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Y Teithiwr Twp at Cwmdeithas Yr Iaith Gigs With 'Y Brodyr Magee' at the Welsh National Eisteddfod

The next decade will be the most significant period ever in Welsh politics, according to BBC Welsh Affairs Editor, Vaughan Roderick, on the day of publishing a volume of his work to mark twenty years since Wales voted for a National Assembly.

In the book, Pen ar y Bloc , which is published this week, Vaughan says that ‘the tectonic plates are moving and questions that would have seemed ridiculous ten years ago are now reasonable’.

These movements, he says, mean that questions arise about the existence of some of the larger parties in their current form, and also could mean that the days of the politics of class could be nearing their end. He also predicts the possibility of the United Kingdom and the European Union breaking apart.

‘Will the United Kingdom, the European Union, or both, be likely to fall to pieces or can they succeed in re-creating themselves? We shall see’.

The book, written by Vaughan and his fellow BBC journalist, Ruth Thomas, reproduces the best of Vaughan’s successful blog, ensuring that his witty writings will not disappear in this ‘Digital Dark Age’.

Publishing the volume, which includes new material that explores some of the most important political developments since 1997, will mean that a completely indispensable record of Welsh history has been created.

The volume also pays tribute to former Wales First Minister, Rhodri Morgan, who died on the 17th of May this year. Vaughan wrote the tribute especially for this book.

Professor Richard Wyn Jones, head of the Wales Governance Centre at Cardiff University, said: ‘This is a world class political commentary: witty, wide ranging and broad its spirit. It stands as further proof that we have been extremely fortunate as a nation to have Vaughan Roderick guide us through all the twists and turns of two decades of devolution’.

Since the late 1970s, Vaughan has witnessed many of the events that have changed Wales - from the Cymdeithas yr Iaith protests, the miners’ strike, the fight for devolution up and the Brexit vote.

He did so on radio and television, and from 2004 by writing for the BBC online news service, initially through the O Vaughan i Fynwy column, and through his blog from 2007 onwards.

His editor, Ruth Thomas, says that Vaughan’s unique voice has defined ‘a generation’.

‘All that a journalist can do is report and measure the importance of a story as it appears at the time, through the glasses of our lives’ said Vaughan.

As a result of the his sharp analysis over the decades, Pen ar y Bloc is a comprehensive, vital and witty summary that anyone who has an interest in Welsh history and politics will enjoy.

Pen ar y Bloc will be launched at The Senedd at 6 o'clock on Tuesday, 19 September, with Vaughan Roderick, Ruth Thomas, Betsan Powys and Professor Richard Wyn Jones. It will include a panel discussion between Jane Hutt AM, David Melding AM, Helen Mary Jones and Kirsty Williams AM. The evening is organised by Y Lolfa and the National Assembly for Wales.

Pen ar y Bloc by Vaughan Roderick (£14.99, Y Lolfa) is available now.

West Wales three piece Ysgol Sul will be self-releasing their first collection of English language songs –“Eventide”- on 30/09/17.

Brought together by a mutual love of the 90s underground, Iolo Jones (singer, guitarist), Llew Davies (drummer), Cian Owen (bass guitar), formed Ysgol Sul in 2014.

Having released several singles and an EP called “Huno”, the band has managed to earn a cult following within the Welsh language scene.

“Eventide” is a stark departure from the slacker and languor of their debut EP, and introduces a touch of darkness to the bands dreamy sound.

The EP opens with “Silhouette ” – a song with a sense of yearning yet one of the band’s jangliest songs to date. “Promise Me” sees a return to the trio’s early surfy sound, drenched in reverb. “Elsewhere” is an unholy union of haunting distant sounds and a fierce unrelenting beat. Introverted lyrics coupled with sweet harmonies are brought to the EP by “Dwell” . Krautrock locomotive, “Solitude” , closes the collection.

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Out at the Bright Edge by Caroline Clark is a new collection of poems – ‘lovesongs to the landscape’ of north Ceredigion – which are inspired by the history, stories and life of the area between the rivers of Dyfi and Teifi.

The poems capture personally memorable moments while celebrating the beauty and historical resonance of the locations. They are in two sequences; historical and seasonal; with a short coda of poems of a more personal nature.

‘Some are snapshots of a particular event such as a fire on Pen Dinas, families on the prom after graduation or a big snowfall in the 1980s’ explained Caroline, ‘In others, such as Nant yr Arian Kites , I consider changing attitudes to death and in Ynyslas/Drowned Land , the mutability of our world’.

‘I have been writing poems over many years and these focus on the landscape rather than the people of the area whom I have known’ said Caroline, ‘They are about living out at the bright edge both in space and time’.

Born in Birmingham, Caroline Clark has lived in Aberystwyth for forty years. Since moving to Wales, she has been heavily involved in local community theatre, also organising festivals, adjudicating playwriting competitions for the Drama Association of Wales, and advising on Welsh Arts Council committees. Her poems and short stories have often appeared in anthologies, but this is her first solo collection.

The collection will be launched at Aberystwyth Arts Centre bookshop at 6.30pm Monday, 9th of October in the company of Caroline Clark.

Out at the Bright Edge by Caroline Clark (£6.99, Y Lolfa) is available now.

He could almost hear his late father say “there’s nothing on the telly!”, mimicking some long gone radio presenter.  So right, whoever it had been.  D switched off the TV and threw the remote at the wall, missing the framed photograph of his disapproving parents peering down at him.  A snort of disgust blew through his untrimmed nostrils and the room plunged into a post-entertainment gloom.

He climbed the narrow stairs carefully, not letting the arthritis get the better of him. In bed, he tried to weigh up his options now that he had been out of work for a few months.  Despite having the word “communication” in his job title, he could not communicate, at least not in the way his employers wanted.  They had no quarrel with the technical excellence of his labour but the distance he seemed to put between himself and his colleagues, his managers and the customers meant that he was unlikely to survive an appraisal system that placed more importance on bland personalities and blind obedience to bizarre work targets than in actual performance.  

When they told him that he was surplus to requirements, he stole from the bank accounts of the board of directors.  This was a pragmatic move in his way of thinking.  Vengeance had been exacted against an employer that had never understood him, never tried to understand him.  Also, as the Welfare State had been dismantled a few years ago, he really did need the money.

He was bored of a life of emails, liking, sharing, live chats, help desks, activation codes, usernames and passwords. Spam mail was the highpoint of his day.  He had created an online fake identity and gently berated officialdom in this guise.  Thoughts of bitterness and rebellion churned his mind.  Listening through earphones to an early rock and roll album, Hüsker Dü’s Warehouse: Songs and Stories , he fell asleep.

He woke in the middle of the night with a start.  An idea had taken hold of him, a method of registering his contempt for a self-satisfied, self-congratulatory world and providing his own home entertainment. He chuckled, went into the garden, and, by torchlight, unlocked the many padlocks that secured the large metal, single storey structure that abutted the house next door.  This had originally been a storage container and the legend Findus Crispy Pancakes was still visible on its side though faded now and invaded by ivy.  He turned on the lights and surveyed his workshop.  All seemed in order and he swung carelessly on his chair, dreaming.

D spent several weeks perfecting his technique, making adjustments to computer programmes and hacking into the production departments of those broadcasting companies that interested him the most.   His equipment was linked to a 25 metre high antenna camouflaged among a group of plane trees that shielded the building from curious gazes.

One damp autumn Sunday early evening, he was ready in his lair, tuning in to his target, a particularly decadent antiques TV programme.  His software scanned the fawning over antiquities, and each time the word “worth” came up, it inserted the word “nothing” as a replacement to whatever immediately followed.  He giggled, happy that the slowed-down, anonymous voiceover had succeeded, at least in the local transmitting region.  It was pure comedy, observing so-called experts smugly pronouncing on the various items that members of the public had brought hopefully to the location and the delighted response by them to the revelation that their treasures were in fact worthless.  The show was taken off air when the remix was noticed and D shut down his apparatus to minimise the chance of being detected.  He allowed himself a little dance of celebration, then sat down, embarrassed by his unusual display of emotion.

The following day he bumped into his neighbour whilst retrieving his wheelie bins.  Ilyich was upset as the police had called that morning and had searched his house on some unspecified security matter.  He ran a small business from his home, dealing with communication solutions.  D was even more convinced that the authorities were clueless.  An apology was issued by the producers of the show, explaining the incident away as a technical hitch and there were numerous complaints from outraged viewers. In a news report, the head of the Security Service described the “nothing incident” as a cyber attack, an assault on the right of the ordinary citizen to enjoy without interruption a “national treasure lovingly crafted by the greatest television industry in the world”. The game was on.

D laid low for a few weeks, studying, mixing audio tapes and boosting his mast.  He decided that he would next activate his “studio” for a late night screening of the vintage movie First Blood on the lesser known Testosterone network.  He managed to replace the vocal of the character Colonel Trautman (Richard Crenna) by overdubbing it with excerpts from the opera songs O Sole Mio and Lolita, Serenata Spagnola in the scene in which he enters the command tent set up in the search for his former soldier, the fugitive John Rambo (Sylvester Stallone).  The dialogue of the sadistic Sheriff Will Teasle (Brian Dennehy) in this exchange was altered to a touching admission, in a shrill voice, of his undying romantic love for his quarry though the face and body language spoke of revenge, hunting dogs and hatred of outsiders .  This was a more ambitious act of civil disobedience and usurpation and D felt that he had actually improved one of his favourite films with his slick, competent and imaginative editing.  There was little feedback to this intervention due to the lateness of the hour and the irrelevance of the film.  However, some enthusiasts had noticed and an online cult emerged, seeking to unearth similar occurrences by trawling back through thousands of hours of films, good and bad.

Over the coming months he paid close attention to the domestic political scene, especially the vocal styles of the Cabinet members.  When the tragic story broke of fourteen slaves dying in a fire at their accommodation, he sensed his chance.  He would expect from the Home Affairs Minister, Ms Serena Todd, a suitably solemn, studied response to include a rejection of the growing practice of slavery, a commitment from the Government to stamp it out again.  But when her statement was repeated in a later bulletin, he had inserted the sentence “of course, we don’t care about the lower orders..I would love to have slaves working on my estate..”  The broadcast was cut almost as soon as it began but it was too late.  Even though it was apparent that she had little control over the hijacking of her interview, she had been made to look silly and, in some people’s view, honest. Todd resigned that night.  Riots had broken out in six major cities, many districts were ablaze and a mob had cornered the family thought to be the owners of the dead slaves in a secluded part of the Eastern sector, lynching them from their own apple trees.

D sat back, wide-eyed at what he had unleashed, taking in the breaking news bulletins on a bank of monitors.  He opened a bottle of champagne and raised his glass to the assembled TVs which at that moment switched to a Security Service spokeswoman announcing that they were close to making an arrest on charges of terrorism, inciting insurrection and theft of intellectual property.  D froze, spilling his drink when there was a loud banging at the door and Tech Police forced their battering ram into his shed, his world.  As the handcuffs shut, he went into a kind of fit, curling into a tight ball, speaking in tongues with guns pointing at him and the cameras rolling.

One of Wales’ most colourful and popular characters, the much loved Dai Jones of Llanilar publishes his autobiography which will tell his story over the past twenty years.

A Life to Dai For published by Y Lolfa, will follow the twists and turns of Dai Jones’ career over the last two decades as a farmer, presenter, and one of Wales’ most popular broadcaster. The book was co-written with his close friend, Lyn Ebenezer.

‘We in the media have to be careful what we say. We can’t always express openly what we feel’ explained Dai, ‘But here I can be as blunt and honest as I like.’

Having already well surpassed God’s promised age, Dai is still farming, still entertaining the masses on both radio and television, but has recently given up his singing career. He is as popular as ever as a presenter who is our foremost guide to country life.

In A Life to Dai For he introduces us to more characters – individuals he has met throughout Wales and worldwide. He takes us to Patagonia and North America, Europe and Egypt. And he opens our eyes to some of the unsung glories of Wales. Dai believes in visiting faraway places so that he can return home to Wales. As he puts it, ‘ If you don’t go, you won’t come back!’

As a result of his huge contribution to agriculture and the media he has received numerous honours over the years, including a Wales BAFTA Fellowship and an honorary Masters of Arts by the University of Wales. But he regards his greatest honour as being made president of the ‘Cardi Show’, the 2010 Royal Welsh Show in Builth Wells.

‘I’ve enjoyed almost every second of my life. But I am a farmer and I’m glad that I have a little more time these days to enjoy the things close to my heart,’ says Dai.

But despite all the fame and adoration, his feet rest firmly on the ground.

‘People are what’s always been important to me. I may have travelled the world but spiritually I never left my home’ says Dai, ‘Wherever I went and wherever I will go, I will always come back. This is where my heart is’.

Dai regards his latest book as a bonus, a verbal encore and another opportunity of saying ‘ Thank you’ .

‘I’m now 73 years old and still going’ says Dai, ‘God has been very kind to me! One, he gave me good health. I’m as healthy now as I have ever been’.

‘I believe that to be in good health in this world and have a chance to enjoy life is more important than being a millionaire’ says Dai, ‘Truly, if enjoyment was a form of money, I would be a millionaire myself’

A Life to Dai for by Dai Jones Llanilar with Lyn Ebenezer (£9.99, Y Lolfa) is available now.

A book written by author and returning Welsh exile Peter Daniels, and published this week, is a celebration of Welshness and Welsh people.

Finding Wales identifies in the Welsh a distinct personality, born of their humanity and natural friendliness, an image designed to counter the almost dismissive attitude towards Wales adopted by both the ‘British’ press and the UK government in Westminster.

As a Welsh exile in England, Llanelli-born Peter Daniels had a successful career in market research, but the strong ties he retained with his homeland through the London Welsh RFC and the London Welsh Association led to a fascination with national identity, especially amongst those living outside of Wales.

‘In my own case, it was the move to London which actually raised my consciousness both of my own Welshness and of the disregard for Wales held by British institutions’ said Peter.

In his first book, In Search of Welshness, which was published in 2011, Peter charted the ways in which exiles living in England preserved their Welsh identity. In this latest work he delves into the reasons many of them one day return.

‘Some are forced to return because of family responsibilities or economic necessity. Others speak of ‘the good life’ to be had against the scenic backdrop that is the hills and coastline of Wales’ explains Peter, ‘Many returning exiles also yearn for the friendlier community spirit they feel exists in Wales. And there are those with an even deeper hiraeth for either the Welsh language and culture, or for a more socialist, less class ridden, way of life.’

‘And finally there are those who want to more proactively contribute to the challenges facing Wales in the 21 ^st century, to the preservation of the language, the culture, and the economy’. Suggests Peter ‘Our returning exiles must play their part, however small. They must give something back’.

Whilst Peter admits that they are not all of the same political persuasion, he discovered that they mostly believe that Wales should have more of a say in its own destiny than has previously been the case.

But national politics, unless it directly affects their livelihood, or previously their faith, has never been that important to the Welsh. For them, living is about people and not politics. And in this regard, to quote one returning exile, ‘Wales: the best country in the world’.’

Finding Wales – Reflections of Returning Exiles by Peter Daniels (£9.99, Y Lolfa) is available now.

West Wales three piece Ysgol Sul will be self-releasing their first collection of English language songs –“Eventide”- on 30/09/17.

Brought together by a mutual love of the 90s underground, Iolo Jones (singer, guitarist), Llew Davies (drummer), Cian Owen (bass guitar), formed Ysgol Sul in 2014.

Having released several singles and an EP called “Huno”, the band has managed to earn a cult following within the Welsh language scene.

“Eventide” is a stark departure from the slacker and languor of their debut EP, and introduces a touch of darkness to the bands dreamy sound.

The EP opens with “Silhouette ” – a song with a sense of yearning yet one of the band’s jangliest songs to date. “Promise Me” sees a return to the trio’s early surfy sound, drenched in reverb. “Elsewhere” is an unholy union of haunting distant sounds and a fierce unrelenting beat. Introverted lyrics coupled with sweet harmonies are brought to the EP by “Dwell” .  Krautrock locomotive, “Solitude” , closes the collection.

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It’s funny what you remember and what you forget.  Is it a choice or an accident? Or somewhere between the two?  I don’t know but I can’t forget that night and its aftermath though, if I’m honest, I would choose to.

It had been a fairly ordinary Friday in late April, a day of work and of fitting in those things that have to be fitted in around work.  In those days I earned a living of sorts in a seafood processing factory several miles away from my home.  The commute took me past flinty escarpments with their suggestion of standing stones and down a blackthorn valley with sparse, ancient cottages like the one I rented.  I parked my car on the grass behind a make-do building covered by corrugated iron sheets the colour of port in a former port town.  The equipment for processing the produce of cetaceans had been inserted into the vacuum left by the decline of traditional farming that was due to a series of bad harvests, a collapse in trade deals and the foot and mouth epidemic that had led to the mass cull of cattle and pigs.

In the stench of dead dolphins and over the searing buzz of the mechanised knives, a rumour arose, first debated in the morning ten minute break, developed during the twenty minute lunch and fully formed by the time the last mugs of tea of the shift were empty.  One of the migrant workers had asked if any of us had seen strange lights in the area over the last week. He claimed to have observed white, yellow and red lights both above and below the horizon, moving at enormous speed.  A couple of the smokers nodded but then they always did when they were smoking.  One colleague said that she thought she had seen something not quite right in the sky while driving recently but it had happened so quickly and whatever it was had gone by the time she’d stopped.  Cigarette smoke spiralled upwards to a cacophony of seagulls. I looked for these birds and wondered when they would be available on supermarket shelves.

I had nothing to contribute to the debate and kept to myself the conversations I’d had recently with some sheep farmer neighbours of mine. Several of their animals had been found dead on the moor which was not that unusual but these beasts had been marked with strange geometric shapes gouged into their corpses.  This had been kept out of the news as no one paid much attention to such small fry now that the new agriculture was dominated by massive conglomerations and horrors dressed up as opportunities.

The workplace emptied with a palpable feeling of relief and expectation and a haste that always impressed me.  I waited for the cars of the others to leave and I started on my way home.  My first call was to a market where I picked up some flowers, wine, and two packets of horse burgers.

I pulled in next at the care home, a former mansion, where we had installed my mother when she had become too much for us.  I entered the impressive but dismal hallway and signed my name in the visitors book. There weren’t many staff members around at this time of the day.  I found my mother on her own, tiny in a large chair, looking out over the gardens. I kissed her, introducing the flowers.  She was not interested in them so I left them on a nearby table. The conversation was a struggle but her eyes still shone. I was happy that she was well cared for but I couldn’t shake the thought that this was a pointless exercise.  I said goodbye and drove the last few miles home.

Mary was waiting for me at the cottage.  We caught up with the day’s news and thoughtlessly switched on the TV. We fried the burgers and sat down to eat as the sun was sinking from view. I had the wine to myself as she had just started maternity leave.  We didn’t say much as we were tired and we had already said most of what we wanted to say.  We both lifted our heads, however, to follow a news item concerning an incident in which a car had crashed off a road in our locality the night before, its driver apparently dazzled by a light approaching from the sky.  The motorist was uninjured but spooked, barely able to look the reporter in the eye.

We collapsed onto the sofa, exhausted, me a little tipsy.  We must have fallen asleep soon after, leaning into each other.  I awoke briefly a couple of times and half-noted on these occasions that the light was switched off and that I couldn’t see the TV standby light. I was too sleepy to realise that we had not caused this.

Mary woke up, murmuring that she wanted to go to the toilet.  She was about to get up when I pulled her back by her arm.  The room was bathed in a light coming from outside the window.  I knew that there was no moon that night and that vehicles could not access the building from that side.  I very carefully peeped over the top of the sofa and gasped when I saw a tall figure dressed in some kind of illuminated space suit standing completely motionless at the window. I saw no identifying marks on the clothing and could not see the face through the helmet.  I quickly ducked back down and whispered to Mary what I had seen, exhorting her to stay quiet and not move.

Our hearts beating almost audibly, we clutched each other and remained tensely still, holding sweaty hands.  I  prayed that no harm would come to us or the baby and tried to summon up the courage to confront the intruder.  However, the motive for the watcher’s visit was not clear and as time passed it became more and more possible, and hopeful, that our presence had not been detected.

A little before dawn, the night visitor at last moved away from its position and the room was immersed in the kind of darkness that occurs for a short time after a bright light is extinguished. As the day was about to begin to break, I regained my confidence and rose cautiously, keeping an eye on the window and taking my shotgun from out of its cabinet.  I nervously crossed the threshold to patrol the exterior, gun at the ready. I poked the barrel into bushes, around the car and aimed it futilely down the rough track that led to that place.  Nothing greeted me save the barking of the awakening dogs of the nearby farms and the chill of the morning of the night before.

I got back inside and tried the lights.  They worked. I gave Mary the biggest hug my dwindling energy reserves could muster.  She put the kettle on and we drank a cup of tea in silence and relief, me with the weapon across my knees as the world stirred around us, a world that had appeared to have changed forever.

Later that morning, we packed a bag or two and left for the in-laws in the town. She would stay with them while we tried to work out what to do for the best.  I left them and walked the short distance to the police station to file my report. To my amazement, I was not met with incredulity as it had been a busy night for unexplained sightings.

On the following Monday, two officials who claimed to be from a Government Department I had never heard of, The Ministry of Mystery, called on me at work. The manager allowed us a cramped storeroom and they interrogated me about what had happened. Both had the same unidentifiable accent and were polite enough, asking the type of questions I would have expected.  There was something awkward about the whole exchange, however. Maybe it was me, maybe it was them.  When they had finished, they shook my hand and left.

They would return a number of times over the following weeks to ask the same questions at my home, also interviewing Mary at her parents.  I had the impression that they would have liked me to retract my statement.  I told them that I knew what I thought I had seen and very definitely felt, at which they just smiled.  I noticed on at least two of these occasions that they had to make their excuses fairly early in the meeting as they both appeared to be either fatigued or ill.  After a while, I became suspicious of these unnamed and enigmatic bureaucrats. When a couple of phone calls revealed no record of such an organisation, the visits suddenly stopped.

Mary was worn out by the whole thing and lost the baby. She blamed me and we grew apart. I stayed on at the cottage and remained at the factory until I could no longer stand the smell, the people, the place, the memories.  I left the area and took a job on a ship in the resurgent whaling industry, making good money working out my disappointment and rage in the slaughter of huge animals, and keeping away from UFOs and their occupants.