroll on which he had written the prophecy and tucked it into his shoulder bag.
‘Come to my homeland James, I may need help with navigation, and besides, I like your company very well.’ said Prince Wyn.
“No I have much to do here, you will not need me now, the boat has magic properties, the Dragon Eyes will guide you home, all you need to do is let it lead you over the waves. Tarry no more young man, you have work to do.’
Once more they embraced and the Prince clambered aboard the boat. No sooner had he sat down at the stern when a strong wind blew up and the boat sailed across the bay. Prince Wyn turned and waved at the shipwright on the jetty.
The boat ploughed through the waves at incredible speed. The Prince arrived back to the harbour after only three and half months. A few merchants and sailors stood on the quayside as the dragon boat sailed into the harbour and drew up alongside King Oswald’s Royal mooring. The small crowd immediately gathered alongside the magnificent craft and marvelled at the strange light shining from the eyes. Prince Wyn threw a rope to one of the sailors, pushed a gangplank out, and sprang ashore. He spoke in a steady voice,
‘I am Prince Wyn, I bring a message for the people, follow me to the square outside the main gate to the royal fortress.’
A buzz of conversation spread amongst the crowd as Prince Wyn headed purposefully up the lane from the harbour towards the fortress. A few young sailors ran ahead spreading the word that something important was about to happen. By the time he arrived many people had gathered and the noise level rose as more came running to hear what he had to say.
King Oswald sat in his counting room with a Cappuccino as his Chancellor read out the latest figures from the treasury. Suddenly he heard a large cheer from outside, and he turned to look down into the square. He saw the large crowd and immediately ordered the royal guards to disperse the unauthorised gathering. He dismissed the Chancellor and hurried to the balcony in his main chamber that overlooked the square.
Prince Wyn stood on the steps outside the Fortress with a crowd of more than three hundred gathered at his feet. The royal guard marched out of the fortress and observed the Prince as he unfurled his scroll. The crowd fell silent and he began to read in a clear voice,
‘Herewith find the prophecy of the return of the Golden Dragon. At first there will appear in the distance afar, a small twinkling bright shiny golden star. No one will recognise this portentous sign, nor realise how blindingly bright it will shine. As it gets closer there will be panic and fear and nobody will know what’s about to appear. Flying serenely on high, way, way up above, shimmering, sun like, with peace and with love. The richest, deepest, darkest, crimson most red is found at the very centre point of the heart. This is what makes it the true colour of love. The flickering flames tinged with the colour of love will spill with a terrifying sound from the Dragons golden lips and sweep majestically across the green swards of the land, bringing the return of the very sweetest form of peace, where all the varied flags and pennants across the world will bow down in obeisance before the highest golden standard flying. When all the women and children in the world will stop cease to weep and cry, when all men will lay their weapons down and all people shall join together hand in hand in hand, when all endeavour shall be turned towards the purification of the oceans, the cleansing of the air and the healing of the land. Then shall we know that the new age of the Golden Dragon has arrived and the beginning of the end of the misunderstood days of mistake has started and the making of true civilisation will, at last, have begun. Thus will be that great magical day when we behold that mystical beast imbued triumphantly with the strongest powers of peace and of love. Then shall we behold the true magnificence of The Golden Dragon. Thus prophesy I, Prince Wyn, true servant and devotee of the bringer of happiness, peace and love.’
The crowd cheered mightily whilst King Oswald stood on the balcony becoming angrier by the second, so angry that his skin turned the colour of a tangerine. He rushed to the sill of the balcony and screamed at the Guards,
‘Arrest him, arrest him, he is a traitor and a false prophet, it’s all lies, there is no truth in what he says, the words he uses are fake, it’s all fake.’
The guards looked at him and then back at the crowds, many of whom they knew as their friends and family. They stood their ground and disobeyed the Kings orders. King Oswald, apoplectic with rage, shouted again,
‘I am your king, you must obey, seize the traitor and bring him in to me now.’
At that moment there began a total eclipse. The planet’s largest moon swiftly moved in front of the sun. The crowd fell silent.
King Oswald, dumbfounded, knew this was clearly a significant omen. At the moment of totality the people looked up into the dark sky and there they saw a twinkling speck of gold and they knew that the horrible years of austerity were almost at an end. King Oswald was no fool, he ran inside the fortress, tried to persuade his wife that they had to leave now or else something terrible would befall them, but she refused and told him that if he left now he would have to go alone, only Prince Victor stood by him and together they rode out of the servants entrance behind the fortress never to be seen again. Rumour had it that they lived in a deep impenetrable forest where they raised pigs for the rest of their lives. Prince Wyn called Queen Emeralda and Princess Lusha onto the steps as the moon moved across from the sun and the light flooded back into the world, and the people cheered as he embraced them both.
The Golden Dragon duly arrived one month later, to a forest of ancient flags and pennants that the people had been saving for just such a day. The people elected Prince Wyn as the new president after it was decided that there would never be a royal family ever again, and, as far as is known, there never has been since. The whole world lived forever and a day in perfect harmony.

09/12/2018

The Aberbanc Argus 11/11/2018.

Armistice Day 2018, the centenary of the end of WW1. What a strange day. The usual dirge like tones on the BBC Radio Four coverage of the eleventh hour on the eleventh day of the eleventh month as the wreaths were laid at the cenotaph. Not long afterwards the MSM swung into action and launched the inevitable attack on Jeremy Corbyn for wearing the wrong kind of coat and too small a poppy. Surely everyone now sees this kind of tabloid attack for what it is, cheap, shoddy and laughable. As he stood, surrounded by a bevvy of haute coutured war mongering murderers responsible for untold numbers of atrocities, as a man who has spent his whole life supporting peace campaigns he must have revelled in the irony. Of course the size of ones poppy is far more important than sanctioning millions of deaths in Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya. Also, having ones rain hood out is a much bigger insult to the dead than those politicians who continue to broker massive arms contracts whenever and wherever they can across the globe. Such hypocrisy is startling but this is after all a symptom of the fear felt by the establishment of a Jeremy Corbyn led government. Meanwhile in Paris French leader Macron publicly slaps Trump in the face by lecturing on the difference between nationalism and patriotism whilst in Warsaw a massive demonstration orchestrated by Nazis is attended by the head of state and other government politicians. All this whilst I sit constipated and convalescing from a hernia operation last Tuesday that is ameliorated by codeine and paracetamol. I read in The Sunday Remainer (The Observer) that the MOD are now developing drones that can take autonomous decisions on whether to kill or not, something I have been writing about for the last thirteen years, ironic on the centenary of the end of the war to end all wars that new fangled killing machines are being developed for the very self same politicians who wear the larger poppies, believe in nuclear weapons as deterrence, and are draped in tailored mourning clothes. After a plate of frozen berries ( defrosted), muesli and plain yoghurt at lunchtime I finally have a shit after six days of discomfort, but I still feel sickened by the historical stench of wars past mixed with the fear that something awful is brewing in the very near future. All this and Charlton Athletic scored away from home in the FA Cup first round at Mansfield Town thus earning a draw and a place in the second round draw. See, I told you it was a strange day. Sleep well comrades, whilst you can.

Nowhere To Go Go

Caught short in Tokyo?
No problem a go go.
Public loos never shut,
Designer works of art,
Not like that Nissan hut,
Pugged away, kept in dark.
Most in convenience
Drab, ugly, plain and stark,
Squalid where we spend pence.
Unlike the Japanese
Who all luxuriate
With fancy poos and pees,
Their toilets truly great,
Aesthetic and pleasing
Built like finest palace,
For farting and easing,
Not a poisoned chalice
Like those cold windy sheds
Built of tin and concrete,
Crass stainless steel piss heads,
No more found on high street.
Suppose we’ll carry pos
When all the loos are gone.
Where cherry blossom grows
Lavatories live on!

Harri Rogers, Pencnwcau, 1st June 2018.

The Repository Of Socially Useful Ideas.

This is an idea that came to me in a dream whilst on a Christmas holiday in Palma on 27th December 2015.

I was dreaming that I was running a kind of Blog. A blog where people could lodge their ideas of how to build a better world. The blog would have a portal a bit like the entrance into Narnia. Once through the entrance a repositer would have access to all the ideas lodged there. There would be open access to ideas and they would be lodged by category.  Unlike Wikipedia, which is an attempt at a self monitoring encyclopedia, this would be a repository where just ideas are posted. At the moment there are many academic websites that cost an arm and a leg to accessand are beyond the reach of the vast majority of people who neither earn the salaries nor have the economic backing of major institutions. Also, the current social media are great places to chat and organise events but when it comes to the sharing of ideas they fall down big time.  This is mainly because they are not designed with a coherent archival capability.  The website Democracy Now comes close to doing this but has as it’s central aim the dissemination of left wing news and keeps a magnificent global archive of news events.

What I am proposingis a modern day version of The Left Book Club where strategic and political thinkers and polemicists can rub shoulders with activists who have great ideas.

The need for security would be an absolute imperitive. To this end I believe that something akin to a block chain would need to be used in order to keep the maliciously intended from subverting or riddling the site with virusus or software that could be used by governments to access lists of contributors. 

Contributors would adopt an avatar/identity at the start of their journey into the repository and would be able to access all ideas posted without hindrance.

The blog will need very careful monitoring and a secure vetting process to ensure that neither political nor religious factions can subvert or occupy the site for their own ends.  The overarching purpose of the site is to build a repository of knowledge that is open to all. A bit like what Tony Benn often refered to as a people’s university. There are still public libraries and reading rooms but these are increasingly disappearing as funding for the reproduction of traditional books, the cost of maintaining and heating the often large buildings, and cost of employing librarians and other staff, all become prohibitive.

What I am proposing here is an online space where people can lodge ideas in the form of extracts, essays or longer tracts. This would be a place where these ideas would be given for free. I realise that for many academics this is anathema. A seismic blow to the concept of selling intellectual property. However this has already happened to a large extent in the creative industries where streaming is trying to outgun filesharing.  I am suggesting that ideas are not the property of those that have them but rather they are the product of the world we inhabit and as such should be shared. Zut alors I hear you say, this is the end of the world for so many people. What about copywrite? How can academics make a living? Well the key here is that people would donate their ideas to the repository freely and of their own volition.  There would be no expectation of payment and no exploitation through sales. The ideas would be there to be used, studied, or enacted.

A site like this would need some initial financeand also some ongoing revenue to cover any on-costs. This could come from donations, gifts and fundraising events.

The main idea though is to get the realm of academic freedom away from the chaos that is Facebook etc and into a modern online space where ideas are freely exchanged, tested, challenged and developed. TED does this up to a point but what is needed is an online place where anybody can deposit ideas that they believe are for the common good. Where ideas can be disseminated and shared with the sole purpose of making the world a better place. At the moment our Universities are, in the main, set up to compete and generate finance through competitive business models but this is not the only or even the best way things can be organised.

We need another way. We need a place where anyone who has a good idea can share it, not for money but out of altruism. The creators of Facebook, Google, Microsoft, Apple, etc etc have taken the internet away from the people,monetized it to the nth degree and have handed back a cyber lawyers paradise where the original idea of the internet has become subverted and enslaved to mammon. Bitcoin, despite it’s faults offers a possible way out through the use of blockchain technology. I am not an expert on this but I believe it is possible to set up an online entity that exists free from the constraints and exploitation of capitalism true to the original concept of the world wide web. It is something we need to strive for and a good start could be the creation of The Repository of Socially Useful Ideas.

Merthyr Rising Festival 2018 – Red Poets Events.

​I am doing two readings with The Red Poets at the Merthyr Rising Festival.
We’re doing 2 sets on Saturday May 26th.
The first is at Theatr Soar, just off High St.  Max 2 poems each and we’re on from 11 – 12.
Second is in the tent in Castle Car park, near Soar and we start at 13.15. Again 2 poems each.
This will be the running order for both sessions –
Mike Jenkins 

Des Mannay

Gemma Howells

Tim Evans

Heather Pudner

Phil Howells

Al Jones

Julie Pritchard

Tim Richards

Mike Church

Harry Rogers

John Williams

Andrew Bartz

Rhoda Thomas 

Phil Knight

Heather falconer

Rhys Milsom

Huw Pudner

Rob Cullen

Patrick Jones ( tent only)

Barry Taylor.

Windflower – Poem 8th May 2018.

Windflower

The seed arrived
Without warning
On an unknown
Foreign Zephyr.
Depositing
Itself, neatly,
Between dry stones.
On spagnum green
Softly nestled
For duration
Of summer warm
Swollen with dew
Bursting upwards
Searching for sky
Seeking sunshine
Stalkly groping
Stronger each day
Budly bursting
Cerulean
Bluely special
Shiny dawning
Unexpected
Glory morning
My windflower

Harry Rogers: Tea shop in Newcastle Emlyn, 8th May 2018

Spice, The Variety Of Life.

Huddled beneath rainbow hoodie,
Head bowed, feet bare, he begs, silent.
I see him in shiver alley.
On the way to buy food for birds
I felt such a goodie goodie.
Finches, sparrows, tits and robins,
All friends in my kitchen garden.
The epiphany strikes full force.
Here on cardboard square sits a man,
A young man with no belongings.
I would easy spend thirty pounds
On fat balls, nuts and mixed seed.
He has neither home, nor garden.
Open my wallet, take tenner,
Hand him the brown note, he looks up.
“That’s far too much man, far too much.”
Shocked at how well spoken he is,
The words tumble quick from my mouth,
” Do you have a bed for tonight?”
” I don’t, my girlfriend is away.
She is coming back with money,
We will rent a room very soon.”
“Come to my house, I have spare space.”
“I can’t do that, not right now man.”
Scribble down name and phone number,
Thrust paper into blackened hand,
Hurry to garden bird seed land.
Laden down with avian feast
I pass him by on way back home,
“Did you mean it? About the bed?”
Awkwardly I blurt out “Of course.”
See the tears tumble down his face.
“Thanks, I might call you, some time soon.”
He moved in fourteen days ago.
His room is already unkempt,
Empty spice bags litter the floor.
When straight he is quite diffident,
We talk all night when he’s lucid.
Never knew someone with so much strife,
The police woman very kind,
Told me he never saw the car,
That killed him on the roundabout,
He stumbled from the kerb she said,
The Jaguar killed him stone dead,
Not yet thirty, a crying shame,
I don’t know where to lay the blame.
Spice, the variety of life.

Thanks to Angie for this narrative.

Harry Rogers, Pencnwcau, 23-04-2018

The Salisbury Incident

Article by Johnny Gaunt & Harry Rogers

The Salisbury Incident

As many governments across the Western world begin to exile their Russian diplomats back east, the most fundamental questions relating to the Skripol case remain not only unanswered, but the faintest sniff of any real evidence is yet to make an appearance before the public.
There is no doubt that Theresa May, Boris Johnson, Amber Rudd, et al, have worked hard to achieve a consensus amongst Nato and EU states, and has had some success in persuading other leaders to condemn and react to the unproven Russian involvement.
Many of these leaders, perhaps, have reasons of their own for latching on to such a flimsy agreement. France, Germany, Italy, and Holland are among a number of nations reeling from their own domestic political turbulence. Collapsing centrist parties have watched their traditional voter bases divide and file off to the left and right, as all over Europe the political polarisation hardens. Being seen to be part of a new unified front will, they hope, strengthen their domestic positions. It is a familiar response from desperate neoliberal administrations; instead of taking responsibility for the declining interest in their policies, they would rather fall back on the policy of fear in a dangerous attempt to appear ‘strong and stable’.
Manipulating fear of a common enemy of the West, brings with it certain benefits for the ruling classes. Not only does it present a superficial ‘toughness’ that leaders can exploit at home, it also makes large sections of the public easier to control and susceptible to further misinformation. Chomsky suggested: “Democratic societies can’t force people [to go to war, in this case]. Therefore, they have to control what they think.” You could also finish that sentence, “Therefore, democracy must be undermined.”
With the Skripol case we have seen the UK mass media swing into action in order to ramp up public fear, obliterate individual analysis and control the narrative of how Brits, loyal to their country, should respond. The BBC, ITN and Channel4 News outlets have each backed Theresa May’s assumptions and reactionary behaviour towards Russia. Jeremy Corbyn’s perspective, that the government needs to wait until real facts emerge about who is responsible, has been purposefully vilified and distorted by these networks, to echo George Bush’s infamous, “You’re either with us, or against us,” mentality. The BBC, for their flagship political debate programme, Newsnight, even went so far as to alter Jeremy Corbyn’s flat-cap to look more like a Russian bearskin, before pasting the doctored image onto a deep red backdrop of the Kremlin.
Heightening hysteria of a Russian threat is win-win politics for many hawkish MPs, who will gain increases in their arms industry share profits, and political leverage to turn up Defence spending. Simultaneously, the shrill is loud enough to drown out domestic criticism of such scandalous acts as cutting free school meals for a million kids from struggling families.
Of course, the main driver of much of this remains ideology. The golden rule of the British establishment has long been to stamp out any sign of socialism long before it can develop into anything meaningful; and it has done an excellent job since destroying Michael Foot’s 1983 manifesto.
It has been a long 35 years for the principled socialist. But in that time, things have changed radically. The commercial scraps from military technology found their way into public homes in the form of computers around the same time. Within 10 years, the world-wide-web had organised the internet into something accessible by the new generation, for whom computers were as everyday as television. In 2005, one of this generation, began hooking up Ivy League universities to his social media software, Facebook. The use of social media data by companies such as Cambridge Analytica to subvert global democratic processes is a negative outcome of the growth of ICT. Whilst big-data is a worrying aspect of the growth in digital industry, the ongoing rush by both Google and the Chinese government to bring about the singularity in artificial intelligence, where machines are equal in intellectual ability with human beings, is even more worrying for those of us concerned about the future of militarism. We are told that there are great social benefits that flow from AI, but the thought of autonomous weaponry making decisions on who lives and dies in the many so-called theatres of war is truly scary, and no longer just the dystopian rambling of science-fiction writers.
Whatever the truth behind the Salisbury Incident, we have witnessed the UK establishment’s completely cynical exercise in ramping up public fear of war, through the demonization of a major state. This behaviour is nothing new and has been used unsparingly since the end of the second world war; however, since 2001 and the commencement of the War on Terror, this fear and war mongering has intensified and become more frequent. These are the desperate actions of an ideologically bankrupt set of inept politicians; and, they are not exclusive to the Tory Party.
However, the establishment’s persistent use of its mainstream media arm to concuss the public into consensus, appears to be losing some of its punching power. This has been in no small part due to Jeremy Corbyn’s consistent message of doing the right thing, as in this case where he urged restraint before rushing to judgement. Nevertheless, the governments in Nato, will continue to use the threat of war to justify increasing expenditure on more and more technologically sophisticated methods of arm’s length killing, mostly of the dispossessed, in countries that don’t, or seem unlikely to, conform to Western hegemonic ideology.
Prevailing facts surrounding incidents such as the Salisbury poisoning, become almost irrelevant once the narrative has been set out; the public simply needs to choose between loyalty to, or betrayal of, Britain. Manipulation of public opinion in this way will no doubt carry on until it is either fully exposed for what it is, or until a genuine anti-war government can turn us away from the ‘unavoidable’ conflicts we are purposefully being steered towards.
Johnny Charles and Harry Rogers are both members of the Labour Party and Ceredigion Stop the War. On 28th April, the panel event, “Why the UK needs a new Foreign Policy” will take place in Aberystwyth, and will feature talks from Mark Serwotka, Lindsey German, Adam Joannes & Ayla Gol.

Unbroken Ponies – Tippy Toe To The Boogie video.

Recorded in Andy’s Gaff studio in Frome last November with Steve Young – Guitar, Robert Goldsmith – Saxes, Andrew Howell – Bass and Drums, Harry Rogers – Vocals.  This little earworm is all about a festival I went to in USA last summer.  I wrote the words sitting in Dr Bombay’s Tearoom in Candler Park, Atlanta, an excellent place to sit and get in contact with your muse.