Welcome back to the home of the oxymoron. Evil genius. He asked the newspaper to print his obituary early so he'd enjoy it. That's like hiding at your own funeral. Yeah, a big, great gig. I'm Russell Kane. Join me to weigh in on whether the biggest players in history are more evil or genius. Becoming that rich, I'd say that is some level of genius. It also helps

it. It's a long time ago, right? It's like the podcast version of telling your kids the ice cream

van plays music when it's out of ice cream. Listen to evil genius on BBC sounds.

Hello, in the second verse of the Welsh national anthem, territory through which Westminster Welsh

secretaries tend to stumble, bleeding and footsore, is a line about old mountainous whales,

paradise of bards. How old is it really, though, and how paradisical, and what's a bard

when it's at home? Tonight the poet, Gwyneth Lewis, the first national poet for Wales,

will be among those helping us find out the truth, or if not the truth, something that sounds really good.

We're going to discover what the country conjured in that anthem owes to some surprising sources,

the dreams of an antiquary in 18th century Primrose Hill, imagery invented by Victorian narrative painters.

And we'll audition a few new ideas that might be shaping Wales now, resurgent Scottish nationalism, perhaps, and a new way of doing political theatre.

Cuts, cuts, cuts, cuts, cuts, cuts, cuts, cuts. Everybody is talking about the cuts. Have you been affected by the cuts? Will you be affected by the cuts? Oh, the cuts are really bad. Oh, we haven't seen anything yet. There's 12 and a half billion pounds worth of cuts coming our way. Some people say that even though everyone's affected by the cuts, disabled people are more affected by the cuts than any other group. The artist Chris Talley Evans, addressing his constituency in the Big Democracy Project,

run by the National Theatre of Wales, will bring you all the results as they come in.

First, though, we're going to take a bite from the black apple of Gower,

the fruit, I suppose, that should be found hanging in the paradise of

bards. The artist Kerry Richards first cultivated it. In November 1953, he heard that his friend,

the poet Dylan Thomas, was dying in New York. He picked up his copy of Thomas's collected works

and began to draw. Richards pursued the same images in a series of paintings called Black Apple of Gower.

The psychologist Carl Jung saw one of them, and in it he read A Confession of the Secret of Our Time.

This strange fruit is now the organising principle of the new book by a man who's often regarded as the mythographer in chief to England's capital city,

a man who slept in ditches in honour of the poet John Clare,

trodden the M25 in search of the ghosts of Michael Reeves and William Blake,

...