Christmas at the Welfare

by Martyn J. Shrewsbury

Introductions

Having known Martyn for the last 20 years I am still amazed by his constant, prolific writing and astute observations on human life. He is a copious blog writer who is infamous for his satire and wry sense of humour. Now he has turned some of his collection of musings into this short book. Always a keen commentator on, politics and the environment, he turns his hand to parochial village life and characters. Having lived in a small village in Wales for over 15 years he is more than competent to do so.

The writing is both thoughtful and personal but also tells a good story. Written at some time in the future, whether it is true or not I leave the reader to reflect.

Sometimes Dylanesque (Thomas) in his observations of mundane village life, often Swiftian in irony and Orwellian in political satire, this series of essays will not disappoint the audience he already has and will attract more followers to his daily musings. Whether you are part of a community such as the village described here or simply a keen observer of life you will recognise some of the characters he writes about and laugh with him.

Jenny Jenkins (Former Lecturer, Swansea university)

Martyn’s Reputation

Martyn first gained the reputation of an accomplished satirist in his ‘All too Human’ blog. And, needless to say, he has made his share of enemies, particularly when prominent local figures have felt the sting of his sharp-witted satires. In certain quarters this has won him the reputation of a bête noire, though it is, I think, fair to say that this appeals to his maverick sensibility! One disgruntled local counsellor complained, “Martyn Shrewsbury shouldn’t be on the council. He thinks many of us are thin-skinned, have fragile egos and lousy tempers”. To which Sean Goodsir Cullen responded: “Councilor Roberts has the verb wrong. It should read “discovered” –even if Martyn is harsh in his condemnation, his comments, as Sean Goodsir-Cullen implicitly suggests, are generally both candid and merited! But, where Martyn really does excel as a satirist really is in the more ‘creative’ aspects of his work (though to be fair this is true even of Swift and Orwell – think for instance of the continued success of novels like Gulliver’s Travels and Animal Farm).

A case in point, here, would be the short story from December 2023, Christmas at the Welfare: A Postmodern Ghost Story. This features a sample of Martyn’s best work and is, in my opinion, something of a tour de force. As such, I was delighted to be invited, along with Jenny Jenkins, to write the introduction in readiness for its publication.

Martyn’s Style

Casting himself in the guise of Mab Darogan, the prophetic son of Wales, both Delphic and gnomic in his re-imagining of a “Christmas future’”, Martyn takes Dickens' classic tale of ghosts, greed and goodwill as an obvious starting point for this postmodern reinterpretation. Darkly comic and thoroughly contemporary, it draws upon a tradition of distinctly south-walian writing that reaches back to Dylan Thomas’s Under Milk Wood and A Child’s Christmas in Wales and gives a nod to later television productions that include ‘Satellite City’, ‘High Hopes’ and most recently the offbeat BBC drama ‘Tree on a Hill’- incidentally, also set in the Upper Swansea Valley, in and around Ystradgynlais. Blending realist narrative with surrealist elements of dream and fantasy, the festive tale offers an explicit critique of parochial small-mindedness, denial and a laissez-faire attitude to global warming and rising tides. Recounting how the mischievously drawn protagonists- caricatures rather than characters- are visited by the phantoms of those (in)famous masters of suspicion, Marx, Freud and Nietzche. Like the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future before them, the spirits share a commitment to unmasking 'the lies and illusions of consciousness'; they are, however, the architects of a distinctively modern style of interpretation that circumvents obvious or self-evident meanings in order to draw out less visible and less flattering truths. As such, and using free association, Freud performs, or perhaps attempts to perform, a psychoanalysis on Dicky Milipede, the climate denier par excellence. The delusional Dicky is entrenched in the absurd belief that Ystradgynlais in general and Cwmtwrch in particular exist as a micro-climate and are thus totally resistant to global warming… a belief he maintains despite the ‘great flood’ rising around him. Milipede insists that climate change is nothing more than a vicious rumour perpetuated by the leftist cabal that is spearheaded by that maverick, Shrewsbury!

As the dismal failure of his therapeutic intervention becomes apparent to Freud, outside the waters rise threatening to envelop the entire area. Disaster is only averted when the dogs of Ystradgynlais gather together in a scene reminiscent of the Disneyesque “twilight barking”. Performing an ancient magical rite the canine heroes invoke the mythical Fenris and manage to reverse time, returning us to an elegiac ‘future-past’ that never was. As dawn breaks, the small town of Ystradgynlais wakes to find itself having been propelled into a new golden era of democratic socialism: Corby has taken up his rightful place as in number 10, Ystradgynlais has been declared a people’s socialist republic and, much to the delight of our heroic hounds, the Tick Tock fields have been thoroughly and finally liberated from the jealous control of Ystrad RFC and the town council.

In literary terms, Christmas at The Welfare can be described as belonging to the tradition of Magic Realism, a genre that blurs the boundary between fantasy and reality to offer an implicit critique of society, most notably politics and the elite. As a deliberate compositional strategy this would certainly be in keeping with the intellectual finesse of Martyn’s work to date. The timely publication of this festive tale I think it is fair to say those with a broader interest in postmodern philosophy and/or critical theory will find much to capture their interest. However, theoretical sophistication and philosophical complexity will certainly not preclude any sense of enjoyment for those who just want to enjoy a damned good read!

Dr Rhian Barfoot (Hon. Research Associate, Swansea university)

Acknowledgements

I would particularly like to thank all those who have supported me to publish this book. My sight is poor and my typos many.

Without the support of Keri Pergrine-Phillips and the disciplined analysis of Dr Rhian Barfoot, and her many suggestions, this would not have been possible.

I dedicate the book to my canine companions Bramble and Bracken who represent, in Jungian terms, my shadow and my anima.

Authorial Preface

I began this book in November 2020, marching through Georgia with William Tecumseh Sherman. And, here now I await a march on Washington by a rejuvenated far-right led by Trump and the Proud Boys. I ceased recording my observations in April of 2024, prior to the Starmer victory and riots of the Summer. I completed the book with a Post-Script in October to give a certain circularity of structure to thoughts of these haunted later years.

There are many books to come. There is my pre-covid blog, 'All too human' that began in 2013, with over two thousand articles to publish, and there are too my postings from May 2024 to the present to process. I do not think I will go into the darkest of rooms without leaving thoughts and observations behind me.

I listened through the wonders of technology to the text that I have written and was surprised at how it all flowed together seamlessly and with purpose.

The themes are clear and as I age I feel more revolutionary and more daring in my resistance to soiled feelings and flavours of this appalling Starmer government. Over the last four years I have experienced the leaving of the Labour Party of all genuine social justice and socialism.

I am in exile now weaving a resistance upon the borderlands of the body politic. I am a guerilla fighter upon the frontiers desperately resisting the centralising tendency of this bland government.

Elsewhere the far right and fascism builds, unseen by many and heard by few. My late friend Nick Glais once said that fascism has many forms but always appears in multiple ways before it seeks power. Some friends have told me that I see the risks of fascism everywhere and that I am obsessed and see through a mirror darkly. Yet, I notice that those who say that of me are now declining in number as time ticks the fascism around the stars of politics.

The Overton window has taken the political parties far to the right over these four last years and the unacceptable language and images of many contain a subtext laced with the spirit of Weimar and the fog of Kristallnacht.

Many times I have summoned the metaphors, metonymys, meanings and methods of an earlier, darker history that I am too aware of. I have said that I am both Jacobin and Jacobite; I am of two haunted faiths holding on in a culture that contains the seeds of hope whilst seeing all around the hopelessness and hunger of so many. The old men at the Welfare are ramping up their resistance to me whilst many others not of my faith or fortune give me support and succor as I sit in the lesser hall at those long monthly meetings that creep in their own petty pace without awareness till the last syllable of recorded time. I have learnt how valuable the support of Nigel Craddock, Carl Williams and Graham Davies has been. And, whilst I feel a growing respect for those like Meurig Evans and Adrian Williams, I sadly see amongst some others the shade of the storm trooper and the implied threats of the narrow-minded bigot and the frightened child hiding from reality.

These words, written today as the rain lifts and the sun emerges, spell the truth that we live liminally, within and upon a time of hope. It is both an age of possibilities and poison, an age of despair and daring, an age of pastiche and power. It really is ‘the best of times and worst of times’.

The characters of Dicky Millipede, Marcus Aurielius and Gorwel Richards know well who they are. Sadly, their psyches and shadows are the multiple echoes of the characters found everywhere, in all societies and structures, who dare not examine their shadows and persona. I must admit that whilst I am aware of the savagery of my own shadow I would always mention that every saint has a past and every sinner a future. Whether or not this quote comes from Oscar Wilde or St Augustine it is a truth that is self evident.

To conclude this preface I must say that I am eternally grateful to Councillor Geraint Roberts and Sean Goodsir-Cullen for giving me the final observation to this preface. I dare say that the pompous homilies of his utterances deserve the rich Wildean repost that Sean came up with. There is a certain symbiotic relationship between the observations un comprehended by the first speaker and devastatingly revealed by the second. Irony of ironies all is irony.

Councilor Geraint Roberts: “Martyn Shewsbury shouldn't be on the Council. He thinks that many of us have thin skins, fragile egos and lousy tempers”.

Sean Goodsir Cullen: "Councillor Roberts has the wrong verb. He should say, ‘Martyn Shrewsbury discovered' the truth’”.

And so as the weather improves and I look out of my back window in Commercial Street I tire of playing James Joyce and wish you well.

Martyn.J. Shrewsbury
Tuesday October 22nd 2024.

“There are decades where nothing happens and there are weeks where decades happen”

Vladimir Illyich Lenin

Bramble and Bracken Inside Cover

Christmas at the Welfare; Yule 2052... Eleanora's Prologue.

My name is Eleanora. I am tidying my Grandfather's book collection and editing his vast collections of musings, observations and memoirs. He slipped away aged 94 just a few days ago. He always said he would go in his sleep. His old friend, Dolores Ashcroft Nowicki, said it could be clearly seen in the lines upon his hand. My Grandfather’s favourite saying was Oscar Wilde's comment that “every saint has a past and every sinner a future”. He had curious views both on fate and fortune. What can I tell you of him? He was a Marxist, a Pagan, a gadfly, an iconoclast and a Philosopher, Psychotherapist and a writer, commentator, and observer of the last thirty years. A champagne socialist, a lover of culture and learning. He could be both cruel and kind. Cruel to some, kind to many. He couldn't tolerate ignorance in a world of knowledge, and from his father came a loathing of racism, organised religion, and insecurity of identity. He came from a line of Sephardic Jews, Irish lineage, and Rutland Peasant, yet his accent was impeccable, and yet he loathed all of the myths of the Butcher's Apron and the thick cream of the English class system. His memory was formidable, his sight poor and his book collection vast. I am going to tell you of those times, of the political, environmental, and social tumult of those haunted later years. This story is illustrated from the perspectives of the small town of Ystradgynlais, and of its characters and caricatures, its stereotypes, and its monsters, of its pride and prejudice, and its wonderful wisdom, its selective narrowness, and its wealth of welcome. My Grandfather always talked of the curious belief of someone he called Wayne's World, who curiously had the strange belief that climate change, macroeconomics, and the forces of late capitalism had no bearing on any of the areas of Ystradgynlais and in particular upon Cwmtwrch. My late Grandfather always said that this character, like Donald Trump, had a thin skin, a fragile ego, and lousy temper. My Grandfather would impishly wind him up and light the blue touch paper and retire. He said it was quite easy when the individual concerned could not distinguish ego from echo or indeed trope from troops.

Another character from these days was Dicky Millipede, a pedantic whinger with the soul of a Grantham shop keeper, and the philosophical and cultural knowledge of awareness of someone schooled in the traditions of Thatcherism. He knew the price of everything and the value of nothing. Like the stopped clock that tells the right time twice a day, he was occasionally correct and worth listening too. Yet his voice had a curious, low hum, that reminded you of torture and tribulation. Yet, my Grandfather could bear it more than most, so the dull, drone, and dismal tones of negativity from that of the preceding character. He told me to of someone called Keanu Nickalideon, whose main contribution was to describe how he had belonged to such and such club for the last forty-five years, whilst maintaining a grim brooding presence, that combined a seething anger and boiling misery. His main value was that he had an encyclopedic knowledge of the area and its history. Unfortunately, his social attitudes made the Spanish Inquisition seem Marxist, and Mary Whitehouse a purveyor of free love and orgies. When he couldn't argue you with you factually, his last retort would be to threaten to hit you.

My Grandfather told me of the ghosts, of the hopes and fears of these three treasures, and how each was visited by the Ghosts of Marx, Freud, and Nietzsche at Christmas in the year 2025. This is my prologue and is based upon the stories my Grandfather told me. Apparently before the seas rose, making Neath a coastal town, strange patterns of climate change were presaged as the river rose, leading to the great flood of 2025, that flooded both Tawe Parc and the Heol Pantyffynnon area. My Grandfather had been elected to the Council in May of 2022, defeating the whinging Symion Trotter in a viciously fought election. I understand Symion’s descendants still let my late Grandfather live rent free in their heads.

Anyway, after two years of struggling to establish a Green agenda, and committee for the council, it took the hand of nature and climate catastrophe to foil the hands of the carbon promoters of Wayne's World and Dicky Millipeade. It was December 22nd, 2025, it had been raining for days, even the sceptics were alarmed as the river crept higher and higher. Old Keanu glared miserably from his austere table at Ystrad RFC at his window spot, as Wayne mumbled about agitators and climate activists, a crash was heard. Even Millipede, the oddfellow of Oddfellow Street, was shaken from dreams of riding his moped through Sardinia...the river had broken its banks, and the flood was coming...the Christmas lights flickered and went out. Each of our heroes got to their feet. Their first thought was that Shrewsbury's Marxist hordes were the cause of this flood...and then the fear hit them. Even the shop of the great Twistam would be washed away, but worse far worse than that, the centre of holiness, the inner sanctum, the heart of the community, the conclave of clarity, Ystradgynlais RFC was in danger...was nothing sacred? I will continue the story tomorrow. By the way, you can see me in the pictures, I am the little one on my Grandfather's lap.

Chapter 1

The Great Flood of Ystradgynlais...

The walls of water burst through the banks on either side of the river. Its early progress was deceptively small and went unnoticed. It’s often said that people’s cognitive dissonance prevents them seeing both reality and reason. In the choice between evocative and non-evocative signs, wonders and predictions, it’s possible to spend a lifetime locked in the capacity not to see the obvious.

As the water rose and the crash of the breaking of the bridges was clearly heard, our three heroes fled rapidly to Freudian defence mechanism.

For Dicky Millipede, it was the Freudian defence mechanism of denial who convinced himself there was nothing he could do, and that he would propose a motion saying so at the next Council Meeting. Perhaps he thought he could blame it on the long-suffering Clerk of the Council. The psychological trick worked, and he returned to his thoughts as the trickle of water began to build around his moped.

In the wilds of Boar Valley, Wayne's World fled to the defence mechanism of projection and displacement. This, he reasoned, was a trick of agitators and troublemakers of the Left. What really mattered was the saving of the interests of chemical agriculture, and of the minute numbers of the carbon creating coal industry. The flood was a minor irritant, nothing to do with climate crisis, or indeed anything outside of the frontiers of Boar Valley. He returned to schemes of disciplining Shrewsbury as the water crept up to his ankles. This was his fault, floods like this had been happening for years, long before Shrewsbury came from the outside.

Keanu N brooded on, his root to salvation lay in the defence mechanism of sublimation. All would be well, the gradually growing water pool in the area around Ystrad RFC was just some of the boys having a little pee, there it was, nothing more, and could be ignored. In any case, the growing flotsam and jetsam of plastic bottles, bags, and papers floated on the growing expanse of water. Keanu rationalised more deeply, if that rubbish was not put there by Dog Owners, then it was obviously Shrewsbury’s luckiest from Ynyscedwyn Road. The water continued to build in power and size, but fortunately the mass of rubbish blocked the door, saving Keanu and his mates from the growing waves of water. Soon the club would be isolated as an island of beer, noise, and perverse perception.

And so, as the water rose our three heroes are locked in denial.

Suddenly Keanu, Dicky and Wayne's World heard a voice behind them. Each heard a Germanic voice speak deeply within their mind. “Gentlemen. I am the ghost of Doctor Freud, you will be visited this night by the Spirits of Marx and Nietzsche, who will seek to understand your perceptions and prejudice, and of course your false pride and your false ideologies. Be afraid! Be very afraid!”. The voice stopped abruptly and, confused, each of our heroes looked around The voice snapped back, “Now tell me the first thing that comes into your head when I say the word Ystradgynlais”….

Chapter 2

An interlude with Bramble and Bracken, prophecy and prediction.

As our three heroes were questioned by the ghost of Freud, and the water rose in another part of Ystradgynlais, Bramble stirred in his sleep, woke and shook Bracken out of sleep. “Bracken, wake up, I have had a dream, and I am worried. You know I am much older than you and more serious, but you must listen”.

Bracken opened his eyes sleepily. “Bramble what was your dream?”

Bramble spoke quickly, “I dreamt that the sea came to Ystradgynlais”.

Bracken said quickly “you must wake Martyn!”

“I can't wake him”, said Bramble. He is recovering from a 16 hour Town Council Meeting, listening to Dicky Millipeede drone on and on, it was allied to the sonorous tones of Wayne's World and the dark brooding prejudices of Keanau Nickalodeon. He might sleep for days”.

Bracken thought quickly and said, “We must summon the Dog Council of Cwmtawe”. Bramble thought for a moment. Then he said “Ystrad RFC is surrounded by water. Oddfellow Street is flooding and the mopeds of Millipede are floating away, whilst Wayne's World is convinced that the rising water level in Cwmtwrch is caused by agitators and Marxists peeing out of Windows. Shall we help them?”

Bracken thought for a moment and said thoughtfully, “What would Martyn say?”

Bramble replied thoughtfully. “He would quote Marx, Gramsci and Hegel and I would fall asleep. Then he would say let them get on with it and develop insight”.

“Why are those three so blind to what is going on?” asked Bracken.

Bramble thought for a moment. Then he replied, “They are not Dog Stewards, or indeed in touch with their emotions. If our human Martyn said the sky was Blue and the world round, they would insist upon the opposite. We must summon the Dog Council of Cwmtawe and take action”. He went on thoughtfully.

“Let's begin the Twilight Barking”, he quickly said.

“It’s time to wake Baxter, Tilly and all the dogs we know. We will assemble on the Tick Tock Rugby field.”

“Should we do that?” said Bracken. “It might upset those who are the heart of the community.”

“Yes, most certainly”. replied Bramble. “Let's climb out of the window. We can stack Martyn’s books to create a staircase”.

They worked hard, building a staircase of his many books on Marx, Freud and Nietzsche and, as Martyn slept on, they climbed out of the window an! began barking.

From Cwmtwrch to Cae Bont, from Ystalyfera to Ynyscedwyn, from Pen-y-Cas to the Starving, the dogs of Ystradgynlais were gathering, and were on their way to the Dog Moot on the Tick Tock Field. Soon over 300 dogs were gathered. As each dog approached the moot, each one symbolically peed upon the Ystrad RFC sign near the Tick Tock bowls club.

Bramble approached the microphone and began to speak...

“Dogs of the Ystradgynlais area, our human subjects are in danger. The town is flooding. Let us summon the ancient guardians of the Dogs! Let us send messages to other Dog Councils of the Swansea Valley! By the Spirits of our ancestors who made common cause with humanity 30,000 years ago, Let us cast the circle, call out the quarters, and summon the great dog of history!” They began to invoke the great Fenris Wolf.

In Clydach, the greyhounds of Soror Nyx stirred, as the power built, and the world throbbed with energy. Everywhere, dogs were waking, and the world was balanced in the eye of the Hegelian storm. Powers not raised for 1000 years were awaking, and the dogs were taking control.

Elsewhere, the ghost of Freud analysed on as the water climbed higher, and the ‘three heroes’ fell deeper into denial and darker into lack of insight. The world turned, the waters rose, and destiny called...it was the day of the Dog, whatever Ystrad RFC said. And as all the Dogs began to howl, it was as if Bramble grew in size ’till he became Fenris, the primal Wolf...

Chapter 3

Fenris Speaks...

The gigantic Wolf glanced over the Tick Tock Field. He stood 25 feet at the shoulders but had the eyes of Bramble. His voice sounded like a mighty roar across the assembled throng of Dogs. The field was packed with perhaps over a thousand dogs. Fenris spoke:

“Children of the dog watch, little did you know that I dwelt amongst you as a Cavalier called Bramble. I am here, because as Stewards of Humanity, we stand at the time of Pluto in Aquarius, at a time of great peril for our humans. Look around and see the rising of the river, and at the frustrations of the ghosts of Marx, Freud and Nietzsche. They cannot wake the conscience, the insights, or the perceptions of the three heroes. It’s been left to us, the ancient children of Fenris, to save the Swansea Valley from upstart humanity. The world stands upon a ledge over the abyss. The climate crisis grows, the eye of the storm nears its moment of crisis. Even the ghosts of 19th century knowledge are flummoxed by the ignorance and stupidity they see around them. It is time to take action...let us summon the great dogs of the valley to join us. Begin the chant O children of my loins!..."

Together the dogs cast the circle and howled to the Moon:“Come Merlin, Come Ceridwen, aid us now! By the pee of the dogs, by the smell of the world. By the coming of breakfast, by the lore of the night, we call you, great ones of Clydach stand with Fenris and become the three that is one!”.

With that, each dog peed upon the land in blessing, and the form of two greyhounds began to take shape behind Fenris, and to his left and right. Unfortunately, so much pee was generated that the water moved around Ystradgynlais RFC, and began to drip through the window on to Keanu, locked in to a word association struggle with the ghost of Freud, asking him what he associated with the word “Ystradgynlais”...the words he produced were the same words over and over again...”Rugby 45 years, Rugby 45 years , Rugby 45 years”, in a circle of sounds ad nauseum and eternal. Even the ghost of Freud was struggling...

In Oddfellow Street, the odd fellow that was Dicky Millipede, scarce noticed that his moped now floated away towards Ystradgynlais Cross, as his mind filled with notions of becoming dictator of Ystradgynlais and to fulfil his ambition to get a motion passed at Council. He couldn't also get out of his mind to become God Emperor, Town Clerk, and to really fix Shrewsbury.

And so, as the drama intensified, and the plots thicken, the world turns, we await the next stage in the drama of Hegel made...manifest in Ystradgynlais...the magic was working in practice without any of our heroes understanding the theory that was unfolding...the three faces of the 19th Century had returned, and a Post-Modern Ragnarök was here. The Rainbow Bridge was shattered, and all things were released, as we crawled to completion and sublimation. It was the Tower card of the Tarot and Hexagram 49 of the I Ching...the three that were one in both human and dog world had returned at the finbulwinter of 2025...

Chapter 4..

The world of December 2025.
(And now the narrator breaks in, in true post-modern style...)

As we leave our heroes locked in debate with the ghost of Freud, and the conclave of Fenris on the Tick Tock Field, I must tell you of the world outside of the Swansea Valley and Ystradgynlais. Many would have you believe that the world outside has no impact, meaning or influence. I know that both Keanu and Wayne's World feel this, and that Dicky Millipeade manipulates it, doing his best to pronounce Welsh names whilst being corrected by Councillor Emyr Owain to his great irritation.

As we look around the world, we find change and challenge everywhere. In the USA, the election of November 2024 remains deadlocked a year later. Trump and Biden tied at 200 electoral college votes each, whilst the independent one Peter Buttigieg, took 138. The West Coast and the East Coast states North of Richmond are seeking secession, whilst California has already gone. A horrendous Gilead dominated by Trumpian forces is emerging across the South and into the rust belt states. Washington is surrounded by militia from the Patriot Prayer group and the Proud Boys. Washington and the District of Columbia have declared themselves a sovereign Republic and an alliance between Black Lives Matter and the Squad have created the equivalence of the Paris Commune of 1870. The USA is over, with 40% of its electorate not excepting the result as true valid or believable.

In the UK, the Starmer victory by just 20 MPs, has left the Left within the Labour Party holding the balance of power. A group of six independent Socialists led by Corbyn and Abbot, with a dozen Greens, cooperate for a new Green Eco-Socialist agenda. A last-minute surge by the SNP meant that they elected 45 members of Parliament, and with polls showing the Green Party at 25%, it’s clear that a realignment on the Left is beginning. The New Conservatives, led by Suella Braverman and Nigel Farage, conspire with Neo-Fascist elements, and street battles are breaking out everywhere, particularly in London and Bristol, Manchester and Birmingham between the anti-fascists and the street gangs of Tommy Robinson.

In Wales, Welsh Labour declares itself an independent party, as a result of Starmer’s boys seeking to expel 50% of the membership for supporting Welsh independence. In an equally close fought election for Welsh First Minister, Beth Winters emerges in a close fought election after winning Brecon, Radnor and Cwmtawe in a by-election December of 2024.

In the North of Ireland, the Republic of Derry is declared, and Sinn Fein take two thirds of the seats in yet another Election for the Assembly. The DUP, reduced to four seats in Parliament, declare a new Ulster, and on the Creggan, the buses go up in Flames as street fighting spreads. Within the Irish Republic, Sinn Fein polls 51% in an election and declares a United Ireland.

Across Europe, rapid and sustained social and radical movements emerge, as Europe revolts against neo-liberalism. Catalonia and the Basques declare independence. In Germany, the AFD become the largest party of the state, whilst the second party is that of the Greens. A far-right coup, instituted by the Azov Legion, seizes power in the Ukraine, and in Russia the Kremlin is stormed by the New Bolshevik party.

In India, Modhi is assassinated by Marxist guerrillas and in Israel, Nethanyanu by a lone suicide bomber. In Greece an army plot allied to the Golden Dawn, seek to install a military administration, and fighting begins on the Greek-Turkish border.

A new Middle East War begins, as the Likud party moves with poison gas and nuclear weapons at the remnants of the Palestinians. Crazed with anger, the new Dictators of Israel threatens to nuke Mecca, Cairo, Istanbul and Damascus. Trump claims these are the last days and the end times. Across the USA and within the South, hundreds of thousands await the second coming of Christ and the Rapture.

This is the world outside of the Swansea Valley. It's about to impact even to Ystradgynlais and to Cwmtwrch.

So as the world drama unfolds, and the world turns to the eye of the Hegelian Storm, we return to the Tick Tock Field to Fenris-Bramble, his Lieutenants Merlin and Ceridwen, and their Vicar Dog upon Earth, the very holy Bracken. Fenris-Bramble calls out to the Conclave of Dogs assembled on the Field.

“Now is the time for the holy Astrolobe. We must consult the night sky. We must look at the position and transits of the fixed Stars and the wandering planets. Bracken, fetch hither Martyn's Astrolobe, his Ephemeris for December 2025, and the books of Marx, Nietzsche and Freud. In the words of Leonard Cohen, “there is a mighty judgement coming and it won't be long”.

Chapter 5

“In the year 2025...”

As Martyn slept on, his mercurial mind floated and sorted his memories. From 1969 a song floated into his dreaming psyche ...“in the year 2025 if Ystrad Rugby can survive you may find”...and the words floated up from further on into the song... “in the year 3535 you won't need to tell the truth or tell no lies, cos everything you think, feel or do the Committee will tell you to”...he lapsed into a deep, dreamless state of NREM sleep, whilst all around him...floods rose, dramas began, hauntings developed, as the conclave of Dogs evoked, invoked, and reached out into the Second Road...

In the island that was Ystrad RFC, the ghost of Freud laboured on. No other case, in the course of his long analytic life, has shown so much resistance to discovering the nature of an Id within Keanu. I must call up the shade of Jung, Adler, Gross and Reich to assist. Elsewhere, the shades of Marx and Nietzsche headed for Cwmtwrch and Oddfellow Street...

As Wayne's World contemplated his next move, his thoughts were to refer the whole matter of the flood to the Next General Management committee of the Town Council in five years time, where they would produce a statement to be acted on in twenty years’ time. As he thought this fiendish plan, he heard a soft voice with a German accent speak to him.

“Wayne?” the voice, now clear, went on...“it’s a long way from the British Library to the wilds of Cwmtwrch. When did you last read my works. Or did you ever? I am now going to read you the first three chapters of Kapital, chapters one to three, over and over again, till you understand the relevance of them to 2023 and even unto Cwmtwrch.”

In Oddfellow, the odd fellow heard a German voiced figure step over his floating moped, and said to the stunned Millipead, “I am beyond Good and Evil. Behold the twilight of the idols”.

The voice went on and on, with a mighty flourish, Dicky saw the gigantic moustache on the phantoms upper lip reflected in the starlight shining upon the waters, on which floated his moped.

The voice shouted loud and the words “Ecce homo” sounded like a trumpet call throughout Central Ystradgynlais, shaking the Town to its foundations. At Ystrad RFC great cracks appeared in the walls and water began to pour into the bar. Oddly its inhabitants did not notice as their music licence allowed them to play music at top volume.

On the Tick Tock Field Fenris-Bramble began to speak words from long ago.

“He's taken everything old earth can give and he ain't put back nothing.

Man has cried a million tears for what he never knew, now man's reign is through.

But through eternal night the twinkling of starlight. So very far away maybe it's only yesterday”.

Fenris-Bramble spoke that which was from the book of Zager and Evans, written in the mythical times of our ancestors. The prophecy has spoken the day is here...Ystradgynlais needs us. The cycles of time have turned and its Judgment Day...

Chapter 6

The convocation of a million spheres and the mending of the world.

Across the Tick Tock the thousands of Dogs raged and raved at upstart humanities neglect of the world. Fenris-Bramble cried out with a mighty voice...“Bring hither the Astrolobe of Martyn. We must correct time, we must change probability, and adapt fate and fortune. Merlin and Ceridwen bring out the healing of the world, and craft its mending! Let us call for the Hound of the World’s Pain to walk amongst us! Neptune is entering the sphere of Aries, late capitalism is in crisis. Techno feudalism lays in ruins, and cloud capitalism is no more. By Gramsci, Trotsky, Marx and Engels, dissolve false consciousness and unleash the paradox and contradictions of the superstructure! Post-structuralism be by my side and may post modernism walk beside me! Scatter the Fascists and the racists by the power of insight and self-awareness! Bless the biosphere and the material base! In some weeks decades occur...May this be such a time. Let us all avoid both the tragedy and farce of history. May all that is solid melt into air!”…

With great care, Merlin and Ceridwen placed the Astrolobe in the centre of the field and walked around it three times widdershins. “We are the conclave of the Druidic Dog Trots”, they intoned. And from each plate of the Astrolobe there shot lights of deepest red. In the sky the words appeared “A spectre is haunting Ystradgynlais”, and all of a sudden it was as if the mechanism and history of the world changed, as the Hegelian dialectics were altered by the forces of history. The process of historical materialism was changed, and the superstructure of time and space was irrevocably changed. History was altered, the world was healed, and all of a sudden Bramble and Bracken awakened. Bracken awoke on his IKEA settee and Bramble looked around. They both had had nightmares of possible dystopian futures.

Bramble was shaken by his capacity to dream of such individuals and beings and said so to Bracken. Bracken agreed, and told Bramble to wake Martyn so that they could have breakfast.

After breakfast Martyn switched on his PC, checked his email, and looked at Twitter. He smiled to himself and watched Prime Minister Jeremy Corbyn meeting President Bernie Sanders in Downing Street. It had been a heartening victory for the Socialist Labour Party in the election of December 2024. A universal basic income scheme had been introduced. Everywhere workers’ cooperatives were taking over industries and business. The Health Service was expanding, and the public services thriving. The class system of the UK was being changed irrevocably in favour of ordinary people everywhere.

Martyn ate his breakfast it was going to be a busy day. He was off to meet the Town Clerk. In the election of 2022, the Socialist Labour Party had won 13 of the sixteen seats upon the Town Council, and Martyn had found himself unexpectedly Chairman of the Council. In Powys, the Labour group led by David Thomas, in alliance with the Greens, had captured control and were cleaning up the River Wye. The large farms were being broken up in favour of a fair and just ownership of land. Martyn had a meeting with Councillor Mathew Gough of Cwmtwrch, Councillor Olwen Maidment of Abercrave, Councillor Zoe Allan of Llandrindod and Councillor Roger Maidment of Ystradgynlais,. Martyn answered his phone and laughed to the dogs. “You never guess what boys, some idiot called Farage wants us to leave Europe and Donald Trump wants to run to be President of the USA.

It's time to retire, write my memoirs and be a Grandfather. But you know, I had some very strange dreams last night, I dreamt of the ghosts of our movement’s founders last night. Anyway, Bramble and Bracken, I am off to the community owned sports centre just off Ynyscedwyn Road near College Row. I heard that a few individuals have claimed it would be run better as a privately owned limited company called the Rugby Club. I will be back later to walk you two along the riverbank.” He smiled, whistled the Red Flag, and set off.

Bramble looked at Bracken and smiled, “You know Bracken, humanity has yet to realise that we dogs are the deities of Time and Space, the manipulators and shapers of Hegel and Marx. Nietzsche, Freud, and Gramsci are friends of ours. It's hard to imagine that there ever were people wanting to keep us off the Tick Tock Field”.

“Yes,” said Bracken. “Fenris, I mean Bramble, I worry about Martyn sometimes, he sees dark things in his dreams, and dreams of curiously odd people with strange ideas and attitudes.”

Bramble smiled and said, “Don't worry Bracken, it's because he is a psychotherapist with degrees in Social Anthropology and Classics, as well as Philosophy and Literature.” “Yes”, said Bramble, “as Martyn says ‘every saint has a past and every sinner a future.’” Happily, they fell asleep in the Sun, humming the Internationale...“yes” said Bramble to himself sleepily, “Bramble and I are agents of Fortune.” He made up his mind to listen to Martyn's CD, ‘Agents of Fortune’ by Blue Oyster Cult and, as he slipped away into sleep, he thought of reading Vittius Vallens on Fate and Fortune. He thought of his approach and quoted to himself Valens’ thought…on this matter…As Martyn walked around the beautiful playing fields, he rang the Chairperson of the CLP, Ivan Monckton, and arranged the visit of the new First Minister Mick Antoniw...things were improving...

Eleanora's Postscript...

“Those who engage in the prediction of the future and the truth, having acquired a soul that is free and not enslaved, do not think highly of fortune and do not devote themselves to hope, nor are afraid of death, but instead they live their lives expressively in the cause of good, nor become depressed in the case of bad, but are content with whatever is present. Those who do not desire the impossible, are capable of bearing what is preordained through their own self-mastery and being estranged from all pleasure and praise, they become established as soldiers of fate.” Vittius Valens, 175 CE.

The challenge of fate and fortune is very demanding and perplexing. I always ask the question what happens when fate kicks in upon your dance through life? I am a Hegelian by choice, and a Marxist through observation. I am well aware of Gramsci's axiom concerning the pessimism of the intellect and the optimism of the will. Lenin's comment that there are decades when nothing happens, and weeks when decades happen is clearly true. I am curiously sceptical about prediction but not about archetypal prediction and its implications.

The song by Rupert Holmes called “The people that we never get to love” fits into this approach and leaves me with a suspicion, at least, of curious connections across space, time and structure. To the pre-Christian world all beings were encased within the world and lived, died and were manifest there. In the age of the True Faiths, things are different and the Sky Fathers of the Abrahamic faiths are outside the world judging, observing both immanent and transcendent in scope and knowledge. Yet I remain aware that all salvation lies within finding a Saviour that frees us from Saviours.

Personally, I stand with Homer when he says that we will never be again and hence are truly beautiful thus making the Gods envy us. Anger, guilt, shame and ecstasy are all parts of the human condition and in our connections with one another all salvation becomes a personal action. It is judgement day for someone, somewhere, every day. The unfortunate and fortunate of change, chance, probability and possibility, may well be echoed in the events and process of the natural world, but we cannot determine whether it is sign, symbol or of significance. I have long suspected that fate is not signed but merely signified.

A chance meeting can change a life for good or bad, it can open the gates of heaven or hell or take us to love or hate. At best part determinism seems at least partial to my thoughts this morning. But most of the time probability or the metaphors of sliding doors on opportunities and significance appeals most of all. We catch echoes of self in others and others in self. We understand through projections, displacements and denials. I love the indeterminacy of life in all its forms...as I wander the timeliness with daemon or demons that I meet at the crossroads with Mother Hecate and Dame Fortune. Become who you are and regret nothing...”

Some Canine Cogitations……

(Waffles explains Town Council Meetings to Bramble and Bracken)

It was another Friday morning as Bramble and Bracken went for their walk. Bramble turned to Bracken and said “Martyn came home very late last night and fell deeply asleep very quickly." “Yes'” replied Bracken, "I heard from my friend, Waffles, that he had been to a three-and-a-half hour town council meeting at that mystical building called the Welfare! What's that all about Bramble?"

Bramble thought deeply and then answered. “Well Tilly from Tawe Parc explained to me how Gorwell Richards, in his unique style of pompous homilies, spent some time explaining to the rest how using the same capital letters that someone has in their name can be used satirically. "

Bracken looked confused and said, “So when Marcus Aurielius thought Martyn called him Dicky Millipeade he was wrong?”

“Yes”, replied Bramble, “that's it!”, smiling. “Apparently, according to Gorwel, satire is anti-democratic’"

“So Bramble”, laughed Bracken, 'Tony Benn was right when he said, that if you want to find out who rules over you, discover who you cannot criticise. (Bramble argued that it was a quote by Voltaire…..)

Bramble looked knowingly about and whispered to Bracken "indeed!"

As the dogs walked on they ran into their friend Waffles.

Waffles asked them both if it was true that the dogs’ steward Martyn was about to publish his book. They told him it was, and Bramble asked: “So explain to us how it is that only the right sort of person is acceptable?”

Waffles looked thoughtfully and said: "Baxter the Beagle and Sarah the Spaniel told me that despite being of different experiences, attitudes and philosophies and psyches all Councillors have to think the same."

Bramble considered for a moment and said "So you can't say ‘old’ any more even if 90% are over 65 and from a certain ethnic background"

Waffles quickly responded “Oh is that what 'woke' means?”……

“I don't think so”, said Bramble, “Martyn is 66 and a Marxist and does a lot of blood pressure raising to keep them on their toes…Martyn admits to being an old man in a hurry”.

“I met a little dog in Aldor Avenue who told me that when Martyn’s book comes out, the Town Council will be employing over 100 staff to deal with the flood of complaints”. The three dogs laughed and walked on. The rain had stopped. A beautiful autumn was unfolding. As Bramble walked on he thought “Poor Gorwel he will be spending weeks referring to sections of it wondering if it’s about him”.

Bracken thought, "well I guess Marcus Aurielius will have Gorwel to explain it to him. He will probably think he's Vittius Valens”. The dogs roared with laughter and returned to letting their stewards pick up their crap and put it in the bins.

Waffles thought as he wandered away "I wonder who picks up the compost at the Welfare?" But, he soon forgot that thought and ran off after his ball. And, of course, he didn't run across the Tick Tock Field......

THE END