Blogs

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.

The week of concerts began on the first Saturday of the Welsh National Eisteddfod. I had already been on the Rebel Alliance farm for four days. Cymdeithas Yr Iaith Cymraeg was running affordable concerts – designed for the not-so-well-off people - at Penrhos Dairy Farm, and it was not an official part of the National Eisteddfod events. Thus, I dubbed them “The Rebel Alliance”. Gwyn and I had been helping Pastor Rhys Llwyd from Caersalem Church in Caernarfon, and Ieuan the farmer and his farm hands to convert the barn into a concert venue.

The first Saturday started off big. Bryn Fon was the draw of the Saturday night. The heartthrob actor/musician from the 80’s/90’s packed the cow house with screaming women of all ages, but it definitely leaned a little gray. Over the week Candelas, Meinir Gwilym (one of my favorite Welsh songwriters), The Welsh Whisperer, Steve Eaves, Bob Delyn, Gai Toms (one of my favorite people and favorite performers), and Geraint Jarman (the Welsh version of Mick Jagger) took the stage at our little cow palace. Tuesday night became a night of bards, and the poets took over the evening. The cows were getting milked at 6am and 4pm, and by 8pm the people rolled in and the music began each night.

There were some acts of particular note during the weeklong event. Candelas performed a set as tight as any I’ve ever seen. They were professional in every respect, and as approachable as your next door neighbor. Of course, I am assuming you have an approachable neighbor. Steve Eaves is the consummate professional as well, and he has a long history of great folk rock in Wales. His set was emotional and beautiful. Geraint Jarman rocked the house, and even in his seventies, he pops around the stage with his gangly, lanky frame and performs his reggae infused Welsh rock to make your body move. Meinir Gwilyn’s set was as fun as I had expected, and even more fun when I was able to hang out with Meinir a bit after the show, and again a couple days later on the main Eisteddfod field. The Welsh Whisperer is an act that transitions between bands, and introduces the performers, but is as entertaining as any of the bands. But, the surprise of the week was my friend Gai Toms. I’ve seen Gai perform solo a few times. I even jammed with him, when we first met in Washington D.C. This was the first time I had seen Gai perform with a full band, and he knocked it out of the cow pasture. The drummer was playing with him for the first time, but it didn’t matter. The band was tight. The performance was funny, emotional, dramatic and musically stunning all at once. I told Gai, “I used to like you…but after tonight, I love you.” Gai gets my nod for best performance of the Penrhos Farm/Cymdiethas Yr Iaith Cow Palace Festival. Well, that’s my name for the event.

On the second weekend of the National Eisteddfod, I met Meinir on the Maes (the main field of the event). We talked music, we talked Welsh langauge, and we talked about life in North Wales, and I recorded the time together. Please check out the interview. It will be worth your eight minutes. Meinir is one of the kindest, most approachable people you can find, and considering her popularity in the Welsh language music scene, that is noteworthy.

I also spent some time with one of the most engaging and happy groups of the Cow Palace Festival. Y Brodyr Magee (The Magee Brothers) from nearby Caergybi (Holyhead) were in the house for one of the evenings. This group of brothers ranging from nine years old to late twenties sang traditional Welsh songs, had some originals, and were as cool a group of brothers as one an find. Move over Jackson 5! I spent a few minutes talking with them, and you can catch that interview here on AmeriCymru as well.

By the end of the week, I was knackered (one of those words an American learns to say in the UK). Since my flight was heading off early Monday, I had to beat feet for London before the barn was returned to its pre-concert venue state. I said my goodbyes to the boys on the farm, and Ieuan told me to return anytime I was anywhere near Bodedern, Ynys Mon, North Wales. I will definitely be back to say hi to Ieuan and the gang, but I imagine next time it will just be the girls getting milked in the back who will be singing.

Hedd Wyn & Yr Ysgwrn

 
Photos: 3

Outside the slate mining town of Blaenau Ffestiniog, in the foothills of Snowdon, in Trawsfynydd, is a house with the “black chair.” Yr Ysgwrn was built in the 1830’s and only one family lived in it until 2012, when Gerald Williams sold the house to the Snowdonia National Park. It has since been renovated for visitors, but maintains the look it would have had in 1917 – the year Ellis Humphrey Evans, known by the bardic name Hedd Wyn, was killed in a battle in WWI. The bardic chair at the National Eisteddfod is awarded to a living poet, but Hedd Wyn died in battle on August 31, 1917, and was awarded the chair before news arrived of his death. When the ceremony was held for the award, the chair was draped in black, and has famously become known as Y Gadair Ddu.

I visited Yr Ysgwrn three days before the 100th anniversary of the death of Hedd Wyn. A bilingual tour of the house was given, and during the tour, Gerald, who still lives nearby on the property popped in to say hello.

Gerald lived in the house with seven bardic chairs awarded to Hedd Wyn, and kept the house basically unchanged through the years. He did not have a refrigerator. He used a slate pantry to keep things cool. His oven and the heating for the house were the same wood stove from the days of Hedd Wyn. When he moved out to allow for the renovation, he insisted that the place remain as the home it would have been for Hedd Wyn, instead of becoming a stuffy museum. Gerald appears to be cut out of the same cloth as one of Wales most famous 20th century poets, R.S. Thomas, who was a bit of a cantankerous prophet – seeing the machine of anglicized modernization as the death of the Welsh langauge and the rural Welsh community spirit.

Gerald walked into the room during the tour, was introduced to everyone, and upon discovering that I was an American who spoke a bit of Welsh, smiled, hung and my arm, and talked with me for a while.

The scenery around Yr Ysgwrn evokes poetry. A hundred years after the death of the Welsh Bard, Hedd Wyn’s home and his story touched my heart as deeply anything I’ve experienced on this trip. If you listen closely enough, musical words bounce on the winds from the surrounding mountains and valleys.

Gwae fi fy myw mewn oes mor ddreng,
A Duw ar drai ar orwel pell;
O'i ôl mae dyn, yn deyrn a gwreng,
Yn codi ei awdurdod hell.

Pan deimlodd fyned ymaith Dduw
Cyfododd gledd i ladd ei frawd;
Mae sŵn yr ymladd ar ein clyw,
A'i gysgod ar fythynnod tlawd.

Mae'r hen delynau genid gynt
Ynghrog ar gangau'r helyg draw,
A gwaedd y bechgyn lond y gwynt,
A'u gwaed yn gymysg efo'r glaw.

MEMOIR THEME FOR NEW WELSH READER

New Welsh Reader Autumn Edition (115)

Publication date: 1 September 2017

The autumn edition of New Welsh Reader includes exclusive extracts from entries to the New Welsh Writing Awards 2017: Aberystwyth University Prize for Memoir. First place winner Catherine Haines’ memoir gives an insight into a young woman’s experience of anorexia while at Oxford University. As the Cambridge Weight Plan spins out of control, a post-grad’s academic subject, ‘the mind-body problem’, goes through an existential phase to become ‘extraordinary morality’ rather than a mental health problem. Second-placed ‘The Case’ by MJ Oliver tells the story of Jim, an emigrant from England to Canada, as he awaits release from a progressive mental hospital and reconciliation with his baby daughter. He is in turns hopeful migrant, stowaway, farmer, thief, hobo, rough poet and ever-loving brother. Third-placed ‘People, Places and Things: A Life With the Cold War’ Adam Somerset paints a sweeping landscape of the Eastern Bloc as experienced through the eyes of a British backpacker. Beginning the Highly Commended entries, ‘The Red Circle’ by Maria Apichella is the story of daughter’s Pennsylvania road-trip with her Italian-American father. ‘On Shifting Sands’ by Liz Jones; a true tale of family rift and reconciliation, and finally ‘Boystown, SA’ by Robert and Amanda Oosthuizen, a story told by a husband to his writer-wife. Also included is an essay on spirituality and landscape in recent travel and poetry titles from Welsh publishers, covering Jim Perrin, Nathan Llywelyn Munday, Biddy Wells, David Lloyd Owen & the poetry of Ruth Bidgood.

POETRY FROM Rosie Garland, Charlie Bird, Ashleigh Davies, Ben Wilkinson, Meg Eden, Chris Emery, Manash Firaq Bhattacaejee and Michael Derrick Hudson.

..

..

AmeriCymru:  Hi Brian and many thanks for agreeing to this interview. Can you tell us a little about your Welsh background? When did you decide you wanted to write?

Brian: It’s a pleasure. I was born and raised on a farm in Mid-Wales: Lower Gwestydd near Newtown. I’m 21 years younger than my eldest brother, and 20 minutes older than my youngest, my twin brother Milwyn. The older two, David and Gwyn, carried on the family tradition of farming and we younger ones were encouraged to work hard at school and go out in the world to make our own lives. Mechanisation meant the farm could only now support my parents and two brothers and their families. Not that we were exempt from farm work. My middle brother Trevor was the first one of the family to go to university, and we followed.

For as long as I can remember I wanted to write. At infants school we were asked to draw what we wanted to do when we grew up. My friends drew trains and fire engines, but my picture showed a man writing books, one at a time.

In our teens Milwyn and I started a family newspaper. I think it lasted for three editions.

After university I got a job as a reporter on the South Wales Argus, and became Chief Feature Writer. It was my dream job. It was only much later I found the time and the courage to bring that picture to life and start writing novels.

AmeriCymru:  Care to tell us a little about your most recent novel The Final Trick ?

Brian:   It’s set in Cardiff and New York, but was inspired by my time in Boston, where I worked on PRI’s daily radio programme, The World. I joined a Bridge club and partnered a formidable woman, Lilian Nagler, who taught me so much about the game. In the novel, a Journalism lecturer in Cardiff, Al Evans, moves to New York after being dumped by his wife. He comes to regard his Bridge partner Greta as one of the rudest women he’s ever met. He has a bet with his friend that there must be One Good Thing about her and he sets out to find it. It also has memories of growing up in the Rhondda, supplied by my cousin, Meryl Lewis.

...

Brian Jarman (left), with brother Milwyn and niece Paula, with  grandfather, Pop, ploughing with horses.

AmeriCymru:  Your second novel The F all From Howling Hill is set in Mid Wales. In what way does it reflect social changes in the area over the last 4 or 5 decades?

Brian: Indeed, that was one of my motives in writing it. I remember my grandfather, Pop, ploughing with horses. My grandparents’ farm, Brondolfor was over the hill from ours. There was no electricity or mains water, so it was oil lamps and a pump in the yard. My Dad use to tell stories of farm workers sleeping in a back room in the farmhouse. They were hard times but held happy memories. Our first TV was a snowy set with one channel which stood on the floor, but it opened up the wider world to us. As we were growing up the farm became increasingly mechanised, so in the end my two eldest brothers farmed it alone. I wanted to memorialise this changing world. The book was originally called Glanharan, but friends advised me to change it as people wouldn’t know what it meant.

AmeriCymru:  What can you tell us about the mystery of The Missing Room your first novel, without giving away the plot of course.

Brian: It’s based on the farmhouse I grew up in, which did have a room-sized space in the middle with no windows or doors. We used to have fun imagining all kinds of things that could be in it. In my early thirties I suffered from ME (Chronic Fatigue Syndrome), so I had this idea of a man with a mystery illness returning to his childhood home in later life and trying to unlock the secret of The Missing Room. The front cover is a photo taken by my wife of the farmhouse - the missing room is behind the little room behind that window, underneath the gable.

AmeriCymru:  Over the years you have worked in Radio,TV and journalism. Any plans to continue working in those areas?

Brian: I now lecture in Journalism at London Metropolitan University, which I greatly enjoy, and do bits and pieces of print journalism, but my main focus now is on writing novels.

AmeriCymru:  You have lived and worked in the US in the past. Care to tell us a little about that period of your life? Any plans to return?

Brian: I lived in Boston, MA for two years when I was Managing Editor of The World, and worked for a while with WNYC in New York. In all I spent about ten years travelling back and fore between London and the US (and Wales!) which was an ideal. I was lucky enough to visit most US cities at various public radio conferences. It was a magnificent time, but now I guess I’m pretty settled in London.

AmeriCymru:  What's next for Brian Jarman? Any new titles in the works?

Brian: Yes, I’m just about to start reworking one I wrote a while back, called The Absent Friend, about a Welshman living in Tuscany who has to come to terms with his past and the incident that caused him to fall out with his best friend in London years ago. There’s another one percolating in my head, about twin brothers. One stayed farming in Wales and the other went to London to become a famous TV presenter. They haven’t spoken for 25 years. But one gets a call from the other saying he’s dying of cancer and so it’s their last chance to bury the hatchet and work out what went wrong all those years ago. (NB: this part is not autobiographical - I get on with my brothers very well).

AmeriCymru:  Any final message for the readers and members of AmeriCymru?

Brian: It’s a great resource and one I wish I’d known about earlier. Make the most of it. In The Final Trick, Al’s girlfriend in New York researches living history - people’s past lives as passed down through generations. She takes him to Ellis Island and he’s moved by the stories of immigrants who left everything behind to come to the New World. It arouses his curiosity about his own past - his father came from the Rhondda and his mother from a farm in Mid-Wales. He wasn’t interested in their stories when he was growing up, but now he wants to find out more about his ancestors. But is it too late?

Many thanks for this wonderful opportunity. Hwyl, Brian.

Bodedern is nearly at the end of Ynys Mon (Anglesey) – not far from Holyhead and the ferries to another shore. This is where the Welsh National Eisteddfod is going to be this year. The Welsh National Eisteddfod is a festival of Welsh language and culture. Now, it is only a few days before the pomp begins, and the Gorsedd of the Bards don their robes for the crowning and the chairing of the bards. The small two lane roads are all a bustle with construction and road crews hoping to complete their work before the weekend and the Gorsedd strike. The maes (field) for the event is just out of town, before you reach the little one shop and a post-office village. But as for me, I am hanging out with the rebel crew in a barn on a dairy farm.

Cymdeithas yr Iaith (Society for the Language) once ran Maes B – the youth field. Maes B is where the Eisteddfod sends the kids for their rock n’ roll. In a squeaky clean poetry and classical music event with white robed “druids” awarding medals and crowns and chairs, Maes B is a coming of age party for Welsh language youth sneaking in pints and who knows what else. But, back in the early part of the century (the century we now live in) Cymdeithas yr Iaith lost their spot running the gigs to corporate interest and hopes of raising funds for the Eisteddfod. So, the rebels that they are, they have been running an affordable fringe concert event ever since. As is usually the case, my friends are part of the rebel alliance. Of course, its really not as dramatic as I am making it sound. The Gorsedd do not wear the white of Storm Troopers. But then again, we are setting up our week-long set of gigs in the village – on Ieuan’s dairy farm, inside the barn, and that’s where you can find me.

I have been pounding stakes into the field to map out parking and camping locations. I have climbed ladders to set pigeon spikes on the rafters of the barn, so that Bryn Fon and Meinir Gwilym don’t get pooped on while performing. I’ve been shoveling gravel to fill holes in the drive, and setting up multiple levels of safety fencing, because the cows need protection from the concert goers, and someone perchance might climb over brambles and fences to fancy a drunken swim in the slurry pond. But, all this work is the easy part. The challenge of week for me is doing it in Welsh. I am not succeeding well at this task.

The accents in the North of Wales befuddle me. Sometimes I can’t tell the difference between Welsh and English when these accents are added to a discussion. All the work is being done in Welsh this week, and I am able to catch about 70% of any conversation. Unfortunately, the other 30% is usually the critical part that defines the parameters of the dialogue. It all feels like being on a train, and trying to listen to the train conductor as the train nears the next station. Train conductors are taught to speak clearly until the pertinent info arrives:

“Mind the gap between the train and the platform. Our next stop ibsn Frnkl@#34kjbqwcz.”

This is how my brain is processing information in Welsh this week. It comes to me something like this, “We still need to i9uerig%$jvbc in the field, and niuyqg&@#swx87ubwec.”

Americanwr Twp ydwi. But at least I’m giving it a college try out in the rebel alliance fferm in Bodedern.

Jimmy Jangles prepared as he always did one late Saturday night to watch his favourite TV sport programme, Melee of The Day. He seemed to have watched this every week of his life as far as he could remember. His father had also been a fan though the format had apparently been somewhat different in those days. The broadcast was preceded by a news bulletin which ended with the advice that those not wishing to know the results of MOTD should leave the room. He duly acquiesced to this tiny bit of theatre and stood at the open kitchen window, feeling the slight breeze on his face and listening to cats wailing. There was no one in the street as many people were doing exactly the same as him.

He was summoned to his viewing chair by the cheerful, bouncy, electronic theme near-tune and sat down with one hand gently caressing the remote, the other gripping a glass of gin and tonic. A grab bag of caviar flavour crisps lay on the low table between him and the 110 inch TV that provided the only illumination in that room and that was in essence the room.

The presenter, Johnny Bland, beamed his smile, introduced the two pundits, Oliver Overbite and Alan Contemptible, and commented briefly on the events to be shown, claiming, with the right amount of gravitas in danger of being ruined by mirth, that it had been a very busy Saturday with some memorable action and debatable points.

They began as usual with the most spectacular event. Highlights were shown of a bomb attack on a northern discount shopping centre that had left 63 people dead and over 150 injured. The huge array of CCTV cameras available and the inclusion of smart phone and dash and helmet cam filming meant that most of the hostility was available to be viewed by paying customers. Contemptible was very impressed that the bombers had planted a second device in the narrow road that led to the shops, timed to go off as the first injured were being helped onto a convoy of ambulances. Vivid depiction of bodies being extricated from burning vehicles was repeated for purposes of analysis, being frozen when certain points were felt necessary to make. Jimmy was treated to the awful spectacle of distraught paramedics treating their colleagues and the long line of blazing, blooded ambulances framed in a sepulchral drizzle. Overbite felt that the follow up detonation was “unsportsmanlike”and fell foul of the much misunderstood offside rule, predicting that these terrorists would endure a wretched season as a result of the type of tactics employed in this cunning ambush. Contemptible disagreed, saying that attackers should always given the benefit of the doubt in such cases and a heated argument followed that ended when Bland, a slightly faded national hero, acted as referee, the screen filled by his face as he moved ironically but seamlessly on to the next encounter.

This turned out to be an entirely different kind of beast. This time Jimmy watched a distressed man dressed in an all purple outfit run amok in a bookies with a bread knife and a deodorant aerosol can. This was especially visceral entertainment replayed in grainy images of disembowelment and blinding with a background of banks of TV sets relaying live pictures of the new horse racing, a cross between the Grand National, the Charge of The Light Brigade and medieval jousting. The assailant was overcome by the surviving gamblers and passers by and was lifeless by the time the police armoured personnel carriers and the helicorpsecopters arrived. A small crowd had gathered across the road to watch, careful not to stand too close to one another in case of further danger.

Jimmy at one point thought that he recognised one of the victims as his cousin Eric who had recently moved to the midlands to find work as a forklift driver at a body armour warehouse. If he remembered, he would try to ring his aunt the following day or, failing that, replay that part of the show and zoom in for identification purposes.

There was a rather muted discussion of this crime in the studio, partly because of the personal nature of the offence, partly because the transgressor’s face was visible and therefore known to some extent. The three experienced former sportsmen were visibly uncomfortable. The terms and conditions of their healthy contracts prevented them from reminiscing on how things had been in the time of football before escalating aggression, both on and off the pitch, and the increasing susceptibility of large crowds to terrible devastation had led to the abandonment of conventional sporting events and venues.

No one was really sure how the civil war had started or even who was involved. Jimmy seemed to recall some social media spat getting out of hand and then people coming out from behind their computers when the country was broken up into different parts. But he thought that he could have been wrong especially as the combination of painkillers and alcohol was now making him confuse erotic with erratic and love with loathe . He had been this way since he had lost his job in a photographic equipment factory when it had gone onto short time working due to the necessity to observe two minutes silence in remembrance of the latest deaths for much of the working day.

The last featured atrocity was an assault on shoppers at a vast second hand car sales centre by a man driving a white van. He drove at speed along the lanes between the rows of cars and began to hunt other motorists, ploughing into them, throwing many into the air. He finally drove out wildly onto the nearby motorway where both he and his vehicle were obliterated by a cement lorry that he’d failed to see in his wing mirror.

Contemptible stood up and tried to analyse this event by rather hamfistedly operating an interactive screen to illustrate this latest act of terror. He allowed himself a whistle of admiration when he played back the scene that showed this particular murderer actually buying the van at the site of the carnage immediately before unleashing his killing spree. On the other hand, he felt that the reversing of the van over a number of prone victims was, well, contemptible. Much of the footage of this massacre came from the belt buckle cams of those present including the casualties and, equally harrowing, the dash and rear cams of the van.

The Bomb of The Month competition was mentioned and the merits of the ten entries considered. Jimmy thought that No.7, the petrol bombing of a petrol station that was about to close down on a forsaken part of the east coast, won his vote. He was at heart an old romantic and art lover who appreciated the bold colours of towering flames against a black sea sky and the fact that, in his view, these were activists protesting against the end of their community. He was especially drawn to the compelling, high camera views of the mob carrying their Molotov cocktails, advancing wordlessly across the forecourt towards the kiosk like something out of the Peasants’ Revolt or Children of The Damned.

Bland ended the transmission on an upbeat note, thanking his co-presenters and all those people who had allowed permission for the show’s producers, the New Blood Sport Broadcasting Corporation, to use their films of the violence. With a wink, he let the audience know of a new companion for MOTD that would be aired in mid week, Celebrity Melee of The Day and, as ever, he repeated the lie that what he had just presented to the nation were merely isolated incidents.

Jimmy muted the set and gulped down another G and T, washing down sleeping pills that he knew would not do the job tonight.

Why someone needed to claim the titles

In the 1920's when Ireland became a free republic, that republic was not entitled to seek reparations for what can be argued as the genocide that occurred there ( Irish Genocide) . The British establishment essential got away with rape, murder, theft, wrongful taxation, and cultural genocide without any repercussions. There were no tribunals or trials, as with the German Nazis, even though the cultural and ethnic cleansing were well documented.

The reason for this is because the newly formed Irish republic incorporated with it's constitution in 1922. Legally that newly formed governmental body could not seek damages, reparations, or legal relief for events that occurred prior to it's incorporation.

I was going to be sure that this would not be the case for Wales. My mission was to ensure that Wales would be payed back for everything that had been taken. I was going to be sure that there was going to be a proper course for Wales to reclaim her place in the world. So I poured myself into studying international law, dynastic law, laws on dethroned monarchies, and governments-in-exile.

After building a case for reparations for Wales under the United Declarations of the Rights of Indigenous peoples , United Nations Declarations on Human Rights , and international treaties on declonisation I felt we had enough evidence coupled with the well documented history of oppression and percussion in Wales to seek remedy from the United Nations. I sought out Evan Vaughn who many felt would be a good candidate for Kingship since he has a well documented pedigree going back to the Princes of Gwynedd. However, I was very disappointed to find out Mr. Vaughn had no interest in putting forward a claim as he stated in magazine interviews . He also claimed his only son had even less interest, and this would leave Wales without a leader. We needed to reestablish the old Kingdoms because it is those governmental bodies that are entitled to legal remedy, not a newly formed Welsh republic. After this discovery I decided to take matters into my own hands, being that according to the Welsh laws I was qualified. I had already submitted to Y-chromosome DNA testing, and matched the Welsh royal Y-chromosome marker. 25% of Welsh males descend from a royal direct masculine line because of our system of gavelkind, and the numerous sons the Welsh Kings and Princes had produced; so my blood was nothing special. What would be special was my vigilance, and my ability to take action when no one else had.

Native Welsh Succession Laws

Here Ellis defines the rules for succession to Kingship. He clearly shows that there was no rule for primogeniture, as in the European monarchies, but through Gavelkind .

"Though descent was hereditary in the male line, there was no necessary rule of primogeniture. The eldest son a preference, other things being equal, but the successor, who seems to have been nominated in the life of the reigning prince, must be the fittest man of the royal family. The Welsh Laws never recognized any rule of primogeniture, either in regard to the succession to land or in regard to the headship of a Cenedl (Nation). In regard to the former there was equal division among sons, in regard to the latter there was no hereditary succession at all. An office, however, was not divisible, and there was a bias, but nothing more than a bias, in favour of primogeniture in the kingship. The primary rule, in theory, in determining who within the royal Cenedl (royal nation) was to succeed, was fitness for the position.” - Ellis, T. P. (1926). Welsh tribal law and custom in the middle ages Chapter 3. Succession Kingship

Here Ellis has explained to us that the native Welsh laws used gavelkind, whereby the lands were divided equally among sons, but only one son could succeed to kingship, and the titles could never be separated or divided, with fitness for position being the primary rule in selecting the next king. Ellis goes on further to define the qualifications of who could be the heir of the King in the Welsh law, and what to do if there was no heir apparent.

"The Edling (heir), we are told, must be free from the three blemishes, that is he must be perfect as to his limbs, and must not be deaf or dumb or insane. If the eldest son did not fulfill those conditions, the next son was to be Edling. If there were no competent son, the King's brother was to be Edling ; if there were no such competent person, any man coequal in dignity, that is one of the royal Cenedl, could be Edling. There is, however, no definite proof that the theoretical rule was ever enforced in practice.” - Ellis, T. P. (1926). Welsh tribal law and custom in the middle ages Chapter 3. Succession Kingship

The term Cymru am Byth (Wales Forever) is widely used in Wales today. No one can be sure of its exact origins, but one thing we can be certain of is that; Hywel Dda, the wise King who codified the Welsh laws created a way to ensure the Kingdoms of Wales would live on forever if regicide ever occurred in Wales, or if it was not clear who the next King should be. Hywel Dda and the Welshmen that he had called upon from every corner of the Kingdom, to help him codify our laws had all agreed that, if the monarchy was wiped out, and there was no heir apparent to the last King, that any Welshmen could come forward to stand in for Wales.

As odd as this may sound to some, these are the native Welsh laws. It would be ridiculous to apply British, European, Asian, or Arab succession laws to Welsh-Briton succession laws to Kingship.

Here Ellis goes on to define the term "Cenedl" as in the quoted form from the above text. "It is clear, therefore, that the term Cenedl is not used in the laws as implying a group of persons related within an invariably fixed degree or claiming descent in fixed degrees from one common ancestor ; it appears to be used as a generic term, equivalent at times to the word tribe or clan"- Ellis, T. P. (1926). Welsh tribal law and custom in the middle ages

Court Litigation

As I explained before, there is nothing uniquely special about me or my Welshness; with the exception for my taking action on behalf of Wales, and my vigilance in a seemingly never ending English/British occupation and attempted extermination of Welsh culture. I was able to prove that, no one prior to me had claimed the titles in the way that I had. Not even the English King Henry VII claimed all of the native sub-kingdoms of Wales. Which is why his son Henry VIII had to annex Wales, because they did not inherit Wales properly.

The courts have found with me based on the legal principles of “ Laches and First claim”, both of which are forms of estoppels . Being that I was the first party to claim the native fons honourums to the separate Kingdoms of: Brycheiniog, Ceredigion, Deheubarth, Dogfeiling, Dunoding, Dyfed, Ergyng, Glywysing, Gwent, Gwynedd, Glamorgan, Gwynllwg, Meirionnydd, Morgannwg, Powys Wenwynwyn, Powys Fadog, Rhos, Rhufoniog, Seisyllwg; all other parties would be barred from doing so for their failure to take action. In short since they slept on their rights they lost their rights to do so. Vigilantibus non dormientibus æquitas subvenit ("Equity aids the vigilant, not the sleeping ones [that is, those who sleep on their rights]")

I proved that no one else in the world could produce evidence that they had actively claimed any of the separate native Welsh titles, let alone all of them. In the system of gavelkind there had to be an active claimant. The titles would not fall automatically to someone unless they were named in the life of the previous King. Also there is jurisprudence and expert opinions to show that it was acceptable for me to do so under the Welsh laws, and under international law.

Here Dr. Paulo Napoleao Da Sila writes on the legitimacy of the establishment of an heir outside of the normal lines of succession, which would likely occur given the abnormal circumstances that have occurred in Wales due to the regicide on the part of Edward I, and the illegal annexation that occurred on the part of Henry VIII.

"It was already seen that a constitutional initial decision is perfectly possible to be chosen to initiate the establishment of a regime, a prince who is not a natural and immediate successor of the last monarch, since this choice remains within the regular line of succession, or least in the framework of the dynasty, without offending the principle of legitimacy." (Monarchy – Truths and Lies / “Monarquia: Verdades e Mentiras” – Dr. Paulo Napoleao Nogueira da Sila, 1994 pg-244)

In other words, even in a very tight system of succession like the British succession, if you have 500,000 people in the line for the throne, and 499,999 people are simply not interested, the crown will go to the 500,000th person in line who puts forward an active claim.

Fig. 1 Above depicts Wales prior to the English interference on the part of Edward "Longshanks" Plantagenet I.

Fig. 2 The Principality of Wales and the Marches

In Figure 2 we can clearly see that the Principality of Wales did not even cover all of what we consider to be Wales today. The "Principality", an English invention of subjugation and occupation mind you, was quite smaller than most people understand. The Tudors were quite crafty in their misleading and attempted trickery, and it almost worked.

Few Welsh rulers enjoyed the title King of Wales , and most used the title King of Britons , which was used to identify the most powerful Welsh ruler. Many are surprised at the title and confused with the term "British" which was not invented until James of Scotland became King of England. The Welsh have been found to be the original inhabitants of the British Isles . Don't be too surprised, it's well known we have the oldest language, it should also be known we have the oldest titles.

Because of the way that I claimed the titles, claiming every separate Welsh sub-kingdom and uniting them by merging the crowns into one, I am entitled to use the title Rex Britannorum (King of Britons). This is important because some believe that the Tudors were the rightful rulers of Wales. I also proved that Henry VII (A Welshman who became King of England through his Mother’s line) and his son Henry VIII never claimed any of the native Welsh titles. They only used the titles Rex Angliae et Franciae et Dominus Hiberniae (King of England and of France and Lord of Ireland) .

Henry VIII illegally annexed Wales into England after the death of his father (Henry VII) with the Laws in Wales Act . This was unlawful under international law being that the Welsh people and native Welsh governments (monarchies) never voted in favour of this. It would be as if the United Kingdom voted to annex all of Europe. Just because they voted on it doesn’t make it lawful. Under modern law, and the law of the time you can only annex a land if there is the complete destruction of your enemy, if there is no one left.

Had Henry VII been the proper heir to all of Wales, then why was there a need for his son Henry VIII to annex Wales? Wouldn't it have occurred automatically by the law (ipso jure)? When James of Scotland became King of England and Ireland he didn't need to annex England and Ireland, he merged the crowns. Because the Tudors never held the crowns of Wales they in turn could not merge them; so they opted to create the Laws in Wales Act as their device for essentially stealing an entire nation.

After claiming and inheriting the titles, and establishing myself as the heir, I had a dispute with another party regarding the titles. The dispute was resolved in an international arbitration tribunal. After reviewing all of the information presented (expert genetic genealogist reports, DNA tests, Welsh Law, International laws on dethroned monarchies and governments in exile) the tribunal found with me and issued an international arbitral award in my favour binding in almost all parties to the United Nations (157 Nations).

I took that international court order back to the United States of America to enforce it, and to change my former name (Lawrence J Jones Jr.) to a Welsh one, incorporating the title of Tywysog (Prince) to my name since I was now a pretender (claimant) prince. Many people think I simply did a name change by deed poll and made myself a false title of nobility . In the change of name request my attorneys noted the reason for the name change was:

Essentially what we were telling the courts is that I had inherited incorporeal hereditaments (royal titles), established a government in exile, and my legal status had changed from a private citizen, to a pretender prince. This would not be a false title of nobility, since the court’s judgment was on whether or not I had actually inherited titles and my legal status had changed, or if I was simply becoming, “Mr. Tywysog Llywelyn Jones Cymru” (Mr. Prince Llywelyn Jones of Wales). Some people think I should use my name in the style; Llywelyn, Tywysog Cymru but I am not a pretender to the Principality of Wales, my claim or pretension is to something much more ancient and grand than that English invention.

The establishment of a government in exile is an emergency action to preserve and protect the nation and culture by diplomatic protest where all of the constitutional technicalities (existing or implied) are dispensed as all of the constitutional prerogatives (existing or implied) are personified by the Prince Pretender until the reestablishment of the de facto rule.

Pretender princes are sovereign subjects of public international law. "Thus, de jure [by right] sovereigns and governments-in-exile retain their status as long as they do not surrender their sovereignty to the de facto [by fact, the usurper] government." (Dr. Stephen P. Kerr y Baca, JD, FAS, "King and Constitution in International law", p. 125)

On a personal note, I have seen what other's knee jerk reactions have been to this news. It truly saddens me that so many only care about the titles and not what I am doing with the power that goes with them. I have also seen blatant lies about me posted on social media sites claiming I am, anti-Cymraeg, anti-Welsh, that I am only doing this to ensure the continued persecution of the Welsh people? What lies! If I was anti-Cymaeg why did I choose to change my name to a Welsh one? Why did I choose the title of Tywysog over the title of Prince? If I am anti-Welsh, why am I fighting for the Welsh people so hard? Tapping into my life savings and spending hours writing letters and gathering supporters into an independence movement. If I only did this for the titles, why do I continue to fight for independence? I already have the titles. I am already recognized as a fount of honour. I dare say there is no other pretender prince in the world right now fighting as hard as I am for his or her people. Many of them are quite happy in there lives which likely have far less stress than my own.

Both the tribunal and the United States California Superior Courts found with me based on the evidence I presented and the legal principles of first claim/prior claim, laches, and estoppel. The judgments they issued were final and binding. These final judgments have barred other claimants from putting forward claims based on the principle of res judicata , which is also known as “Claim preclusion” and it precludes or bars other parties from coming forward and trying to claim the titles at a later date, as they would now be impersonating me.

Essentially what I have done is become a conduit to the past so that Wales may now seek repayment for all of the resources, taxes, murders, rapes, and illegal occupation that has taken place.

First Formal Act of State

My first formal act of State as the lawful heir to the throne was to create legislation to separate the powers of monarchy from the powers of government. Under international law since I am now the head of the government in exile, all governmental powers have fallen to me, even if otherwise the vote of a parliament would normally be required. I entitled the device, "Rhyddid" which is Cymraeg for "Freedom".

In the short document, I grant accent to the people so that they may govern themselves in anyway they see fitting so long as the government they appoint or elect recognizes the will of the people, their basic human rights, and doesn't swear allegiance to a foreign government. Essentially, I created a conduit to the past Kingdoms so that now Wales can seek reparations from the United Kingdom for the mistreatment of the past that has sadly carried on to present day and I created a way for the people to have a republic, if that is what their hearts desire.

I am not a fascist, or an egomaniac. I will not lead with an iron fist, propaganda machine, or by force. I am a servant leader, I lead with an open heart. My intention is to provide relief for Wales and ensure that Welsh culture, language, and the Welsh people are preserved and protected. I do not care whether people understand what I have done now or not, because I am sure in the future, once Wales has secured her independence, people will be bright enough to look back and understand what I have done.

I've given a gift that will likely be worth billions if not trillions to Wales. However it wasn't originally mine to give, it was already theirs, I simply created the means to return it to them, the rightful owners.

People may say that the United Kingdom simply will not pay-out reparations, even though they agreed to these treaties on their honour. This may be true; I cannot predict the future, nor can I predict what their honour is worth to them. But I will tell you that for them to ignore their solemn pledges and vows, they will face sanctions, and could be forced to exit the United Nations for not keeping their pledges. I am sure they will be more willing to come to the peace table and participate in talks of rebuilding Wales, rather than face standing alone in a crowded room, or worse outside weathering the storm alone.