A good friend of mine once proclaimed in English, “The Welsh are the only people on the planet who speak English as it was meant to be spoken.” Hearing this is like manna from heaven. Like Myrddin come to take his sick tree from Carmarthen or RS Thomas poking about English resorts with a bad face or Owain Glyndwr and the rising again of the red dragon.
Fuck, if I was only the Welshman I long to be. Or if I had my own Fluellen cry out: “All the water in Wye cannot wash your majesty’s Welsh plood out of your pody.” I have been away too long, though. My voice would upset even a babe in Wales. I wouldn’t even be allowed to touch coal. I’d be run out of town like the Black Prince I am. Even the Male Voice choirs would hurl their raised voices at me, sing my demise in harmony. I am an imposter. Half man, half mineral. I have one leg over Offa’s Dyke but the other languishes in the mud of the Saxon. Or worse, I straddle the Atlantic and can only piss on the bigger continent for fear of waking the ghosts of my fathers. I will pass into memory and become Americanized. I will serve a god who does not want me except as a funny little dog who can bark when his master calls. I will speak but never get spoken about. I will go into the West and remain me.
“Morning has broken like the first morning . . .” And if that is the case then why hasn’t somebody done something to repair it! I wish all mornings began at 10 and in a dressing gown and propped up in bed with pillows and iBook. Instead it is solemn-eyed and I am always expecting a voice to cry, “oh come away human child to the waters and the wild, with a fairy hand in hand, for the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.”
I have not seen the newest Dr. Who, but I was suddenly remembered of him. Everybody has their fav Dr Who; mine would have to be Tom Baker followed by Peter Davison and then John Pertwee. As a boy I was scared stiff of the Daleks and the Cyborgs. My brother and I would hide behind our grandparents’ settee and peek around the side. But we would never miss an episode. And I loved Tom Baker’s very long multicoloured scarf (I am wearing one very much like his now) and how he would have jelly beans in his coat (and I have those in my pocket, too) and he had this widget that could do almost everything including, I think, giving orgasms to strange organisms (and would you believe it, I have one of those in my satchel!).
And K-9 was great. Loved his voice. And, this is a fond memory, he actually came to a disco that my school put one when I was a boy. K-9 travelled all the way down from the BBC to attend our dance. And could he dance! Jesus — think John Travolta. And the girls went wild (long before Girls Gone Wild) and there was pandemonium. And I tried getting in on the dog’s turf and his laser came out of his nose and he actually burned me. So I ended up kicking off his head. And then the needle on the record (this was well before CDs) scratched and the Ian Dury song ended badly. When the headmaster arrived, dressed as Gary Glitter, no less, he brought out his rod and gave me a good beating. K-9 was quickly repaired and the girls swamped him with kisses. And the night ended with Ultravox’s “Dancing With Tears in My Eyes.”