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One two three tier lockdowns
in a two tier country
the second wave
a two tier cake
for the Great British Bake Off
the Great British Shut Down
tier suggesting structure
when none is present
Covidspeak
curve and peak
hands face space
test and trace
fear and inequality
cases and capacity
untruths and nepotism
loss and pessimism
please don't speak Covid to me
I'm just waiting for a vaccine
waiting for another year
better than this one
for the next TV presentation
by the scientists
with all the gravitas
of a wartime broadcast
of grown-ups telling us
the worst of news
the maps and graphs
different colours
different shades
sliding slideshows
the climbing lines
out of our minds with unease
the creep of a disease
over land and through the air
Mae cyfraniadau allweddol a hollalluog Llŷr Pari a Geraldine Mac Burney i’w clywed yn y cawl hefyd. ‘Tri cynnig i Gymro’ medd rhai, ‘third time lucky’ dwêd y Sais – ac yn wir (ym marn dewiniaid y topia’) dyma sengl orau MÊL hyd yma. Mae’r band wedi bod yn trafod efo’r dewiniaid a Chyfoeth Naturiol Cymru ar gynllun i ymdopi efo’r llifogydd o ganmoliaeth bydd yn gorlifo atynt o bob cyfeiriad yn fuan (neu beidio). Dylanwadau / tarddiad y gân: Profiad diddorol ger dinas Cusco neu Cuzco (Peru), englyn y ci defaid, MGMT (albym Congratulations), cactus San Pedro, Fabien Bistoubrette, Velvet Underground, rhyfeddod llwyr, Soft Machine (y llyfr a’r band), dyddiadur y daith o 2016.
‘Cusco’ is MÊL's third single but the first to be recorded as a 'proper' band, with Rhodri Owen (Owens), Morgan Jones and George Amor contributing their bits - on top of the work of Eryl (Pearl) Jones.
The almighty contributions of Llŷr Pari and Geraldine Mac Burney can also be heard in the stew. ‘Third time lucky' some might say - and indeed (in the opinion of the upland wizards) this is MÊL's best single to date. In fact, the band has been in talks with the wizards and Natural Resources Wales on a plan to cope with the immense flood of praise likely to inundate them very soon (or not). Influences / origin of song: An interesting experience in the city of Cusco or Cuzco (Peru), the ‘ci defaid’ (sheepdog) englyn, MGMT (Congratulations album), San Pedro Cactus, Fabien Bistoubrette, Velvet Underground, absolute wonderment, Soft Machine (the book and the band), the diary of the trip from 2016.
“Wake up, you selfish bastard!” said his wife pouring a cup of cold water on her husband’s face.
There was still no movement from her Spouse.
Shelley Jones was beside herself with emotion.
It was a combination of anger and worry, but mostly fear at the situation she found herself in.
She had a bad feeling about booking her holiday on the Cassandra Line Cruise Ship, the Corona Vires, but now her premonition was coming true.
She had checked his wrist for a pulse and even put her make-up mirror under his nose to see if he was still breathing, but there was nothing-no sign of life from the love of her life Davey Jones.
The pair had been married for over 60 years and her spouse had promised her for decades that he would one day take her on a Mediterranean cruise around the Amalfi coastline of Southern Italy and now reality was hitting home that that he would never take her anywhere ever again, let alone on holiday.
Worse still she was frantic, as the pair had taken a chance by going on the trip of a lifetime without travel or life insurance.
It had not been economically viable, as with all their ailments, the cost of insurance was more than the actual cost of the cruise.
A gentle rap of knuckles on the cabin door broke her thought pattern and put her into even more of a panic mode.
“Mrs Jones, it’s only the Ship’s Steward, Camp David, checking you are both okay, it’s just that your husband looked a little peaky last night at the Wild Weekend 1970’s Strictly Come Dancing show!” said the crewman talking through the door.
“Everything is fine, thank you David, my husband was sitting next to the that John Travolta tribute act last night, so I guess he probably caught ‘Saturday Night Fever’ off him!” said Shelley trying to joke and sound as normal as possible in the circumstances.
“Good one…. replied the concerned Steward “Is he with you now?”
Shelley had to think on her feet.
“Oh no….!”
“He said he was going for a walk on the deck earlier!” replied the troubled woman.
‘Strictly’ speaking, it was not a lie as Davey WAS no longer with her.
Camp David thought this was odd, as for the entire journey Mr Jones had been confined to a wheelchair.
He decided he would check with the occupier of the next cabin instead.
The steward rapped on cabin door number 12 and a friendly face appeared.
“Sorry to bother you Mrs Sun but do you know if everything is okay with the Jones’s next door?” asked Camp David.
“Well I think so…. said the North Korean….I am sure that I heard Mrs Jones giving orders to her husband about an hour ago….so I think everything is normal!”
Camp David left the corridor and went back to his job preparing for tonight’s extravaganza in the Ballroom.
As the sound of the footsteps faded in the corridor, Mrs Jones let out a huge sigh of relief.
So did Mr Jones too, but unfortunately his was a death rattle, as the remaining oxygen left the deceased’s body.
Shelley was in a difficult predicament.
What did she do?
She had heard rumours of a possible viral infection on board ship, which led to whispers of a pandemic, which could lead to quarantine and an inevitable lockdown on the Cruise Ship.
At that point, her biggest regret was not being able to afford a cabin on the outside of the ship, so she could have disposed of her husband’s body neatly.
She didn’t feel guilty about the thought, because her husband had always reminded her of the saying ‘See Naples and Die’ but she didn’t think it was his intention to follow orders, after all he never listened to any of her commands over the last six decades, so why would he start now?
Besides, he was as much of an old trout as she was, as he loved his swimming and spent more time at his local swimming baths than Coronation Street’s Len Fairclough.
Whilst she didn’t want to ‘go overboard’ but she knew that her late husband would have to do a Robert Maxwell, otherwise she would be in real trouble.
As she sat on the bunk bed next to the corpse of her late husband, she knew deep down that he would understand and do the same for her in the circumstances.
She looked at the bag of bones that her husband had unfortunately become.
He had not quite reached his 80 th birthday but had less meat on him than a vegan sausage.
Even during his lifetime Davey Jones had never been heavier than seven stone and people reckoned that he made his fellow hometown boxer Johnny Owen look fat.
Shelley was two years his junior and at nearly 78 was nearly double his weight.
Davey had one of those magic metabolisms that he could eat anything he wanted but never put any weight on, whereas she would only have to look at a mars bar for the calories to register on her childbearing hips.
That’s why he always looked so dashing in his bowtie and evening suit, whenever he played his violin at the Brangwyn Hall in Swansea.
He was proud of the fact that for nearly 50 years, he had been a paid professional musician, playing second fiddle only to his Wife.
Davey Jones was not quite a virtuoso, but he had supported the best that Welsh talent had to offer including Katherine Jenkins, Charlotte Church, Aled Jones and of course Maggot from Goldie Looking Chain.
But now Shelley was worried about a different kind of maggot that was appearing beneath the skin of her dead partner.
She knew that very soon the corpse would begin to smell, as just like his favourite conductor, Andre Previn and his favourite classical musician Mozart he too would soon start to ‘de-compose’.
“Roll over Beethoven!” she said aloud, as she pushed his tiny skeletal legs further back on the lower bunk, as she wondered how she could get away with disposing of the body without being put into the frame for his potential murder.
She hadn’t killed him of course, but she had threatened to do so on many occasions during their marriage, especially when he had farted under the bedcovers waiting for her to detect its unwholesome aroma, before collapsing into fits of laughter.
Even now in death she could smell his unique odour- albeit strangely more palatable than his usual brand.
The alarm clock next to the bed sounded shrilly and Shelley jumped nervously.
Unlucky cabin 13 almost claimed another victim, as Shelley hadn’t taken her heart tablets with all the events of the early morning.
She remembered then that both her and Dave had booked earlier in the week to go ashore together and visit the ancient Roman site of Pompeii & Herculaneum.
It was a must for history lovers to go and witness the unlucky people in 79AD, caught in a pyroclastic flow whilst eating Anno Domino’s Pizza.
Dave particularly wanted to go as he had heard that one of the dead bodies frozen in volcanic ash from Mount Vesuvius had had his boner preserved for over 2000 years.
He always said that the fellow should be recorded in the Guinness Book of Records for such a feat, as he himself couldn’t last much longer than 20 minutes.
What a way to go he had marvelled.
Shelley now faced a difficult choice.
Did she fold her late husband up like a medical student’s anatomy chart and hide the remains under the bed and tell everyone truthfully that her husband had ‘done a bunk’ or did she dress her dead husband up and try and pass him off as a living corpse?
After all she had been a talented ventriloquist back in the days when she had trod the boards of the old music halls.
It was how she had first met Davey Jones backstage waiting to go and perform her act with a camel puppet called Hump-Free.
His compliments had ‘resin-ated’ with her, and soon after, he played with the strings of her heart too, as the couple got married with their respective parent’s permission at the tender age of 18.
Most people said it wouldn’t last, but they were all now dead, so they never got to see the longevity of their marriage, principally down to the intake of secondary smoking which was prevalent in the theatres at that time.
Shelley used to have to wash her puppet weekly as it stank of cigarettes -a different kind of Camel smell.
The puppet eventually died too of nicotine poisoning.
After years of puppeteering, Shelley’s next logical move was as a prostate examiner at her local hospital, she did this for two years but she then had to give up the job as it was costing her too much by way of lost jewellery.
All this time, Shelley had wanted children of her own, but as Dave was now earning more from his musical tours of Great Britain and the occasional trip to the continent, it was put on the back burner.
The road was not the place to bring up a child.
And all of a sudden at 40 years of age her body-clock had stopped ticking and that was that.
They still enjoyed practising of course, but her ovaries no longer bore neither eggs nor fruit.
“Are you ready?” asked a female Korean voice in the corridor.
Shelley knew she had to act quickly and decided to lift her husband into his wheelchair, dress him up in a carnival mask, acquired a couple of days ago on their stop in Venice and prop him up with pillows to keep him upright.
She opened the door and the suspicious Mrs Sun suddenly gagged at the smell.
Sensing the fact that her new neighbour was close to vomiting she bluffed the stink off.
“That’s the last Gwyneth Paltrow candle I buy from Goop…does something smell fanny to you too?” said Shelley fronting up.
She quickly shut the door but being extremely careful not to push the corpse forward and out of the wheelchair.
They walked in silence for a few floors until they reached the lift.
“Is there a reason why your husband is wearing that mask in this heat?” asked the Widow Sun.
Shelley wanted to punch her, but didn’t want to start World War 3 with Asia.
“That’s private!” snapped back the newest member of the Widow Club.
Shelley tried to distract her fellow tourist with small talk until they reached the gangway ramp.
“Are you looking forward most to seeing Pompeii or Gracie Field’s holiday island?” asked Shelley.
“Where’s that?
“Capri… Sun!” said Shelley taking an orange squash from a waiter holding a drinks tray for those tourists embarking on the day trip.
Now came the tricky bit.
Keeping her dead husband upright on the slope.
She couldn’t bring him down backwards, as it would be too suspicious- so she plonked a rucksack in front to wedge him in.
“I always take supplies with me when I go ashore!” she said to Mrs Sun as looked on at the roughness and speed that she did so.
There was no reaction from Davey Jones.
“Your husband is a bit quiet? …. isn’t he?” said Mrs Sun.
“Are you OK indy chair Mr Jones?” she continued in broken Eeenglish.
The Welsh Widow then came out with the internationally recognised phrase used all around the modern World.
“F*** Off ….!” before adding “Short Round!” said Shelley out of the side of her mouth make it sound like it had emanated from beneath the Venetian Carnival mask.
Mrs Sun was taken aback at being sworn at and mistaken for the Asian boy character in the film Indiana Jones & the Temple of Doom.
“Sorry for that!” but my husband helped build the bridge over the River Kwai in the Second World War and as you can see, he wasn’t ever able after to put any weight back on due to the trauma!” said Shelley talking and lying through her back teeth at the same time.
“This way to the mini-bus for Pompeii & Herculaneum!” interrupted handsome Italian tour guide, Toni Belle.
Shelley fiercely resisted any attempt to help with her husband and motioned to Tony that she wanted a private word in his ear.
“My husband is a very private individual and is deeply embarrassed that he has developed late in life a flatulence problem- it is so bad he cannot stick his own smell- hence the Venetian Mask-he asked me to ask you if he can travel in the trailer instead!” said Shelley.
“This ees no possible Madame…the Polizia would… how you say pull me ….if we didda that!” replied the Italian Stallion guide in pidgin English.
“I’d pull him!” offered the frustrated Widow Mrs Sun.
“Mrs Sun would you be kind enough to tell Mr Belle what my room smelt like this morning!” countered the North Korean.
Mrs Sun did a Princess Diana mime of placing her two fingers down her own throat.
“If you don’t believe me sniff him yourself!” said Mrs Jones in an assertive way.
Tony Belle did what he was told and lowered his head above the Welsh version of Ironside.
“F*** Off!”….” Mussolini!” said the ventriloquist.
Tony Belle recoiled not only in shock but also due to the deathly aroma of the corpse.
“Vecchia Scoreggia” he said in Vulgar Latin to the mini-bus driver.
“Okay….but only if you sitta wiv heem….I will tell the Polizia that you must have jumped on board without my knowing!” said the Italian using his Roman Nose discretion.
“What did he say?” asked Mrs Sun.
“Old Fart!” replied Mrs Jones.
“Was he referring to him or to you?” said the Korean.
“Both!” said the Welsh woman.
Having loaded both her husband and herself onto the back of the trailer and applied the brake on the wheelchair, the mini-bus set off with the other twenty tourists for the UNESCO World Heritage Site.
In the distance, the passengers could see the shadow of the volcano Vesuvius – the fiery mountain that had caused the tragedy nearly two Millenia ago.
The driver then put on his Phil Collins CD from the eighties and started singing….
”Oh oh oh… VVVV Vesuvius…. “
Mrs Jones could hear the Latin Lover’s wailing from the back of the trailer and was now grateful she had chosen to be outside the bus instead.
Her husband was now literally buzzing, as lots of flies were following and landing on the dead body- just like they automatically radar in on fresh dog shit.
As the bus swung its way around the narrow streets of the Italian Riviera, it was all Shelley could do to keep her husband upright and stop the masque of red death from slipping.
It was even worse when they arrived at the main street of Pompeii, the Via Dell’Abbondansa, as it was made out of cobbles of Roman marble.
Fortunately, the way ahead had been barred by stepping stones from that classical period to stop chariots from striking civilians on their way to the Forum or to pray at the Temples of Jove, Isis or Artemis.
Shelley let out her own silent prayer to Jupiter.
Perhaps with all these dead bodies around preserved in ash one more might not make much difference?
Shelley suddenly felt homesick for her hometown of Merthyr Tydfil, as she wheeled her departed spouse around ruined buildings, surrounded by graffiti and plastered bodies lying prostrate on the floor covered in ash.
She marvelled at the Gladiator Amphitheatre and the writing and the names of the authors from 2000 years ago.
‘Vibius Restitutus slept here alone and missed his darling Urbana’
‘Commodus era qui’- Russell Crowe
‘Titter Ye Not’- Frankie Howerdus.
She parked the wheelchair and it’s decaying occupant in Casa di P Casca Longus and sidled out of the ancient but restored Roman Villa.
“I say….. you slinking out ……you can’t leave him there…..it’s not an OAP creche you know!” shouted a visiting History Professor from Oxford University.
Ashen-faced, Mrs Jones turned around and felt obliged to go back to reclaim her excess baggage.
What was she going to do for two hours with a dead body?
In the heat, the smell was starting to get worse and she had a number of evil looks off a variety of Europeans and not just because of Brexit either.
They suspected that her husband’s colostomy bag needed changing.
As she wheeled her departed husband around, she marvelled at the splendour of the buildings.
She had been to the Roman Baths in Bath before but this was nothing compared to the size and layout of an entire city frozen in time.
A snapshot of living history albeit a dead one too.
Reading the graffiti and looking at the nature and layout of the buildings- little had in reality changed over the 2000 years of humankind.
There were still bakeries, public baths, independent local shops and of course amphitheatres and Forums.
The only difference was humans could frequent all of these places without fear before the Coronavirus came.
“Gottle of Geer?” said Mrs Sun offering her new friend a cool refreshing drink.
This had a sobering effect on Mrs Jones who wondered if her ventriloquist act had been rumbled by someone who looked like Eve Polastri.
“How is your husband feeling now?” asked Mrs Sun looking down on the motionless figure of Davey Jones.
Mrs Jones wanted to blurt out ‘Still dead’, but she knew she had to continue with the charade in the hope that the politeness of strangers would win the day.
“Better aren’t you?” said Mrs Jones gently tugging on the back of the corpse’s hair to give the appearance of a nod.
“Amazing place isn’t it……like the land of living dead…!” said Mrs Sun.
“Yes, a bit like B&Q Store on a Thursday afternoon!” replied Mrs Jones still wondering if her North Korean shipmate had smelt a rat.
“I dumped my husband at the local refuse tip!” said Mrs Sun suddenly revealing her hand.
So did the corpse- as one of his lifeless fingers chewed off by a hungry maggot dropped onto the floor.
“Different rules in North Korea…..people disappear all the time there!” said Mrs Sun.
“What do you want?” asked Mrs Jones….”in return for your silence?”
“What do all us Johnny Foreigners ever want?…..a blue passport….NHS Health Tourism….not to have to queue for a single brand of foodstuff on a supermarket shelf…. !” replied Mrs Sun.
“How would that work….I can’t get you and HIM back to the Britain through Customs now can I?” said the frustrated Mrs Jones.
“Well for starters I can help you to dispose of the body!” said Mrs Sun going from Eve to Villainelle.
“Then you report him missing and in seven years’ time and we in clear!”
“Next you have to get one of your friends to marry me…Male or Female… I don’t care its only one night….of course it will be a sham marriage and only until I find my feet!” she said kicking Mr Jones’ left foot under the wheelchair, so that it was not spotted by any nosey third party.
Mrs Jones knew now she was out on a limb.
She wondered what the Hell disease had now killed her husband.
Was it not the coronavirus but leprosy?
If she had told him that he would die in this fashion on one of their many Poker nights, he would have thrown his hand in before laughing his head off.
Either way she suspected that she would be quarantined for two weeks- time a 79 year- old woman could ‘ill’ afford to spend.
Looking up at some grey smoke puffing out of the top of Mount Vesuvius, realised she had to get a move on.
Shelley didn’t think it was a sign of them electing a new Pope in Rome.
“Let’s get out of here Mrs Jones….this living cemetery gives me the creeps….!” Said Mrs Sun.
“I agree… let’s go find the gift shop to buy some tape to put his foot back on and get him back on the ship!” suggested Shelley.
“There is Gift Shop?” said Mrs Sun excitedly.
“You haven’t seen MUCH of the Western World have you?” replied Mrs Jones.
Back inside Cabin 13, the scheming pair had managed to avoid the gaze of Camp David on return to the cruise ship, but he had knocked on the door once again but this time with an invitation for Mr & Mrs Jones to dine at the Captain’s Table.
Shelley knew she would have to find a place to store her husband until after dark, when she could help Mrs Sun to dispose of the body into the Briny Sea.
Mrs Sun was concerned as her preliminary enquiries of the crew seemed to point to the fact that the ship had CCT cameras and the latest on-board Norwegian technology which could detect a body falling overboard into the sea.
An alert would then be sent to Captain and their plot would be uncovered.
Mrs Sun had noticed that the crew stored their shiny uniforms in full size lockers on the same floor and close to one of the stairwells.
There was also an empty one with a rusty key in the lock that the sailors seemed to be reluctant to use.
It might prove a good hiding place until they could pretend that Mr Jones had been lost at sea but cause doubt over the accuracy of any technology.
Her plan was to use the locker to hide ‘Jones the Bones’.
Observation had shown the on-ship stewards to be busiest between 5.30pm and 7.30pm in preparation for the evening’s entertainment.
That was the optimum time to move the body.
“It is best if you do not know where I hide him, that way, any suspicion that falls on you will enable you to pass any lie-detector test!” said the North Korean.
On checking the corridor for people, Mrs Sun had to move fast like an Asian version of grave-robbers Burke & Hare as she single-handedly carried the sack of bones and fly magnet towards the locker.
She bundled the bony remains inside, only for it to collapse like a Ray Harryhausen skeleton warrior in the film Jason & The Argonauts.
Mrs Sun forced the key in the lock to turn with all her might and fortunately it closed shut with a clunk.
She snapped the rusty ‘skeleton’ key in half and look around nervously to make sure no-one had seen her doing so.
When Mrs Sun returned to the cabin not having been spotted by either crew or guest, the pair of Widows were ecstatic, hugging each other as if they were already Wife & Wife.
The finishing touch had been for Mrs Sun to place the Venetian Mask up on the top deck in one of the CCT camera blackspots, near where the sun loungers were stored overnight.
That way any investigation would assume Davey Jones would be just another statistic of a person missing from a cruise ship as the result of a freak wave or had been standing too close to the railings with sea-sickness.
After all, how much investigation would follow after the disappearance of an 80 Year- old Man missing from a ship registered to a sandbank off the shore of Bermuda?
The Alfred Hitchcock ‘Strangers on a Train’ plot might just work after all.
Looking like Old Rose in the James Cameron film Titanic, Mrs Jones sat at Captain Birzai’s top table.
She was dressed to in the nines and wore her fake costume jewellery bought third hand from a Merthyr Charity Shop.
She was expecting quality gourmet food but was disappointed to see the appearance of fish fingers yet again.
But then again what did she expect from a budget cruise.
She was sweating uncomfortably but couldn’t be sure if it was the SARS-CoV-2 virus or her guilty conscience at handing her late husband of 60 years’ body to a total stranger for disposal.
“My husband’s late!” she said to Captain Birzai trying to cover her tracks.
Her dinner companion was dressed all in a dark blue uniform and peaked cap with a white beard and had a tendency to wink a lot- which , a hangover from his TV advertising days.
“Where is he……in the cabin?” asked the seasoned sailor.
“He was but he said he wanted to go onto the deck to smoke one final cigarette….I didn’t even realise till I came on this ship he still smoked to be honest with you!” lied Shelley.
“Do you want me to ask the Steward to look for him if you are worried?” replied the Former King of Breadcrumbs.
“David would you mind checking the top deck for Mr Jones for me?” ordered the salty old sea dog.
“Aye, Aye, Cap’n!” said Camp David hamming it up.
Shelley sat nervously, picking at her food and expecting at any moment an alternative cry from Camp David of ‘Man- the Lifeboats’.
She assumed that was where Mrs Sun had hidden him.
She was glad she didn’t know.
Camp David returned some twenty minutes later looking all flustered and this time whispered in his Senior Officer’s ear.
“Speak louder man, all I can hear in my ear is the sound of the sea!” said Shelley.
“I can’t find him, I have checked everywhere, the Top Deck, the Lower Deck even the Poop Deck just in case he was busy having a shit!” said the Sailor.
“What about the Cabin Man?” asked the Captain.
“Sir, I used the skeleton key to get in but there was no sign, sorry Mrs Jones but it still smells a bit funky in there, so I only had a cursory glance!” reported Camp David.
“This Corona Vires cruise ship is not the Marie Celeste ….nor are we anywhere near the Bermuda Triangle now is it?” said the Captain asserting his authority.
“Take two of the crew with you and comb the ship again and ask the Bosun to check the cameras for any suspicious events!” ordered the Captain.
“Do you think he has killed himself after years of my nagging?” asked Shelley putting on her puppy dog face that she usually used to use on her husband in the days of terrestrial television, whenever she wanted to watch Coronation Street at the same time when the FA Cup was live on the BBC.
“Now there is no need to worry just yet Mrs Jones we’ll find him!” said Captain Birzai reassuringly…”Or I’ll ‘batter’ the entire crew!”.
Fast forward to 2027 and the Cruise Ship was finally being decommissioned from the fleet.
It had sailed the World over many times, and after the acceleration of Global Warming had been even become a rescue vessel on a number of occasions, as sea level had risen to engulf large parts of London, Cardiff & Dublin.
One such mission rescued people from their passenger capsules on the London Eye in a flash flood after the Thames Barrier gave way.
The leaky Cruise Ship was now in the Mid-Atlantic heading for Northern Ireland.
It’s final destination was Belfast, the port that had once been home to the ill-fated White Star ocean liner the Titanic.
After the respiratory plague that had wiped out a quarter of the Earth’s population, the Corona Vires Cruise Ship had been renamed in 2020 the Black Pig.
It’s last voyage had been a pleasure cruise of the Caribbean in a reverse ‘Windrush’, taking rich white Caucasians overseas to visit their tax haven savings.
“Have you finished clearing out those staff lockers yet?” shouted the First Mate, Seaman Staines.
“Not quite -just the rusty old one on the end left to go!” shouted back Roger the Cabin Boy.
“Slide me the hammer and a flat head screwdriver please!” the youngster shouted.
The metal tools slid along the ship’s floor and clattered into the now empty locker bases.
Roger, placed the flathead of the screwdriver inside the lock and hit it hard with the hammer.
The rusty old lock mechanism refused stubbornly to budge.
It hadn’t opened for over seven years.
He hit it again harder this time but still the locker refused to give up its grim secret.
He angled the blade again and hit it diagonally this time.
The lock popped and the young boy was rocked by the smell that left the airtight cubicle in a rush.
“Jesus!” he said as the putrid air flew past him.
Inside the darkened recess, he could make out the shape of a skull and cross-bones.
“Look at this!” he called to his mate.
“Do you think this is real or just a Pirate Prop?” he continued picking a bluebottle out of the gap between his front teeth.
“I don’t know!” said his colleague looking at the full skeleton as it emerged from its confines.
“What shall I do with it?” asked Roger…
”Do we tell Cap’n Pugwash?”
“Do you really want to spend an extra couple of days unpaid explaining to the Port Authorities where that came from?” replied the more experienced crewman.
“F*** No!” said the youngster
“There is only one thing for it then…Davey Jones’s Locker it is then!” replied Staines.
“Ello ‘Ello ‘Ello what’s all this then?” said Constable Grunt, as he arrived onto the Barry Island Seafront promenade.
Before him sat a group of mixed children and adults, all staring up at a fairground booth, beautifully painted in red n white stripes.
As the Policeman strode forward on his size twelve feet Dr Marten’s boots- the sound of a kazoo playing the theme from Laurel & Hardy was heard emanating from behind the curtain of the booth.
“Very funny!” said the Constable.
Contrary to popular belief, Constable Grunt had originally possessed a sense of humour but it had been extracted at birth together with his umbilical cord – besides, it had been a long day trying to enforce the unworkable rules on social distancing imposed due to the Covid-19 pandemic- so he was in no mood for humour.
Especially humour at his expense which undermined his authority.
The Punch n Judy booth was set up with it’s back to the railings on the promenade and was surrounded by the audience in a semi-circle, who had paid a small fee to the performer’s assistant- known as the Bottler- for the show.
The Bottler had lived up to his name and bottled it upon first sight of the long arm of the law.
The children and adults swung their attention from the booth to the Constable, who was accompanied by the latest version of a female Hobby Bobby- a Boris Johnson Covid- 19 Beadle.
Yet another attempt by the Conservative Government to return the former United Kingdom to Victorian values.
“Is there a pwoblem Officer?” asked the hidden puppeteer through a rasping kazoo.
His speech impediment didn’t help the intensity of the laughter from the crowd.
Nor did his strange accent.
“ We have had a complaint about suitability of the show that you are putting on for children and also a flagrant breach of Covid- 19 social distancing rules from a Member of the Public!” grunted Grunt.
There was no sign of any person in the booth.
“Can you tell who complained…eas it someone from Bawwy Island?” came the kazoo voice.
“No!” replied Grunt rocking on his size twelve heels.
“I bet it was Pwetti Patal again watting on her neighbours!” replied the invisible puppeteer.
The Policeman just smiled.
The Home Secretary was his boss – just like that other Nazi regime from 1945- he was just following orders.
It was a perk of the job and purely coincidental that he enjoyed making other people miserable.
Constable Grunt began to make contemporaneous notes in his South Wales Police Constabulary state of the art notebook.
The silence was broken by the reply from inside the Booth.
“Don’t you know that the Punch N Judy entertainment at the seaside has been around since the 1600’s – Comedie dell’Arte – even Samuel Pepys wrote about in HIS diary too!” complained the voice of the unseen puppeteer.
“Looks like someone has been studying British History!” said the non-laughing Policeman.
“Perhaps that may be a fact…but the complaint has come from a source high up in the Court system complaining that your actions are prejudicing a High Court case on libel proceedings!” said Grunt.
“How come?” said the vibrating kazoo voice- this time much higher pitched- almost female.
“Well your choice of the leading characters- being Hollywood A- & C-listers Johnny Depp and Amber Heard!” ordered Grunt.
At the mention of their names up popped the two characters who took a bow to the audience.
The children cheered loudly as the puppets appeared.
“I don’t understand -no-one complained when I used a puppet of Caroline Flack?” said the invisible man.
“Look it’s not acceptable to portray a Wife being beaten up at a seaside booth for children- it sends out the wrong message!” said the female Hobby Bobby.
“Who are you when you are at home?” asked the puppeteer hidden below the wooden stage.
“ Barry Island’s first appointed Covid- 19 Warden Stephanie Fiddler!” she boomed proudly.
There was silence from the booth and then came the ‘Punch-line’.
“Tell me children when you grow up… do you want to be a Fanny Fiddler just like her?” said the voice.
The children laughed as did most of the adults present.
The Covid Beadle blushed redder than Neil Kinnock after seeing the General Election result of 1992.
“It’s not just a complaint about the violence it is the content of the act!” continued Grunt.
“The way that the lead character handles the baby too!”
“That is as traditional as the appearance of the crocodile and the sausages!” protested the Puppeteer.
“Okay but why threaten to hand the baby over to Lost Profit’s singer Ian Watkins?” countered Fiddler regaining her confidence.
“How do you know?....you have never paid to watch the act?” queried the Puppeteer.
“I was standing on the rooftops…!” she said.
“What rooftops?” asked the hidden performer in a Turkish dialect, this time pronouncing his r’s immaculately.
“We are on the Barry seafront promenade!”
“The complaint was principally about the violent conduct which portrays Mr Depp as a wife beater!” said Grunt in the best assertive voice, that which his Bridgend Police Training had instilled in him.
“Violence?” protested the kazoo-man.
“At a Punch and Judy Show….haven’t you guys ever watched anything on Sky Atlantic or the internet….everything is much more graphic now- much more than two characters threatening each other with sticks….it’s not exactly as if it is the film Zombieland now is it?”
“Why don’t you pay 2.00 lira each and I’ll put on a show for you!” offered the Puppeteer.
“Can I claim it back on expenses?” asked Fiddler.
“The MP’s usually do when they watch the petty puerile childish squabbling …it must remind them of the House of Commons!” replied the invisible Hands.
Both Fascists looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders and sat on the promenade wall, helmets and stab proof vests unbuttoned.
With that the show began once again.
Up popped a new character in the place of the Hollywood A-Listers.
“Hi Sprogs, hope you are having a bonzer day in the light drizzle here at Barry Island Prom….it’s the last day of the Poms too….as you are soon to be invaded by that lot in the Channel from the Calais Jungle!” said the character in the worst Australian accent since Dame Edna Everage merged with Sir Les Patterson and became Barry Humphreys.
It was almost like he was from Afghanistan rather than Oz.
“Look Sprogs. I should know about my sea creatures because I took them all to my Heart!” replied the character clad in khaki shorts.
As he did so he opened his khaki shirt to reveal a massive hole where his heart should be.
“He could be a Tory MP!” said little Billy Booger, whilst picking his Covid-19 encrusted nose and then flicking it at his mate.
“Oi…I saw that!” said Fiddler the germ warden.
Back in the booth, up popped a crocodile and the Aussie promptly wrestled it down like it was his pet dog.
No sooner than they had disappeared than a string of sausages popped up from below the counter.
“Oops….give us my intestines back… you naughty boy !” came the same Aussie voice from Down Under in Istanbul.
As soon as the Crocodile Man disappeared the Hollywood Titans reappeared and continued their clash.
“Have you seen the mess down there is it ‘From Hell’ said Heard anger level on green.
“A bit like you before make-up on the set of our film Rum Diary (2011) in the morning!” taunted Depp.
“You can talk – ‘you monster’ you will be ‘Finding Neverland’ the next time you try and mount me for a ‘Late, Late, Show!” spat back the Spouse.
“Drop Dead Sexy!” replied Depp.
“Oh you are Sauvage….just like that awful Dior aftershave you advertise on telly…I gave it to the Down and Outs in Beverly Hills – they already smell like you after your Rum Diary entries!” said Heard turning Amber.
“I only took that advert to select where in the desert sand I am going to bury your body!” snapped back the Pirate of the Caribbean or Somalia.
“It’s not just dead men that tell no tales…..remember that!”
“Did you hear that children?.... Tonto Johnny here making threats ….it’s the last time he will have a bird on his head….it’s just like you witnessed at home during lockdown before you were forced to go back to school to catch Covid-19 to infect your parent’s with!” said Amber picking up a cut throat razor.
“Come here….I’ll show you Sweeney Todd for real!” said Heard turning in’candy’escent with rage.
“Bring it on baby!” said Johnny affixing his Edward Scissorhands.
“Let’s see if you really do have ‘Heard’ immunity!”
“Woah, Woah, Woah!” shrieked Constable Grunt- pointing his hands up and then pointing his index finger at the booth.
“Stop the show.. that’s an offence under the Offences against the Person Act of 1861!”
“In case you not know… dem not persons…day Puppets!” replied Kazoo- this time with a trace of Nigerian.
A collective gasp came from the adults in the audience.
They didn’t expect the ‘Fourth Wall’ to be breached.
The kids didn’t care as long- as there was a steady supply of Haribo sweets they were content.
The Puppet Master was correct but Constable Grunt couldn’t back down now not in front of the children and his sidekick.
Before he could react onto the stage came a third puppet.
“That’s clever….three puppets on the go at one time…he must be extremely talented in the trouser department!” said Fiddler.
It was a Hangman wearing both a wire and an F.B.I emblazoned jacket.
They were both followed by a ghost.
The ghost of Jeffrey Epstein.
The puppet of Johnny Depp opened his mouth to looked scared.
The puppet of Amber Heard looked even more scared as she misread the name on the back of the Savile Row shirt and thought from first glance it was disgraced Film Producer Harvey Weinstein.
“There must be two of them in that booth!” whispered Fiddler captivated by the show.
“I thought that!” whispered back Grunt.
“Me too!” said Heard listening in on the conversation.
“What shall we do now that Home Secretary Priti Patel has repealed the Human Rights Act children?” asked Kazoo- this time in a voice deeper than Brian Blessed’s bollocks.
“ Hang him again!” screamed the young crowd.
“That’s the way to do it!” said Constable Grunt getting carried away enjoying the spectacle.
“Oi…that’s MY line!” protested Johnny ‘the Punch’ Depp- this time sounding Kurdish.
“Dew…this Kazoo Puppet Guy is brilliant with those different voices – like Rory Bremner or a male version of Nina Conti!” said Constable Grunt approvingly to Fiddler.
Their fun was suddenly stopped by a millionaire professional sea-watcher from Kent.
“The Great British public is being fleeced every day by Health Tourists and you guys are too busy watching ‘ seaside special?” moaned the Frog Faced Toad.
“Look…behind the booth!” he continued his right arm raised like he was at Nuremberg, pointing towards the beach behind the booth.
Breaking on the waves were six empty small rubber dinghies bearing bumper stickers of Turkey, Italy, Germany, and Calais France.
“I suggest you check the booth!” continued the Kent Kermit.
Constable Grunt waded through the children and peered down into the booth.
It was completely empty.
No puppeteers or puppets at all.
“You Muppet!” said the Englishman.
As Constable Grunt slid the booth to one side- it became apparent that the booth was over a Welsh Water manhole surface water drain cover.
Placing his truncheon under the handle with a bit of ‘force’ he lifted the lid and peered into the darkness.
Just like the Black Hole of Calcutta peering back at him was around 20 pairs of eyes.
More eyes than a peacock’s back.
“Whilst you were distracted by the puppet show ‘ Johnny Foreigner here was busy helping that lot make tracks up the sand and into their bunker – awaiting the cover of the night to slip away to places like West Bromwich and Birmingham to add their numbers to the Black Country!” continued Dad’s Army’s latest recruit.
“If it was up to me with my Churchillian spirit I would fight them on the beaches and bite them on the features too!”
“But YOU are the one in Authority ….what are you going to do about them?” said the anti-amphibious amphibian.
Constable Grunt smiled knowingly, as he unclipped from his belt a cannister of CS Gas.
“Where did you get that- that’s not Police issue?” asked Fiddler.
“Extinction Rebellion!” said Constable Grunt removing the pin and casually tossing it into the stagnant surface water below.
“Deppth Charge!” he replied.
“Saves on the paperwork!”
New Book Highlights Astounding Moments & Amazing Stories Behind the Hard Men of Rugby
By Ceri Shaw, 2020-10-07
Which Lions tourist sprang a convict from captivity on a particularly wild night out?
What happened when the World Cup-winner played on after tearing his scrotum?
Why did the 6’7” lock receive praise in the House of Commons from the Prime Minister?
What gave one World Cup winger the nickname ‘the Chiropractor’?
Who had his career ended after assaulting a fan in the stands during a game?
Featuring exclusive interviews with some of the players themselves, insights from former teammates and a foreword from refereeing legend Nigel Owens – who has himself had to deal with the actions of several who have made the list – this lively, engaging and highly readable book brings some of rugby’s craziest moments, biggest characters and most remarkable stories to life.
One of the selection who contributed to the book was World Cup-winner and rugby legend Bakkies Botha, who said, “It’s a real privilege to be included in Hard Men of Rugby. I’ve battled against some of those included and heard some amazing stories about many of the others, so I am honoured to be part of this book.”
Born and bred in South Wales, Luke Upton’s first job was selling match-day lottery tickets for Swansea RFC in those last few glorious years before regional rugby arrived. He now lives in London, where after working in the sports industry for five years he works as a business journalist and editor. He is the author of satirical rugby novel Absolutely Huge (“hilarious” – The Guardian ), also from Y Lolfa, and co-runs @NotGavHenson, the rugby humour Twitter account with over 42,000 followers, including a host of professional rugby players – some tough, others not so much!
“Selecting the players for this book was a real challenge and I’m sure not everyone will agree with who’s included, but that’s all part of the fun! The criteria was that, yes, they had to be tough – and this could include aspects on and off the pitch – but also they had to be very good players. This rules our mindless thugs, cheats or cowards, and those super-tough guys who just weren’t quite up to scratch at the top level of the game. So, look at the list, think of your country of club in the era in which those individuals played and consider if you would have had them in your team. I think the answer would be overwhelmingly ‘yes’,” said Luke.
So pull on your boots, apply your strapping and come face to face with the Phantom Major, the Iron Duke, Car Crash, the Blackpool Tower, the Caveman and the rest of them…
Lawyer Tells Inside Story of Serial Killers Shocking Christmas Eve Confession
By Ceri Shaw, 2020-10-06
The shocking inside story is told for the first time by former solicitor Dylan Rhys Jones in a new book, The Man in Black - Peter Moore - Wales' Worst Serial Killer , which was published to coincide with the 25 th anniversary of the vicious murders which Moore said he committed for “fun”.
It was in the early hours of Christmas Eve morning, 1995, at Llandudno police station that Nazi-obsessed Moore admitted the killings in a three-month spree that had begun on Anglesey in September, terrorising the gay community in North Wales and Merseyside.
With Mr Jones, alongside him, Moore, a softly spoken film fanatic from Kinmel Bay who owned a chain of cinemas in Bagillt, Denbigh, Holyhead and Blaenau Ffestiniog, told two North Wales Police detectives he had slain the four men.
He said: “I want to admit to both of the murders in Anglesey, the murder on Pensarn beach and also I want to admit to another murder that you don’t know about which I committed in Clocaenog Forest near Ruthin.”
Moore was known in the area for his eccentric dress sense and was dubbed “The Man in Black”.
And when prosecuting barrister Alex Carlile QC opened the case against Moore at Mold Crown Court in 1996, he called him: "The man in black - black thoughts and the blackest of deeds."
He was sentenced to life imprisonment in November 1996 with a recommendation that he never be released.
Moore is still alive, locked up almost certainly for ever, in Britain’s Monster Mansion, Wakefield high security prison where the Supermax wing has been home to murderers like Dr Death Harold Shipman and child killers Ian Huntley and Mark Bridger, who murdered five-year-old April Jones in Machynlleth in 2012.
But at 2.32am on that chilly morning in Llandudno the lawyer calmly took notes as Moore, in his quiet, effeminate voice, told Detective Sergeant Ian Guthrie and Detective Constable Dave Morris about the killings.
They began in the September when Moore stabbed 56-year-old Henry Roberts to death at his home near Caergeiliog, Holyhead – there were 27 wounds in the retired railway worker’s body.
The reign of terror continued as Edward Carthy, a 28-year-old man whom Moore met in a gay bar in Liverpool, was stabbed to death in Clocaenog Forest in the October, followed by Keith Randles, a 49-year-old traffic manager from; in November 1995 on the A5 in Anglesey.
His final victim was Anthony Davies, 40; stabbed and left to die on Pensarn Beach, near Abergele in December.
The book tells how Moore called on Henry Roberts’ home in Caergeiliog dressed in black with a Nazi-style cap and armed with a hunting knife with Roberts pleading that he wasn’t Jewish before he was killed, how Keith Randles pleaded for his life and how the killer hid mementos of his victims in his garden pond.
A knife bearing traces of the blood of a number of men was found in a bag belonging to Moore.
On a shelf in Moore's bedroom were a police helmet, two German military caps and a pair of long, black boots.
Hanging on a cupboard alongside the bed was a truncheon and a sergeant's uniform hung in the wardrobe.
Speaking about the murder of Keith Randles, Moore told the detectives: “He asked me why I was killing him as I stabbed him, and I said that it was for fun.
“He fell to the floor. I just thought it was a job well done, and left and returned to my van.”
And when asked how he felt when he killed his victims, Moore replied chillingly: “It was easy. Just like a knife through butter.”
Moore confessed to attacking “many men” in the Conwy Valley over a period of 20 years before the murders started.
He said: “When driving around, I would sometimes notice someone walking along the road late at night and I would stop and attack them.
“I would assault them with a police truncheon and strike them on the body and their heads many times. Usually I would be dressed as a policeman or in a Nazi uniform or something similar, just to scare them. I heard that a few of these men had been seriously injured after the attacks.”
In the book Mr Jones also describes the traumatic effect on himself and on the two police officers of hearing Moore tell his grisly tale in a calm, measured way.
Mr Jones, who lives in Abergele, added: “It was like watching a cold-blooded lizard move towards its prey, slowly, calculating every move not using its energy unnecessarily, just describing the bare essentials of the deed ... It was the desensitized description by a killer dispassionate as to the implications of his actions.”
The following morning, just a few hours later, Moore withdrew his confession, claiming he had done it to protect his friend, the real murderer, a man he called Jason, the name of the killer in the Friday the 13 th films he had shown at his cinemas.
Dylan Jones added: “I have reflected often on whether what Moore said during this interview was true. Was it a case of bravado, the man had his audience and he took his opportunity to perform, like an actor on celluloid before a captive cinema audience?
“Were the two detectives and I the gullible audience ready to lap up the gory details of a horrific killer in some B-movie, just for Moore’s pleasure? The three of us were without doubt shocked, horrified and captivated by the performance we witnessed. But was it true?”
The book conveys Moore’s calmness and composure, his descriptions of killing someone told in assured dispassionate terms, the process of killing sounding easy, the process of stabbing a person simple, straightforward and emotionless.
Author Dylan Jones no longer practices as a solicitor but lectures on Law and Criminology and helped create the Criminal Justice and Offender Management foundation degree course at Coleg Cambria and Chester University. He is a regular contributor to TV and radio.
He said: “Moore made killing an emotionless, simple and efficient process. He had perfected the act of killing in a way which had made him a ruthless machine feeding an inner need in the darkest reaches of his psyche to be pleasured by violence, control and ultimately death.
“The impression I had is that Moore had enjoyed what he had done, that he believed it was a job well done and that he had fed his demons in an effective way, the act of killing was like putting ‘a knife through butter’ the pleasure of killing appeared immeasurable.”
The Man in Black – Peter Moore: Wales’ Worst Serial Killer by Dylan Rhys Jones (£9.99, Y Lolfa) is available now.
Review copies available.
A masked ball
coverings of many colours
patterns and materials
those beautiful surgical gowns
social distance dancing
move those hips
waltz away regrets
trance into herd immunity
as the local lowdowns creep closer
more local
be vocal about your future
your survival
dance on my lovely
what will be will be
hold my hand and promise
to keep your balance
try not to slip up
in the ballroom of spores
Edge of an armada
liminal keels
keening over the bay
on a fateful day
limping blooded
wasped by frigates
and hawk-faced wreckers
trying to get away
invasion doesn't always reward
though this is not our fight
this is our day
and for this you will pay
your cannons fall silent
spiked by salt water
to the depths you dive
to the mystery of our bay
She's Got Spies' tuneful new single 'Super Sniffer Dogs' from her forthcoming album!
By Ceri Shaw, 2020-10-02
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She’s Got Spies releases her new album ‘Isle of Dogs’ on the 6th of November. It’s preceded by the single ‘Super Sniffer Dogs’ on the 23rd of October.
She’s Got Spies’ second album ‘Isle of Dogs’ refers to an area of London, Laura Nunez’s hometown, as well as the state of turmoil of the island of Britain. The follow up album to her debut Welsh language album ‘Wedi’, ‘Isle of Dogs’ features songs written over the last decade. She’s Got Spies is the project of Laura Nunez and her cast of collaborators. She spends her time between Cardiff and London, she’s multilingual and can sing in Welsh, English and Russian.
‘Isle of Dogs’ is a charming trilingual travelogue album, with most of the songs written on the move while travelling or whilst Nunez was living in various countries. She spent time in Russia, Vietnam, Italy, Tierra del Fuego in Argentina, and parts were also written in Cardiff, London and other parts of Wales and England. Threaded with Laura’s knack for a bittersweet earworm melody and surreal yet personal lyrics, these charmingly wonky songs are underscored with dark psych tinged sounds and an unsettled feeling which reflects the turmoil of current times.
With music hall style pianos, bounding percussion, fizzing guitars and a playful vocal, new single ‘Super Sniffer Dogs' is inspired by Laura’s time spent visiting Poplar on the Isle of Dogs, an area of high contrast with the rich, banking area of Canary Wharf and large, destitute council estates. It’s about an imaginary dystopian festival with lots of restrictions in a high walled destitute area. Despite its serious themes, which is juxtaposed by a catchy singalong melody, it’s a joyous tuneful romp.
The delightful first single from the album, ‘ Wedi Blino’, was released in 2019 and features a video filmed by Laura in Antarctica when she won a trip there in 2018. Meanwhile ‘The Fear’ is the newest song, written during lockdown. It reflects uncertainty of whether the record would ever see the light of day due to the pandemic, after the last days of studio time were cancelled as the lockdown started. It ended up replacing another song that was meant to be on the album that had not yet been recorded.
All songs are written by Laura apart from three co-written with Gruff Meredith ( MC Mabon ), who also co produced with Frank Naughton on them. Recorded in Tŷ Drwg studios in Cardiff (with additional recording in various locations including Moscow, London, Vietnam, etc.) with producer Frank Naughton. The album cover was designed by Laura and features a fox that visited Laura’s garden daily during lockdown that she caught on a night vision camera, and photographed remotely when he came to her doorstep.
She’s Got Spies band members include Gareth Middleton (guitar) and Mel Beard (glockenspiel/ keyboard) on some tracks, additionally with Pixy Jones ( El Goodo ) on guitar, Andy Fung ( Derrero ) on drums and producer Frank Naughton on piano, synths, guitar, bass, strings and percussion. She’s Got Spies started as a project by Laura Nunez in 2005 with Matthew Evans ( Keys ). Laura’s originally from London but moved to Cardiff and learnt Welsh inspired by bands such as Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci, Super Animals, Melys etc.
She’s Got Spies have recorded sessions for BBC Radio Cymru as well as having performed and been roadcast on Welsh television channel S4C. The band have performed at festivals such as Indietracks, Focus Wales, National Eisteddfod and Wales Goes Pop, as well as appearances in more far flung places including Russia, Bulgaria, Italy and even on an Antarctic expedition ship.
‘Isle of Dogs’ album cover ‘Super Sniffer Dogs’ single cover
‘Isle of Dogs’ Tracklist:
1. Super Sniffer Dogs (2:31)
2. Mariah Pariah (2:54)
3. Despair Over Here (3:08)
4. All Outta Tears (3:38)
5. Harasho (3:22)
6. Vladivostok (3:18)
7. Vietnam (3:23)
8. Mank Shoreshank (3:08)
9. Cwympo (3:02)
10. The Fear (2:41)
11. Wedi Blino (2:30)
12. Where Did You Go? (4:04)
For further details please get in touch at:
Bill Cummings: soundandvisionpr@googlemail.com
info@shesgotspies.com
I am looking out for a comet
but I am distracted by
what could be a fox
maybe only its eyes
or a suggestion of movement
one is never alone in the dark
a moon illuminated tree
at the edge of a field
bales of hay
hedges
reeds
in sharp relief
(I see the moon
the moon sees me)
that way they ask where we were
what we were doing
and who we were with on 09/11
the day that Princess Diana died
or when the first lunar landing
was broadcast
the graininess of our discoveries
on trembling flickering screens
do people of different times
recognise the changing face
of the moon altered
as everything and everyone is
by contact with irresistible objects?
did it look the same to human observers
one hundred
one thousand
one million years ago?
and do we look as they used to?
