shakespearewales@hotmail.com
Englleburt Bartfast has declined to contribute a square fact.
Andrew believes all the world's problems could be solved if people would just learn to love Country music. temp2@email.com
kate.noakes@googlemail.com Kate spends a great deal of time searching for her missing Chi, which someone in her family has moved. johndavies1976@btinternet.com Hangs around with people who meet to discuss what they’ve written about their lives, sometimes in code form, like poetry. became a Psychologist because of his name.
neil.frude@ntlworld.com
janpuss@googlemail.com Jan is emotionally and physically exhausted. djlewis1966@yahoo.co.uk Teaches, walks the dog, drinks beer and eats curry. nickfisk@email.com Wears earplugs at loud rock concerts.
ifor.thomas@googlemail.com Seminal performance was video of him climbing out of a cardboard box Last seen climbing into a box in a metaphorical way. Square Magazine is produced with the assistance of the Welsh Books Council. Printed by Autoprinters Ltd, 107 Penarth Road, Cardiff, CF11 6JT
Square Crossword No.1 1
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Welcome to the first Square Crossword. Thank you to the guy who came to the first launch, and gave me the idea. Unfortunately, I didn’t keep his details, so instead of getting him to do one, I’ve made one myself. Apologies for it not looking that great (ie. not symmetrical, etc.), but I’ve used an online crossword creator, so it’s not exactly perfect. Anyone, enjoy having a go at it. Send completed entries (photocopies accepted), along with name, address, and email address to: Square Mag, 2 Richmond House, Richmond Road, Cardiff, CF24 3AR. The winner will receive a free subscription to next year’s Square, plus 4 square points.
Across
Down
1. Her legs? Eleven out of ten (4) 3. This Kate's OK, sane (6) 5. Green and spiky; cricket shout without the zed (5/6) 8. This Kate's going straight to the top! (5) 10. Make this not war, for a reason (3/2/3) 12. Rare breed of ticket (7) 15. Not Stuart Cable, but Nicky ____ (4) 16. Mustang _____ Cinnamon (5) 17. Crouch down before purposeful slip (4/5) 19. Brainchild of Simple Minds (7) 22. Sounds like Husker Du singer, in fact Academi staff (3/4) 23. Bluebird with red hair and red socks? Oh Lord! (4/7)
2. Is it a bird? Is it a crane? No, it’s ______ Crane! (6) 4. Wonderstuff's Full Circle (6) 6 . Value, Stu? (5) 7 . Sings with the Welsh mob (3/6) 9 . First question in posh clothes shop, Jan? (5) 11. Ronnie O' Sullivan has one, and the same (8) 12. Andrew and Bill (11) 13. Dolly mixture or snob? (5/6) 14. I before N, except before C (10) 18. Ifor's foil? Break Beat saver (4/4) 20. Not O’Connor, but still sounds like a pop star (6) 21. Chris or Rupert (6)
Two Old Toms Toms Old Tom, the excabbie Lives alone with his tabby; No money to mention, Both live on his pension. Old Tom and his master, They share the same space. His paws and his hands, His shaking, his grace. Bedazzled, bewhiskered; Besotted, beguiled; Each cares for the other, His favourite child. Old chap in a flat cap, And Tom through the cat flap, Return from their jaunts From their separate haunts. Softly purring together, Both twitching their ears; Each Tom nine years old Nine years old in cat years.
OUTA Celebrating that incredibly flexible and extraordinarily useful word “Outa” As in:
They travelled into Outa space Turned Outa nice day They went Outa lunch The cheese was Outa date Outa make friends and influence people
Sometimes you can even use it twice in a single sentence .. You can learn Outa focus a camera wots Outa focus Or more … People who swim Outa sea often get Outa their depth and don’t know Outa call Outa rescue boat _______________
Following on from last month’s piece on the Bob Bank Whistler, which also discussed the infamous “Hull Stubbies”, I thought I’d print this post, taken from the unofficial Cardiff City online messageboard on the subject. Thanks to the Brigadier for allowing me to print it. Have seen an amusing post on an online messageboard/forum etc. Send it in to square@post.com and we’ll consider printing it. Depending on the quality of the piece you send in, you can earn between 1 and 8 Square Points.
Wanna know Outa love and Outa hate? Learn Outa mind your own business mate We gotta get Outa this place Move from the Outa Hebrides into Outa space Outa impress, Outa be grand Trouble was, it got Outa hand Outa control, see, well Outa order Outa bounds, beyond the border
Let’s get Outa here, shouted a Shouta Outa, Easy to shout “get Outa”, but we dunno Outa We jumped Outa there like a bat Outa hell Or it might have been the devil but we didn’t know Outa tell Outa the frying pan, Outa our skulls, wivOuta clue Then the law came Outa nowhere – Outa the blue
a moment, she is silent, staring at my middleaged body, its sagging pecs and hanging belly, then mutters “Gross!” She orders me to fix the alarm, and calls me something I’ve never heard before, but assume is intended to be offensive. And once again, I’m in front of the control panel, punching in numbers. The neighbours won’t come round at this early hour. Instead, they fling open their windows, question my parentage and manhood, and threaten to call the police. “Why you call the police,” I yell back: “I’m supposed to be being robbed here!” It occurs to me that I am probably alerting every robber, rapist and murderer in the area to the fact that I can afford an alarm system, and am therefore not a man of penury. Breakfast the next morning is execution time. My love is darkeyed and ratty. We’re long enough married for me to recognise the way she blows at the steam from her tea; it says, it says, “Don’t you dare!” My children insist they are far too tired to go to school, although nobody can see any reason why I should not go to work. You can only goad a quiet man so far: “That’s !” A chord of astonished gasps resonates around the table. Oh, that was excellent! I am actually commanding their attention! I permit myself a quick pat on the back. Just occasionally, I can be really good! Now to see if I can convincingly maintain my fit of manly determination: “I’m getting rid of that damned alarm!”
We settled Outa court, the card said get Outa jail free See, we knew Outa play the system, Outa play Monopoly Outa complain, Outa grumble, Outa moan Outa kilter, Outa kilter birds with one stone Name in the paper, Outa make it your career Now I’m a celebrity – get me Outa here Outa write a silly poem, Outa make it rhyme Outa finish on the dot, when you’re almost Outa time Neil Frude
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New Taffia CD "Soupermarket"
My son returns his concern to his bowl of Coco Frosty Pops; my teenage daughter to her magazine detailing the sex lives of the rich and famous. I suppose my confidence was a little unrealistic. My wife resumes blowing on her tea. “I hope so,” she snarls, “if only for a little .” Now, we are again a united, contented family. Except my teenage daughter, of course. We may be robbed. We may be raped. We may never wake up, having been slaughtered in our beds. But oh, the blessed peace of going to sleep knowing we no longer have an alarm to worry us. Unless, of course, the neighbours get one.
Available from 029Records (upstairs) Cardiff Antique Centre 10 -12 Royal Arcade Cardiff CF10 2AE Tel 07891080714 3
Freezer log
some minor geological shift, in which case, it’s accompanied by every other alarm in town.
I chart the freezer’s contents In a list blutacked to the door: the what, the when, the how long it can be stored.
That’s when I stand in front of the control panel, furiously punching in birthdays, dates, bank account details, gas metre registrations. The neighbours stop by to ask if I know my alarm’s going off, and suggest I try the year Southampton won the FA Cup, or the England cricket score. I’m tempted to take a hammer to the damn thing and pound it into submission. But my dearest comes demanding why I haven’t fixed it yet. “Hurry up, I’ve got work to do,” she growls.
This mausoleum of stars and ice and frost, the drawers cracked on their runners, keeping cold the logged and lost.
“Yes, dear.” I try the median value of Tesco preference stock in 1998.
The small nuggets of inspiration, packed in freezer bags. Hopes and minor ambitions have lost their jam jar tags.
My son turns up to ask if I know the alarm’s going off. He suggests I phone the alarm company. “How dare you tell your father what to do,” I snap. “Go to your room! You’re grounded!”
Next to the stiff flaps of pitas and the reused frozen peas, the brittle sullen lobster marooned in a silent sea
“Yeah right, Dad.” He tells me he’s off to his mate’s house, whose parents don’t have an alarm. When it goes off at three in the morning is when I seriously dream of divorce. I burrow under the covers, folded like a bat, driving my fingers into my ears, and praying God to … please … just .
are the big ideas, the brilliant schemes, the worldwide tours, the wildeyed dreams, coated in white indifference unsentimental as rocks. It breathes, it sighs, it shudders, it mocks.
But it doesn’t, and my wife digs her elbow into my ribs to inform me the alarm’s going off. She maintains it’s my job to fix it; “After all”, she insists, it was me that bought the damn thing. I lump out from under the covers into the Antarctic darkness: “I may be gone some time.” “That’s nice, dear.” What does she care? She’s warm. I skit across the icy floorboards in my underwear onto the landing, where my teenage daughter is lurking. Her dental brace glints malevolently in the moonlight. She demands whether I know the alarm’s going off. I explain that I’m well aware of this, and enquire why she thinks I’d be running around the bloody house, half bloody naked, in the middle of the bloody night, unless I were bloody well doing something about it. For
The Peace of Mind
The lifeboat man and his ex
“When we were young,” my sweetheart lies, “we left our front doors unlocked.”
Sometimes, after all these years, I visit you. In the Sloop I asked you to watch me carry out my latest rescue. You looked well, dressed to have dinner with Catrin Finch.
“The world’s not like that any more.” The salesman nods his shaved head sagely and jangles his bling. His gold teeth flash as he reminds us of the murderers, robbers and rapists who daily prowl our neighbourhoods, pursuing opportunities to gratify their psychotic lusts. How does he know? I ask myself. And just how does he afford all that jewellery on a shop salary? But then he reveals his price, and I know. “Do you know what it’s like to be robbed?” he asks. “Oh, yes,” I reply. I ask if he has anything cheaper, which he admits he has, but explains how they’re really not worth the money they charge for them. No, no, if we’re to have a house alarm, it must – just to be – one. Outside, my car alarm goes off. My wife ignores it. So do I. And everyone else in the shop and the street outside. In fact, somebody could be hotwiring it right at this very moment, and nobody will take a blind bit of notice. Including the salesman who’s trying to persuade me of the importance of an alarm system. But then comes the “peace of mind” bit which, apparently, is more important than feeding one’s family. “Think of the peace of mind,” says the salesman. Ah yes, I may have to declare bankruptcy and have all my possessions taken by the bailiffs, but at least I can be sure they won’t be taken by burglars. “Yes, think of your children,” my wife barks. Whose side is she on? I’m tempted to remind her we made solemn vows before God. But she’s got that in her eye, and I realize there really is at least one person in this world from whom only this alarm can protect me. I whimper and surrender my Mastercard. Nobody tells me whether the salesman will spend his share on an eleventh ring, or just another necklace. Only we find when it’s installed, that the alarm rarely – in fact, never – actually goes off when we’re about to be butchered. It goes off whenever there’s a strong wind, whenever there’s a thunderstorm, whenever my son’s football bounces off the wall, whenever the washing machine enters its Wagnerian spin cycle. Or whenever there’s
But you came anyway. Me in my canary yellow oilskins you with your red glossed lips, we walked the cliff path. It happened to be a false alarm I remained to watch the sea. No bobbing heads. No arms waving.
Blood and Salt Last night’s force five has left Solva’s fishermen shipping extra hours in their beds, but not Mikey, and me the pensioned apprentice, boarding Helen C. The diesel beast is defibrillated back to life (he told me to stand clear), the monster coughs, clears its black lungs, roars at the breaking dawn settles into a steady fuckfuckfuck... Moorings slipped into the harbour slick we turn out to the storm’s back yard ruckus nearly done, tin cans kicked over the sea runs this way and that, cross as a crossed lover.
She hasn’t forgotten who started all this slaps us, shakes the boat, spits in my eye drags at my buttonless jacket, screams We haul our spoils crabs, lobsters, conger eel The winch whines forgiveness weed garlanding the landed creels boots braced against the bullying swell. Raw wind ranting in my ear forcing the stench of bait down my goose throat. We have snatched what the sea made shell biscuit sand and bruised blue, the colours of prehistory soon to be flushed red by the boiler’s breath. Running for home, a gull posse in pursuit, tongues sharp with the taste of blood and salt.
This month’s Square Top 5 websites: 1. Squaremag.net – yes, finally, there is a website. Or at least, there should be. 2. Pure Purepoetry.co.uk – not checked this one out yet? Described as a “palace of poetry” 3. boomslangpoetry.co.uk – Kate Noakes’s excellent site. 4. lloydrobson.com – Lloyd Robson’s frankly mediocre site – get polishing, Robson! 5. poetcasting.co.uk here, you can listen to poets read their stuff, including Square writer, David Foster Morgan. Cool (or should I say “Square”?).
Brandy I drink it when I’m happy, I drink it when I’m sad. I drink it when I’m being good, and especially when bad. I drink it when my friends come round I drink all by myself I keep the bottle near me upon the kitchen shelf. I drink it when I’m hungry I drink it when I’m not I drink it when I’m freezing and also when I’m hot. I drink it when I’m working I drink it when at play I drink it every single night but mostly in the day. I drink it just to be polite I drink it when I’m rude I drink it when I’m over dressed and when I’m in the nude. Otherwise I never touch it, as is obvious in the rhyme. I just drink it when I’m thirsty and I’m thirsty all the time!!!
The Blushing Bride Bride
The Same Eyebrows (part II)
She was stood in a bar in Cardiff in the den of the hen party crowd; most of them were half naked, all of them, very loud.
..When he finished, he left me unsatisfied, legs apart, back aching, and my head underneath a real ale pump. I stayed in the flat above the bar, next to the barman, looking at his ridiculous long ginger moustache. That’s two ginger moustaches in two days I had seen, I thought to myself, and then laughed out loud. He awoke and asked me what was wrong and I told him, nothing, nothing was wrong, and he mumbled silly bitch as he turned his skinny back, pulled his black sheets, and fell back asleep. I stared at the bedroom door for five hours thinking about Leanne. How beautiful and gentle she was, and how silly I was to just get up and leave. Maybe I should go back to her house and see if she wanted to go out for a meal, and then I thought that would be a ridiculous thing to do.
She had jeans that were ripped to the ankle, with a lace garter slung round her knee. She looked like a sack, and her top had no back she was so drunk she could hardly see. There was a sash draped over her bosom with “Bride to be”, written in gold, and the legend, “I am a virgin” but she wasn’t, so I am told. On her head was a sparkly tiara, all hanging with condoms and such. If this girl was a blushing young bride. then I must be right out of touch. Her language was that of a navvy, and all of her friends were the same. There was no finesse in the state of their dress, it’s sad, but there’s no one to blame. She staggered out onto the pavement, out of that old Cardiff bar, flashed all her bits at the doorman, and threw up all over a car.
I stood outside the back of her house. I had been there since sneaking out of the flat above the bar when the sun rose I didn’t really think it appropriate to give the barman any more treats for breakfast. The alley way by Leanne’s house had a perfect view of her bedroom, and I watched her undress from her night clothes. Oh how nubile her body was, like mine once. Her skin seemed to glow through the window, like a beacon calling me. I watched her dress, so delicate and precise. Each movement carefully considered like a dancer and I watched her apply her make up, not that she needed any as her face was as pure as the morning air that circled me. I couldn’t believe that I had to go back to the smog of London in a few days time. I was no closer to finding my father and I would be leaving behind this princess that had affected my heart so much in such a short period of time. Leanne then turned to the window and in a panic I lost my footing and fell back into the filthy rubbish bins and bags. It made an ever so terrible clatter. I decided I should wait there and hide in the garbage for a while, just in case Leanne heard and suspected something.
Then they trooped off swearing and shouting their behaviour and dress was a crime, but what’s to be done? Really, nothing – they’re a product of out time.
The library was an impressive place, so many books, so much information. When I studied, libraries were a place where old men and women with wrinkly faces told you off for breathing. Asking for a book was like asking them to write it themselves. Nowadays, the staff were young and helpful, and there were vending machines, and people openly chatted, and there were computer rooms, and quiet rooms if you did want to knuckle down. The young lad at the enquiry desk looked over his thick rimmed Austin Powers glasses at me when I asked for my visitor’s pass. He gently nodded at my right
shoulder; I turned my head to the left, and tried to remove the rotting meat fat that was hanging of my jacket. “Are you OK?” he asked. “Yes, yes, I’m fine, just a little accident earlier this morning and I haven’t had time to… but now its imperative that I have my visitor’s pass…I mean…” He handed me the card, and I stormed away from the counter down the stairs to the computer room. The doors opened, and all the heads remained fixed at the bright screens. Thank goodness. I sat down and entered JOHN JONES into Google. Useless, unless I thought that my father was the drummer from Led Zeppelin, the Illinois State Senator, the New Zealand Whaler, the Welsh poet, the Welsh preacher, the Welsh Writer, or the Welsh Philosopher, and none of them looked like me when I conducted an image search. I rested my head on my arms, which smelt terribly. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept, washed or eaten properly. I started getting electric shocks through my brain. When I moved my eyes, I felt terrible dizzy and when I turned my head it was like my brain was turning a few seconds later, like a nut in a shell. My body started twitching and tears started to run down my check and dripped, dripped onto the J key. I couldn’t remember what my life was when my mother was alive. I stood up and kicked my chair backwards. It squeaked and screeched across the floor and into the young lad sitting behind me. “Watch, you crazy bitch!” Crazy? I thought. Crazy? I tried to open my mouth but nothing came out, and I just stood there, frozen, floating heads staring back at me, waiting, and waiting for my next move. I could hear the mechanical neck of the security camera turn. I fetched the chair and sat back down. I typed oimreiwrncoiemxj,asjdcwimefjxewifhybvdsncj’iosenxicj widohfeoiau,]powqzam`]xmeidwj42873r5y7ewoin r urm r niomuiur4uirw mficsjf nuilsd jcfni;oewur ‘I;ew md’c;lhj9ewiojdsmi cuyemwids…. for two hours solid.. “Hello.” Leanne peered over my shoulder, “No luck then, yet?” she asked, looking at the screen I was looking at. I tried to shake life into my head. Wake up you fool, wake up. I was so delighted to see her. I was able to communicate again and said, “I just keep on hitting brick walls. I know I have only been searching for a couple of days, but I just know it’s a lost cause. I mean what chance do I have of finding a man in Wales called John Jones? I’m beginning to think that my mother is looking down on me, laughing at her notso funny joke. John Jones, JOHN JONES! It must be a joke.” I breathed out and Leanne touched me on my shoulder with her young hand. I took the hand in mine. She didn’t care, or notice, or say anything about the way I looked, or smelt.
My only other gripe is that Lloyd has chosen to write the book in an Americantype accent, which seems odd for someone usually so proud of his broad Cardiff lilt. This aside, it’s an extremely well put together, immensely enjoyable read, whether you know much about Mitchum or not (I didn’t), and a good bet for Welsh Book of the Year 2009 (unfortunately, I haven’t found a bookies willing to take the bet yet). And as a champion of the city and literature of Cardiff, you can’t get much better than Lloyd, even though his support of Cardiff City FC is slightly questionable. I was surprised that he lowered himself to asking if I might have a spare ticket for the Cup Final! He’s one of those who seems to think that just coming from Cardiff and knowing a few results makes him a fan – we want to see your arse down the Bob Bank a bit more often Mr Robson! Robert Minhinnick Robert Minhinnick was an everpresent in my youth. If he wasn’t popping over to the school to read us his meandering tales of visits to foreign climes, and encouraging us to take up the creative whatsitsname, I would see him at Porthcawl’s Friends of the Earth office, where I did the odd spot of work, goaded into it by my friend Julian. I’m about as green as a Texan oil dealer these days, but I believed in it all at the time. Minhinnick had a scary wife, Margaret – even her accent was scary – who kept him and everyone else in check. Essentially, he hasn’t changed in all these years. He’s still a dour, serious, but well intentioned man. He’s just been given 20 odd grand to write some essays about immigration. Yet, I discovered at the Hay festival, he’s tight with his money. I sat down with him and a friend of his who looked like he could just about afford the clothes he was wearing, yet he willingly parted with £2.50 for a mag. Minhinnick on the other hand had the cheek to assume he’d get a free copy! The nerve of the man! Noone gets a free copy of this magazine. Not even my girlfriend. But then, perhaps that’s one reason why I haven’t got one.
Engleburt Bartfast Digs Some Dirt on the Stars at the Hay on Wye Festival Festival Holly Howitt Holly was seen at the Hay on Wye Festival wearing hotpants, knee length socks and a crop top. Some thought this was inappropriate garb for the festival, but I say, why not shake things up a bit – go for it girl! She is currently promoting her book, “Dinner Time”, a book of microfiction, which, like the author herself, is slim to say the least. I read the entire book in around a quarter of an hour, and, like the Rubik’s Cube, people are setting records around the world to see who can read it in the quickest time. Someone on the Hay site is said to have read it in around 3.5 minutes, while there is a rumour that a guy in India has completed it in 18 seconds flat, with his feet. Kate North If there’s a literature degree to be had, it would seem Kate North has it. Sadly however, she still cannot write poetry. Her latest book, “Eva Shell”, a form of diary/novel type thing, is interesting in parts, again, not a weighty tome, but the poetry in it is pretty awful. It’s written from the main character’s point of view, so of course, Kate can use the defence that it’s not her writing, it’s the character, and the character is meant to not be a very good poet. I find this argument a little weak however. Still, Kate’s a lovely person, and still has a big fat smile, like a baby who’s just completed a hearty soup supper.
“Let me take you home, you look like you need a rest, some food, and a nice long hot soak,” she gently whispered. Well I couldn’t contain myself – that was perfect – exactly what I needed. I could sleep for twenty four hours, and then I would be fresh and back to myself, and I could get to know Leanne a lot more. I thought I could find out what makes her tick, what her dreams are, her ambitions, her passions. However I was older than her and decided that I should be presenting myself in a more mature manner. I should be able to look after myself. If I couldn’t look after number one, how could I possibly look after her, so delicate and fragile? I could feel my heart racing and I told her that I truly appreciated the offer, but it would be best if I was to book into a hotel room for the rest of the week. I would clean myself up there and then meet at her’s at six and then take her for dinner. She looked disappointed, but agreed and smiled; I watched her lips turn upwards. I wanted to kiss them right there, but knew that was impossible. Leanne left the computer room as she had research to do. I watched her swathe out through the electronic door; she had a youthful confidence about her. My confidence was sagging, like my skin on the outside. I pondered for a short while, looking at the nonsense on the screen. The warm hum of the computer sent me into a trance, and I starting thinking how the search had not panned out how I expected. I had found someone, but she didn’t have the same eyebrows.
..Is about the closest thing Cardiff has to a celebrity writer. Like Robert Mitchum, who he has just released a book about, he’s a hard drinkin‘, pot smokin‘ ladies’ man, or so his book would have us believe. Forget “Chick Lit”, this is definitely a “Bloke Book”. I always thought of Lloyd as being quite a modest sort of chap, but in this book – a big fat thing (in this case, unlike the author) – he almost seems boastful of his life’s achievements. It doesn’t necessarily detract from the book’s quality, and perhaps Lloyd felt the need to laud himself up as a hero while writing about the man his dad idolised. Compared to a book like W H Davies’s “Autobiography of a Super Tramp”, where the author is modesty itself, but still makes everything he does sound pretty exciting, you just feel he might be overdoing it very slightly, however.
It was getting close to five and my mind was beginning to wander. I needed fuel an empty bag doesn’t stand but I wanted to look my best for Leanne, so I decided that it would be best not to eat until I took her for dinner. Then I panicked and thought that she would find my body repulsive. I had hoped that we would sleep together tonight, now I was unsure that I would meet her at all. Food would go straight to my belly, legs, face, so I decided that I would leave a message at the university reception saying that I had a lead in Edinburgh and had to go but I would leave my email address and phone number and she could contact me and then I could get her number. Yes, yes, that’s what I would do. But then I thought that she might bump into me in Cardiff, and I didn’t want to go back to London because I knew that I would just end up back in work, and I couldn’t deal with mopping faeces from incontinent old men and women, and dishing out drugs three times a day. No, I wasn’t ready to tell other people that their parent had died. I just couldn’t. So there was only one option and I headed for the station and bought a ticket to Edinburgh.
Lloyd Robson
The 20.10 to Edinburgh pulled out of Cardiff central station. £146 well spent I thought to myself. I had always liked trains, and easily settled in. I was to change at Crewe for the sleeper. This brought back memories of my student days when I had to change at Crewe for Manchester. That was the last time I was with a women. Well she was a girl, and I was too. I wouldn’t have ever thought that I would be on the same train station, fifteen odd years later, because I was running away from another girl the same age as I was then, when I was supposed to be grieving for my mother and searching for my spunk dad. The train run to time. I shared a carriage with a persistent snorer who made an awful racket. He sounded like a Welshman with a cold. So I didn’t get any sleep again. I was famished and exhausted by Edinburgh, and thought that the best option was to look for a cheap hotel to rest my head and get some food and tea. I walked out of the station, and passed the guards who looked at me like I didn’t have a ticket. I had no change of clothes, only packing underwear, expecting I was going to treat myself to a spree in the Cardiff shops. Then I walked out of the station and realised that I had never been to Scotland before what a wonderful day! I walked and walked for hours. I visited the castle, went for a walk to the old underground city, searched for ghosts, screamed hysterically at the guides dressed in their oldie worldy costumes. Edinburgh was wonderful and I couldn’t wait to return under better circumstances. Perhaps I could bring Leanne during the Edinburgh Festival. I’m sure we could find common ground in such a beautiful city. We could catch a couple of comedians. I would even take to her to a gig. So I decided to look for venues where they played live music. At the bottom of a Cowgate Street, was Bannerman’s. This looked like the kind of place that might have bands. I walked into the bar through the door and ordered. The barman looked like a Viking with a big ginger beard. Another ginger I thought. “Give me a double whisky!” It went straight down my through. My stomach could no longer tolerate food. It had been so long since my last meal. “Another, barman.” He poured the drink. “Are you ok, lady?” “I am perfectly fine,” I responded. “You don’t look fine.” Well this really made me angry, I was in a volatile state, I was travelagged, hungry, semidrunk and very weary. “Why don’t you mind your own business, ginger bollocks. Do your job and pour me another whisky.” Well the bartender and I were taken aback by my behaviour. I
A Kenyan Accident flamingo’s fly where she goes the jeep wheel spinning free blue, blue orange sky Nakuru’s baked white pink she once was loving, laughing watched children – shout, sing, smile red fast, brown hot, too fast, too fast then she’s crashing craters sweet sweat that tastes of rock killing, killing tilt, untracked – the acacia standing guard now creamy skin all torn blood eyes that stare at lava children’s faces frozen time 41 Ladysmith Road I cuddle your mind like a duvet Your pixie ears like Tiny Tim You wear a green velvet hat To move your possessions and my seed Floating home I hold my head high like a skyscraper
With a Yes and a No
threw the double down my throat. I had no idea what time of day it was. The bar was empty; I felt the room moving up and down, side to side. I looked for a focus. His beard. His long ginger beard. I picked out the grey hairs, stared and concentrated. I wondered if I could change the entire colour of his beard, turn it all shiny white. A Scottish Santa serving single malts. A Scottish Santa serving single malts. A Scottish Santa serving single malts in the tune of 10 green bottles. Then I slammed my right hand onto the bar and shouted “Hey, barkeep, pour me a whisky.” “Make it your last, eh?” in his high pitched Edinburgh drawl. “Just do it.” And he obliged shaking his head as he poured. He turned his back and threw his towel over his shoulder. It was at this point that time slooooooooowed to a stuffed bears pace. I stared at the varying levels of liquor in the spirit bottles; at the fairy lights reflections’ dancing, revelling in their choice of tipple. Then the barman’s birthmark, just underneath his hairline, turned into a set of lips and started blowing me kisses. Mwahhhhhh. The coldness of the wooden stool shot up my spine which in turn threw my hand into the air. I turned it so my palm faced my face and bit into the fleshy pad under the thumb. Blood shot into the empty whisky glass, then fountained into the empty next to it, then cartwheeled into the other then exploded in the air and rained onto the floor. The birth mark cheered at this firework display. “Bravoooolismooreeeeemoooreeeeereeee”.
She can take you out With her hand and a look And a smile and a word A few words, a few words, Just a few more words, And if you really want, if you really want, You can take her up with a yes and a no, With a yes and a no, And with a yes and a no She can do anything, Anywhere, somehow, With those fingers that grip, All around, all around, They’re holding you tight, Until the feelings gone, Holding your mind And all your thoughts and deeds, With a yes and a no. And you can take her beyond The lips and the touch Of her mouth so warm, With her feelings inside, You can take her out, With a brush of your tongue, And the words come too, And the hand holds tight, Like a drowning man, You struggle and fight, To let her out, With a yes or a no, With a yes and a no, With a yes and a no.
I awoke with a sudden jolt. I felt horrendous; luckily I was sitting on a toilet. Liquid came out from my buttocks. I passed water and vomited over my shoes. My feet paddled in the pool of sick and kicked around the thicker parts of the mess. My entire body suddenly erupted with sweat. Something inside of me wanted out, and searched for every available escape route. My hand throbbed; I turned it over and saw an infected wound under my thumb. I sat there for an hour shaking, emptying when there was something to empty. I managed to lift my head out of my lap and looked at the silver wall in front. I FOOKING LUV JAMES….. Biffy Clyro Rules….Wanna game of tennis? Look left. I looked left. Look right. I looked right. Look left. I pulled my knickers and trousers up, stumbled out, walked to the sink and stared at the mirror. “Your Mother would be proud. You silly cow, what are you looking for? The same eyebrows? Go home, go see your Dad, grieve, go home. He loves you, he brought you up. He adopted you. He’s never let you down, always there for you. He held you when you needed to be held, pushed you on the swings higher than any other, put plasters on my knee when I fell of my bike. He’s handsome, strong, loving. I never wanted for anything, but he didn’t spoil me, just treated me when I needed it. Stop this.
He needs you too, like I need him. He’s lost his wife. I’ve lost my mother. Look at you. You haven’t washed for days, and you smell like the Thames in Summer. Come on girl.” I threw water over my face, attempted to brush stains and dirt off my blouse and turned to the exit. When I walked through the corridor into the bar area I noticed how quiet the bar had become. Then I saw the shutters pulled down over the bar. The whirr of the floor polisher the only noise, then wound down to a stop. The cleaner’s mouth was as wide as a honeydew melon. “Can you be ever so kind and unlock the door please.” Well the cleaner moved slowly towards the door and turned the keys without taking her eyes of me, or closing her mouth. I headed straight for the station and fell asleep as soon as my head hit the head rest. The policeman’s fingers hooked up my nostrils woke me. My arms flung in the air. He told me to get up, the last station was approaching. I changed at Crewe for Paddington. * “Hello Frank, how are you this morning?” “Not bad love, all the better for seeing you. Where you been? On ’oliday?” “Yes love, on holiday.” I pulled the curtain around and unbuttoned his pyjama top. “Up over your arms…oops a… there you go…” “Be gentle with me now, won’t cha?” I handed the flannel to Frank, removed his nasal specs, and he rubbed at his face making a brrrrrrrrrrr sound. He passed the flannel back. I dipped it in and out the soapy water and handed it back. While he went at his chest and arm pits I dried off his face. I felt my mobile vibrate in my packet and fished it out. “Don’t mind me answering, Frank?” “No, no, carry on me love.” He replied continuing with his task. It was a text message… Hi Princess, Hope U R GD. We Have a Lead on UR dad. L. XXX
Punishment Woman, bleed meadowsweet from your hair. Dissolve all oak's finest pollen, the coconut scent of broom, your yellow gown. Proteins rearrange, feathers form. You are flown to peck on maggots and rotten flesh, chancing it in gutters, on verges.
Stripping The Willow Punt through the quiet, lilied channels, your pontoon waking the morning, fat splashes from water voles, cries of grebe and booms of muddled bitterns. Watch for the camera eye of heron checking on your solo task, the boat stacked high with cut stems. It's hard to leave this for the fast road home, but last year's harvest woven into horses and new men has something of it in the creak of bent wicker and the flick of switches when you let them go.
I closed the mobile. Click; and put it back in my pocket. “’ere you go my love.” Frank passed me the flannel. “I think you are going to have to change my pad my love. A bit of an accident. I’m sorry, it’s a bit embarrassing.” But I understood and told him that it was all right “It’s all right Frank, I understand.”
The White Garden Dark now, a chase of shadows when the moon dips behind clouds as you triptoe, tiptoe home on flagstone paths, past beds of low box edging squares.
Outside the curtain, the cleaner pushed the mop back and forth over the square tiled floor, released the mop head into a dirty bag attached to a trolley filled with cleaning products and new mop heads, kicked the break clips on the wheels and pushed the trolley out through the double doors into the corridor.
Lit now by white, torches of lilies and peonies, fairylight gypsophila and glow worms of jasmine daybright in the fullness.
Supermarket Wars
Scent of night stocks, mockorange guide you to the book's new page so that this is how it would be.
The supermarket soldiers march up and down my street. Coming from town, it’s the orange bag brigade, The other way, march the loyal Tescovian clan.
Comfort Eating
“Tesco shite this way” is the daring graffiti my end. Noone’s lowered themselves like that on the Sainsbury side yet. I’m basically a Tesco man – more down to earth, And at least in the City Road branch, prettier check out girls. Sainsbury for me is too middle class, too upitsownarse, too
Yes, this is my body white slab, swollen and every part of it says not happy. There are plenty of inches stomach, hips, thighs and every one you pinch
One of these days, they’re gonna meet in the middle a mass food fight. There could yet be blood, or ketchup, spilled in the supermarket wars.
is a mouthful of knifetwists in chocolate and handfuls of crisps.
Living Off the State Mad people get paid Quite a lot by the state. So does the Queen.
This is my unhappy body, cellulite and stretchmarks, every part, yes.
Meeting Nicky Wire Around ten years ago, as documented in the poem “New Truths About Nicky Wire”, bizarrely, I bumped into Nicky Wire 3 times in as many months on the same street in Cardiff. Since then, not even a fleeting glance of the man on Caroline Street, or a case of mistaken identity on City Road. Until yesterday, and here he was, striding towards me again, and once again, on Queen Street. How has he changed? He still has a sort of punk look about him, with an army jacket, and bright orange hair (as it happened, I was wearing my trademark bright orange jumper). He no longer claims to live in a terraced house, but does still enjoy doing the hoovering. He now gets his boxing magazine sent by subscription (at a previous meet, he’d been on his way to buy one). He claims not to own a computer. I was slightly suspicious about this, but happy that he correctly chose to buy 2 copies of Square off me – one for him, and one for his brother, Patrick. I felt like I’d pressured him a little, but I let him know through my eyes that I’d spent enough on his stuff over the years (in fact, I’ve only own bought a couple of Manics records, one of which I sold cos I didn’t think it was much cop, but I have been to see them a few times). I wished him well, anticipating that I’d be seeing him again over the next couple of months. They’re a funny band, The Manics. Displaying the Welsh flag at a Brit Awards ceremony almost certainly triggered off the rise of Cool Cymru, and all the flagwaving that went with it. In the beginning, they made a lot of bold statements, which nobody believed – stuff like, “we’ll get bigger than Guns’n‛Roses, then split up after our first album” (yeah, right!). Still, it gave them a of cool. Although they were basically a punk band in their early days, they used to hate people spitting at them, or throwing things on stage. I threw a couple of empty cans of Four X at them at a Radio 1 roadshow once, but got away with it. They have a political cognizance lacking in so many bands which gives what they say more validity – I once voted for Nicky Wire in an election for leader of the Senedd. But to be honest, I’ve hardly paid any attention to their music for a good 7 or 8 years. I quite liked “Your Love Alone Is Not Enough”, even if it does borrow their own lyrics from an earlier song. Can’t remember much else of theirs recently. But of course, what the Manics are most known for is the disappearance of their guitarist, Richey Edwards. People forget that at the time of his disappearance, the Manics really weren’t a very big band – the success of “This Is My Truth” made them a household name for musical reasons, but this was years later. It was for this reason that while in a psychiatric ward in Bridgend, where strangely another woman on the ward predicted he would show up, I saw someone walk past who looked uncannily like
the person who had gone missing, but couldn’t be sure. His face now is obviously far more familiar. Another strange thing that happened to me was that maybe a year later, I had a dream that I spotted Richey Edwards in a bar on a holiday island. In the dream, I went to talk to him, but he ran off. Two weeks after I had the dream, a sighting, exactly as I’d seen it in the dream, was documented in the NME. But really, the chances of the man still being alive are fantastically remote. It is a mystery like that of Lord Lucan, as Jah Scouse commented when I bumped into him the very next day. Bumping into Jah Scouse in Cardiff is possibly a more ordinary experience than bumping into a millionaire rock star. For one thing, Jah Scouse lives in Cardiff, whereas Nicky Wire lives in Newport. However, in many ways, Jah Scouse far outscores Nicky Wire in the extraordinary stakes. This is a man who, doing a gig with his band Taffia (yes, he’s a Scouser, but fronts Taffia for some reason), sported a giant daffodil as a hat on his bonce. I have a signed Jah Scouse 7”, which is a weird reggae track with lyrics like: etc. He has also recorded a dance track titled “Nicky Wire Is A Liar”. Aha, now you see the link. And just as I’m talking to Jah Scouse, who should walk past but my good friend Fergal, who was with me at the Taffia gig. But I digress, I haven’t finished telling you about the extraordinariness of Jah Scouse. He’s one of those people who can talk about just about any subject you care to mention, always in his soft Scouse voice. Yet he is also a man who runs an S and M club. Extraordinary. Hope he doesn’t mind me mentioning that. Actually, probably doesn’t really need to be mentioned. Perhaps I’ll take it out. But what I also asked Jah Scouse about was – perhaps Nicky Wire really is a liar? Could it really be true that he doesn’t own a computer? Could it really be true that he doesn’t know where Richey Edwards is? Well, neither of us had the answers to these questions. And Jah Scouse didn’t have any money on him, so he didn’t buy a magazine, but said I should bring some in to his vintage clothes shop. Have spotted Jah Scouse on Queen Street? Do you have a story about it? Send it in to square@post.com and we’ll consider printing it. This will earn you 2 Square Points
Have spotted Nicky Wire on Queen Street? Do you have a story about it? Send it in to square@post.com and we’ll consider printing it. You’ll also earn 5 Square Points
Meeting Nicky Wire Around ten years ago, as documented in the poem “New Truths About Nicky Wire”, bizarrely, I bumped into Nicky Wire 3 times in as many months on the same street in Cardiff. Since then, not even a fleeting glance of the man on Caroline Street, or a case of mistaken identity on City Road. Until yesterday, and here he was, striding towards me again, and once again, on Queen Street. How has he changed? He still has a sort of punk look about him, with an army jacket, and bright orange hair (as it happened, I was wearing my trademark bright orange jumper). He no longer claims to live in a terraced house, but does still enjoy doing the hoovering. He now gets his boxing magazine sent by subscription (at a previous meet, he’d been on his way to buy one). He claims not to own a computer. I was slightly suspicious about this, but happy that he correctly chose to buy 2 copies of Square off me – one for him, and one for his brother, Patrick. I felt like I’d pressured him a little, but I let him know through my eyes that I’d spent enough on his stuff over the years (in fact, I’ve only own bought a couple of Manics records, one of which I sold cos I didn’t think it was much cop, but I have been to see them a few times). I wished him well, anticipating that I’d be seeing him again over the next couple of months. They’re a funny band, The Manics. Displaying the Welsh flag at a Brit Awards ceremony almost certainly triggered off the rise of Cool Cymru, and all the flagwaving that went with it. In the beginning, they made a lot of bold statements, which nobody believed – stuff like, “we’ll get bigger than Guns’n‛Roses, then split up after our first album” (yeah, right!). Still, it gave them a of cool. Although they were basically a punk band in their early days, they used to hate people spitting at them, or throwing things on stage. I threw a couple of empty cans of Four X at them at a Radio 1 roadshow once, but got away with it. They have a political cognizance lacking in so many bands which gives what they say more validity – I once voted for Nicky Wire in an election for leader of the Senedd. But to be honest, I’ve hardly paid any attention to their music for a good 7 or 8 years. I quite liked “Your Love Alone Is Not Enough”, even if it does borrow their own lyrics from an earlier song. Can’t remember much else of theirs recently. But of course, what the Manics are most known for is the disappearance of their guitarist, Richey Edwards. People forget that at the time of his disappearance, the Manics really weren’t a very big band – the success of “This Is My Truth” made them a household name for musical reasons, but this was years later. It was for this reason that while in a psychiatric ward in Bridgend, where strangely another woman on the ward predicted he would show up, I saw someone walk past who looked uncannily like
the person who had gone missing, but couldn’t be sure. His face now is obviously far more familiar. Another strange thing that happened to me was that maybe a year later, I had a dream that I spotted Richey Edwards in a bar on a holiday island. In the dream, I went to talk to him, but he ran off. Two weeks after I had the dream, a sighting, exactly as I’d seen it in the dream, was documented in the NME. But really, the chances of the man still being alive are fantastically remote. It is a mystery like that of Lord Lucan, as Jah Scouse commented when I bumped into him the very next day. Bumping into Jah Scouse in Cardiff is possibly a more ordinary experience than bumping into a millionaire rock star. For one thing, Jah Scouse lives in Cardiff, whereas Nicky Wire lives in Newport. However, in many ways, Jah Scouse far outscores Nicky Wire in the extraordinary stakes. This is a man who, doing a gig with his band Taffia (yes, he’s a Scouser, but fronts Taffia for some reason), sported a giant daffodil as a hat on his bonce. I have a signed Jah Scouse 7”, which is a weird reggae track with lyrics like: etc. He has also recorded a dance track titled “Nicky Wire Is A Liar”. Aha, now you see the link. And just as I’m talking to Jah Scouse, who should walk past but my good friend Fergal, who was with me at the Taffia gig. But I digress, I haven’t finished telling you about the extraordinariness of Jah Scouse. He’s one of those people who can talk about just about any subject you care to mention, always in his soft Scouse voice. Yet he is also a man who runs an S and M club. Extraordinary. Hope he doesn’t mind me mentioning that. Actually, probably doesn’t really need to be mentioned. Perhaps I’ll take it out. But what I also asked Jah Scouse about was – perhaps Nicky Wire really is a liar? Could it really be true that he doesn’t own a computer? Could it really be true that he doesn’t know where Richey Edwards is? Well, neither of us had the answers to these questions. And Jah Scouse didn’t have any money on him, so he didn’t buy a magazine, but said I should bring some in to his vintage clothes shop. Have spotted Jah Scouse on Queen Street? Do you have a story about it? Send it in to square@post.com and we’ll consider printing it. This will earn you 2 Square Points
Have spotted Nicky Wire on Queen Street? Do you have a story about it? Send it in to square@post.com and we’ll consider printing it. You’ll also earn 5 Square Points
I closed the mobile. Click; and put it back in my pocket. “’ere you go my love.” Frank passed me the flannel. “I think you are going to have to change my pad my love. A bit of an accident. I’m sorry, it’s a bit embarrassing.” But I understood and told him that it was all right “It’s all right Frank, I understand.”
The White Garden Dark now, a chase of shadows when the moon dips behind clouds as you triptoe, tiptoe home on flagstone paths, past beds of low box edging squares.
Outside the curtain, the cleaner pushed the mop back and forth over the square tiled floor, released the mop head into a dirty bag attached to a trolley filled with cleaning products and new mop heads, kicked the break clips on the wheels and pushed the trolley out through the double doors into the corridor.
Lit now by white, torches of lilies and peonies, fairylight gypsophila and glow worms of jasmine daybright in the fullness.
Supermarket Wars
Scent of night stocks, mockorange guide you to the book's new page so that this is how it would be.
The supermarket soldiers march up and down my street. Coming from town, it’s the orange bag brigade, The other way, march the loyal Tescovian clan.
Comfort Eating
“Tesco shite this way” is the daring graffiti my end. Noone’s lowered themselves like that on the Sainsbury side yet. I’m basically a Tesco man – more down to earth, And at least in the City Road branch, prettier check out girls. Sainsbury for me is too middle class, too upitsownarse, too
Yes, this is my body white slab, swollen and every part of it says not happy. There are plenty of inches stomach, hips, thighs and every one you pinch
One of these days, they’re gonna meet in the middle a mass food fight. There could yet be blood, or ketchup, spilled in the supermarket wars.
is a mouthful of knifetwists in chocolate and handfuls of crisps.
Living Off the State Mad people get paid Quite a lot by the state. So does the Queen.
This is my unhappy body, cellulite and stretchmarks, every part, yes.
He needs you too, like I need him. He’s lost his wife. I’ve lost my mother. Look at you. You haven’t washed for days, and you smell like the Thames in Summer. Come on girl.” I threw water over my face, attempted to brush stains and dirt off my blouse and turned to the exit. When I walked through the corridor into the bar area I noticed how quiet the bar had become. Then I saw the shutters pulled down over the bar. The whirr of the floor polisher the only noise, then wound down to a stop. The cleaner’s mouth was as wide as a honeydew melon. “Can you be ever so kind and unlock the door please.” Well the cleaner moved slowly towards the door and turned the keys without taking her eyes of me, or closing her mouth. I headed straight for the station and fell asleep as soon as my head hit the head rest. The policeman’s fingers hooked up my nostrils woke me. My arms flung in the air. He told me to get up, the last station was approaching. I changed at Crewe for Paddington. * “Hello Frank, how are you this morning?” “Not bad love, all the better for seeing you. Where you been? On ’oliday?” “Yes love, on holiday.” I pulled the curtain around and unbuttoned his pyjama top. “Up over your arms…oops a… there you go…” “Be gentle with me now, won’t cha?” I handed the flannel to Frank, removed his nasal specs, and he rubbed at his face making a brrrrrrrrrrr sound. He passed the flannel back. I dipped it in and out the soapy water and handed it back. While he went at his chest and arm pits I dried off his face. I felt my mobile vibrate in my packet and fished it out. “Don’t mind me answering, Frank?” “No, no, carry on me love.” He replied continuing with his task. It was a text message… Hi Princess, Hope U R GD. We Have a Lead on UR dad. L. XXX
Punishment Woman, bleed meadowsweet from your hair. Dissolve all oak's finest pollen, the coconut scent of broom, your yellow gown. Proteins rearrange, feathers form. You are flown to peck on maggots and rotten flesh, chancing it in gutters, on verges.
Stripping The Willow Punt through the quiet, lilied channels, your pontoon waking the morning, fat splashes from water voles, cries of grebe and booms of muddled bitterns. Watch for the camera eye of heron checking on your solo task, the boat stacked high with cut stems. It's hard to leave this for the fast road home, but last year's harvest woven into horses and new men has something of it in the creak of bent wicker and the flick of switches when you let them go.
With a Yes and a No
threw the double down my throat. I had no idea what time of day it was. The bar was empty; I felt the room moving up and down, side to side. I looked for a focus. His beard. His long ginger beard. I picked out the grey hairs, stared and concentrated. I wondered if I could change the entire colour of his beard, turn it all shiny white. A Scottish Santa serving single malts. A Scottish Santa serving single malts. A Scottish Santa serving single malts in the tune of 10 green bottles. Then I slammed my right hand onto the bar and shouted “Hey, barkeep, pour me a whisky.” “Make it your last, eh?” in his high pitched Edinburgh drawl. “Just do it.” And he obliged shaking his head as he poured. He turned his back and threw his towel over his shoulder. It was at this point that time slooooooooowed to a stuffed bears pace. I stared at the varying levels of liquor in the spirit bottles; at the fairy lights reflections’ dancing, revelling in their choice of tipple. Then the barman’s birthmark, just underneath his hairline, turned into a set of lips and started blowing me kisses. Mwahhhhhh. The coldness of the wooden stool shot up my spine which in turn threw my hand into the air. I turned it so my palm faced my face and bit into the fleshy pad under the thumb. Blood shot into the empty whisky glass, then fountained into the empty next to it, then cartwheeled into the other then exploded in the air and rained onto the floor. The birth mark cheered at this firework display. “Bravoooolismooreeeeemoooreeeeereeee”.
She can take you out With her hand and a look And a smile and a word A few words, a few words, Just a few more words, And if you really want, if you really want, You can take her up with a yes and a no, With a yes and a no, And with a yes and a no She can do anything, Anywhere, somehow, With those fingers that grip, All around, all around, They’re holding you tight, Until the feelings gone, Holding your mind And all your thoughts and deeds, With a yes and a no. And you can take her beyond The lips and the touch Of her mouth so warm, With her feelings inside, You can take her out, With a brush of your tongue, And the words come too, And the hand holds tight, Like a drowning man, You struggle and fight, To let her out, With a yes or a no, With a yes and a no, With a yes and a no.
I awoke with a sudden jolt. I felt horrendous; luckily I was sitting on a toilet. Liquid came out from my buttocks. I passed water and vomited over my shoes. My feet paddled in the pool of sick and kicked around the thicker parts of the mess. My entire body suddenly erupted with sweat. Something inside of me wanted out, and searched for every available escape route. My hand throbbed; I turned it over and saw an infected wound under my thumb. I sat there for an hour shaking, emptying when there was something to empty. I managed to lift my head out of my lap and looked at the silver wall in front. I FOOKING LUV JAMES….. Biffy Clyro Rules….Wanna game of tennis? Look left. I looked left. Look right. I looked right. Look left. I pulled my knickers and trousers up, stumbled out, walked to the sink and stared at the mirror. “Your Mother would be proud. You silly cow, what are you looking for? The same eyebrows? Go home, go see your Dad, grieve, go home. He loves you, he brought you up. He adopted you. He’s never let you down, always there for you. He held you when you needed to be held, pushed you on the swings higher than any other, put plasters on my knee when I fell of my bike. He’s handsome, strong, loving. I never wanted for anything, but he didn’t spoil me, just treated me when I needed it. Stop this.
The 20.10 to Edinburgh pulled out of Cardiff central station. £146 well spent I thought to myself. I had always liked trains, and easily settled in. I was to change at Crewe for the sleeper. This brought back memories of my student days when I had to change at Crewe for Manchester. That was the last time I was with a women. Well she was a girl, and I was too. I wouldn’t have ever thought that I would be on the same train station, fifteen odd years later, because I was running away from another girl the same age as I was then, when I was supposed to be grieving for my mother and searching for my spunk dad. The train run to time. I shared a carriage with a persistent snorer who made an awful racket. He sounded like a Welshman with a cold. So I didn’t get any sleep again. I was famished and exhausted by Edinburgh, and thought that the best option was to look for a cheap hotel to rest my head and get some food and tea. I walked out of the station, and passed the guards who looked at me like I didn’t have a ticket. I had no change of clothes, only packing underwear, expecting I was going to treat myself to a spree in the Cardiff shops. Then I walked out of the station and realised that I had never been to Scotland before what a wonderful day! I walked and walked for hours. I visited the castle, went for a walk to the old underground city, searched for ghosts, screamed hysterically at the guides dressed in their oldie worldy costumes. Edinburgh was wonderful and I couldn’t wait to return under better circumstances. Perhaps I could bring Leanne during the Edinburgh Festival. I’m sure we could find common ground in such a beautiful city. We could catch a couple of comedians. I would even take to her to a gig. So I decided to look for venues where they played live music. At the bottom of a Cowgate Street, was Bannerman’s. This looked like the kind of place that might have bands. I walked into the bar through the door and ordered. The barman looked like a Viking with a big ginger beard. Another ginger I thought. “Give me a double whisky!” It went straight down my through. My stomach could no longer tolerate food. It had been so long since my last meal. “Another, barman.” He poured the drink. “Are you ok, lady?” “I am perfectly fine,” I responded. “You don’t look fine.” Well this really made me angry, I was in a volatile state, I was travelagged, hungry, semidrunk and very weary. “Why don’t you mind your own business, ginger bollocks. Do your job and pour me another whisky.” Well the bartender and I were taken aback by my behaviour. I
A Kenyan Accident flamingo’s fly where she goes the jeep wheel spinning free blue, blue orange sky Nakuru’s baked white pink she once was loving, laughing watched children – shout, sing, smile red fast, brown hot, too fast, too fast then she’s crashing craters sweet sweat that tastes of rock killing, killing tilt, untracked – the acacia standing guard now creamy skin all torn blood eyes that stare at lava children’s faces frozen time 41 Ladysmith Road I cuddle your mind like a duvet Your pixie ears like Tiny Tim You wear a green velvet hat To move your possessions and my seed Floating home I hold my head high like a skyscraper
Engleburt Bartfast Digs Some Dirt on the Stars at the Hay on Wye Festival Festival Holly Howitt Holly was seen at the Hay on Wye Festival wearing hotpants, knee length socks and a crop top. Some thought this was inappropriate garb for the festival, but I say, why not shake things up a bit – go for it girl! She is currently promoting her book, “Dinner Time”, a book of microfiction, which, like the author herself, is slim to say the least. I read the entire book in around a quarter of an hour, and, like the Rubik’s Cube, people are setting records around the world to see who can read it in the quickest time. Someone on the Hay site is said to have read it in around 3.5 minutes, while there is a rumour that a guy in India has completed it in 18 seconds flat, with his feet. Kate North If there’s a literature degree to be had, it would seem Kate North has it. Sadly however, she still cannot write poetry. Her latest book, “Eva Shell”, a form of diary/novel type thing, is interesting in parts, again, not a weighty tome, but the poetry in it is pretty awful. It’s written from the main character’s point of view, so of course, Kate can use the defence that it’s not her writing, it’s the character, and the character is meant to not be a very good poet. I find this argument a little weak however. Still, Kate’s a lovely person, and still has a big fat smile, like a baby who’s just completed a hearty soup supper.
“Let me take you home, you look like you need a rest, some food, and a nice long hot soak,” she gently whispered. Well I couldn’t contain myself – that was perfect – exactly what I needed. I could sleep for twenty four hours, and then I would be fresh and back to myself, and I could get to know Leanne a lot more. I thought I could find out what makes her tick, what her dreams are, her ambitions, her passions. However I was older than her and decided that I should be presenting myself in a more mature manner. I should be able to look after myself. If I couldn’t look after number one, how could I possibly look after her, so delicate and fragile? I could feel my heart racing and I told her that I truly appreciated the offer, but it would be best if I was to book into a hotel room for the rest of the week. I would clean myself up there and then meet at her’s at six and then take her for dinner. She looked disappointed, but agreed and smiled; I watched her lips turn upwards. I wanted to kiss them right there, but knew that was impossible. Leanne left the computer room as she had research to do. I watched her swathe out through the electronic door; she had a youthful confidence about her. My confidence was sagging, like my skin on the outside. I pondered for a short while, looking at the nonsense on the screen. The warm hum of the computer sent me into a trance, and I starting thinking how the search had not panned out how I expected. I had found someone, but she didn’t have the same eyebrows.
..Is about the closest thing Cardiff has to a celebrity writer. Like Robert Mitchum, who he has just released a book about, he’s a hard drinkin‘, pot smokin‘ ladies’ man, or so his book would have us believe. Forget “Chick Lit”, this is definitely a “Bloke Book”. I always thought of Lloyd as being quite a modest sort of chap, but in this book – a big fat thing (in this case, unlike the author) – he almost seems boastful of his life’s achievements. It doesn’t necessarily detract from the book’s quality, and perhaps Lloyd felt the need to laud himself up as a hero while writing about the man his dad idolised. Compared to a book like W H Davies’s “Autobiography of a Super Tramp”, where the author is modesty itself, but still makes everything he does sound pretty exciting, you just feel he might be overdoing it very slightly, however.
It was getting close to five and my mind was beginning to wander. I needed fuel an empty bag doesn’t stand but I wanted to look my best for Leanne, so I decided that it would be best not to eat until I took her for dinner. Then I panicked and thought that she would find my body repulsive. I had hoped that we would sleep together tonight, now I was unsure that I would meet her at all. Food would go straight to my belly, legs, face, so I decided that I would leave a message at the university reception saying that I had a lead in Edinburgh and had to go but I would leave my email address and phone number and she could contact me and then I could get her number. Yes, yes, that’s what I would do. But then I thought that she might bump into me in Cardiff, and I didn’t want to go back to London because I knew that I would just end up back in work, and I couldn’t deal with mopping faeces from incontinent old men and women, and dishing out drugs three times a day. No, I wasn’t ready to tell other people that their parent had died. I just couldn’t. So there was only one option and I headed for the station and bought a ticket to Edinburgh.
Lloyd Robson
shoulder; I turned my head to the left, and tried to remove the rotting meat fat that was hanging of my jacket. “Are you OK?” he asked. “Yes, yes, I’m fine, just a little accident earlier this morning and I haven’t had time to… but now its imperative that I have my visitor’s pass…I mean…” He handed me the card, and I stormed away from the counter down the stairs to the computer room. The doors opened, and all the heads remained fixed at the bright screens. Thank goodness. I sat down and entered JOHN JONES into Google. Useless, unless I thought that my father was the drummer from Led Zeppelin, the Illinois State Senator, the New Zealand Whaler, the Welsh poet, the Welsh preacher, the Welsh Writer, or the Welsh Philosopher, and none of them looked like me when I conducted an image search. I rested my head on my arms, which smelt terribly. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept, washed or eaten properly. I started getting electric shocks through my brain. When I moved my eyes, I felt terrible dizzy and when I turned my head it was like my brain was turning a few seconds later, like a nut in a shell. My body started twitching and tears started to run down my check and dripped, dripped onto the J key. I couldn’t remember what my life was when my mother was alive. I stood up and kicked my chair backwards. It squeaked and screeched across the floor and into the young lad sitting behind me. “Watch, you crazy bitch!” Crazy? I thought. Crazy? I tried to open my mouth but nothing came out, and I just stood there, frozen, floating heads staring back at me, waiting, and waiting for my next move. I could hear the mechanical neck of the security camera turn. I fetched the chair and sat back down. I typed oimreiwrncoiemxj,asjdcwimefjxewifhybvdsncj’iosenxicj widohfeoiau,]powqzam`]xmeidwj42873r5y7ewoin r urm r niomuiur4uirw mficsjf nuilsd jcfni;oewur ‘I;ew md’c;lhj9ewiojdsmi cuyemwids…. for two hours solid.. “Hello.” Leanne peered over my shoulder, “No luck then, yet?” she asked, looking at the screen I was looking at. I tried to shake life into my head. Wake up you fool, wake up. I was so delighted to see her. I was able to communicate again and said, “I just keep on hitting brick walls. I know I have only been searching for a couple of days, but I just know it’s a lost cause. I mean what chance do I have of finding a man in Wales called John Jones? I’m beginning to think that my mother is looking down on me, laughing at her notso funny joke. John Jones, JOHN JONES! It must be a joke.” I breathed out and Leanne touched me on my shoulder with her young hand. I took the hand in mine. She didn’t care, or notice, or say anything about the way I looked, or smelt.
My only other gripe is that Lloyd has chosen to write the book in an Americantype accent, which seems odd for someone usually so proud of his broad Cardiff lilt. This aside, it’s an extremely well put together, immensely enjoyable read, whether you know much about Mitchum or not (I didn’t), and a good bet for Welsh Book of the Year 2009 (unfortunately, I haven’t found a bookies willing to take the bet yet). And as a champion of the city and literature of Cardiff, you can’t get much better than Lloyd, even though his support of Cardiff City FC is slightly questionable. I was surprised that he lowered himself to asking if I might have a spare ticket for the Cup Final! He’s one of those who seems to think that just coming from Cardiff and knowing a few results makes him a fan – we want to see your arse down the Bob Bank a bit more often Mr Robson! Robert Minhinnick Robert Minhinnick was an everpresent in my youth. If he wasn’t popping over to the school to read us his meandering tales of visits to foreign climes, and encouraging us to take up the creative whatsitsname, I would see him at Porthcawl’s Friends of the Earth office, where I did the odd spot of work, goaded into it by my friend Julian. I’m about as green as a Texan oil dealer these days, but I believed in it all at the time. Minhinnick had a scary wife, Margaret – even her accent was scary – who kept him and everyone else in check. Essentially, he hasn’t changed in all these years. He’s still a dour, serious, but well intentioned man. He’s just been given 20 odd grand to write some essays about immigration. Yet, I discovered at the Hay festival, he’s tight with his money. I sat down with him and a friend of his who looked like he could just about afford the clothes he was wearing, yet he willingly parted with £2.50 for a mag. Minhinnick on the other hand had the cheek to assume he’d get a free copy! The nerve of the man! Noone gets a free copy of this magazine. Not even my girlfriend. But then, perhaps that’s one reason why I haven’t got one.
The Blushing Bride Bride
The Same Eyebrows (part II)
She was stood in a bar in Cardiff in the den of the hen party crowd; most of them were half naked, all of them, very loud.
..When he finished, he left me unsatisfied, legs apart, back aching, and my head underneath a real ale pump. I stayed in the flat above the bar, next to the barman, looking at his ridiculous long ginger moustache. That’s two ginger moustaches in two days I had seen, I thought to myself, and then laughed out loud. He awoke and asked me what was wrong and I told him, nothing, nothing was wrong, and he mumbled silly bitch as he turned his skinny back, pulled his black sheets, and fell back asleep. I stared at the bedroom door for five hours thinking about Leanne. How beautiful and gentle she was, and how silly I was to just get up and leave. Maybe I should go back to her house and see if she wanted to go out for a meal, and then I thought that would be a ridiculous thing to do.
She had jeans that were ripped to the ankle, with a lace garter slung round her knee. She looked like a sack, and her top had no back she was so drunk she could hardly see. There was a sash draped over her bosom with “Bride to be”, written in gold, and the legend, “I am a virgin” but she wasn’t, so I am told. On her head was a sparkly tiara, all hanging with condoms and such. If this girl was a blushing young bride. then I must be right out of touch. Her language was that of a navvy, and all of her friends were the same. There was no finesse in the state of their dress, it’s sad, but there’s no one to blame. She staggered out onto the pavement, out of that old Cardiff bar, flashed all her bits at the doorman, and threw up all over a car.
I stood outside the back of her house. I had been there since sneaking out of the flat above the bar when the sun rose I didn’t really think it appropriate to give the barman any more treats for breakfast. The alley way by Leanne’s house had a perfect view of her bedroom, and I watched her undress from her night clothes. Oh how nubile her body was, like mine once. Her skin seemed to glow through the window, like a beacon calling me. I watched her dress, so delicate and precise. Each movement carefully considered like a dancer and I watched her apply her make up, not that she needed any as her face was as pure as the morning air that circled me. I couldn’t believe that I had to go back to the smog of London in a few days time. I was no closer to finding my father and I would be leaving behind this princess that had affected my heart so much in such a short period of time. Leanne then turned to the window and in a panic I lost my footing and fell back into the filthy rubbish bins and bags. It made an ever so terrible clatter. I decided I should wait there and hide in the garbage for a while, just in case Leanne heard and suspected something.
Then they trooped off swearing and shouting their behaviour and dress was a crime, but what’s to be done? Really, nothing – they’re a product of out time.
The library was an impressive place, so many books, so much information. When I studied, libraries were a place where old men and women with wrinkly faces told you off for breathing. Asking for a book was like asking them to write it themselves. Nowadays, the staff were young and helpful, and there were vending machines, and people openly chatted, and there were computer rooms, and quiet rooms if you did want to knuckle down. The young lad at the enquiry desk looked over his thick rimmed Austin Powers glasses at me when I asked for my visitor’s pass. He gently nodded at my right
She hasn’t forgotten who started all this slaps us, shakes the boat, spits in my eye drags at my buttonless jacket, screams We haul our spoils crabs, lobsters, conger eel The winch whines forgiveness weed garlanding the landed creels boots braced against the bullying swell. Raw wind ranting in my ear forcing the stench of bait down my goose throat. We have snatched what the sea made shell biscuit sand and bruised blue, the colours of prehistory soon to be flushed red by the boiler’s breath. Running for home, a gull posse in pursuit, tongues sharp with the taste of blood and salt.
This month’s Square Top 5 websites: 1. Squaremag.net – yes, finally, there is a website. Or at least, there should be. 2. Pure Purepoetry.co.uk – not checked this one out yet? Described as a “palace of poetry” 3. boomslangpoetry.co.uk – Kate Noakes’s excellent site. 4. lloydrobson.com – Lloyd Robson’s frankly mediocre site – get polishing, Robson! 5. poetcasting.co.uk here, you can listen to poets read their stuff, including Square writer, David Foster Morgan. Cool (or should I say “Square”?).
Brandy I drink it when I’m happy, I drink it when I’m sad. I drink it when I’m being good, and especially when bad. I drink it when my friends come round I drink all by myself I keep the bottle near me upon the kitchen shelf. I drink it when I’m hungry I drink it when I’m not I drink it when I’m freezing and also when I’m hot. I drink it when I’m working I drink it when at play I drink it every single night but mostly in the day. I drink it just to be polite I drink it when I’m rude I drink it when I’m over dressed and when I’m in the nude. Otherwise I never touch it, as is obvious in the rhyme. I just drink it when I’m thirsty and I’m thirsty all the time!!!
The Peace of Mind
The lifeboat man and his ex
“When we were young,” my sweetheart lies, “we left our front doors unlocked.”
Sometimes, after all these years, I visit you. In the Sloop I asked you to watch me carry out my latest rescue. You looked well, dressed to have dinner with Catrin Finch.
“The world’s not like that any more.” The salesman nods his shaved head sagely and jangles his bling. His gold teeth flash as he reminds us of the murderers, robbers and rapists who daily prowl our neighbourhoods, pursuing opportunities to gratify their psychotic lusts. How does he know? I ask myself. And just how does he afford all that jewellery on a shop salary? But then he reveals his price, and I know. “Do you know what it’s like to be robbed?” he asks. “Oh, yes,” I reply. I ask if he has anything cheaper, which he admits he has, but explains how they’re really not worth the money they charge for them. No, no, if we’re to have a house alarm, it must – just to be – one. Outside, my car alarm goes off. My wife ignores it. So do I. And everyone else in the shop and the street outside. In fact, somebody could be hotwiring it right at this very moment, and nobody will take a blind bit of notice. Including the salesman who’s trying to persuade me of the importance of an alarm system. But then comes the “peace of mind” bit which, apparently, is more important than feeding one’s family. “Think of the peace of mind,” says the salesman. Ah yes, I may have to declare bankruptcy and have all my possessions taken by the bailiffs, but at least I can be sure they won’t be taken by burglars. “Yes, think of your children,” my wife barks. Whose side is she on? I’m tempted to remind her we made solemn vows before God. But she’s got that in her eye, and I realize there really is at least one person in this world from whom only this alarm can protect me. I whimper and surrender my Mastercard. Nobody tells me whether the salesman will spend his share on an eleventh ring, or just another necklace. Only we find when it’s installed, that the alarm rarely – in fact, never – actually goes off when we’re about to be butchered. It goes off whenever there’s a strong wind, whenever there’s a thunderstorm, whenever my son’s football bounces off the wall, whenever the washing machine enters its Wagnerian spin cycle. Or whenever there’s
But you came anyway. Me in my canary yellow oilskins you with your red glossed lips, we walked the cliff path. It happened to be a false alarm I remained to watch the sea. No bobbing heads. No arms waving.
Blood and Salt Last night’s force five has left Solva’s fishermen shipping extra hours in their beds, but not Mikey, and me the pensioned apprentice, boarding Helen C. The diesel beast is defibrillated back to life (he told me to stand clear), the monster coughs, clears its black lungs, roars at the breaking dawn settles into a steady fuckfuckfuck... Moorings slipped into the harbour slick we turn out to the storm’s back yard ruckus nearly done, tin cans kicked over the sea runs this way and that, cross as a crossed lover.
Freezer log
some minor geological shift, in which case, it’s accompanied by every other alarm in town.
I chart the freezer’s contents In a list blutacked to the door: the what, the when, the how long it can be stored.
That’s when I stand in front of the control panel, furiously punching in birthdays, dates, bank account details, gas metre registrations. The neighbours stop by to ask if I know my alarm’s going off, and suggest I try the year Southampton won the FA Cup, or the England cricket score. I’m tempted to take a hammer to the damn thing and pound it into submission. But my dearest comes demanding why I haven’t fixed it yet. “Hurry up, I’ve got work to do,” she growls.
This mausoleum of stars and ice and frost, the drawers cracked on their runners, keeping cold the logged and lost.
“Yes, dear.” I try the median value of Tesco preference stock in 1998.
The small nuggets of inspiration, packed in freezer bags. Hopes and minor ambitions have lost their jam jar tags.
My son turns up to ask if I know the alarm’s going off. He suggests I phone the alarm company. “How dare you tell your father what to do,” I snap. “Go to your room! You’re grounded!”
Next to the stiff flaps of pitas and the reused frozen peas, the brittle sullen lobster marooned in a silent sea
“Yeah right, Dad.” He tells me he’s off to his mate’s house, whose parents don’t have an alarm. When it goes off at three in the morning is when I seriously dream of divorce. I burrow under the covers, folded like a bat, driving my fingers into my ears, and praying God to … please … just .
are the big ideas, the brilliant schemes, the worldwide tours, the wildeyed dreams, coated in white indifference unsentimental as rocks. It breathes, it sighs, it shudders, it mocks.
But it doesn’t, and my wife digs her elbow into my ribs to inform me the alarm’s going off. She maintains it’s my job to fix it; “After all”, she insists, it was me that bought the damn thing. I lump out from under the covers into the Antarctic darkness: “I may be gone some time.” “That’s nice, dear.” What does she care? She’s warm. I skit across the icy floorboards in my underwear onto the landing, where my teenage daughter is lurking. Her dental brace glints malevolently in the moonlight. She demands whether I know the alarm’s going off. I explain that I’m well aware of this, and enquire why she thinks I’d be running around the bloody house, half bloody naked, in the middle of the bloody night, unless I were bloody well doing something about it. For
a moment, she is silent, staring at my middleaged body, its sagging pecs and hanging belly, then mutters “Gross!” She orders me to fix the alarm, and calls me something I’ve never heard before, but assume is intended to be offensive. And once again, I’m in front of the control panel, punching in numbers. The neighbours won’t come round at this early hour. Instead, they fling open their windows, question my parentage and manhood, and threaten to call the police. “Why you call the police,” I yell back: “I’m supposed to be being robbed here!” It occurs to me that I am probably alerting every robber, rapist and murderer in the area to the fact that I can afford an alarm system, and am therefore not a man of penury. Breakfast the next morning is execution time. My love is darkeyed and ratty. We’re long enough married for me to recognise the way she blows at the steam from her tea; it says, it says, “Don’t you dare!” My children insist they are far too tired to go to school, although nobody can see any reason why I should not go to work. You can only goad a quiet man so far: “That’s !” A chord of astonished gasps resonates around the table. Oh, that was excellent! I am actually commanding their attention! I permit myself a quick pat on the back. Just occasionally, I can be really good! Now to see if I can convincingly maintain my fit of manly determination: “I’m getting rid of that damned alarm!”
We settled Outa court, the card said get Outa jail free See, we knew Outa play the system, Outa play Monopoly Outa complain, Outa grumble, Outa moan Outa kilter, Outa kilter birds with one stone Name in the paper, Outa make it your career Now I’m a celebrity – get me Outa here Outa write a silly poem, Outa make it rhyme Outa finish on the dot, when you’re almost Outa time Neil Frude
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New Taffia CD "Soupermarket"
My son returns his concern to his bowl of Coco Frosty Pops; my teenage daughter to her magazine detailing the sex lives of the rich and famous. I suppose my confidence was a little unrealistic. My wife resumes blowing on her tea. “I hope so,” she snarls, “if only for a little .” Now, we are again a united, contented family. Except my teenage daughter, of course. We may be robbed. We may be raped. We may never wake up, having been slaughtered in our beds. But oh, the blessed peace of going to sleep knowing we no longer have an alarm to worry us. Unless, of course, the neighbours get one.
Available from 029Records (upstairs) Cardiff Antique Centre 10 -12 Royal Arcade Cardiff CF10 2AE Tel 07891080714 3
OUTA Celebrating that incredibly flexible and extraordinarily useful word “Outa” As in:
They travelled into Outa space Turned Outa nice day They went Outa lunch The cheese was Outa date Outa make friends and influence people
Sometimes you can even use it twice in a single sentence .. You can learn Outa focus a camera wots Outa focus Or more … People who swim Outa sea often get Outa their depth and don’t know Outa call Outa rescue boat _______________
Following on from last month’s piece on the Bob Bank Whistler, which also discussed the infamous “Hull Stubbies”, I thought I’d print this post, taken from the unofficial Cardiff City online messageboard on the subject. Thanks to the Brigadier for allowing me to print it. Have seen an amusing post on an online messageboard/forum etc. Send it in to square@post.com and we’ll consider printing it. Depending on the quality of the piece you send in, you can earn between 1 and 8 Square Points.
Wanna know Outa love and Outa hate? Learn Outa mind your own business mate We gotta get Outa this place Move from the Outa Hebrides into Outa space Outa impress, Outa be grand Trouble was, it got Outa hand Outa control, see, well Outa order Outa bounds, beyond the border
Let’s get Outa here, shouted a Shouta Outa, Easy to shout “get Outa”, but we dunno Outa We jumped Outa there like a bat Outa hell Or it might have been the devil but we didn’t know Outa tell Outa the frying pan, Outa our skulls, wivOuta clue Then the law came Outa nowhere – Outa the blue
Square Crossword No.1 1
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Welcome to the first Square Crossword. Thank you to the guy who came to the first launch, and gave me the idea. Unfortunately, I didn’t keep his details, so instead of getting him to do one, I’ve made one myself. Apologies for it not looking that great (ie. not symmetrical, etc.), but I’ve used an online crossword creator, so it’s not exactly perfect. Anyone, enjoy having a go at it. Send completed entries (photocopies accepted), along with name, address, and email address to: Square Mag, 2 Richmond House, Richmond Road, Cardiff, CF24 3AR. The winner will receive a free subscription to next year’s Square, plus 4 square points.
Across
Down
1. Her legs? Eleven out of ten (4) 3. This Kate's OK, sane (6) 5. Green and spiky; cricket shout without the zed (5/6) 8. This Kate's going straight to the top! (5) 10. Make this not war, for a reason (3/2/3) 12. Rare breed of ticket (7) 15. Not Stuart Cable, but Nicky ____ (4) 16. Mustang _____ Cinnamon (5) 17. Crouch down before purposeful slip (4/5) 19. Brainchild of Simple Minds (7) 22. Sounds like Husker Du singer, in fact Academi staff (3/4) 23. Bluebird with red hair and red socks? Oh Lord! (4/7)
2. Is it a bird? Is it a crane? No, it’s ______ Crane! (6) 4. Wonderstuff's Full Circle (6) 6 . Value, Stu? (5) 7 . Sings with the Welsh mob (3/6) 9 . First question in posh clothes shop, Jan? (5) 11. Ronnie O' Sullivan has one, and the same (8) 12. Andrew and Bill (11) 13. Dolly mixture or snob? (5/6) 14. I before N, except before C (10) 18. Ifor's foil? Break Beat saver (4/4) 20. Not O’Connor, but still sounds like a pop star (6) 21. Chris or Rupert (6)
Two Old Toms Toms Old Tom, the excabbie Lives alone with his tabby; No money to mention, Both live on his pension. Old Tom and his master, They share the same space. His paws and his hands, His shaking, his grace. Bedazzled, bewhiskered; Besotted, beguiled; Each cares for the other, His favourite child. Old chap in a flat cap, And Tom through the cat flap, Return from their jaunts From their separate haunts. Softly purring together, Both twitching their ears; Each Tom nine years old Nine years old in cat years.
shakespearewales@hotmail.com
Englleburt Bartfast has declined to contribute a square fact.
Andrew believes all the world's problems could be solved if people would just learn to love Country music. temp2@email.com
kate.noakes@googlemail.com Kate spends a great deal of time searching for her missing Chi, which someone in her family has moved. johndavies1976@btinternet.com Hangs around with people who meet to discuss what they’ve written about their lives, sometimes in code form, like poetry. became a Psychologist because of his name.
neil.frude@ntlworld.com
janpuss@googlemail.com Jan is emotionally and physically exhausted. djlewis1966@yahoo.co.uk Teaches, walks the dog, drinks beer and eats curry. nickfisk@email.com Wears earplugs at loud rock concerts.
ifor.thomas@googlemail.com Seminal performance was video of him climbing out of a cardboard box Last seen climbing into a box in a metaphorical way. Square Magazine is produced with the assistance of the Welsh Books Council. Printed by Autoprinters Ltd, 107 Penarth Road, Cardiff, CF11 6JT