A community radio station was set up in Rhyl last year to cater for the populace of the town & surrounding area. Through the extraordinary efforts of a few hard working people, this brainchild has proved successful in cutting through all the ridiculous red tape that the Broadcasting Authority put potential stations through. SHORE FM RADIO MORFA will be granted their full broadcasting licence on 106.6FM.
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Letter to the press – edited version published in Daily Post
I have to vent my anger and disgust over the manner in which the Events Arena ‘Rockfest’ was abruptly brought to an end, and also in the way it was advertised. Firstly, the council, especially Councillor David Davies, took great pride in pulling the plug before the three more established bands were due to play. On questioning the aforementioned councillor of the implications of his actions so far as the band’s efforts and people who had travelled from other areas to see the headlining bands were concerned, I was given a priggish reply as his colleagues gloated in self satisfaction.
A council approved event carries council responsibilities so I call upon anyone who was left out of pocket as a direct result of the council’s action to write to them with a claim for expenses. And should a miracle happen and you actually recieve any money, then I recommend that it is donated to Shelter, the charity for the homeless people of North Wales, which is, after all, why we agreed to play at the event in the first place. I must also point the finger at the organisers of the event. Apart from the production manager, Noel Kershaw, who executed his part with tireless professionalism, I found the advertising very unusual indeed! The only posters I found were at The Savoy Bistro and my local Chinese Chippy! If you don’t advertise, how are people going to know? Coverage from the local media was also disappointingly minimal.
Maybe there is a lesson to be learned from last Saturday’s farce: Never use council property and don’t trust people who make posters that look like car boot sale advertisements!
Neil Crud’s column published in Second Avenue fanzine – issue 4
When I see that the government are closing down hospitals and dismantling the health service, and on the same breath, splenetically deny that they are doing so, then I see them squeeze the living daylights out of this country and tell us we’ve never had it so good, it makes me want to go out and riot in the streets. A fat lot of good that would do, I’d end up in prison, brandished the scourge of society and nothing will have changed. But it’s not just The Government, it’s local government; the councils; organisations which are so badly run that I’m flabbergasted how on earth these people were elected in the first place. There should be a code of conduct that prevents councils treating ordinary folk like bits of dust which can be swept under a rug. I’m talking about RED TAPE; “Look Sir! You can’t claim a rent rebate because you didn’t send your form back in time.” “But I was only sent it yesterday.” “No I’m sorry Sir, rules are rules.” Things like that make me violently sick.
When I see the state of the world, I see that religion plays a huge part in it’s sad and pathetic state. If a person chooses to believe in a faith then that’s entirely up to he or she. The problem lies with those who try to (and do) implement religion to control and govern. In the dark days when barbarism ruled, the few more intelligent soon learnt that killing thousands of the tribes of people resulted in endless massacre, so why not put the fear of the unknown into them? After all, man has worshipped ‘gods’ throughout history, so why not worship one god through ‘God’s interpreters’? Vicars, Ayatollahs, Evangelists, Popes, Archbishops etc. are all the descendants of this Big Plan. The only thing that went wrong was that too many people had the same idea, so they pitched battles against each other. So as the normal ‘tribal wars’ continued and have done so to the present day over land rights, a new cause to fight for emerged: Religion. “Hey my God is better that your God.”
In one way ‘the fear of God’ did keep the populations in line to an extent, it at least kept the in-house squabblings down, I use the the term in the wake of the James Bulger case, a 16 year old being tortured for a week before being burnt to death and a mother being stabbed to death in front of her 2 year old son. 30 years ago when the church held a tighter grip over society, cases like this were rare, they still occurred but not on a daily basis like today. Having said that, in 1939 the clergy were there praying for the armies of their respective countries as they raped and pillaged their way through nations.
Learnt an essential Greek sentence for hitching – Parakalo, o dhromos ya… [Excuse me, can you show me the road to...]
Woke up after a night on the floor of a ferry having enjoyed a full 2.5hrs’ sleep. Got on a bus and started thinking about finding Andy Fatman somewhere on this huge island. Bus journeys are beginning to piss me off, maybe I’m being over fastidious, but picture the situation; you’ve not had a full night’s sleep for three days, you’re sitting on another coach, this time travelling from the Cretan port of Kastelli to Hania, which is a long excursion, you’re trying the old snatch a quick kip between the bumps in the road routine, but sitting four rows ahead of you is a very loud and irritating man speaking first in Greek and then with a vexatious American accent, trying to convince everyone that Greece is the same size as the USA.
‘The map makers are liars, they simply want to ridicule the Greeks. I can prove it,’ he said, ‘it took me the same time to drive from New York to San Francisco as it did from Thessaloniki to Neapoli.’ And so on he repeated his claim countless times.
I leaned back in the uncomfortable seat, I always had a perverse urge to slash coach seats, now I knew why, I hated everything about the vehicles. Still the crazy Greek-American persisted. Should I disclose that the States possesses an area of 3.5 million square miles to Greece’s comparatively pitiful 60,000, and then stick a size 12 trainer in his unshaven face? Or do I try to ignore him and go to sleep? I elected the latter choice, I had had enough excitement over the last few days & started thinking about finding Andy Fatman somewhere on Crete.
After a bread, crisps and melon breakfast, Wayne and myself wrote out postcards to let everyone in Wales know why and where we were; mainly stating; “Sorry, can’t write much as I’m in a hur…” & posted them home.
We went against the advice of my guide book and attempted to hitch out of town ha! Our destination was Malia, right across the north coast. We started walking out from the leafy and pleasant town centre, to the scummy run down filth of the outskirts. Our rucksacks became heavier and heavier. My back was soaked in sweat after a 5km, 85ºF walk. Wayne and myself have always enjoyed a very light hearted understanding in the seven years that we’ve known each other.
‘You bastard Wayne, this is all your fault.’
‘It was you who decided to hitch you dickhead.’
‘No it wasn’t, anyway I thought you’d have sussed the Greeks out by now.’
‘Look, the Greeks and Cretans are different people, and your guide book said it’s easier to go by bus you long legged wanker.’
So we caught a bus to the capitol Iraklio, (or Iraklion, Heraklio etc.).
My first impression of urban Crete was that it should have been named Excrete after the toilets. I’ll never get accustomed to the Mediterranean style Elephant feet toilets, where the squatting participant has to aim everything down a small hole. Judging by the smell and the number of scored misses it wouldn’t surprise me if elephants actually used these toilets! Give me a quiet corner in a field any day.
We then bussed it to Malia & realised we’d gone too far & had to walk back to Stalida in search of Andy. Rhyl in the summer is a haven for Scousers and Brummies to run riot while the locals mainly keep a low profile. The same can be said for Malia; hardly a Greek to be found amongst the countless English and Germans.
With aim of cadging a floor to sleep on courtesy of Andy Fatman, we embarked on a two hour search for the Stallos Hotel, stopping off to go for a dip in the warm sea & a bask on the beach (hard life!). The hotel was eventually found, but on an attempt to enter the building, the owner, obviously more than used to lager louts, put a palm to my bare chest and said;
‘No English.’ A-ha! I’ve got you here I thought and returned;
‘I’m not English, I’m Welsh and I’ve come to see my friends.’
‘It’s our policy that no English are allowed in.’
‘But I’m WELSH!’
He would not be deterred; ‘No English.’
Do I lose my temper for the first time in nine years? No, although that’s twice in one day that the Greeks have almost made violence a favourable option. I’m going to get along just fine. We never did find Andy Fatman.
Cooked aubergine, courgettes & onion on the beach for tea & slept, again, on the beach tonight. The views on the beach were quite nice, it’s good to see that the women of a reunited Germany are eager to display their liberation!
Been feeling a little pissed off today, probably due to the lack of sleep over the past week. In a bit of a dilemma over what to do next.
Savato [Saturday], Ikosi Enya [29].
12.55am – Just stopped at a service station somewhere 209km north of Athens and like any service station anywhere in the world they know they have a captive audience with needs. My needs were caffienated so I was grateful to be ripped off 200 drachma (60p) for a cup of tea, ok it tasted like shit, but I mustn’t complain, it was good to taste home briefly, now where’s the bacon and egg?
8.10am – We were dropped off in Athens at 3am, happy that the can opening dealer of fate finally dealt us a decent hand and prized our sardined bodies out of that coach called home. Wayne, Donna, Paul, Richard, Adam and myself and an Irish lad called Michael walked up to Omnia Square in the city. Token prostitutes and rent boys masqueraded around for prospective customers, a tramp slept on a wall, sporting only one shoe with his bare foot filthy and cut, he was oblivious to the mayhem of cars, humans and subhumans marauding all around him.
The tube opened at 5am and we commuted to the port of Piraeus where we had breakfast; refusing to pay anymore rip off prices, mine consisted of protein filled peanuts. Wayne and myself said our goodbyes to our North Yorkshire friends, swapping addresses, they were on their way to Paros, whereas we boarded the Ionian ferry with a 9 hour trip to Kythera ahead of us, feasting on stale sesame buns.
6.20pm – Set foot on Kythera at the port of Agia Pelagia. Wayne saw a lot of people he knew from last year’s excursion. We had some food and dropped our excess baggage at ‘The house on the hill,’ which is a gruelling, character building walk! The ferry leaves Kapsali at the south of the island at 2am, so we decided to hitch the 27km across the length of Kythera. We walked uphill with rucksacks to Potamos which is 4 miles and contemplated the reality that we may have to walk the whole journey as darkness fell upon us. Thankfully we got 3 lifts to our destination. Met a Canadian called Jim who’s also going to Crete. Tickets cost £6 each.
Words of the day – Ohi [no], Neh [yes], Efaristo [thank you], Peos [penis]
2.47am – Good morning Yugoslavia
8.50am – The paranoia of the Yugoslavs is running high as every province calls for independence. Independence from what exactly? Freedom? What is freedom? Freedom to vote? When has your vote ever counted? Whoever you vote for the government always wins. Crass always taught me that all governments are the same, they can call it freedom, but slavery’s the game. There were police checks all over the joint and early on we saw a couple of burnt out cars, still smouldering as men in uniform brandishing guns gingerly poked around the wreckage.
We pulled up 70km before Belgrade for a piss stop – and had a refreshing hairwash in the warm sun (not using piss) before heading toward the undergrowth for a little water relief, ensuring we dodged the landmines of human faeces on the way.
1.30pm – The temperature is rising as we head further south, and the quality of the roads is deteriorating. The countryside in Yugoslavia was as interesting as Belgium in the North so I slept as much as possible. The further South we travelled we meandered through Alpine-ish mountains. Had to pay 25 dinar for a crap; not ready for outdoor pooing just yet!
6.50pm – Feta time – Good evening Greece. Had to get our rucksacks out on the Greek border and show the unsmiling customs guys the contents. My whole life laid out in the dust for everyone to see.
8.50pm – Just leaving Thessalonika after changing coaches. The heat is amazing! Just to think, it’s pissing it down in Britain. I wonder if Paul Scouse has put Crud #9 out for me, and if so, what the backlash is?
Greek word of the day – Pempti [Thursday]
5.25am Belgian chocolate time. Arrive surprisingly in Zeebrugge not Ostend, perhaps the ship’s Captain was at the bar putting the world to rights with the drunks last night. The coach belches its darkened fumes to darken the smoggy atmosphere below deck and we handbrake turn out of the port and head for Germany. My first impression of Belgium is I wouldn’t fancy being a hill walker here, it’s so bloody flat. I reckon Chris Bonnington holidays here.
8.20am – Had 3.5hrs kip since leaving London yesterday morning and wished I had raided Ian & Jovis’ drugs cabinet when I had the chance to see if there was any valium knocking around, sleep is virtually impossible. We picked up a further 15 people in Brussels, so there’s not much room to spread these long legs anymore. To make matters worse the driver is entertaining us with Now That’s What I Call Greek Music Vol 68 on cassette. It’s fucking awful, no wonder the twats have never won the Eurovision Song Contest! I think when the time comes to return home I’m gonna hitch-hike.
11.57am – Woke up to find we were on German soil, near Dortmond. The sleeping attempts on this coffin-coach are a living nightmare.
3.25pm – Travelling south toward Munich, stopped off at Frankfurt. Legs slowly going numb.
6.45pm – Arrive somewhere near Munich, managing periodical 40 winks, but divided unevenly to make it to the full forty. Munich seems a very interesting city, particularly if you’re into pre-war architecture.
9.35pm – Now approaching the Austrian border with breathtaking views of The Alps. We stop for a piss-break, the ladies queue patiently, the men revive a withering bush. Won’t see much of the Austrian landscape as night is falling in fast. Time to attempt a proper sleep on this not very comfortable coach. It’s funny that there’s still no excitement to be felt, despite the fact that I’m on a one-way ticket abroad, been through three new countries with two more ahead of me.
I’m now sat on a P&O Ferry (Pisshead Overboard!) in Dover waiting to sail out to Ostend. It’s 11.35pm and I got up this morning as late as possible to consume as much sleep as my body could muster. Now adapting the scavenging for food mentality I used to possess as a poor teenager Wayne and myself stuffed our faces in order to stockpile as many calories as stomachly possible, said goodbye to Ian and Jovis and set on our way.
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Published in Macher fanzine – issue 8
NOW that CRUD and 4Q are near enough fond memories what has replaced them? Macher, in the way of being informative – as far as the Welsh scene is concerned continues to keep in touch, and a-ha PYW DALL have emerged amongst a hail of controversy. I’m in no way stating that Macher or Pyw Dall are Crud/4Q clones (far from it) both are original in their own right. What I’m getting at is that it’s great to see someone else stir shit as Dave did on Ian (stewed to the) Gill’s show stating honest views on Crosville buses among other things.
As well as this, reactions are being stirred in a second rate Welsh magazine called Sothach. Y’know the type I mean, a publication that feels high enough to criticise individuals on a personal basis, when all they’re doing is generating publicity for the people they slag off, there’s no such thing as bad publicity.
My wife arrived home the other day and said: “Neil, I’ve got some news, we’re going to hear the pitter patter of tiny feet.’
“Oh, are you pregnant ?’ I replied.”No, I’ve got crabs.’
See you in number nine, in the meantime keep taking the tablets.
Love and sticky white stuff,
CRUD’S Top 10 playlist.
l. All You Need Is Crud-Beatles
2. Addicted to Crud-Robert Palmer
3. Can’t Buy Me Crud-Beatles
4. Let Crud Rule-Lenny Kravitz.
5. One Crud-Bob Marley
6. I Should Be So Cruddie-Kylie Minogue
7. What Time Is Crud-KLF
8. Groovy Kind Of Crud-Phil Collins
9. Dawns Y Crudiau-Yr Anhrefn
l0. Should Crud Stay Or Should Crud Go-The Clash.
Published in Macher fanzine – issue 7
One finds it increasingly difficult to explain the initial sensation of heat differentation when one immerses ones buttocks into a bath of steaming hot water. The same difficulty is encountered when I put the question to why I compile CRUD. The solution to both puzzling queries is similar – it gives me a hard on!!!!!!
CRUD 8 emerged a year ago, the long awaited CRUD 9 will be induced at hospital very shortly. The reason for such a long gap is that although most of you clean living twat bags would like to see there, I could have provoked HM Hit Squad into pushing a prison sentence my way, due to the fact I’ve been on bail for the previous 6 months. And all because I refer to nuns in a different way to Harry Secombe (I bet he thinks the same way though).
4Q as far as I’m concerned is over & done with, although I hear rumours that Cumi is determined to save his ego & flog the already rotting horse even further. If this turns out to be the case I want MACHER readers to know that I have nothing to do with 4Q anymore, & I am totally against non-original members using the name 4Q to pick up on a captive audience.
My plums are prickling on the thought of another MACHER. Dave has now become a legend among zine writers so keep supporting him you ungrateful cunts. That’s it until my next COMPOST CORNER, keep shooting your rocks off & saving your belly button fluff.
