Bendigo Boys.

Bendigo Boys

Hot, humid evening. Aurora Australis lighting the horizon disperses the solar wind,

saturates the air with ionic plasma. Charging them up. Party-animals parade in all their magnificent finery along the Mall. Androgynous golden manes are shaken,risks taken, sobriety forsaken, revelry rules, OK? But nothing stirs the blood more than novelty. A pair of snowdrops in a field of sunflowers, lambs amongst the tigers.

Pale, northern ladies, jetlagged and stunned by the force of the New World, raw, rough energy, unfettered and real. Sultry, southern hemisphere night calls them out to play, to play with the big boys, the farmers and golfers, and  dropper-outers. Make no mistake, those boys are on the make, to take advantage, try their luck. Shy northern ladies, beware of the ruck that awaits you.

Nervously entering the Star Bar, testosterone hangs heavily in the gloom of the dimly-lit club, filling their senses with its boldness. Antipodean antennae twitching, keen eyes  following, appreciating their every move, their Old World newness.

Ordering Polar Bears at a Bendigo bar certainly raised a few eyebrows;  not for long.

Macho males from virile Victoria, all dressed the same, cut-off jeans, hair like straw, drunk as skunks, pursuing the game, brandishing libidos like a flame in the steaming night-club fog.

Up and down; a full body scan by twenty pairs of piercing eyes rakes through her thin brown dress;

She passes the test, more or less.

“Can I buy you a drink?” “Do you want to dance?”

No such niceties from these chopsy chaps. The drink is bought, thrust to her  lips,

her waist is grabbed, and then her hips are likewise assaulted. In the nicest possible way.

Timid Welsh wife.

Lardy, heavy bodied and minded; hardly causing a flicker at home, put-down, let-down by her stone cold husband. Astounded by the super-trouper laser beams of attention,  from the pack of wolves who grin and wink, and sweat and think she is one hot Sheila.

She loves it, blossoms and  sparkles, basks in the heat of this animal chase.

And why not?  Let her enjoy her moment of glorious glamour,queen for a day; hell, she may even forget to go home.... stay with the red-necks, hillbilly crackers,run off with the bouncers, the hippy back-packers.

Look at her. Hair like a halo of blondeness and all shyness a thing of the past. Smiling and laughing, for once she is being the woman she really is. Let’s leave this murky and masculine den, quit the Aussie rules that make these men hunt her down. Not that she complains.

No, let’s run for shelter, run to the Shamrock Hotel, secure, safe and sound, away from the feral fellows that  fancy their chances. Deserting our friend.

She will be fine. 

She was.

 

Pinning Up

Meddling.

Fag ends prettily invite you inside; the rented rooms await your intrusion.

Scores of filthy nappies festering in the cavernous, gaping  stairwell betray the child’s existence; it does not have a life.

The battleground of the hall is a minefield that only the experienced and the wise should cross.

Scattered, spent syringes, blood-stained needles, all offering hepatitis C, HIV and a hell you cannot imagine.

Sickly air, scented with the delicate perfume of urine, blow and vomit,swiftly settles on your M &S jacket like a vampire bat, sucking all hope away.

Professional dangerousness: which way do you choose?

A tentative knock on the kicked-in door.(Please don’t be at home.)

Another, a bit louder.(She must be out.)

Louder still.(She could be dead.)

Hammering on the kicked-in door............faltering steps shuffling slowly, the baby cries.

She opens the door of her crazy cave, hugging her child like a talisman against the invasion of the Nosey Parker. Jaundiced, jaded, sunken cheeks, suspicious eyes and mind reject assistance. She’s doing all right, see, can’t you tell? She sniffs. And sniffs.

Pale, fat baby, clinging like a limpet to emaciated mother.

Stuffed full of rusks, milk and Wotsits, maternal love failing to care for this mite.

 Keeps him quiet. Frozen awareness. He sees it all from his cold, cot prison.

Shove a Milky Bar at him, he won’t notice the men, the lads, the cads, the guys who shout and hit and smile, all the while providing the dosh, the cash, the means

to an end.

Needing the fix to maintain the norm, she isn’t a bad person.

Sniffs. Sniffs again. Sweating and shivering, aching all over, hoping you don’t see the agony of it all.

You are from Planet Posh, where life is magical all the time and hell is nothing more than internet failure. You don’t understand where she is coming from or going to, or that she really doesn’t care at all. For herself.

But for him, she would gladly die.

Time to go pinning up.

A Little Girl in Cardigan.

nored the t

Nightmare Farm on Hangman’s Hill....

.....where all your dreams come true.

Putting more peat on the fire,sizzling and steaming, smelling of old things,

serious things, things that I do not understand: messy, tarry, sticky and black,

but to be respected. Devoutly. I am so small and young, I just listen and

learn. Learn much, about who did what and with whom, and what the vicar

said....

I look up at all the pictures on the wall of the room that was kept “for best.”

 The Front Room. The Parlour. The room of beeswax and home-made bara

brith and ale and coffins, perfumed with old age and age old stories untold.

 The pictures. That man with the stern look about him, he looks cross and

strict, but he is my family; he seems mean and vinegary sour, frighteningly

stern. I tell my mother what I think; I shrink, I get a clip. Behind the ear.

The family line-up, stiff and starched and black and grey. I cannot see any

white to relieve the fright and fear I feel inside my seven year old mind,

 already embroidered, enriched with ghosts and spirits and C.S Lewis.

But I love the farm. Penrallt Uchaf. A different world, a kernel of Cymru,

 a million miles from the market towns, the seaside traps of South West

Wales.

In the happy, sunny, heliotropic holidays, I love the farm. Warm,

comfortable, welcoming.

“Come and milk Seren Fach...”

No way.

“Watch out for the sow, she’s a mean one...”

Oh my God.

“Try some of this , we just milked Seren Du a minute ago....”

I do look into the green plastic mug, still warm and slightly frothy.

 I heave.

 Four meals a day or even five. Rigidly living by the clock and the land,

 my aunts’ security hugged them close, bound them to the farm, fields and

each other.

Chasing chickens,but  never catching even the slowest of them,

 petting Seren Fach’s calf, so soft and sweet-breathed, destined for

Carmarthen mart on Thursday, but I haven’t been told.

 Picking daisies and buttercups and foxgloves.....roundly scolded;

 my mother, her arms folded, bristling with anger at the imagined danger

from the poisonous purple flowers.

 Playing “dare” with my cousin from Carmarthen,one year older, ginger and

freckled like the skin on rice pudding.

 Shy at first, then he shows his colours.Dodging the nasty, child-eating sow,

leaping over the mud,we ran up the lane, giggling wickedly, our blood

was up.

Up to the ruined farm we dashed, for the light was fading fast, until we

arrived at lastat  Hangman’s Hill.

A hill unnamed except by us, two children keen to feel the chilly thrill of

make-believe.An ancient shack, tumbledown sheds and fallen doors,

Nightmare Farm held all the fear our thirsty minds required.

Starkly black against the peachy sky, silhouetted on our souls

for ever, the dead windows invited and excited us.

Dark, drifting through time and space, the abandoned farm stood still and

hungry,wanting our sweet, seven year old souls for supper.

Terrors and tortures tumbled quickly into our waiting imaginations;

Gwdihw. Lonely owls hooted bleakly, a fox ran boldly before us,we jumped.

Then weakly laughed.

Time to leave the deliciously devil-filled forgotten farm,we raced helter-

skelter down the lane,breathing in the late summer hay, the horse sweat

from Pili Pala as she peered over the gate.

Back at Penrallt, a row of eager faces intently watching Toni ac Aloma

ignored the two little rascals who were late.wo little rascals who were late.

The hidden threat from the jailer....

The Last Bus to Trimsaran.

They are having fun by the bucketful;

 those hordes  having heaps of jolly japes,

joining in the songs, the wrong words are

streaming out from those red-glossed lips,

shaking those black velvet hips, sipping cheap wine,

their minds befuddled by Black Russians, Bulmers and Baileys.

Billy Bunter bosses, belching out boozy breath like jovial Welsh dragons,

exuding happy hospitality; benevolence personified.

The Christmas Night Out at the gastro pub .

Yee hah!

Inhibitions are left at the door, the paper hats worn with

carefree abandon, they all reckon it is so bloody funny!

Hysterically humorous, in fact.

Managers mingle lasciviously with teenage temps

who are totally exempt

from paying their way tonight. But they know the score.

Keep smiling and giggling at the fat old bore and he will cough up more and more

and buy them drinks galore.....

A Cosmopolitan?

A glamorous cocktail for the gorgeous girls.

Fabuloso!

The cold rain outside makes no impression on the seasonal cheer,

whisky-filled eyes, shop-bought mince pies and Blackberry lies

of the office staff.

Unaware of the housewife waiting, hating the freezing wet sting

of the December downpour, willing the last bus to Trimsaran to appear,

fearing his angry words should she be late.

Her shoes let in water,

her one-life plastic bag starts to give way under the

heavy weight of the Christmas presents,

the Asda quarter-pounders

of processed chicken carcass and Simply Value cards.

Her heart sinks. The bus is coming.

Two monstrous eyes light up the sticky wet road, the mean green carriage

slowly stops just for her. Only her.

Lonely Llinos climbs aboard, unable to afford the whole

fare home.

She pays until Caegrawn Farm, will walk from there;

avoids the searching stare

 of the driver. He knows, it shows.

The pity in his eyes comes from his soul. He won’t stop, he’ll carry on

to her desired destination. To his intense frustration

she avoids his glance.

 Just one look would do; imagine the last dance

with this waif of the night, his arms around her fragile form, making her safe,

protecting, connecting with her frightened mind.

She sits and sighs. Looks out through the filthy window into the

 dirty, black night.

Watching the comfortable world all warm and bright.

Yellow windows with fairy lights

deny her access, leave her guessing at the happiness

within.

Leaving the semi’s behind, the steep climb to the woods snakes up and up...

into the dark and serious trees, no light to relieve

the sinister gloom; the bus begins to weave

its serpentine way around the treacherous bends;

like a white beacon of hope, the Tafarn y Coed shines pale

in the mist of the moody night.

But Llinos journeys on, mind on the evening to come,

the work to be done,  Attila the Hun and his shotgun

behind the pantry door.

Just for rabbits, that’s all. Her mind closes down, she’s not home yet.

Her Oxfam coat is warm enough, a five pound bargain in hot fuschia, but her thoughts are as

cold as the bleak countryside.

In the driver’s mirror, her small white face stares heart-shaped back. So sad.

He wants her so much, wishes to drive non-stop to the Rock,

 back to Mynyddygarreg, and carry her into his big, white bed

and soothe her sadness away.

What would she say, he wonders....

Her fingers twitch and she picks at the scab on her wrist,

 remembering his fist

from this morning,

 his forced kiss, and the realisation dawning

that nothing will change.

The bus passes the farm, does not stop; calmly she sits and waits.

Waits and dreads the moment of arrival.

The hazy lights of the village draw closer, hostile and mocking.

Her dark eyes close, just for a moment, cancelling all thought, blocking the terror

of the angry man in the blue-doored council house, on the forgotten estate where

no-one talks anymore....

The knot inside her tightens, she is frightened,

for tonight he may kill her.

Mari's Misfortunes With Men.

Hot, excited female

Shoving back the Laura Ashley quilt, feeling the cold bedroom air

coax her midlife nipples into reluctant action,

Mari stretched her dumbelled arms up to the ceiling

of her sweet Saturday hopes.

Last night’s dreams lodged lovingly in her sleepy head, and

April’s sunshine kick-started her latent longing for romance.

Fat chance.

Gwyn from Grovesend lacked that something special, being too grand,

rather beige-skinned bland and silky smooth.

Boring as hell, to tell the truth,

failing to excite or ignite her faltering forty-ish flame , during the

fumbled tumble in the high-tech jungle of his macho bedroom.

Best forgotten.

Peter from Penclawdd was particularly pernickety, preferring cool conversation

and lots of inhibition to any wild and wonderful freelance stuff.

Cold as a fish, if you must know,

freezing  with one chilly look any fleeting hope of passion or lust of any fashion

 in Mari’s middle-aged mind.

The fridge would be warmer.

Pedantic plonker.

Llew from Llanelli was altogether far too nice, devoid of any fizz or spice

to warm that casual connection.

His hair was brown, jeans precisely pressed, like the Ever-Ready

smile that lit his boyish face,

which switched to dimmer when she ordered her second tequila slammer.

Little lush Mari!

Immaculate perfection?

In his modest dreams...

Marc from Maengwyn was much the worst.

Slick compliments, flowery words and saccharine  sweetness won the heart of

poor Mari.

He had his own agenda, a dark list of missed chances and dances forgotten,

whilst his outer shell glistened with a glossy veneer of ill-gotten

 succulent and sensuous glamour.

God, he was fantastic.

But no oil painting, just terrible teeth, flabbily fat and with hair that would not comply with his

vain requests.

With Svengalian skill he sucked Mari into his web of lies.

 From which she emerged half-devoured and sad.

Bad man.

Spanish-maid slippers awaited  her tangerine-toed feet, ready for the easing in....

As she teased her M&S dressing-gown over her spray-tanned shoulders,

Mari closed her still-lustrous eyes in glorious anticipation of the wonders

yet to be delivered.

He should arrive at around ten, with a purposeful stride up the garden path and then

should knock on the door.....and maybe ring her bell?

Her heart beat faster, her breathing quickened, a swift glance in the mirror

at the sultry golden features;

 the Malteser eyes were glowing , the L’Oreal black hair was flowing

 luxuriantly, reassuringly down to her whippet-slim waist.

She licked her lips.

Not past it yet....

Pearly beads of sweat glittered on her excited face as she hastened to meet

this handsome young devil.

A delicate coral flushed her smooth cheeks; she felt the heat rising in her soul.

No peri-menopausal hormonal rush this time, just sheer, giddy anticipation of

achieving her goal.

The doorbell rang.

Mari swallowed.

Opening the door with a dazzling smile, she greeted the man

 with her usual style.

Then grabbed it, with no preliminary niceties.

Fiercely ripping it apart, Mari ravenously fell upon her

new Next Directory.