We briefly met Patrick Jones, the pot-bellied high priest of bad poetry, as he interrrupted a light snack of twelve roasted turkeys, six legs of lamb and a wheelbarrow of chips to give us his poetic insights into the welsh political landscape.

"Erm, I'm Patrick Jones. Nicky Wire's my brother. I'm also mates with James Dean Bradfield, who lets me hang out with him because I make him look thin. Here's my latest poem. Please don't make fun of my contorted use of adjectives or I shall be forced to eat you. Now, I shall begin.

Wales is a land of devastation
And other things rhyming with alienation
My poetry is verbal masturbation
I recently watched TV Nation
It was quite good
Michael Moore is even fatter than me.

I'm such an influence on the Manics you know. I'm the reason Nicky is so thin and neurotic, because throughout his childhood I was stealing his dinner. Do not mock me! They'd have been nothing without me! Nothing, you hear? Nothing! You think Richey would have learned to mix up verbs and adjectives in a weird way without my careful tuition? Hey, where are you going? Come back! Worship me, you fools!"

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