Posted by: docdenbow | October 6, 2013

Welsh Dave Is A Child Of The Rarn

I have a friend. Shut up at the back, I have a friend. Well, in point of fact I have a few friends; quite a few friends I’ll have you know. My friends, in the main, have my best interests at heart. Several of them have told me things which they say will ultimately lead me to be *in a happier space* whatever that means. My mate Welsh Dave told me that he could tell me that special thing. He’s called Welsh Dave because he’s Welsh by the way. Given that I live in Swansea and have done for 30 odd years and all of my friends are Welsh, being known as Welsh Dave is strange. Mind you Welsh Dave himself is strange, very strange. I thought that my obsession with Bigfoot/Sasquatch and his/her apprehension made me strange. No, Welsh Dave makes my strangeness seem normal. I think he ought to be called Strange Dave or even Strange Welsh Dave, but I’m far too polite to even broach the subject. His friends , who are not necessarily my friends – some are, some aren’t – call him Welsh Dave The Tw*t or sometimes just The Tw*t. He’s also called Siadwell by one particularly callous bastard. If you remember Naked Video on the telly then you’ll know why calling Welsh Dave Siadwell make this callous bastard, a callous bastard.

As I said some of Welsh Dave’s friends are also my friends. Some are not my friends. Some of those who are not my friends are indifferent to me as they don’t know me. Others who are not my friends, but are Welsh Dave’s friends hate my guts. It took me a while to figure out why they hate my guts. It’s like this. When you have friends I always thought you had to be nice to them and help them them out in times of trouble when Mother Mary couldn’t come to them and they didn’t want to let it be. Welsh Dave’s other friends – the friends that don’t include me – do not subscribe to this definition of friendship. Not at all. Their idea of friendship is to use the social protocols to rip the p*ss out of the weakest member of the pack without mercy. Welsh Dave is, of course, the weakest member of the pack. the runt of the litter. I don’t do that so, these cretins hate me. Another reason they hate me is that they think that I think they’re cretins. You can’t win can you?

Anyway, Welsh Dave thinks he’s a bit of a mystic. He calls himself “A Prophet, A Seer, A Sage, An Angel Of The Age.” Quite why is a mystery to most, but I happen to know that he is a secret Marc Bolan fan and worships at the shrine of the Electric Warrior and “Prophets, Seers and Sages, The Angels of the Ages” is the title of Tyrannosaurus Rex’s second album. Anyway Welsh Dave is neither a Prophet, Seer or Sage. He sure as sh*t is no Angel Of The Age. He does make statements as if he’s some kind of Deity or Village Elder. Much as he’s a good laugh, Village Idiot would be a more suitable epithet if we are talking nomenclature. (F*ck me that sentence ended well, this bloke’s good!) Anyway Deity Dave (I’ve just thought that up – bloody suits him, it does) gave me his wisdom that was to enable me to put me *into a happier space.*

His wisdom that was going to put me *into a happier space* was odd and dare I say it, strange? It was very strange indeed. Yet before the Deity was ready to impart his words of wisdom he first subjected me to a barrage of questions. He told me that answering his questions would allow him to impart his wisdom.
“Can you play G, D, Dsus4, C and Am?” the Mystic asked looking at a grubby envelope.
I nodded in the affirmative.
“What about barry chords?” he continued.
“They’re barre chords and yes I can play barre chords.” The shaman looked impressed and elated in equal measure.

He turned to faced the ducks, geese and swans in Brynmill Lake, raised his hands skywards and began to sing,

“We are children of Rarn
We’ve trodden the vales of the sun
The child will cry
On swans they fly
We are the children of Rarn

And we are the seekers of space
We’ve seen our master’s face
It’s young and gold
And silvery old
We are the seekers of space”

Welsh Dave had lost it, of that I was sure. He then turned to face me,

“The prophecy is fulfilled, you are he and he is you. In you he is reborn!”
“Dave,” I said, “what the f*ck are you talking about?”
“Denbow,” he replied, “you are Marc Denbow returned to free the bopping elves from darkness and lead them into the light”
I shook my head sadly.
“I’ve got you a gig in the Spit and Sawdust! Marc Denbow’s T.Rox!”

I pushed him gently into the lake and stood watching with detached interest as a particularly aggressive mallard savaged him whilst the swans look on.

Ciao For Now

Marc Denbow


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