"The North wind did blow and Merthyr had snow and what did poor Farrah do next?” sang Dean ‘Belle’ End as he sat on the vandal proof metal bench alongside the Merthyr Railway Station.
The sound caused Farrah to turn around sharply, exposing his nether regions to the bleak March air.
His coat, made entirely of Bar towels ,acquired from the many pubs he had visited on his personal tour of the Rugby Six Nation Countries and beyond, offered little protection from the elements.
His roman sandals acquired from a trip to Rome in 2009 , were further evidence of his total disregard for Valleys weather- a historical reason why the Celts were never completely conquered by our Italian cousins and the ex- army man Major Farrah- Fawcett was living proof of our resilience .
Just before his toes turned blue, his four-legged companion ‘Buster’ the Staffordshire Bull Terrier, dashed over and instinctively became a canine foot-warmer.
His human companions stood ‘Rhymney Brewery Hobby Horse’ bottle at the ready, awaiting the arrival of the Valley Line Train from Cardiff.
“ Has Buster’s diarrhoea problem cleared up yet?” asked Dean laughing hysterically.
Farrah looked down at his toes, but refused to answer , discreetly trying to wipe his toes on a dock-leaf....as discreetly as a 20 stone man in sandals and a five-foot bar towel garb could be.
“I thought the Welsh Assembly were doubling the number of trains to Merthyr “ asked his companion Dean.
“They did start but the trains kept getting pinched!” answered his mate Jon Van Dole.
“ Rumour has it ...the Gurnos boys were stealing the wheels as they left the station......one train was found in the sidings up on bricks...apparently the scrap dealers pay well for the scrap metal.. that’s why there are no road signs left showing Merthyr Tydfil anymore !” he continued.
“ I thought Merthyr Tydfil closed when Hoovers shut down and they moved everyone to the coast like the Tories wanted to do in the 1960’s...!” offered Farrah.
“ The next train is due at 10.03am....” interrupted Garry ‘Windows’ Snary looking up from his lap-top computer.
“ Trust you Garry ...NERD....who else would bring a laptop computer to a Wales v England Six Nations match?” asked Jon Van Dole as the Arriva Valley Lines trains pulled into the station at exactly 10.03am.
“ Warren Gatland....Shaun Edwards......do I need to go on...!” offered Snary
“ But they are working...!” replied Jon limply.
“ We all rely on different ‘hard drives’....the Welsh Pack , me and of course you!” laughed Garry.
“There’s no need to mention my erectile dysfunction....I had a complete blood transfusion.... I had to....my blood count was lower than Dean’s IQ...!” countered Jon as he was about to board the train.
“Mind that gap between the platform and the train Jon !” threatened Dean in retaliation ...or I might just squeeze your Ox-Head in there!”
As they selected their seating on the train, Farrah sat next to Garry and whispered in his mobile ear piece...” That was a bit below the belt...about Jon’s difficulties in the trouser department....only his missus, Dean and I know about that ?”
“ Correction ...said Garry clicking his mouse....you, me , Dean & his missus and everybody who visits his ‘face-book page’ from today on....call it ‘revenge of the nerds’ if you want!”
Buster, bright as a button, sat at his masters feet awaiting the arrival of the train conductor.
As soon as he sensed the presence of the ticket collector, like most Merthyr people, he bounded off the train and re-entered in the carriage behind the conductor, who was too busy checking tickets.
As he crawled on his belly below the carriage seats, he waited for the conductor to check his Master’s ticket and step off the train to blow his whistle.
The plan usually worked , but today Buster had forgotten about his incontinence problem and a trail of shite led the conductor back to the poor unsuspecting dog.
As the train shuffled away from the station the conductor’s nose told him there was a problem.
“ Oi Fred Flintstone.... you in the (visible) beer overcoat....the one with the shit in his toe nails....you can’t bring that dog on here and let him shit everywhere!” bellowed the conductor.
“ It’s not my dog...and he didn’t shit on your train....!” bellowed Farrah indignantly.
“I saw Flintstone doing it ...announced Dean enjoying watching Farrah squirm...... he shat on your seat and it probably fell off !”
Farrah gave Dean a black look.
“ Thanks for the solidarity mate!” declared Farrah.
Buster sat on his hind legs....left paw pointing and trying to blame Jonny for the mess.
“ It’s my dog....!” said Garry rolling his head and eyes in Stevie Wonder fashion....he’s my guide dog!”
“ If he’s your guide dog...show me his ‘doggy id’ ?” asked the conductor.
“ Thought you’d never ask....!” replied Garry printing his fake doggy id badge from his internet site via his lap-top.
Garry thrust the paper towards the bent-over conductor punching him hard on the jaw.
“Sorry... I followed the sound of the voice!” replied Garry.
Rubbing his bruised mandible, the Conductor backed away muttering that he would keep an eye on him.
“ Take a lap-top to a game indeed!” laughed Garry with Buster triumphantly drooling, knowing they had both got one over on Jonny.
“ Look at him...!” announced Dean, also drooling from the corner of his mouth on his third bottle of Rhymney Brewery Bevan’s Bitter....’Buster - the great train slobber’
From Merthyr station until Pontypridd Station Garry didn’t lift his head up from his keyboard .
He then suddenly smiled and pressed the send key.
“ What are you so happy about...you got the same look on your face Buster has when he tries to shag the neighbours’ Chihuahua!” announced Farrah putting down the remains of a six pack- a one pack.
At the mere mention of the word Chihuahua , Buster became amorous and chose to demonstrate on Jon Van Dole’s leg.
As Jon tried shaking him off his new velvet corduroy trousers, Buster seemed to enjoy the experience all the more.
“Jon...he can keep it up longer than you!” teased Dean
Randomly, half-cut Dean , fatally mentioned that he had tried to mount his cat once but had to cello-tape its mouth to stop it exploding.
Farrah continued to press Garry as to why he was smiling like Dean’s Cheshire cat (Pre-cellotape).
“ I just sent a computer virus to H M Land Registry Wales Office called ‘the Weakest Link’....it works by way of their intended chain matrix system and as soon as the first solicitor tries to use it , a Red Dragon logo of Anne Robinson pops up wipes out any mortgages registered against the house and turns the owners name into Meibion Glyndwr!”
“ I knew you were into that Free Wales Army bit and lived in Sospan land , but didn’t realise how revolutionary you were.... surely they will trace you and catch you!”
“ Not really...I have linked it up to the face-book page of Jon Van Dole...they won’t have any difficulty getting it up......I’ve linked it into a web-page I’ve created called Dean ‘Belle’ End’s animal bestiality page ....with a bit of luck they should arrest him too !”
“ You ‘re a real good pal and user friendly!” laughed Farrah.
As the train reached Taff’s Well, the light seemed to change on the train ...the clouds that were overhead parted and a beam of sunlight directly from God appeared , as they emerged from the Taff Valley, feeling an overcoat warmer.
A corona of yellow seemed to draw the eyes of the Merthyr boys to a broken train seat .
“ Boys...it is the Holy Grail...!” announced Dean reverently ....”the ultimate Rugby relic...!” as he approached the damaged seat.
Looking down at the love heart drawn in fake orange leg tan on the back of the leather he whispered.
“ GH Loves CC”!!!!!
“ Do you know what that means?” declared Dean.
“ Wot are you banging on about ...some Rail seat with a punch-mark through the back !” said Garry petulantly.
“ Not just any punch-mark.....we are in the compartment wrecked by Gavin Henson and his muppet show earlier this year!” said Dean on his knees and kissing the badge on his Osprey shirt.
“ That’s the only bird he will kiss today!” laughed Farrah
As Dean videoed it on his mobile phone , Garry shook his head at the behaviour of his friend.
“ East is East and West ain’t Best and never the twain shall meet !” declared Garry going back to his lap-top.
As the train arrived in Cardiff Queen Street , the gang of four and their five legged canine friend left the train and started down the Victorian steps of the station.
“ Tickets please !” shouted the announcer, as the Rugby crowds began to surge towards the barrier.
Buster seeing his opportunity slid under the metal barrier like Joe Di Maggio sliding to his home run base....shooting straight out the train station door and into the back of the Big Issue sellers obligatory dog ... called ‘ Lady Scrounger’.
Scrounger taking on the characteristics of her own master , barked at Buster the equivalent of ‘What are you looking at ?” in street doggy language.
Once through the barrier, Garry made a beeline for the newspaper kiosk, buying a number of items of confectionary.
“ Six Mars Bars and three Cadbury Wispas....you work , rest and play hard.... !” laughed the new slim-line Jon Van Dole , fresh from another blood transfusion .
As Dean passed the entrance he noticed the street dog had transformed back into cute dog Lady, and the spaniel was standing on her hind-legs begging for money.
Dean always had time for animals...but her owner was to make a fatal mistake.
In the noise of the traffic, the words “ Big Issue!” and the resulting meth’s spittle landing on his Swansea/ Ospreys shirt, was interpreted as an act of war.
The drunken Dean merely replied ‘ Bless you” and punched the Street Vendor clean over two lanes of cheering stationary traffic.
The cheers turned to boos, as Dean then dropped-kicked the dog over the two sets of traffic lights... clapping his hands and shouting there’s only One Gavin Henson......
His companions were horrified but not as much as that of Warren, a Paul’s Savoury Products driver, whose Van windscreen killed the dog outright.
Looking round, he suddenly recovered and slung it in the back for a Vietnamese Restaurant owner he knew in Canton.
“ I need me a drink to calm me down...take me to the Queens Vaults ....besides I thought that tramp had Mexican Swine flu....I could smell the chilli on his breath!” said Dean trying to justify his behaviour, as he headed up Queen Street.
The Four looked quite a sight , as they ambled towards the Pub.
Farrah clad in his multi-coloured Beer mat dress, Dean in his spittle covered Ospreys shirt, Jon Van Dole in his orange Holland football shirt and Garry Snary, two pockets full of mars bars and a lap-top computer covering his head from the sudden rain shower.
By the time they reached the pub door , Farrah’s coat had absorbed two pints of water making him weigh more than 9 stone.
Buster skipped along merrily sniffing anything that moved... and so did Dean.
“ My round lads” announced Farrah reaching the bar through a throng of Rugby fans.
The ‘ Beer- Cave-Man’ attire worked a charm, as the bar maids rushed to serve him ahead of others already waiting patiently.
“ Oi...I was before you...!” protested an English Rugby fan wearing a Fez.
“ You ...Tommy Cooper head!” shouted Dean....”one question ...wot Country is Cardiff in?”
“ Wales of course...you peasant!” relied the Saracen fan.
“ Well, we live here in the wet climate and subsidise your water bills....now be quiet now like a good boy or I will shove your Chariot up your arse!” snarled Dean returning to a different ‘Big Issue-mode’.
“ There’s no place for racism in sport!” announced a ‘number 10’ size Englishman next to the Fez wearer downing his pint in one.
“ Never been to an Wales V England before then mate? “ asked Jon Van Dole.
“ No...you speak the Queen’s English ....sorry I thought you were Dutch..... !” answered the surprised Danny Cipriani..
“ If you haven’t been to the Millenium Stadium and Wales V England in any sport, at any level, you haven’t seen racism in sport.....!” laughed Jon Van Dole.
“ Shit...thanks for reminding me ...I’ve been out clubbing all night and I’m playing in two hours!” said Cipriani, grabbing his England Track suit top and diving between the legs of a ‘scrum’ of ‘five’ people entering the main door as only a Fly-half can.
“ See....pontificated Dean to the Fez-wearing Saracen Cockney , Hamed Sackey O’Toole....you English ....aren’t real English at all....your all French....!”
“ How do you work that out .....?” snarled O’Toole , at the mere prospect of being linked to the continent.
“ We Welsh are the real English....us Celts see ....were driven back by your Italian Romans to Wales and Ireland.... and you lot are just descendants of the Normans see...French barons who came here....William the Conqueror....you lot are just a mongrel breed of Vikings, Saxons and FRENCH!” slurred Dean enjoying the rant.
“ .....and with a name like yours you can add Sand-Nigger, Coon and Gippo to the Micks....mix get it !”
As the last insult hit him , even though the Saracen knew he was outnumbered 50-1 , he took aim and caught Dean flush on the snout.
A small trickle of blood appeared below his nose.
It didn’t help that Garry had just taken up the microphone and began to sing his version of Garry-oke.
He enlisted the support of the a handsome young man with black caterpillar eye-brows.
Garry sang to the mixed bar of supporters, his version of the song ‘she’ll be coming round the mountain’.
“ I would rather wear a turban than a rose....I would rather wear a turban than a rose... I would rather wear a turban....rather wear a turban ...rather wear a turban than a rose ....English bast....”
Just as he was finishing the song, he was punched full force by the leader of the Leicester Tigers supporters ‘who had finally got his hair off’ .
Garry ‘ sailed across the bar and landed in a heap near the ladies toilets, becoming a ‘Prop Idol’ in more ways than one.
Austin Healey stood up to his full height of 5 feet 6 , a fair match for Stereo-phonics front man Kelly Jones, who grabbed the karaoke mike and swing it at the head of the ‘Leicester Lip’.
The impact sent Austin Healey’s hair implants flying down the Queens Vaults main bar , scattering glasses as it finally stopping in an inch of dust and a disused ashtray.
“ Look Dusty Hare....!” laughed Dean picking up the wig and wiping his bloody trickle.
Kelly Jones swung the microphone up by the lead and caught it , in true Hollywood /Cwmaman style and continued to sing....” As long as we beat the English ...we don’t care.!”
Dean turned up his collar in Malcolm Price fashion ...as he flatterned O’Toole and began to slug his way across the bar, packed with celebrity showbiz friends of Stuart Cable.
Anything that didn’t have the three feathers or a Welsh rugby shirt was fair game.
One minute Robbie Williams was discussing a possible come-back concert with his old pop band at the Cardiff International Arena... the next he was on the floor nursing some bruises.
“ Take That!” declared Dean mid rampage.
As Robbie slid down the wall of the pub next to Garry, he was in fact seeing ‘Angels’ instead.
“ It’s My...llenium (Stadium )...!” roared Dean- like King Kong - beating his chest.
As the rest of Take That leapt on Dean....he was cheered on by Robbie Williams....
“Hit Barlow first!” he declared.....then Liam Gallagher!”
In the melee that followed , Dean was forcefully ejected by a combination of the heavyweight bouncers and Ruth ‘Nessa’ Jones who was trying to find out ‘what’s occurring’.
“ Not you again......you were fighting with Mike Phillips & Andy Powell last time!” they shouted as Dean , Garry , his laptop and the others including the Stereophonics were thrown into the street to the delight of the waiting Buster.
“It’s your fault Farrah !” declared Dean....”it’s that bloody coat of yours, it attracts trouble....!” declared Dean still holding Healey’s hair.
“ Got a quarantine licence for that?” replied Farrah.
“ Well done Dean where can I go now...the other pubs are packed and I need to down- load some old data files.....?” announced Garry nervously.
“ Wot?” asked Jon .
“ I need a dump.... a kak....!” he replied.
“ That’s another reason why I wear this coat... said Farrah...getting up from the window-cill of the Italian restaurant leaving a steaming turd behind....and why I like Caroline Street so much !” he said scooping up a handful of discarded chip papers and removing the clinkers.
“ Are you using that hair?” he asked Dean.
Wiping out more klingons than the new Star Trek film he slung the hairpiece contemptibly at the bouncers.
Looking back at the window-sill, Jon declared I thought ‘only dogs did that!’
Buster shot him a look of disgust.
“ Well the only place I can think of, that will be quiet at this time of day ....is the toilet behind the Hayes Buttie Bar, near St Davids Hall...besides we can go to the last pub in Cardiff Dean isn’t barred from –Walkabout in St Mary Street.!” ....offered Jon .
“ What... that’s bandit Country!” laughed Dean in an effeminate voice....” I’ll come with you to hold your hand....
As the three friends texted Farrah the details of their detour, he agreed to meet them at ‘Walkabout Creek’ –which co-incidentally was the venue the Stereophonics planned to visit .
Heading down the Victorian steps and passed the railings to the subterranean toilet they all had a sense of unease , as they began to point Percy at the Porcelain.
“ Do you get the feeling...we are being watched?” asked Jon nervously.
“ I am always being watched .....boasted Dean. doing Grouch Marx impressions whilst siphoning his python, before bending over.....most people think I should be in a circus...Monty Python’s flying circus, (he said charming his one eyed- trouser snake) , besides you are safe, I can’t see anyone here with a magnifying glass....!”
“ I’ve told you ....after a blood transfusion ....it takes time to get up a stream!” proffered John.
“ This pineapple chunk I found in the urinal is blinding...I’ll meet you at the buttie bar upstairs...but I’m only waiting 15 minutes! ” laughed Dean
Garry sat in the cubicle and had double locked the door.... he wasn’t that homophobic he just had other more important things on his mind.
Lowering his trousers and underpants , the ex-prop remembered his routine.
Pause... Touch... Engage.
As he sat on the throne with a sense of unease , he waited for nature to take its course.
The cubicle walls all around were wiped clean, apart from a recent addition of an Neanderthal cave-painting in haemorrhoid brown.
Normally, he enjoyed reading the graffiti on the toilet walls...but this crap-trap was largely free except for writing at the cubicle top and just above a narrow hole in the partition wall at waist height.
The hole had been partially filled by the remainder of the toilet paper.
Garry checked his watch and realised it was now of never.
Like all rugby men, he inspected his latest ‘drop out’ and noted that it stood out of the water like the Statue of Liberty..
He took a photo-shot on his mobile camera phone and sent the beauty by e-mail to Jon Van Dole’s facebook page under ‘New blog’,
As usual some evil sod had left a single sheet on the Council-issue sandpaper...would this be enough....he was a little worried by the lack of paper available but decided to go ‘commando’ anyway, as that was the real purpose of his mission.
As he set up his lap-top, he retrieved the internet page on how to make home-made bombs from plastic explosives and household chemicals.
He began whittling away at the inside of the chocolate bars and inserting the plastic explosives in the Mars and Wispas.
Just as he finished the last one , he dropped the chocolate bar which slid on the tiled floor , underneath the metal toilet roll holder.
As he bent over, butt naked, he failed to notice that the toilet paper plug had been removed and a famous face with a leather hat and goatee beard took advantage of Garry’s precarious predicament.
“ Talk about a Careless Wispa!” announced a George Michael look-a-like rubbing his hands in the adjacent cubicle, as the comeback of Wham was complete as he he stuck his phallus through the toilet wall.
Garry wished he had read the graffiti warnings at the top of the cubicle ‘watch out for queers’ and further down ‘told you so’.
Oblivious to the impending assault , Jon stood innocently trying to think of ice cold waterfalls to get him started.
“ Garry are you still logging on in there?....if there’s no paper left in the stall...I can change two fivers for a tenner”
Garry jumped at the sudden intrusion of flesh , eyes widening alarmingly .
In response, he rammed a fuse down the jap’s eye of his assailant.
‘George’ recoiled limply and sang sadly ....” Last Christmas, I gave you my arse, but the very next day you gave it away” sitting down on the toilet seat dejectedly.
Dean stood eating his bacon egg and tomato roll at the top of the steps as a 17 year old youth passed him in a Cardiff City base-ball cap and ‘Diesel’ top.
Dean was suspicious too of his two sidekicks aged 9 and 15 who were joking laughing and acting like a pair of gangsters keeping a lookout.
He rubbed the remains of the greasy bacon and tomato roll on his trousers in anticipation of trouble.
Jon stood to attention at the sound of footsteps approaching.
He was very conscious of the fact he had spent over ten minutes waiting for his engine to start.
Jon was intimidated when the youth broke the old age male convention , standing immediately next to him at the empty urinal.
He tried to look away and whistle politely, but could not help but look down at his ‘old boy’ to see if the stream had started.
“ What do you know...finally !” sighed Jon as he startled with a trickle which led to a bladder emptying full Niagara discharge.
“ Give us all your money...or your slug gets it!” declared the Ely youth Robin Hoodie.
It was only then that Jon realised the touch of the cold steel pen-knife blade had started his down pour.
Jon nervously handed over his wallet...dropping it in the urinal tray in fright.
Dripping with urine , snot, pubic hair and attached by chewing gum to the only pineapple chunk that Dean had missed, the youth bent over in disgust, carefully watching the petrified Jon all the while.
Getting his own back on someone else bending over, Garry emerged from the cubicle door with lap-top raised and smacked the youth over the head rendering him unconscious.
“ Talk about a hard-drive capability!” laughed Garry....” Can you see why I take a lap-top to the game now!”
Jon had to admit defeat on that one.
As the two friends climbed the stairs together, they were spotted by the two other gang members.
Dean stepped in , as the two scumbags realising their punk friend was in trouble,drew their illegal blades reclaimed from a knife amnesty bin in Roath Park.
Dean lifted the ‘Waterstones’ book shop sign, smote the pair , sending them tumbling down the steps passed Jon and Garry....” Now that’s what you call a good hardback!” laughed Dean triumphantly.
As they trio headed towards Walkabout, they discussed the antics of the juvenile gang.
“ I overheard those wasters talking about their ‘nob racket’.... give us all your money or I’ll cut it off.....!” said Dean angrily.
“ What man wouldn’t hand over their wallet!” agreed Garry.
“ The big one reckoned he had made nearly two grand ....whilst the 15 year old ...I heard his street name of Shiv Shover....nearly £1,500.00!” continued Dean.
“ What about the little one- the 9 year-old ...what about him... how much did he make ?” asked Jon .
“ About £10.00 ...apparently....but he did have two pockets full of cocks!” laughed Dean.
Jon ashen-faced , just gulped and thanked his lucky stars it had been the older boy.
That George Michael look-a-like will put them to good use...thought Garry.
Garry had visions of the pop star trapped in the toilet trying to convince the gang that he hadn’t let ‘the son go down on me’.
Farrah , however, was stood at ‘a different corner’ - that of the Australian theme bar ‘Walkabout’ in St Mary Street.
His coat of many beer towels in multi-colours, was a benefit not just for being spotted on the BBC Cameras, but also when waiting to be served at a crowded match-day bar.
He was also a babe magnet in this garb, as the woman wanted to check to see if his ‘bod’ was as good as his Boddingtons.
A walking beer sponsor’s dream , the man’s outfit was made out of three parts Strongbow, two parts Boddingtons, Allbright, Worthington Best together with many foreign beers from his tours with the British Lions to South Africa, Australia and New Zealand.
Around his collar , he bore the emblem of Cigarette manufacturer Rothmans.
It was no surprise that the man’s body was also ‘King-size’.
Henry the Eighth to be precise , carefully crafted and sculpted after years of weightlifting pint glasses to his lips.
Oh and after wiping the froth of the beers he had ‘Green-sleeves too!”
As he looked at the selection of beer pumps, he announced loudly in a ‘Convict Oz accent’ “ Fosters - the Amber Nectar- ‘Oztralia’s favourite beer brewed in ....Scotland” announced Farrah, to anyone that would listen...including the young barman waiting to serve him.
Standing next to the bar, he used his favourite trick to gain free beer.
As Stereophonic front man Kelly Jones, ordered and paid for a round for every able person in Cwmaman, Farrah took advantage of the procession of pints being passed over the heads of the queue of people , waiting for beer and an autograph.
Farrah , empty pint glass in hand, merely waited for Jones to look away, before dipping his sleeve in the recently poured pint glasses and sopping up the beer .
He then squeezed his sleeve out into his own glass.
Kelly Jones assumed it was just short measures and muttered something about ‘a bartender and a thief’.
When Kelly was presented with the bill for £387.30 for 150 pints Farrah, being the son of a mathematics teacher, he interrupted Kelly and told him he was being overcharged by some £87.30.
The bar-tender was not amused and told Farrah to mind his own business.
Farrah told Kelly he was ‘Just looking’ and the UWIC student-barman became so flustered with the reworking of the computerised till, that he broke off the pump handle on the Worthy Best, sending a jet of cream-flow into the air.
Mysteriously, all the beer towels had disappeared from the bar, leaving a ‘free reign’ (or free rain) for Farrah to mop up the spillage at the bar.
“ See...working behind the bar ...it’s all about ‘Performance and Cocktails...’ continued Farrah.....and I can tell you a few !”.
“ Performances?” asked Kelly.
“ Cock tales!” replied Farrah.
Kelly smiled ....caterpillar eyebrows on rest-mode... he was used to freeloaders but this guy seemed to have ‘more life than a Tramps Vest’ and looked a real card.
Weighing 2 stone heavier, dripping with Worthington, he followed Kelly back to his table and joined in with the rest of the band , as if he had known them all his life.
In the hope of a REAL pint, he spoke to Stuart Cable, mentioning that his father once drove through Cwmaman and that they were practically related .
Buster too , took a real shine to Stuart Cable , humping his leg with Cable too frightened to tell him off.
“ Is it true that your mother is called Mabel Cable?....asked Farrah not believing it.
“ Yes!” came the reply.
“ and your father was called Clark....you ride in a Cable car and watch Cable TV!...in fact my tour mates are busy laying some cable as we speak!” continued Farrah.
“ Not my sister I hope ....but otherwise all true..!”.said Stuart, playing along, tapping the table like a real drummer.
“And Kelly ...your old man was called Duster...and my dog is called Buster...although Stuart ...I see you’ve already made his acquaintance....your dad was a singer in the clubs around Merthyr!” said Farrah
Farrah looked at the pint count which kept going up every-time he mentioned somebody from Cwmaman.
“ Well boys ...my name’s Richard ...and I’m an alcoholic...!” he announced raising his beer glass to toast the success of the band
“ Here’s to Cwmaman....’you gotta go there to come back’ laughed Farrah enjoying the attention.
As Farrah knocked back his eighth free pint...he decided he better go.
“ Your round Richard...!”asked the quiet unassuming member of the trio Richard Jones
“ Yes ...I think my shape is down to the beer I drink .... oh MY round ...’Maybe tomorrow’.....he sung ...as he waved to his regular mates as he spotted Dean pushing his way violently through the crowd.
“ Is this table taken... boys...?” he asked a group of heavyweight people clad in fake Welsh Rugby shirts from Rheola market.
“ Do you mind ....we’re Aberdare Ladies Rugby team....!” came the reply
“ Well sod off then ....it will take your herd.... two hours to waddle through this crowd and get to the match !” snarled Dean.
The ladies drank their Stella down...gave Dean a black look...but they knew what he said was true....they left cracking the pavement stones in St Mary Street as they went.
“ Dean ....I see you haven’t lost your touch with the ladies.!” chuckled Garry placing his lap-top on the table.
“ Nor you Farrah...!” said Jon nodding at the young Aborigine woman making her way towards the table.
“ Derek....Derek Brockway...is that really you?” asked the girl.
Farrah tried to hide behind his collection of cloudy pints...created from squeezing out his beer towel coat.
“ He’s not Derek...he’s Richard... luv!” offered Jon.
The girl continued to greet Farrah in an Aborigine love- dance ritual to the delight of the crowd in Walkabout.
As the girl reached him and kissed him passionately, he and his friends denied vehemently that he was not called Derek but that it must be a case of mistaken identity.
“ You are Derek....we met on the Lions Tour of Australia in Melbourne ...you had a Welsh Kilt on with a Paul Hogan hat....you told me you were Cockodile Dundee...!” continued the antipodean stranger....its me ..... your Sheila ....Sheila Sweales!”.
“ I’m not Derek ....!” protested Farrah , as the girl slid down his soaking beer-coat and under the table frightening the life out of Buster the dog.
“ Its dream time again!” declared the young Aborigine disappearing under the table.
“ Honestly....he’s NOT Derek Brockway....!” laughed Garry.
With the girl under his table and her head close the Worthington Best bit, Farrah changed his tune.
“ Shut –up....!” said Farrah....hoping that his Worthy best might become cream flow.
At this point, the arrival of the girl was spotted by Dean and he was delighted when he felt a strange movement in his general crotch area.
Unknown to Dean, it was Buster the dog licking the remainder of the Bacon & Tomato sandwich from his jeans.
“ I remember you were big down under ....but... ....what’s this about Cardiff City losing 6-0 to Preston North End and missing out on promotion to the Premiership.!” moaned the stranger.
“ How did you know about that ?” Farrah asked somewhat surprised that it was being brought up at that particular moment.
“ Oh I read it on the South Wales Echo chip paper stuck to your back pages!” came the reply.
“ At least City are not going down this year...concentrate on the South End !” ...hinted Farrah trying to change the subject.
“ DEREK BROCKWAY!!!” interrupted Garry... “Couldn’t you have picked a more manly false Rugby Tour name?”
Buster, sensing that there was meat and two vegemite below the surface of the fabric, bit down hard on Dean’s jeans.
In anger and severe pain, the incredible bulk, grabbed the table edge with both hands.
The sight of a Staffordshire Bull Terrier jaw clamped to his Lee Cooper’s, gave Dean a shock.
“ Now that’s what I call a High Tackle!” remarked local comic genius Boyd Clack to new boy Rhod Gilbert sat on the adjoining table, who was lost for words without his script.
“ That’s the end of his ‘High Hopes!” replied Gilbert five minutes later.
“ I thought it was you....!” said Dean to the girl , who hurriedly dropped what she was doing as Dean turned the table over in rage.
“ Hi Skippy....see you still have that animal fetish.....that poor Kangaroo in Melbourne hasn’t hopped the same since....!” said the young aborigine.
“ How low can you Dean ... for a jump?” asked Jon twitching his nose and holding his hand to this chest aping a roo.
“ A Koala! “ said Garry holding his lap-top defensively waited for Dean’s red mist to descend.
“ If its warm , furry and can move...it’s fair game in my book!” declared Dean unashamedly.
“ Hey Eucalyptus breath ....have you seen my koala possum!” said Garry legging it out of the door like Tre-forrest Gump.
As Sheila headed towards the ‘Sheila’s dunny’ to powder her ‘wombat’, the two remaining ‘Bruces’ legged it towards the door, Farrah snatching a pint off the Cwmaman table , drinking it down in one and singing ‘Have a nice Day!”
As Farrah turned the corner of West-Gate Street just in the nick of time, a boomerang flew passed his beer-coat...two seconds sooner and things wouldn’t have been ‘Allbright!”
“ Getting into the old Arms Park ground never used to be this difficult!” moaned Jon who was busting for another slash .
“ Go in the bloke in front’s other parka- jacket pocket....I just did!” said Dean.
“ Don’t tell me it was warm, furry and moving.....!” said Farrah....” I am getting a pattern emerging here...!” he continued.
Suddenly the crowd standing around Farrah parted and the Millennium concourse had a giant wet circle shadow on the ground.
“ Told you ...I too was getting a pattern!” he murmered.
Buster looked around anxiously through the legs of the Rugby Crowd and decided he was not going to get through these turnstiles today.
Spotting the English Mascot John Bull, resplendent in his top hat and patriotic waistcoat, the Staffordshire Bull Terrier, jaw freshly unclamped , walked in harmony behind him through the open gates and in with the English Rugby Team.
“ Look at Buster....bloody turncoat!” shouted Jon.
Jon thought his imagination had got the better of him , when the dog lifted his tail and showed him that he could not possibly have worms.
“ This security has gone all hi-tech ! “ moaned Jon holding onto a full bladder for 10 full minutes.
“ Yes ...announced Dean .......my company , Bigger Telephones- did all the work...it is top of the range, I even did all the Wi Fi and Electrical Information systems in the stands myself....that’s why it is called the BT Stand!” he boasted.
“ That’s why you are called Dean BT ...I thought BT was short for Bacon & Tomato .....or Bitten Testicles..... .or ....Buggerer of Tabby cats... !” came the suggested offerings from his friends.
“ Or Big Tosser !” said Austin Healey standing next to Dean.
“ Didn’t see you down there !” said Dean , as he launched the Leicester lip off the approach-way and into the Cardiff Blues Car-Park with his hair landing in a heap in Westgate Street.
“ They even got Iris recognition on the turnstiles now !” offered Garry .
“ How do you know that ? “ asked Dean suspiciously.
“ Any potential terrorist could download plans of the Millenium Stadium from the internet to his lap-top !” laughed Garry nervously.
“ Nice one....Osama bin Lloyden!” chuckled Jon.
“ I thought security made less fuss when they let the half-cast Welsh singer, Iris Williams through the gate....!”
“ That’s cos she was ....’So beautiful’ joked Farrah.
As they entered the booth...unbeknown to the crowd ,....security were secretly flashed messages about the person entering....a red light with the security clearance flashed up in the control room.
As Jon , Garry, Farrah and Dean filed in....the red light flashed up the following security messages.....No threat....definitely no concealed weapon....Fat Bastard likes Mars Bars.... Harmless Welsh Rugby Nutter.... and Cat-shagger.
As the four amigos headed for their place in the old North Stand, they drank in the rich atmosphere of their surroundings.
For the first time ever in Rugby , following reports of disturbances with the English Rugby fans earlier that day ...the WRU had decided to segregate the Saesneg from the Cymru.
Having refused to climb the six flights of stairs with his friends to ‘his Llanelli RFC prime seat’ , Garry was disappointed at his ticket. He knew their status with the WRU was declining...they only beat the All Blacks once and that was years ago....but having to climb up the North face of the Eiger, was a little ‘over the top’ . No wonder they are called Scarlets, he thought looking at the stadium position as the undigested Mars Bars and digested Mars Bars started to take their toll.
Even though he was breathing easier from getting through the Security, he was worried about his task in hand.
As he was a child of the sixties, he was born with rebel blood and wanted revenge for his Countrymen’s years of exploitation by the English Ironmasters in Merthyr Tydfil and their ‘Truck shop’ policies.
Seeing the Flag of St George displayed so openly at the Stadium, he remembered his vow to the people of Wales, in his oath when he joined the Free Wales Army.
He lit the fuses on the Mars Bars and during the cacophony of noise following the singing of the English National Anthem of ‘God Save our Gracious Queen’ he threw them at the English End,placing his fingers in his years waiting for the explosion.
The game kicked off and the first collision between Ryan Jones and Martin Corry could be heard loudly like a massive explosion.
When he reopened his eyes Garry , was horrified to find Buster the dog sitting at his feet with the plastic explosive mars bars intact , covered in slobber but still lit, blissfully wagging his tail in the game of fetch..
The second explosion ripped out the heart of the stadium.
Austin Healey had seen Tom Cruise ‘ War of the Worlds but didn’t expect that kind of ‘Mars Attacks’ as the blast for the third time that day separated his short Cruise-like body from his re-grown hair.
As the North Stand collapsed in a cloud of dust , it blocked out the sun sending parts of Tiger Bay into complete darkness.
The staff at the Brains brewery, who had mistakenly booked a hospitality box in the Cardiff Arms Park for the Six Nations game, suddenly cheered loudly, as they now had an uninterrupted view of the Millennium pitch.
The cheer was matched only from the WRU elite box, as they saw the stand that had been the subject of so much acrimony, between the Cardiff Rugby club and the WRU, suddenly disappear.
The cheer was short lived though and the subsequent aftershock of the stand collapsing sent a tremor through the unstable grass pallets causing a Mexican wave on the pitch never seen before.
Forward thinking Merthyr boys, Adam Jones and Robert Sidoli couldn’t work it out and tackled the rising grass pallets assuming that the English props were ‘boring in’ as usual.
The retractable roof mechanism kept buzzing and whirring as the computer controlled device , didn’t know if the roof should be covered or uncovered.
As Dwayne Pype ‘Brains employee of the month’ stood up in his hospitality box, he announced in a broad Cardiff accent...” Talk about painting it DARRRK , in Cardiff Arms PARRRK with a MARRS BARR!”
“ Actually, the correct saying is Brains DARRRRK in Cardiff Arms Parrrk!” claimed Pip O’Thalimus, Brains advertising executive, tasting a copyright infringement.
In the former North Stand, Jon Van Dole and Dean , both black-faced and hair sticking up at all angles , looked round for their missing pals.
“ It’s Garry’s round and he’s disappeared !” moaned Jon.
Stereophonic Richard Jones looked at his front man and laughed.
There were advantages to be out of the spotlight.
“ I bet your glad I got this celebrity debenture box now!”
Kelly Jones sat in shock minus he eyebrows burned off in the back-draft.
Shaking his head he turned to Tom Jones and said “ Mama told me not to come!....did you drop one of your sex-bombs?”
“ Look at you Kel... said Tom ....you look different somehow...like you v’e been on tour with Dowlais RFC! ”
Stuart Cable had also been affected by the blast as he had a dog collar in his normal nest of curly hair.
“ Have we changed labels...asked Richard Jones...from V2 VVR to ‘Buster’ Records?”
No sooner had the smoke cleared, than the O’Sullivan Security Guards (Pant Division) were on them handcuffing Jon and Dean and dragging them away.
“ You wouldn’t do this if I was black!” shouted Dean.
Jon looked at the charcoal complexion on his friend and just laughed.
They had been through some hair-raising experiences but this was the biggest blast they had ever had.
As they were led to the Black Maria, they noticed the England Team Coach still ablaze..
“ Look ....a Chariot on Fire !” said Dean taking a slug from a Police baton for his trouble.
As they opened the door of the Police van, they could see that there was a ferocious Police Alsatian licking his lips, awaiting their arrival.
“ Do not put him in there with the dog....its not safe!” ordered Sergeant Grunt pointing at Dean.
“ For him or the dog!” laughed Jon in-between truncheon blows.
The Police also were bringing a handcuffed bald Austin Healey.
“ I bet you are behind this somehow!” snarled Healey at Dean.
“ What were you arrested for?” asked Jon.
“When the explosion happened my implants flew towards the Royal Box... landing on Prince William’s lap....talk about Hair to the throne....I am being charged with
‘un-common assault ‘ and attempted ‘Hair’ ssasination!”
“ That friend of your’s ...he was a sleeper!” declared Healey.
“ No wonder he never stayed awake for the last round!” said Jon struggling to stand up under the level of baton abuse.
High above the Millennium Stadium, Garry sat at the bottom of a series of white steps just above the clouds.
Buster sat (minus his collar) on his feet with him.
“ Are you going to get off my shoes or what?” asked Garry to the dog.
“ Yes...as soon as you say sorry for blowing us up!” replied the dog in perfect English.
“ Buster .......you can talk...!” said Garry somewhat surprised.
“ Talk....I have a higher IQ than all of you ....but on the Earthly Realm dogs
are n’t allowed to talk.
“ What Realm are we in now then?” asked Garry
“ We’ll judging by the piped music by Led Zeppelin....I think it is safe to assume we are on the Stairway to Heaven!” he replied.
“ We better get moving because there is a ‘Hell’ of a queue going down those red stairs” continued Garry.
As they approached the Pearly gates, Garry was worried about his chances of getting passed St Peter.
He had already turned away Charlton ‘Moses’ Heston and James Earl Jones.
“ Big Issue Sir...asked the Heavenly Street seller, until recently sat outside the Queen Street Train Station.
“ No change mate !“reply Garry which was for once true.
“ Don’t I know you?” asked the salesman.
“ No , No...No !” said Garry thrice hearing a cock crow in the background.
Watching Jade Goodie leaving the white path and heading South he didn’t think he stood a cat’s chance.
“ I thought she was a certainty according to the media....but she has been voted out already!” moaned a worried looking Garry.
“ Buster Farrah - Evans....you say......declared St Peter...we’ve been expecting you...Disney’s Lady from Lady & the Tramp has some spaghetti waiting for you!”
“ See ...boasted Buster ...”told you ‘All dogs go to Heaven’ as he cocked his leg at the entrance.
“ Next!” shouted St Peter looking down at a tiny list in white and a massive list in red.
“ Garry Snary!”
After a few minutes checking St Peter announced he wasn’t on either list.
“ I better check with the Boss!”
Pressing the holy intercom...he summoned God in person.
“ Gotta Garry Snary here ...not on either list...any suggestions?” asked St Paul.
The black female voice of God could be heard checking with Mohammed, Allah and Eric Cantona before a booming voice decreed “ Have you tried under Suicide Bombers?”
“ Ah yes...thank you...you have been allocated to Virgin HQ!” said St Peter.
“ Which way....?” asked Garry feeling lost without Buster.
“ Follow the cloud layer, passed Purgatory over there and it will be sign-posted ‘Forum’ from there.
As Garry shuffled off his mortal coil , he headed towards the sign post.
“ Virgin HQ ...sounds promising...technically I am a suicide bomber ...the first Martyr of the Free Wales Army...!” he mused.
As he reached the white Vesta, at the Forum, he was on arrival offered Red Bull and Angel cake, to build up his strength for the eternity ahead.
He was shown into the Honeymoon suite by a little golden cherub.
The cherub insisted that it was a condition of the Heaven and Virgin flights, that he be tied to the white four poster water bed in case of ‘turbulence’.
He lay all four-limbs attached lightly by a silken scarf to each of the white marble String-fellow-esque bed-posts.
As he awaited , he wondered what Vestal Virgins would be sent to him.
A Pre- Vegas Britney Spears or perhaps a Disney nymphet like Smiley ‘Miley’ Cyrus, sweet sixteen and barely legal.
As each of the Vestal Virgins lowered their veils, Garry recoiled in horror.
Anne Widdicombe.... Susan Boyle from Britain’s Got Talent...Jo Brand and finally a bearded Richard Branson lookalike in drag.
“ Now that’s Virgin on the ridiculous!” screamed Garry as he was forcefully disrobed.
“ What did I do to be so punished...?” he asked God below.
“They are the ones being punished!” boomed Jah.
As Garry disappeared in a sea of white whales in search of Moby Dick , he suddenly realised he had joined a different Free Whales Army.