ARTIST PROFILES 3

EFFRAN’S VIEW






EFFRANS VIEW 2

Well, here we are again then.
I’ve been meaning to put pen to paper
(or should it be fingers to keys)
for ages now. It’s not that I’m lazy
or anything, it’s just that everything seems
to get in the way of sitting down and actually
getting started, if you know what I mean.
No matter, I’m back. For all of you who have been
holding your breath waiting for my next piece of drivel,
you're probably dead by now.
But to all my new readers, please read on.
Coming up on today’s page is . . . . . .
but surely you don’t want to know what’s coming next.
I bet you’d rather read it for yourselves.
I bet your gagging on your own saliva in anticipation of what’s to come.
Why would you want me to spoil it by giving it all away?
Actually, it’s gonna be pap;
but I don’t want you to know that, do I?
So why don’t the T.V. companies get that?
Why do we suddenly need so much information
about what’s coming next?
Don’t get me wrong, I totally understand
the need for programme promotion.
That’s always been a part of an evening’s viewing.
But a whole sub-culture seems to have emerged
hell-bent on giving the game away.
And there’s no getting away from it;
dramas, documentaries, comedy’s, films
and even children’s television.
All of them are fair game for the
“Let’s spoil your viewing” merchants.
What’s worse, is that we seem to be
quite happy to let it happen, and
judging by the number of magazines on the subject,
happy to spend our time and money exploring
the tele-visual future. Personally, I like surprises.
I like to be kept guessing. But then, I’m just
an old fart who’s well past his sell-by, I guess.
It’s just that now, instead of being a nation of
viewers, we are fast becoming a nation of critics.
And I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.
For me, the jury is still out. I would love to hear what you think.
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IRONY OF THE WEEK: Thanks to the person who wrote to the tele-text letters page to say that the long-life light bulbs that his local council had supplied him with to help save the planet were made in China. That’s a bit like leaving the car in the garage for a fortnight so you can go off on holiday on board a 747. I don’t honestly believe that planting a fuckin’ tree is gonna help much though, do you?
____________________________________________________________







“IT’S LATER THAN YOU THINK!” as the saying goes.
But maybe for some people it’s earlier than they would like it to be.


I went to a party a while ago and I was astonished to be asked by the host not to smoke in his house. If I wanted to smoke I had to do it outside. Now there were only 3 of us out of maybe 20 or so people in the room, so we were clearly in the minority. Dutifully, every time we wanted a fag, we would go outside and stand like the three witches from Shakespeare and blow our smoke over each other and mutter obscenities about what a crappy party it was anyway. Come the revolution, brothers, non-smokers would be the first to go to the wall. Unreasonable, I know, but it was a fuckin’ cold night. Besides which, the host himself used to be an 80-a-day man once upon a time. He wouldn’t have put up with it in his day.
When sobriety kicked in again the following morning, and after I’d said sorry for pissing on the garden gnomes, I took the host to task over the smoking ban he had imposed. “Well my friend,” he said, “Both you and I know that this is the shape of things to come”. And he was right, of course. From April this year in Wales, the only place smokers will be allowed to partake in their (still legal) past-time will be in their own homes or in the car. Or standing in huddled groups outside pubs and restaurants. Like mini leper colonies for the socially unclean. Of course, I do understand the health concerns about smoking. But is it a good thing for any society to discriminate against anyone within that society? And if we are going to start going down that road, who will be next?
It could be any one of us.



I would love for this story to be true:

Many years ago, a man came home from work exhausted.
He sat down in his favourite chair
and he called his wife and 7 children to him.
“Today, family, I have made a decision that will effect all of us.
I have decided that I am going to go into business for myself.”
His family looked at him with great surprise. For here was a man who had never taken a risk in his life.
“What kind of business can it be that you are willing to gamble our future, husband? Are you to become an arms manufacturer? Will you try your hand as a turf accountant? Pray tell us what manner of business can make a man as careful as you leave the security of his bookkeeper’s desk for the cut and thrust of commerce.”



“Well, wife,” he said, “I am going to go into the manufacture and distribution of toilet rolls. But not any old toilet rolls. Oh no. My toilet rolls will be the best in the land. They will be soft, like angel’s wings wrapped in velvet. They will be strong like woven cotton and the rolls will be long enough to reach to the moon.
I tell you, my loving family, we are going to be rich.”
“My God,” said his wife, “And what do you intend to call this wonderful new product of yours?”
“Well that’s where you all come in.” said the husband. “You see, I wanted to name it after one of you. The problem I had, whose name should I choose? I didn’t want to be accused of favoritism. However, I think I have found a solution. I am going to write all your names on a piece of paper, tear them, fold them and put them into a hat. Whoever is drawn from the hat will have their name incorporated into the brand name of my new product.”
While the children chatted excitedly about Father's proposal, he reached down into his briefcase and took out a sheet of paper. He proceeded to fold it in half, in half again and in half for a third time. When he opened it out, the paper was divided into 8 equal rectangles.
“Before you start writing, dear,” said his wife, “I think it’s probably best if you keep this just between the children, don’t you? They really would think it was a fix if my name came out of the hat.”
“Perhaps you are right, my love.” replied the man.
And so the man began to write.
Mary Anne, David, Elisabeth, Thomas, Michael, Rachael and Jemima.
As he wrote the name of his youngest daughter in the 7th rectangle on his sheet of paper, he felt a tug on his sleeve. He turned to see the big blue eyes of his youngest child staring back at him.
“Daddy,” she said, in her sweetest 5 year-old's voice, “you won’t forget the other member of the family, will you?”
Her father looked to see where his little girl was pointing. In the corner of the room was a small dog basket. Curled up inside was a 6 month old golden retriever puppy.
“Of course not, darling,” he smiled back at her.
And so in the final rectangle on his sheet of paper he wrote ‘And Rex.’


Well, that’s me done. I hope those of you that have taken the time to read this page have found it at least a little entertaining. For those of you who didn’t get to the end, well you won’t be reading this, will you?
My final thought? Thank fuck I’ve finished!
I have been Effran Kaye. Goodbye.









Effran doesn't read the Daily Mail...
but thinks Rhondda people might want
to read this particular article:

READ IT - IF YOU WISH -
BY PRESSING THE LINK BELOW: