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February 13, 2018

I’M CURRENTLY reading Richard Wyn Jones’s book The Fascist Party in Wales?, Plaid Cymru, Welsh Nationalism and the Accusation of Fascism (University of Wales Press, 2014), a slim work which tries to dispel the toxic taint of close ties to Hitlerism among Welsh nationalists, particularly when the party was founded between the wars.
The book appears to have been written in the Welsh language and translated into English by the author and Dafydd Jones but there are grammatical errors and misspellings in their English version which an old sub-editor like me spots like a dog spots bones in an empty garden.
I have delved into the way the Western Mail rather shamefully regularly corralled together Plaid Cymru with the Free Wales Army and MAC in the reporting of bomb attacks on and around the Prince of Wales’s Investiture at Caernarfon Castle in 1969 and the fire bombing of holiday cottages owned by English people which followed them.
There is no doubt that the Cardiff-based organ was suspicious of Welsh nationalism during this period and too easily and readily collaborated with then Welsh Secretary of State George Thomas to paint a damning portrait of any kind of nationalistic activity as being threatening and destabilising in Wales
Crucially, of course, Welsh journalists were the main witnesses giving evidence in the trial against the Welsh terrorists at Swansea Assizes in 1969 when John Jenkins and others were imprisoned and because of the rather long, bitter history of disharmony and dispute, it is an issue which is well worth addressing.
Indeed, Jones sprinkles his book with excerpts of reports from the Welsh media – often the Western Mail as the Welsh media was then so slim and slight and is now even more so.
“It is difficult, if not impossible, to imagine a more damaging accusation to make against any democratic politician or political party than to accuse them of being “Fascist” Jones opines in the introduction.
Really? Well, how about “Paedophile supporting” or “pro-incest”?
The point is that professor of Welsh politics and director of the Wales Governance Centre at Cardiff University, Jones – whose pal Adam Price, Plaid Cymru MP for Carmarthen East and Dinefwr from 2001 to 2010 now sitting for Plaid in the Welsh Assembly, describes his work as “an impressive volume that buries forever one of the most destructive lies in Welsh political discourse” on the cover – is, I would venture, about as suitable as a Western Mail journalist would be to impartially address this issue.
Plaid Cymru started in 1925 as a pacifist party aiming to promote the Welsh language and independence for Wales but the fact that it wanted independence from England, not closer ties and greater harmony with England, naturally raised the question in a world war of whether it would support England or Germany in armed conflict.
Saunders Lewis, party president 1926–1939, (“the chief aim of the party is to ‘take away from the Welsh their sense of inferiority… to remove from our beloved country the mark and shame of conquest.'”) and his pacifist allies may, indeed, have seen more merit in a political deal with Herr Hitler, which would see Wales more free and independent but ultimately subject to Nazi rules than even further subjugation from the hated London Tories whose ancestors had conquered them in the past.
National socialism rather than imperialistic capitalism.
This book sets out to prove that there was no evidence that the Plaid Cymru high command then were seduced by national socialism in Germany and attacks various people for falsely intimating or suggesting that it did.
The first and perhaps most powerful motif is on the cover of the book – a Cardiff City Council official pictured raising the swastika German flag above city hall to celebrate the signing of the now infamous Munich Agreement on September 30, 1938. The only time the flag has and hopefully ever will be flown in Wales.
Richard Weight’s book Patriots: National Identity in Britain 1940 – 2000 and Nick Groom’s Union Jack: the Story of the British flag both claim that Plaid Cymru sent an official delegation to Berlin in 1940.
Jones thunders: “We may rightly bemoan the scandalous lack of respect for basic scholarly standards that allowed such a damaging and false allegation to be circulated without an attempt at justification; in neither case is the allegation even referenced. But it is also important to ask why it was that such a claim must have appeared at least superficially plausible to the authors and their respective publishers.”
Well, sending a delegation at that time to help prevent war or seek peace (did these authors suggest that the delegation was seeking a military pact?) would surely not have been damaging for Plaid Cymru as Chamberlain and his entourage had done the same thing. But Jones sees the act – if it actually occurred at all and he is adamant that it did not – as manufactured and false evidence of a Fascist strain in Plaid Cymru and this immediately sets him off on a moralistic crusade against journalists and academics who, he claims, have deliberately misrepresented Plaid Cymru as being much more in step with Hitler than with Churchill, despite the fact that very many Welsh people served in and died in the second world war.
But instead of presenting conclusive evidence that there was positive support and aid from Plaid Cymru for Churchill during that period (was there any?), he instead rubbishes the repeated allegations that there was positive support and aid for Hitler, demolishing them one by one in an angry tirade.
Unfortunately, there is some evidence which adds weight to the theory that Plaid Cymru activists may not have been helpful to the British war effort. Welsh nationalist Arthur Owens was imprisoned in Dartmoor for spying for the Germans and some leading Welsh nationalists, including Lewis himself, were imprisoned after setting fire to a bombing school at Penyberth, Penllyn.
But the smoke has been fanned into raging red flames, he posits, by people like the Reverend Gwilym Davies in his essay The Whole of Wales and the Welsh Nationalist Party “an exercise in brass-necked, bare-faced dissimulation, or more colloquially, lying.”
The information about a Catholic religious foundation to the party – some seemed to conflate fascism with papism – interested me most as I had no knowledge previously of this and genuinely never considered any religious affiliations within the party. Catholicism in Ireland among republicans and the mainstream suspicion of it in London and protestant England sprang to mind. Saunders Lewis was a Catholic who regarded Jewish evacuees from London as threatening to Welsh culture and he railed against rich Jews controlling editorial direction in London newspapers.
Jones’s political tactic of comparing the allegations of fascism in Plaid Cymru with instances of real fascism and protesting about bias in the reporting of them reaches it high point when he refers to the Merthyr Tydfil election of 1931 when one of Oswald Moseley’s New Party candidates Sellick Lewis staggeringly won more than 30 per cent of the vote.
“Almost nothing has been written about them. Indeed, it is hard not to conclude that there has been an almost wilful reluctance with the historical facts about fascism in Wales,” he whines.
In his conclusion, he attacks the Welsh Mirror newspaper for “spewing poison” about Welsh nationalism.
What is most striking about this book is the glaringly obvious political affiliation at its heart and driving and nourishing its flow along with its strident propagandist tone.



February 12, 2018

WE live in a police state when the police write their own news.
The news has to be neutral, impartial and without bias and we cannot trust government officials like police officers to write it because they will always contort and distort it to suit their own selfish ends.
Believe me, I know how to distort and contort news and effortlessly give a false impression. Councils (who now deliver “news” sheets to your door), the police and governments know how to do it a lot better than I do and have an army of staff armed to the teeth with technological hard and software to assist them.
So I was shocked to read Gwent Police’s website today.
I don’t need to be told that my opinion counts by patronising government officials who are humouring me.
I know it does but I also know that to them it really doesn’t unless it is something positive and praiseworthy which they might even use as a testimonial or to win favour in high places.
Theirs is purely a cosmetic public relations exercise in contortion and distortion. This marketing-led double speak is leading all communication by our major public and private sector bodies now to desperately give the false impression they are considerate and inclusive, genuine and authentic when they are none of the above.
What I REALLY want is access to officers to discuss my concerns and a genuine link which is truly responsive, authentic and genuine.
I also don’t need to be given “news” by them because they are neither newsgatherers nor news producers and never should be.
I’ve known far too many police officers in my journalistic career, personally and in other professional spheres who habitually tell porky pies.
What I really need is truth. Simple, unvarnished truth.
I would like to know why officers are not arresting prostitutes who regularly ply their trade in the Pill area of Newport (I saw one at ten on Saturday, yes, ten in the morning, being summoned to a car so what on earth is it like there late at night and what must young children be feeling walking to school and the like?) I would like to know why drugs, homelessness, alcoholism and social disorder are obviously on the rise and there appears to be fewer and fewer officers to tackle it, protect us and maintain order.
I don’t want to be spun lines by those in power any more.
That’s why I and many others in the blogosphere who are sick of this spreading cancer of internet contortion and distortion write our blogs and it’s why I now routinely go to unofficial sources such as blogs in search of truths as the official sources (government bodies) keep sending me marketing e-mails asking me to buy information I shouldn’t have to buy, to keep telling me my opinion is important to them when it clearly isn’t, and to keep promoting the wicked illusion that there is a meaningful and authentic link between us now because of new convenient internet technology which didn’t exist before it was invented. It’s all just spam e-mails, folks, and spam never was very nourishing or good for you in the long run.
At around 3.30am on Wednesday, January 3, 2018, I saw two police officers in my back garden with high-powered torches pursuing a man who had hid from them under my plastic garden table.
It appeared that the man, whom they appeared to be chasing across back gardens before arresting for drugs offences, was threatened by them with tazer before complying and being arrested.
I was furious because of the disturbance caused to my sleep and genuinely feared at first that the police officers themselves were armed invaders trying to rob my property when I heard the commotion outside.
He was finally taken with my consent through my property to a nearby huddle of about 20 uniformed police officers in the dark around two or three large vans blocking my street to traffic.
For the consent I gave and the not inconsiderable distress and inconvenience this incident caused, I felt I needed and deserved some kind of explanation from the police.
I established eye contact with the senior officer supervising the chase after the man had been bundled into one of the vans and effectively asked him what the hell was going on in my garden. He gave me his name, rank and number, which I wrote down and he thanked me after offering a brief explanation and making his way off, leaving me to try to get back to sleep.
I went to Newport police HQ in Cardiff Road the next day to see if I could speak to him or one of his team about it but was told that none were on duty.
The shabby and impersonal front desk area at Newport police station is no place for frank, open and authentic disclosure and the glass case which desk staff work behind definitely protects them from us and prevents privacy so you feel disinclined to escalate anything and really want to get out as quickly as possible.
I am now at that stage where I want to address my concerns and questions in writing to someone in authority in the police about what really happened that night.
1, Why were there so many of them in the street for apparently one man who was unarmed?
2, Why was he apprehended in my garden of all places?
3, What were his alleged crimes and where was he residing? (I did ask the police officer at the time but he was traditionally non-committal and evasive)
are just three that spring to mind instantly.
In this, as in most things, there are two likely scenarios.


I am friendly with the police and crime commissioner, maybe a political associate or I hold civic office of some kind so have the home numbers of senior officers, rub shoulders with them at the Celtic Manor Resort, the lodge or maybe meet at other social events so I call them at home at some convenient time and speak off the record, in confidence and personally at leisure about it and I get a candid, authentic and honest response which illuminates and enlightens me, satisfying all my queries and ensuring in my mind, at least, that this is unlikely to happen again and that everything was done properly.
I would get the name, age and address of the person who had hid under my table so I can follow progress in any criminal proceedings in the future and maybe even attend court should I choose to.


I write and send a response online on Gwent Police’s CONTACT US form asking for more details. I receive a curt e-mail response from a “strategic communications” assistant who attaches a “unique number” or even a PIN which I have to memorise for future use, thanks me way too profusely for my enquiry and reminds me (yet again) that my contact is important and highly valued by them, providing clear and undisputed evidence that they are responsive and synched with the people they protect so well.
The Data Protection Act 1998 prevents them from disclosing any of the details of the incident, of course, OF COURSE!, and any of the names or personal details but I can rest assured that everything is being done by them to win the war against crime. Finally, I am invited to “rate” in a series of customer satisfaction probes how well this particular nameless and faceless “strategic communicant” has performed on this occasion as such opinions really matter to them.
On a scale of one to five – one being very poor, five being very good on a Likert scale – I am to rate and assess the speed, promptness, politeness and cheerfulness of the communication because all these things really matter to them.


February 12, 2018

WATCH Andrew Neil monster Diane Abbott here.
Thank God there are still some fearless, principled, tough questioning journalists still left to hold expense account champagne socialists like Abbott to account.


February 12, 2018

I’M OLD enough to remember steam trains and the romantic glamour and prestige of travelling to London wearing my Sunday best in an express train packed with class, character and comfort boasting plush, wide open carriages and well-heeled supportive sofas you could lie down on if you were lucky in one of those delightful six-person carriages (three on one side three on the other facing each other and a long empty corridor outside with a proper toilet at the end) with curtains so you could have some shut-eye, little napkins at your head and a door to make it cosy and private, classy restaurant cars with silver service waiters offering full English breakfasts and tea and coffee in silver pots, liveried guards in impressive uniforms, and plenty of room to luxuriate, even in ordinary class.

So it was a rude and unpleasant shock to find myself on the Swansea to London train last night feeling like a sardine jammed into one of those new ghastly green utilitarian and featureless Great Western Railways metal tubes.

Standards have gone down but prices, of course, have gone up.

I squeezed into a rigid no frills plastic moulded seat in a long line of passengers all facing forward like seasoned Ryanair veterans without the seatbelts desperately trying to inch their feet forward to claim that extra millimetre of space while engaging with their ubiquitous mobile electronic devices rather than with each other.

What Hercule Poirot would have made of it, I try not to think. “Mon ami,” he would have thundered, “a murder has been committed on zis train……a foul and despicable murder in ze middle of ze night which we have allowed to happen.

“Comfort, class and character have all been viciously destroyed and violently stabbed in ze back by a crazed interior and exterior train designer hell-bent on killing almost everything civilised, intelligent people hold dear for the sake of a new digital age pragmatism and design mantra of economy, streamlining and downsizing which makes everything more compact, cramped and plastic.

“We must hunt down whoever is responsible for zis plastic perversion and outrageous act of digital rationalism as a matter of urgency, do you not think monsieurs et madames so that nothing like zis heinous crime can ever happen again on zis or any other train. Lord Lytton and Countess Von Apoplepsky, where were you both on ze night zat zis train was designed?”

You no longer have a buffet car but have to wait until a person pushing a food and drink trolley appears if you are lucky, the big airy van at the back with space for numerous bicycles and parcels has gone (there appears to be room for only two bicycles in a tiny space in one of the carriages), a woman in a dreary, nondescript green anorak and no hat stationed in a tight compartment at the back of the train pops out to supervise door opening at stations, toilets are those dreadful circular carousel affairs with individual sections of toilet paper rather than toilet roll in case anyone gets too greedy with doors featuring annoying press button options of CLOSE, OPEN and LOCK.

The difference between first and second class seems so subtle that you wonder why anyone would any longer pay for the extra privacy or comfort as there seems little of either both in first and second class and the amount of space allocated for storage has radically declined.

Meanwhile, we currently suffer road chaos as our railway bridges all over south Wales are being heightened to accommodate electric overhead lines but my suspicion is that doomed building giant Carillion has a major part to play in the work so don’t expect progress to be swift and sure on that and instead expect the bridge to be closed for a lot longer.

Stop the train and the world, I want to get off.





February 2, 2018

IN THE week when pampered, perfectly preened and preposterously pompous and pathetically indulged BBC news women marched on Westminster to back Carrie Gracie (if only she’d been Cary Grant) in her ferocious, bitter dispute for equal pay at Auntie (or should that be Uncle as it seems to remain a curiously irrelevant and totally dysfunctional, anachronistic London-based gentleman’s club still harbouring oddballs, dimwits and Gary Lineker), a new Steven Speilberg movie looks back fondly (yet again) on a more oily (in a different way) though equally dysfunctional and anachronistic blue-collar, masculine print media and seems to be telling us (yet again) that journalism should be for US (penniless, powerless paupers) and not for THEM (privileged, powerful politicians).

But any objective truth usually lies between the lines so first we have to establish what journalism really means (Carrie Gracie had a stab at it in her evidence to the select committee but it felt unconvincing and ideologically abstract as it came from a dogmatic, privileged and politically motivated liberal feminist cabal as most things in parliament do these days) and whether or not there is an us and them any more. Indeed, has the media now merged with politics in an unholy alliance to completely reposition the whole idea of them and us?

Hollywood’s enduring and repeated love of traditional media – Spotlight, about the Boston Globe’s pursuit of paedophile priests, followed a long line employing this predictable and convenient narrative template of depicting journalists as romantic, principled and dogged anti-heroes always on a higher moral plane and always on your side in the fight against a political establishment always deceiving them and us – persists in The Post, which I saw last night.

The privileged liberal elite (moneybags Meryl Streep ironically playing moneybags proprietress Katherine Graham as a new kind of feminist freedom fighter at that dangerous time for democracy, with a long line of Whitehouse presidents trampling over freedoms and rights to send American GIs to die in Vietnam in a doomed and futile war, Tom Hanks miscast as a frenetically growling, permanently overexcited and overexposed newsroom alpha male on the Washington Post) moralise about the price of that enduring and sacred principle of the public’s right to know the truth, or the closest anyone can get to the truth (which was then and never has been very close).

But why does Hollywood too often look back at the exclusive and excluding hot metal printing presses and not forward to the more cool, inclusive digital democracy, concentrating as it often does on established, mainstream heritage media rather than on new forms of media such as bloggers and whistleblowers?

Almost certainly to persuade the public that truth is still a commodity that is bought and sold only by  established and respected business-led power bases like Hollywood and the BBC with plenty of money and secure political mergers to fall back on if it all goes wrong (the emphasis in The Post is on Katherine Graham’s vulnerability on the US Stock Exchange rather more than it is on the very real possibility of her being imprisoned under Nixon’s rank regime for illegally betraying state secrets and her duty to make a profit for shareholders is emphasised throughout).

Let us compare and contrast two women in the media, Carrie Gracie and Jacqui Thompson.

Carrie Gracie is an established BBC journalist enjoying an impressive though still not equal salary and she is armed with an equally impressive university education and impeccable knowledge of the law, crucially as it relates to libel and contempt, allied to good social skills and connections in the London-based metropolitan elite which have opened doors in powerful places for her and will continue to do so.

Jacqui Thompson, on the other hand, is a blogger who has effectively lost her home after losing a libel case in court when taking on her local council after her planning application was refused and definitely does not receive a salary for her efforts. She does, however, enjoy backing from mainstream journalists including Private Eye and even some academics and politicians who protest about the disturbing implications for British society if councils are allowed to take away the properties and life savings of people who aggressively dissent and challenge their decisions online.

Armed with far less impressive academic qualifications and knowledge of the law, Jacqui is more used to having doors shut forcibly in her face in her more parochial social milieu of Carmarthen, where she has alleged corruption and misappropriation of money among senior council officials and doggedly persists in lampooning them and reporting on their activities despite being arrested by police for filming a council meeting on her mobile phone.

Both are driven women with hugely strong appetites for truth and both need the oxygen of publicity.

Now, that oxygen is supplied today not by rich proprietors like Katherine Graham of the Washington Post, whose inherited wealth and astute social and political connections ensured a ready supply of cash to fund journalistic investigations, thereby offering us our only hope in the 1970s of battling the rich and powerful and city hall and county hall, but by the internet, which enables just about anyone, even me, to have a voice.

There are now many others like Jacqui Thompson in a hugely dynamic and potentially powerful online uprising of the hitherto excluded and ignored. Bloggers and whistleblowers like Dr Sally Baker, who blogs on mental health scandals in north Wales, instantly spring to mind.

These people would in the dim and distant 1970s have been able to write letters to organisations like the Washington Post and the BBC but the likelihood of them being published would have been very slim to non-existent because established, mainstream media is inherently risk-averse, circumspect and conservative mainly for harsh economic reasons – the avoidance of costly legal action – so always edits out more than it allows in.

But who controls the internet? Who is the all powerful and all principled Katherine Graham figure presiding over them and making the crucial, agonising decisions about whether or not to publish and be damned based on what is and is not in the public interest? Also, what factors motivate their decisions and how are their decisions arrived at?

Well, try accessing Jacqui’s blog on free internet services provided by councils and some other free internet providers like transport companies.

You’ll find it blocked on some because the contents are considered unsuitable but a block on any of Ms Gracie’s pious utterances would attract outrage and provoke a near riot.

There are different internet providers with different ideas of what is and is not acceptable and the concept of an uncensored and truly open and democratic internet is still a lofty ambition rather than a reality.

Many poor and oppressed people who do not own computers rely solely on free internet provided by local councils at public libraries and this form of internet use is strictly policed and monitored by providers at city and county hall and they have the power to bar and block content containing “triggering” words or images in a naturally restricted and censored environment which huge numbers of people now are used to operating in.

Our schools and some colleges do this habitually, sometimes for very sensible reasons, so that children are now used to naturally restricted and censored online environments where a risk averse, circumspect and conservative mindset dominates and they become used to being policed and marshalled by their internet providers and “responsible adults”.

But that is an artificial environment so, of course, many of the kids go to their bedrooms or out on the streets to view banned images and post risky content.

The internet providers rather like Katherine Graham in The Post (what an interesting irony that the verb we use for activity on the internet is to “post”) now have the power to stand up for the oppressed, voiceless minority and enable you to read things or to deny you that opportunity.

The truth remains a commodity which you buy or sell and still come across in dark, dingy corners.



January 29, 2018

HELLO, I’m Ben, president of the National Union of Students at Speaknoevil University.

I’m also LGBTQ officer and I sit on the university’s Diversity, Inclusivity and Multiculturalism committee (DIM).
Sadly, I have to report yet another hateful incident in the postgraduate suite today.

Two transgendered people were caught playing darts in full view of impressionable students and senior members of the academic community here at Speaknoevil (soon to be renamed the University of Speaknoevil).

I intervened swiftly and confiscated their darts and the dart board after receiving an emergency call at my office on the fifth floor of Chakrabarti Tower (soon to be renamed Tower of Chakrabarti).

Darts, of course, has been banned after a heated and highly charged meeting of DIM’s sub committee on cross gendered sports and leisure activities when we were all absolutely horrified and deeply offended and viciously wounded and vilely sickened to hear media reports that scantily clad women accompanying the top professional players were apparently parading around like soft porn bait to excite and stimulate hordes of lager-swilling male darts fans who were openly and in full view of impressionable others – some of whom may have been children – ogling and objectifying them in cavernous draughty rundown leisure centres converted hastily into sports venues for TV cameras. 

This kind of regrettable behaviour can be filed under “lads culture” and we all know where that leads to on a Saturday night when the university rugby team has had loaded up on cider at NUS social’s Let’s Be Rude, or, as we usually call it, Rudey’s.

The two who were apprehended by me said that they had no idea that the ban was in place and maintained that they just fancied a game of darts.

I sent them on NUS approved courses on anti-social behaviour and diversity in the “Keep Safe and Secure Online and Offline” hub on the fourth floor at Chakrabarti Tower and, rest assured,  they were given a very thorough talking-to by the university’s safeguarding and security officer in the management suite immediately after the incident. The darts and the board were handed back to them but they remain strictly banned on university premises.

Hey guys, we all want to have fun and it’s great to have fun, of course it is, it really is. After all, we’re here to have fun and enjoy ourselves as well as get a good degree and learn loads and enjoy new experiences (though maybe stay away from the late night kebabs at Salim Pork’s down Greasy Street).

But if that fun involves the senseless, vile and deeply damaging objectification of women and the rowdy and deeply distressing harassment of impressionable, young and vulnerable females who are forced to parade around like blow-up dolls showing parts of their bodies to pay their way through university, well, guys, we really do need to take a stand.

Just remember, it could be your mother, or sister or transgendered brother or father being taken advantage of.

The university vice-chancellor, Professor Paul Potent has asked me to attach this.


THE hugely successful and rapidly expanding world-leading new sport and wellbeing education school, recently given five stars in the Wales on Sunday guide to universities, has teamed up with our innovative and pioneering industry-linked business excellent entrepreneurs super-hub, recently featured in The Guardian’s education pages, to proudly announce that a dynamic, challenging and topical new online course DARTS – AIM FOR DOUBLE TOPS has been added to their portfolio of online courses specifically designed to meet the needs of people who wouldn’t normally take up higher education, be intimidated, have child-care duties or for any other reasons miss out.

Professor Paul Potent, vice-chancellor of Speaknoevil University, said: “The academics here at Speak are dedicated to excellence and to opening out our wide and impressive range of courses to include new and groundbreaking avenues hitherto closed to or perhaps never even opened up to people who do not usually present as academically gifted. This builds on our impressive record of constantly questioning and challenging established social norms, building meaningful and relevant links in the community of Speaknoevil whilst revolutionising education to make it meet the needs of the user where they are rather than where we are.

“Our new online course DARTS – AIM FOR DOUBLE TOPS meets the growing need for amateur darts players or just those with an interest in the sport to aspire to excellence in a rapidly expanding and potentially lucrative money-spinning new career in front of worldwide TV cameras and adoring fans.

“Whatever your personal target, our innovative course will help you with a series of personally designed online training streams you can access at home on your laptop or even while out and about on your mobile phone featuring highly respected professional players aided by the university’s own top sports psychologists who will teach you to keep calm and play your best under high pressure in a series of Google hangouts where you interact one-to-one with them, they monitor your progress personally and help motivate you to soar to success.

Professional darts player Jim “Bully” Barrett, who has appeared in front of the TV cameras, is co-ordinating the course. He said: “There’s no bullshit but plenty of bullseye at Speaknoevil nowadays.”

Get on the online oche for £180.”








January 22, 2018

IF there is something rotten in the state of Denmark (fifth floor bullies at the Welsh Assembly take note) then Hamlet aka Jack Sargeant – son of suicide AM Carl – must root it out and expose it.

If not, the Welsh people will want to know why this young man is inheriting his father’s seat, salary, expenses and gilded lifestyle among the Cardiff Bay champagne socialists and they will rightly fear a new Kinnock-style Labour dynasty supping on the gravy train. Lucky Jack will inherit a wonderful package of pay and pension as well as good expenses. Not many of his contemporaries in depressed Deeside can look forward to that.

The unusually unreconstructed Labour trade union brothers of Alyn and Deeside have smashed the sisters – two Labour women councillors, one of whom would ordinarily sail in to the safest of Labour seats in a women only selection system, but who were jettisoned at a selection meeting when Carl’s boy suddenly expressed an interest, to the obvious delight of those who will never forgive Carwyn Jones for the frightening way he dealt with his dad and who barred him from the funeral.

But the truth about Carl still is elusive and mystifying.

I had no strong views about Carl Sargeant. He seemed to me to be like most of the others occupying safe Labour seats in the Welsh Assembly – underqualified, overpaid and over-rated with a long and unchallenged, secure seat at high table.

I took strong exception to the way he was treated by a Stalinist radical feminist Labour lynch mob because it seemed that he was being knifed in the back using a system of unreasonable rules punishing men for alleged sexual misconduct which could have been invented or fabricated specifically by enemies in his own party to oust him.

Despite the best efforts of the permanently florid and verbose Darran Hill, I don’t fall for the line that he should be exhalted as a saintly political martyr – he was no Bobby Sands.

He may well have been a model of fidelity and faithfulness to his wife back in Deeside.

Or he could have been lapping up the luxury in his swish Cardiff Bay flat, free of obligations to the little woman at home and his head may have been turned Bill Clinton-style by one or more of the attractive young interns massaging his ego.

We will probably never know. Whatever is alleged to have happened was enough to have him sacked but not enough for a court case in public.

The whole unsavoury saga does nothing to restore respect for a closed system of inheritance and entitlement based on unchallenged and inevitable domination of the polls.

What is the point in voting when you know it’s going to be Labour again and again and again and the relatives in a family automatically reap the rewards enjoyed by their predecessors.