My Taid

                                  

This is a picture of me and my Taid (Grandfather) a few months before he passed away back in 2002, aged 86. He was a wonderful gentleman who taught me so much, especially in the first seven years of my life as at that time I lived with my mum, him and my Nain (Grandmother). He could only speak Welsh until he was about 10 years old and after working as a boy on farms doing all kinds of manual labour he then trained to be a welder. He worked all over north Wales, Liverpool and the north west of England - was invited to go and watch Everton by his work mates, became a lifelong Toffee (he introduced me to Everton in turn) - and became hugely active in the unions and in politics. He was blacklisted for sticking up for his work mates and union work against the business owners of huge companies such as ICI (he risked doing this even though he had a wife and two children for whom he was financially responsible) and was constantly fighting for better wages and work conditions for him and his colleagues. He was a lifelong socialist and despised Thatcher and Reagan's Capitalist policies due to its scandalous unfairness and blatant inhumanity to our fellow human beings.

- The glorious Cardiff Arms Park Stadium

I miss the long chats we used to have so much - as well as being incredibly knowledgeable about politics and history he also loved listening to Welsh choirs, Max Boyce, and was also well read in literature and poetry - but I'm kind of relieved that he hasn't had to witness the apathy and not giving a shit about politics attitude which has contributed enormously to the increasingly right wing "it's all about me/you can only focus on yourself" neoliberal society we live in today.

He cared deeply about people and often stood side by side with his work colleagues even though it often cost him work, money, reputation and employment opportunities (which was hard enough to find as it was) to do so.

- Everton captain William Ralph "Dixie" Dean, with the F.A. Cup at Wembley in 1933 (One of those supporters could actually be my Taid)

                                                     -  The Park End at Goodison, 1960s

We loved going to watch the footy together, and attended many matches, whether that was at Goodison to see Everton or to watch Wales at his beloved Cardiff Arms Park or The Racecourse Ground in Wrexham. He told me about so many cultural figures - Paul Robeson, Wilfred Owen, Nye Bevan, and I loved telling him about the people I'd discovered, too.

- Paul Robeson

One tale which I can relate here sums up in some ways the kind of man he was, someone who had no time whatsoever for unfairness.

My Taid suffered from severe arthritis for most of the later years of his life, and one day when he was in his early eighties, he had driven into the local town to get some things that he and my Nain needed, and he had parked in the disabled bay in the car park by the shops in his little red Robin Reliant three wheeler. (I could tell a hundred stories about that three wheeler!) When he got back to the car, a man in a coach had blocked him in so he couldn't get out. When the coach driver finally returned after about twenty minutes or so, my Taid told him how inconsiderate it was that he had parked where he had and blocked him in. The coach driver (who was in his late 20s/early 30s) was all cocky and arrogant, and swore at my Taid and told him to fuck off, so my Taid - and I am so incredibly proud of him for this - hit him on the head with his walking stick. The man then made a scene but moved his coach and my Taid drove home. The next day two policeman turned up on my Nain and Taid's doorstep as this utter gobshite had reported him. When my Taid explained to the police what the coach driver had done, and then related what had happened between them, they chuckled and thought that what my Taid had done was actually hilarious, and agreed with why he had done it. They said he wouldn't be charged this time as the man hadn't been injured, but they had to warn him about his future conduct! They drank my Nain's mugs of tea and then went on their way.

This story sums up my Taid for me. He was always on the side of the underdog and the oppressed, and I hope that arrogant coach driver has never forgotten the day an eighty year old man taught him a thing or two about picking on someone who he perceived to be weaker and therefore thought could bully.

I still miss you, Taid. Everyone says Hi.

- Me and my Taid, early 70s.

Is it any Wonder That We're Struggling?

 

- Dan Flavin, The Nominal Three (to William of Ockham)

"Crucifixion is the easy life."

- Richey Edwards of the Manic Street Preachers,
 'Doors Closing Slowly'.

A dear friend of mine posted earlier today on his social media that this week is mental health awareness week. I was listening to an interview with Bret Easton Ellis yesterday, and he said something that really struck me: he said that we are currently living through our very own equivalent of the Great Plague of 1838-40, only the plague of our time is mental health issues. I couldn't help but feel that this was a pretty accurate way of describing things. It also struck me that it coincided with a Ted talk I was listening to last week where the speaker argued that we are currently, as individuals, probably the loneliest and most isolated from each other than we've ever been in human history. And, of course, part of the reason for this is the very medium I'm using to communicate about this: the internet. It's funny how porn is dismissed as crap lonely sex, yet Facebook isn't comparatively described as crap lonely socialising. But there you go. Anyway, mental health week. I have issues with my mind, as those close to me are aware. I hear lots of advice, i.e., meditate, spend time in nature, do what you love, etc, some of which is no doubt helpful, but much of which is so nebulous as to be meaningless. But after almost ten years of Tory neoliberal austerity, it really is no surprise that we are facing this crisis. People are increasingly living empty, meaningless, lonely, anxiety driven lives. In a world of zero hour contracts, welfare cuts, homelessness, the demonising and scorn of the lower orders (which led to the suicide of a participant on that horror fest that is The Jeremy Kyle Show), and the destruction of the planet through global warming, it's really not very surprising that we have a crisis of mental health, is it? Not everyone is able to travel the world and spend three months every year visiting Buddhist temples and attempting to "find themselves" in Thailand, ("what do you think you're going to find out there, that you can't find here?" Johnny in Mike Leigh's Naked), or live a full life, feel like they are worthwhile and contributing and making a difference. But people are increasingly scared, cut off, lonely, frustrated and desperate. What do we expect? Of course, I spend as much time as I can in the world of art, and as is always the case, true artists are aware of things far before it becomes obvious to the unimaginative mainstream majority. The Manic Street Preachers, whose lyric I opened this post with, give voice to and have explored this crushing of the soul in a way few other artists dare. And so, to anyone suffering from mental health issues out there, I dearly hope you are finding a way to work your way through the pain. You're not alone.