Matt Bianco, You’re A Bunch Of Wankers! (A Little Welsh Stage Play) by Paul Tristram

It was a Saturday morning in 1984 and I was sat lacing up my 24 holer Dr. Martens.
I’d been a Punk Rocker since the age of ten and I was now three or four years into it (Old School).
We were sat in my Nana’s up Cwrt Y Clafdy in Skewen.
My Uncle, who’s a year younger than me (My Nana and Mother had been at war with each other forever and when my Mam had me, well, my Nana just had to match her!) was sat next to me watching me like a placid hawk just as he always did (There’s something wrong with him… we’re not quite sure what? He’s not retarded or anything like that and he physically looks normal. He just has no life or personality to him, no interests, no passion, enthusiasm, no style, swagger or music… it’s like he was born without a soul.
Nowadays, we refer to him as ‘The Man Barely Alive’).
My Brother was sat on the floor eating a trifle (?) watching a children’s programme on the box in the corner called ‘Saturday Superstore’.
There was a music group (I use that term very loosely here) on there taking phone calls from the public live on air, when some guy named Simon called in and said “Matt Bianco, You’re A Bunch Of Wankers!”
I chuckled heartily, my brother belly laughed, spitting trifle all over his monkey boots.
Whilst ‘The Soulless One’ merely moved his useless head from me to the TV and then back again expressionless and without even flinching.
It went off in the kitchen (They’d just knocked the wall down separating it from the living room. Not to be modern nor for convenience… it was a statement. The knocking down of structural walls is the only thing you are not allowed to do in a Council House. It showed that my Nana had bought her Council House whilst every other person she knew couldn’t afford to-especially us-it made her upper-lower class? or some other stupid shite like that!).
My Nana was up upon her sturdy feet shouting
“Bunch Of Wankers?… turn that pile of bollocks off, right fucking now you, this minute, mun.
Fucking taking the piss aren’t they, fucking swearing like that… and on a poxy kids show!”
“Fucking horrible cunts they are, mun. Makes me mad as hell. I’d like to get my fucking hands on them… I’d squeeze the fucking life out of them!” offered and threatened my Aunty Betty.
“Aye, fucking and blinding in front of these fucking wasters… all we’ll get out of them for weeks now, see, will be ‘Bunch Of Wankers’ this and ‘Bunch Of Wankers’ that, you just watch, now!” yelled my Mother neurotically.
“Aww, leave the boys alone, mun. They hear worse than that shit in school, I bet you!”
sagely offered my Aunty Nelly.
“I couldn’t give two fucks!” answered my Nana.
“The next time that bastard TV Licence Man comes around here knocking on this fucking door looking for money I’ll fucking crown him… cunt deserves a good fucking hiding for all this fucking palaver, mun!”

paul smoking - Copy

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. Buy his books ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at And a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope at You can also read his poems and stories here!


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