Friday, 12 December 2008


(italics in a strong Cardiff accent)

I say tomato, you say tum-AH-toe
I say potato, you say spud
I shop at Sainsburys, you shops at Tesco
I can’t stand their value brand
But you can’t get enough

Between us there’s a difference
I’m middle class – you’re not
My family think that you’re a dunce
Yours think that I’m high maintenance
But viva la Cardifference!
We’re going to tie the knot

I play the clarinet, you plays Nintendo
I like the theatre, you prefers the box
I admire Fred Astaire, you acts like Rambo
Particularly in the bedroom with me
Though I wish you would take off your socks

Our love inspires incongruence
They say we shouldn’t wed
Your family hates intelligence
Mine hate your constant flatulence
But viva la Cardifference!
We get on well in bed

I read the Telegraph, you reads the Metro
I’d like a country house, you gorruh council flat
I’ve got a PhD, you’ve gorrun ASBO
When we go out if people shout
You swing your baseball bat

At times I feel ambivalence
You’ve got a nasty streak
I’ve seen your taste for violence
You’re put blokes in the ambulance
And even punched my face in once
For giving too much cheek
But love, is love, is love, is love…
So viva la Cardifference!
The wedding day’s next week

Wednesday, 10 December 2008

Lords Prayer

I’d become a Christian if I thought I’d see a burning Bush
If I thought You would set young George alight
I’d go to church each Sunday, even weekdays at a push
And I’d pray to Jesus morning noon and night
If only You would push Bush into a fiery furnace
If only You’d engorge George in hot flame
Then I’d become a Christian and I’d make it my own mission
To see other politicians get the same….

I wouldn’t just burn them with Christian zeal
I’d burn them with flames that were red hot and real
Tho I’d like to ignite all the buggers on sight
Instead I would burn them all sleeping at night
If You burn Bush, Lord, there’ll be no deterrent
Each MP, AM and PM past and present
Will die, every hypocrite, thief, whore and liar
I’ll retire to their pyre and expire via fire.

Imagine: Portillo asleep on his pillow
I’d say a hail Mary then make those flames billow
Tony Blair lying there like a babe unaware
I’d pray for his sins then set fire to his hair
Jack Straw like a straw would easily cinder
And Thatcher like thatch would soon catch
Boris a forest of fine human tinder
Paddy Ashdown I’d burn down to ash
David Cameron I guess would prove highly flammable
And Major I wager would too
In Your Name to Pete Hain I’d whisper a parable
Then bid him a fiery adieu
Mo Mowlam has plenty mo’ fat I could burn
Ann Widdecombe some I’d ignite in its turn
And good Gordon Brown in Gordon’s I’d drown
I’d pour liberal spirits on him
His fat filthy body with fire I’d melt down
His illiberal spirit send off with a hymn
These pig politicians and empty MPs
I’m sure I could track down with relative ease
If the UK’s a body then they’re the disease
It’s foolish to fight ‘em, let’s just ignite ‘em
The country would thank me again and again
Dear God and Jesus, please won’t you please us
Forever and ever and ever

Saturday, 6 December 2008

Cardiff Song

He was from Ely and ‘er from Pontcanna
She lived wiv ‘er mum, and him wiv his nanna
Nowhere tuh go so they went to the park
The grass was so green and he had a full bag
Skin up, block up, feel up, knock up
But she was firteen so he went to the lock up

I likes you like
I dunno why
Yuh face aint tha’ good
Bu’ the rest is urrigh’

She wore ‘er skirts right up tuh yur
Real leather boots and white fake fur
Clothes from Primark, gold from Argos
Orange foundation and too much lipgloss
Little white thong and black push-up bra
And she found love each night standing outside the Spar

I likes you like
You knows I do
Last week I loved ‘er
But now I loves you

She liked a Chinese, bur he liked a curry
She said less get married, he said woss the ‘urry
She patted ‘er guts, I’m expectin’ she said
He fought of ‘er dad, next week they was wed
Seven munfs later he gorruh surprise
The baby was fine, but ir ‘ad Chinese eyes

I likes you like
I don’ like yuh sister
You’re my true love
I swear I ain’t kissed ‘er

Their eyes met ‘cross a crowded chippy
He played wiv his phone, she pur on some lippy
She ordered a sausage, he asked fur two cones
They knew they was cousins, their last names was Jones
They started tuh date, they was mad fur each uvvuh
And found out too late that they ‘ad the same muvvuh

I likes you like
I don’ do lying
I didn’t go wiv ‘er
So bloody stop cryin’

Tuesday, 2 December 2008

Pat Answers! A Message at Christmas...

My great-great-great grandmother, Pat Price (52), is agony aunt for a local newspaper ( She’s a well-known figure in our home city of Cardiff, and a well-known lack-of-figure too, due to the amount of chips and Stella she eats/drinks. Like me, she grew up on Europe’s largest council estate, the suburb known as ELY; unlike me, however, she didn’t escape over the bridge in time, and so found herself up-the-duff at age 13 (tho for 8 months of the pregnancy they believed it was just natural, savaloy-induced FAT). Seven kids, twelve “husbands” and several million pints later, she now has enough wisdom to advise on all human problems, whether of the head, the heart, or - other parts of the human anatomy.

This is her message to you all.

Now, I loves Christmas, I do, bu’ from my extensive fella-peutic trainin’ (whar I done in THE UNIVERSITY UH LIFE – see my column fuh details) I knows there’s some silly wazzos don’ like ir at all. In fact, they starts tuh feel all down an’ depressed an’ tha’, when they sees a birruh pound shop tinsel selluh-taped to an aertex ceilin’, or yurs an advert fuh 2-4-1 Christmas food offers in Lidls, or smells the smell uh fags an’ booze an’ wacky baccy an’ vomit outside the Legion when they ‘as their Christmas do - an’ so on. I don’ ger i’, bu’ there’s these fings called “statisitics” (?), an’ they says iss true. Iss gorruh be a mental illness, like!!
Anyway, the editor said whar I should do is make up some advice whar’ll stop any readers wiv this disorder from feelin’ i’ too much. I ‘ad a fink, an’ I done some research, an’ yurs whar I reckons you should do, like:

1. Try an’ keep fings to uh normal Christmas schedule. Wa’ this means is, go furruh drink tuh yuh local on the Christmas eve; gerrup abou’ 2 the next day, an’ try not tuh be sick on the kids’ presents (if you are, pretend thar it’s a “game”); ‘ave a snowball or uh can uh Stella soon as you can, an’ stay drinkin’ an’ eatin’ in front uh the telly all day, until the evenin’, when iss back tuh the local furruh knees-up. Repeat on boxin’ day, an’ the followin’ days if you don’ work, which loadsa people in Ely don’t. You might even keep i’ goin’ until next Christmas!!

2. Spend time wi’ family an’ friends. Iss a right laugh, seein’ ‘ow fat my sistuh’s go’ since I last saw ‘er (the cow); watchin’ my Jimmy ge’ drunk an’ violent towards ‘is missis again; yur-ing the kids fightin’ over who gets tuh watch wa’ on the telly an’ tha’… Christmas time is family time!!

3. Remember tuh eat an’ drink properly. Recommended drinks is: Stella; snowballs; vodka an’ coke; Lowes pop (fuh the kids). Recommended foods is: cookie dinner wi’ all the trimmin’s; turkey sarnies; Tesco value gateau; tin uh Quality Street; “choobs” (Smarties is the most popular). If you don’ mind abou’ “animal rights”, you can gerruh huge turkey fur under a fiver, an’ i’ ull last you bloody YONKS. Tho’ i’ depends on ‘ow many family an’ friends you go’, I spose. If you ain’ go’ none, you’ll ‘ave tuh guts i’ yerself, an’ at least tha’ ull keep yuh mind off bein’ miserable, won i’??

4. Don’ do anyfing ponsey, like readin’, singin’ carols, or gerrin’ the kids tuh “make stuff”. Stuff like this is to’ally artsy-fartsy, an iss wha’ kills the spirit uh Christmas stone dead. Iss depressin’!! If you can’ watch i’, eat i’, drink i’, or smoke i’, iss no’ f*ckin’ Christmassy. End of.

5. Tinsel!!! Iss cheap, an i’ makes everyfing look magical, like. Ge’ yur arse down tuh Poundstretcher, an’ don’ jump the queue, cos last year someone go’ stabbed fuh doin’ tha’. Tho, i’ wasn’ my Leeroy, like wha’ the pigs said i’ was. Tha’ blood come from ‘im skinnin’ a cat down the Drope earlier tha’ day. Everyon’s gorrun ‘obby, ‘aven’ they??

6. Don’ worry abou’ money. Life’s too short, like! If you ain’ gorruh lo’, don’ be afraid tuh cut corners – ger a birruh “poor man’s tinsel” (grass or summin) tuh decorate the ‘owse; some “poor man’s baubles” (empty crisp packets, blown up an’ pur on a bir uh string) tuh decorate the tree; an’ fuh the tree isself, an old chicken carcass can wurk wonders! If you can’ be arsed wi’ this (an’ most working class people can’t – we weren’t brung up on Blue friggin’ Peter, was we??), then do wha’ most families round yur does, an invest in a case uh “poor man’s rose-tinted spectacles” (STELLA). Drink a few uh these, an’ you’ll be seein’ magical Christmas lights all over the place, screamin’ babies ull be transformed into smilin’ cherubs, an’ you won’ feel like eatin’ tha’ much. Also, when yuh finished wi’ yuh can, pu’ the widget inside an’ i’ makes a great ra’ull – PERfec’ fuh baby’s first Christmas!!

7. Don’ spend time on yuh tod. If you go’ money, ge’ yur arse down the Legion or yuh local furruh few halves; if you go’ none, well – ‘ave a dooly-tap, an’ ge’ yerself intuh Whitchurch hospital fuh the new year. Iss like Butlins, ir is, ‘cept the entertainment’s a bi’ more nutso, an’ the drugs is to’ally free!!

8. Don’ watch the Queen’s speech. I never yurd anyone wi’ such a borin’, dronin’ voice, on my life. She don’ speak proper English, neivuh – I dunno wha’ she’s sayin’, sounds like she’s gorruh mouth full uh mixed nuts, or summin?!?!

9. Some people suffers from S.A.D., like – tha’s when, cos iss a bi’ darker in winter, they starts feelin’ all depressed an’ gloomy an’ tha’. Luckily, scientists ‘ave invented a cure. Iss called TELLY. A li’ull glowin’ box tha’ ull act like a second sun, wiv bright glowin’ rays and specially programmed images (“adverts”) tha’ ull make you feel all warm an’ cosy inside. Tha’s whar I reckons, anyways…

10. If the worst comes tuh the worst, an’ you starts feelin’ bad, don’ do nuffin stupid, ok? “Oblivion”’s a place we all likes tuh visit, bur iss berruh tuh ger uh return ticket than take uh one way trip there, like. Or even a Day-tuh-Go. So, CHOOSE LIFE – an’ ge’ drunk, stoned, stuffed an’ ‘ammered as much as you can this Christmas. You won’ regret i’!!

Anyway, if you takes these ten tips an’ puts ‘em into play, I guarantees you’ll ‘ave a brill Christmas this year. Any probs, jus’ le’ me know – I’ll be down the Legion most days, or you can write tuh the editor. Jus’ remembuh tha’ Christmas is twelve days, though, an as I’ll be followin’ all the good advice whar I jus’ give you, I won’ be in a fit state tuh repeat i’, like.

‘Appy ‘Olidays!!!!!!!!!

Pat x