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YNYS - 'Aros am Byth' (Waiting Forever)
‘Aros am Byth (Waiting Forever) is the new single from Ynys. Recorded at Tŷ Drwg studios in Cardiff with Ynys’s producer Frank Naughton and mixed by Iwan Morgan (Cate Le Bon, Richard James, Islet, H.Hawkline)
‘Aros am Byth’ brings together 70s Italian disco synths and 90s power pop harmonies which will be THE sound of 2021. Full of hopeful longing and possessing a magical combination of melancholy and star eyed wonder.
As Dylan Hughes (singer/songwriter) explains “the vibe I was trying to get was Jeff Lynne taking over the studio after being at a Tame Impala listening party”. Music's future, present and past all coming together in a perfectly crafted pop song.
* WAITING FOREVER * Lyrics (English)
It’s hard to spin those plates,
While the stars in the sky
Are trying to show there’s trears in your eyes.
Greetings are now goodbyes
It happens all the time
Too far to ask if it’s all alright
Chorus
Waiting forever
Are you going to wait forever, with me?
Each night before we leave
It happens all the time
Still reading between the lines
Do you have the answer?
Is it waiting for us somewhere?
With a map to show us where to go
fgdfd
* AROS AM BYTH * Lyrics (Welsh)
Dyw’r ddisgyl byth yn wastad
Ac mae’r ser sydd yn y gofod
Yn trio dweud fod dagrau yn dy lygaid.
Mae cyfarch â hwyl yn rhy gyfarwydd nawr,
a ti bach rhy bell,
i fi ofyn os ti’n iawn.
Chorus
Wyt ti’n mynd i aros?
Wyt ti’n mynd i aros am byth,
Gyda fi?
Darllen neges ar y ffordd,
Un nos cyn mynd i ffwrdd,
A cofio y tro cyntaf i ni gwrdd.
Oes gyda ti yr ateb
Pan fi’n teimlo’n ddi gyfeiriad?
Neu map i ddangos ble mae’r ffordd
YNYS Online Links:
hhjtt
Spotify: https://open.spotify.
Facebook: https://www.
Twitter: https://twitter.com/
Label: https://www.
He's dog-tired
in the doghouse
dogged by 6 weeks of restrictions
and daily Coronavirus updates
feels like he's been sold a pup
by the dog in a manger democratic process
and is sad that Dave Greenfield
and Florian Schneider have died
his world will be quieter
and less amazing without their input
he tries to order fence paint online
but doesn’t have much luck
and does not want to pay
the profiteers’ prices
so he ekes out the battleship grey
in keeping with the times
there's a bank holiday coming up
VE Day 75 celebrations with no crowds
with hardly any humans apart
from socially distant singers
aren't they anyway?
at least Nigel Farage Mark Francois
Steve Baker and their ilk appear
to have been switched off
or muted or worse
surprising that they seem to be
invisible now that true statesmanship
is what is desperately required
but then they are not alone
thank God there are endless TV repeats
of extended highlights of football games
of forty year vintage
nostalgia the default reaction
to a national disaster
to any uneasy reality
an escape from the horror
that the Government could not govern
a restlessness is everywhere
an almost suppressed electricity
sparking around garden gates and cars
that have not been started for some time
and we begin to realise how
close to animals we actually are
the sun is shining
the beaches and hills are calling
and alcohol sales soaring
the pent-up energy of Spring
with a capstone on it
No one that actually knew Dorothy Dott would dispute that she was an athlete.
She was the hardest, meanest, toughest, member of the Dowlais Ladies Hockey Team from Merthyr Tydfil.
She was quick too.
She was only tiny but was the female equivalent of a pocket battleship.
The Steffi Graf Spee if you like.
She once downed the yard of ale as ‘Man of the Match’ in a South Wales hockey tournament in under 5 seconds.
She once pushed a full metal barrel of beer up the A4060 (T) Slip Road on her own and then drunk its entire contents herself.
There was nothing tough enough or difficult enough for her- so it was no surprise that she announced to her fellow ladies that this year that she would enter the Nos Galan Road Race which was taking place at the end of the week.
The Mountain Ash Dash, as it was known locally, consisted of a 5km run starting from the Church at Llanwynno and involved a three circuit race around the town centre of Mountain Ash ending by the statue of its founder Guto Nyth Bran.
The race had been a tradition in ‘Snake Valley’ since 1958, when most of the borough residents had finally learned to walk upright on two feet.
It was rumoured that after St Patrick cleared them from Ireland they had settled on masse in the Cynon Valley.
The race itself was proving popular with athletes from all over Britain and even occasionally from overseas.
Held on New Year’s Eve, it had attracted famous Welsh athletes from the fields of athletics, rugby and of course football.
Even boxer Robbie Reagan had had a go – even if he did throw in the towel over the statue a lap early in round two.
Every year, there was an unannounced late ‘mystery runner’ who was usually throw into the mix at a late stage to create an element of interest to the Town’s people of Viperville.
What Dorothy Dott didn’t know was that this year the ‘Mystery Runner’ was no other than Paula Radcliffe- the past winner of both the London and New York Marathons.
It was highly unusual for a woman to be so named- as it was usually the exclusive preserve of male athletes.
But whilst Dorothy Dott was ignorant of the fact- her Hockey Team Mates were not- and they took great delight in placing a bet of £100.00 ‘per man’ with Dorothy, after her boast that she would be the first female to cross the winning line this year.
Even if the organisers had insisted on evidence that she was really a woman before allowing her to enter the competition.
With the same bet with ten other team mates, she stood to lose a cool Grand- if and when Radcliffe turned up.
Dorothy Dott wasn’t overly concerned about any male competition- after all last year’s athlete was Welsh Prop, Adam Jones who was built more like a juggernaut than a sports car.
To make matters worse, Dorothy Dott had agreed to run in fancy dress for her chosen charity.
One of the biggest killers in Wales- Type 2 ‘Dai’-abetes.
Inspired partly by her name but also the release of the recent Star Wars film in 2015, she had decided to run as R2D2.
She reckoned she could fly it, as long as she didn’t get a case of the ‘Revenge of the Sith’ – a condition she got from using scented bath salts and perfumed soaps from the ‘Body Shop’.
Her nether regions would often get affected by Roddick.
Most of the local Merthyr men were wary of dating Dorothy, as most reckoned she was like Dustin Hoffman in Tootsie.
Besides, she was more of a man than most of them.
Her reputation both on and off the hockey pitch was a no-nonsense go-getter, who sent opponents packing in a bully- off.
She was a born winner and like Diego Maradona would not stop at ‘gamesmanship’ or even down right cheating to get up on that Winner’s podium.
That’s why on her Christmas List for 2015, she had asked ‘Santa’ for the latest ‘hottest’ must-have thing around.
She still lived with her elderly parents and they had failed to get the last one available in Merthyr’s Argos , of the much lauded Segway people carrier.
Her Dad, David was dotty on Dotty and didn’t want his 40 year old daughter to stop believing in Santa so he had arranged for one of his old factory Director workmates to create a special one-off from bits of an old washing machine and a Sinclair C5.
It was the first and only Hoover-Board.
It was ideal for Dotty to ride on and fitted perfectly beneath her Star Wars costume and was hidden out of sight.
With this contraption that had a top speed of 10mph, she was convinced that on the perfectly tarmacked roads that served Mountain Ash and the wonderful job that the Rhondda Cynon Taff Highways Authority did on keeping the highways in pristine condition, it would help her win the Mountain Ash Dash.
As she stood on the starting line next to Llanwynno Church, she noticed she was the only competitor in fancy dress.
This didn’t unnerve the girl, it just spurred her on.
In a sea of male faces, she suddenly spotted that of Paula Radcliffe shaking her hands in preparation for the big race.
She didn’t know why - but subliminally, just looking at her race rival made her bowels loosen.
But Dot was programmed as a serving police woman not to recognise fear.
Fear was weakness and the brainwashing instilled in Police recruits meant that she no longer had any civilian traits and like Elton John found that Sorry seemed to be the hardest word (after concrete of course that is).
The Mayor fired the starting pistol (or more accurately the AK47 semi-automatic rifle that had been handed in during the Mountain Ash gun amnesty) and the race started.
Dot’s tactic was simple.
Get in front and then stay in front- that way there was no risk of tripping like Mary Decker-Slaney by a clod-hopper like Zola Budd.
She kick-started the ignition button with her big toe and she was off down passed the ‘Serpentine’ or Cynon Valley River as it was known to the local reptilian population.
Passing the semi-rural Viper Villas, then down passed Python Plaza and onto Cobra Crescent, Dot sailed on effortlessly.
The other athletes including celebrity Bradley Walsh on the chase after her.
Most people in the crowd assumed that the little droid was just the pace setter but Dorothy had heard that nice guys finish last and despite her masculine appearance under that fancy dress costume- she was no nice guy.
Welsh athletes, Iwan Thomas and Jamie Baulch were starting to be left behind by the speed on the ‘Millenium Falcon’ and only Dame Tanni Grey-Thompson seemed to be gaining on the race leader due to the slope.
Despite the cold New Year’s Eve weather, Dot suddenly realised that her feet were warmer than normal.
She had modified her Nike trainers by cutting out the front part to air her athlete’s foot (from the years of yomping on the police parade ground) but even with her own attempts at ventilation something felt wrong.
As she rattled and snaked her way around Mount, she suddenly realised that she had left the trailing pack for dead.
She didn’t want to make it too obvious that she was using more than self-propulsion and was even beginning to lap some of the stragglers.
She gave Welsh Prop Adam Jones a wide berth- she didn’t want to catch his trademark trailing rock star hair in her wheels or it would be fatal for her Hoover-board.
As she whizzed (like Stephen Hawking on amphetamine) passed the second placed local runner Tony Pandy, he began to smell a rat or more precisely burning toenail polish fumes.
R2D2 never moved THAT quickly in the film.
He had a ‘new hope’ – he would get that cheating bastard disqualified.
He didn’t like Star Wars or Z-Cars for that matter.
Only one more circuit of the ‘Welsh Monaco’ and Dorothy could take her crown and bet money from her friends.
She would take great delight in telling her Dowlais Ladies Hockey Teammates to ‘Puck Off’.
Having the prestige of winning the ‘Nos Galan’ within the Police Force would also ‘fast track’ her for promotion to Inspector providing, she could get rid of the proof of her cheating.
The best way she had found over the years, to consign something to the Legal equivalent of Room 101, was to send it to the Crown Prosecution Service labelled ‘ Evidence’.
Or present it to a Judge as part of an International War Crimes Enquiry.
Her feet were burning worse than that time she caught a multiple verruca from the former Gwaunfarren Baths.
The military voice in her head told her ‘no pain no gain’ so she tried to put up with the searing heat that Dorothy’s own ‘Tootsies’ were experiencing.
She looked over her left shoulder and could see that despite her being ‘turbo charged’ the Marathon Women’ was gaining on her.
Radcliffe had got into her stride and had paced herself perfectly.
Banking as she came around the corner, passed the local Delhi-catessen or branch of Barclays, as it was known locally, Dorothy realised that her contraption was actually slowing down but what wasn’t apparent under that Droid costume was that the thermal shut- off switch on the board just hadn’t shut off.
Her feet were in fact on fire, like she was standing on the bridge of the Sir Galahad ship during the Falklands War.
Her toes were alight and of their own volition starting sending Morse code signals to Dorothy.
Dot- Dot- Dash- Save our Soles.
The stench of burning pig flesh was following Dorothy, and in her slipstream some of the rugby lads raised on a diet of early Sunday Morning bacon sandwiches, began to speed up like extras from the Waking Dead, as she ‘hot-footed’ it passed them.
With every step recorded on her Apple Fit watch, Dorothy could tell Radcliffe was closing on her.
She had come this far and it would be a shame if her burnt offerings of sacrificing her pedicure and expensive trainers didn’t produce a win backed by Mount Olympus, as she passed the Aberdare Camera Shop.
Surely, the Greek Goddess of Victory- Nike- would smile down on her.
She could see the finishing tape near the statue of Guto on Henry Street.
A little further please she pleaded silently to the Aegean Pantheon.
Suddenly, a flame shot out from under the legs of R2D2, burning the remaining fabric away so that the entire crowd could see the extent of the cheating by Dorothy.
The Hoover-board trundled to a halt, as she past a fat former Swansea City player still running the first lap.
She was less than two feet from the winning line, even if she didn’t have two feet left to complete the race.
She screamed in agony, as Radcliffe dipped for the line and pipped Dorothy for first place.
She then proceeded to put out the fire by urinating like a shire horse on the remains of Dorothy’s trainers.
“ Is she taking the piss or what?” said Dorothy’s best mate, Elaine Peter-Alan.
“ It’s more like Nos Gallon!” said another Ruth Bidmead- Cook , as the athlete in true camel style took ages to empty her bladder.
Dorothy’s dream, trainers, and bank balance were in tatters.
She had lost her personal Star War.
Dot Dot’s Dash was over and out.
His luck had finally run out.
Reynaldo the Red Fox was suspended, hanging on a barbed wire fence by his stomach.
The more he twisted, the more the barbs sunk their teeth into his pink soft underbelly.
He was trapped and he knew it.
He was literally kicking himself that he should get caught this way- in such a simple fashion – as he a very intelligent creature.
He had misjudged the take-off, slipping on some sheep-shit.
Reynaldo had for over a decade, survived the harsh Winter temperatures, and rainy Summers that Gwynedd in North Wales had to offer its native fauna.
In the freezing cold sub-zero temperatures, he would go and warm himself next to the decommissioned Nuclear Power Station , Trawsfynydd and its Magnox reactor.
He loved basking in its warm glow.
He always felt safe there, as for some reason the Local Huntsmen and their pack of dogs would not pursue him under the security fencing, preferring to take their cries of Tally-Ho and Soho to other quarries in and around Flint.
Whilst hunting with dogs was illegal on private land -that didn’t stop the local Hunt, ‘egged’ on by the local farmers missing their chickens, who continued as if nothing had ever been put in place by Parliament to stop such events.
The Manifesto of the New Labour Administration in the Noughties, had promised that ‘things could only get better’.
Well maybe not for the Country or the people of Iraq but for foxes it certainly had.
They loved Tony Blair.
He was made an honorary fox- Blair Fox if you like- as a direct result of the Hunting Ban, foxes just like the National Debt, quadrupled in numbers.
Foxes started appearing everywhere- on biscuits, near polar bears on glacier mints and even in Downtown Abbey.
It was no longer the ‘day of the jackal’ but the decade of the Vixen.
Brer Rabbit wasn’t so fussed on the New Policy, as their natural predator had been given special preserved status and like fox shit was now everywhere.
Thankfully, as is the way of Mother Nature- she balanced things up by providing a glut of KFC & MacDonalds outlets for vermin to feed on – and the foxes too.
Reynaldo, knew he had to figure a way to extricate himself from his predicament or die trying.
He knew it was only a matter of time before his nemesis since birth, ‘Old Gellert’ , a North Walian Bloodhound caught up with him.
He would never give up.
He was the canine equivalent of Metropolitan Police Detective Jack Slipper.
The Former East-ender had tracked the renegade Reynaldo all the way from his Dirty Den in Gwynedd across three Counties- Gwynedd, Rural Powys, Ceredigion and finally to Merthyr.
Looking at the sign in Welsh-’Bedlinog’, Reynaldo hoped it wasn’t a bad omen.
Normally, Reynaldo could usually give the pursuing back the slip by running through streams and doubling back- but not this time.
He figured that as his fur was starting to fall out then it made him easier to pursue.
He normally moulted in around April ever year – losing his Winter coat- but he feared this was different.
It was falling out in clumps, not individual hairs- worse still he couldn’t ‘groom’ himself with his ‘brush’ ,as his tail was attached to the sharp metal barbs on this livestock proof fence.
He had once heard from a wise old bird friend of his, who was losing his feathers - that he had been diagnosed by the vet as having ‘owlapecia’- so Reynaldo assumed that he was suffering from a similar complaint.
One thing for certain was that his love life hadn’t suffered because of his hair loss- he was still inundated by ‘foxy’ ladies that wanted a bit of his ‘Boom Boom’.
It seems he was the Vulpine equivalent of Errol Brown of ‘Hot Chocolate’ fame.
The vixens screamed for him from Mountain Top and Wheelie Bin Lid- much to the annoyance of the North Walian residents- as they all vied for his attention.
Reynaldo put it down to him regularly rolling his nether regions in the herb patches of the gardens that he prowled in at night.
It was like aftershave to the females – who loved the scent of ‘Basil Brush’.
Reynaldo knew he didn’t have time to reminisce, he must find a way off this blasted fence or like much of his prey -he was dead meat.
In the far distance, he could hear the yelping of his pursuers.
The last two dogs NOT to give up were Caradog and Old Gellert- he recognised their distinctive barking.
They were a little older and their noses less keen- from years of following the multitude of behinds of the younger, fitter dogs.
But they were nonetheless committed to the cause.
To Old Gellert it was personal- his wife Red, had been killed in the hunt back 5 years ago when Reynaldo had deliberately led her into a trap.
He had marked his scent all around the bottom of a milk float knowing full well that the dog would not resist checking out the bottom of the vehicle.
In the process, he had helped himself to two dozen eggs and a carton of Orange Juice before he was chased away by the returning milkman.
Red was not so lucky.
Being the fastest and fittest canine around, she was always first on the scene for any kill , as like most bitches liked to tear their opponents apart limb from limb.
The angry Unigate Dairyman thought that the dog was the thief and deliberately rolled back over her and ‘squashed’ her in the process.
Old Gellert knew that Lassie was the son of a bitch, but ever since that day to him so was Reynaldo.
He was convinced the fox had consumed part of his wife’s remains before being chased off by the pursuing pack.
His swore on his wife’s grave in the corner of ‘Vet Cemetery’ that he would get even with his foxy nemesis.
Sadly, Old Gellert’s legs weren’t as good as they once were- if only he could corner Reynaldo he would kill that vermin once and for all- and die happy.
Gellert sniffed the air- he knew he was gaining on Reynaldo as the ‘tumbleweed’ of red fox fur was getting thicker, the closer he got to his quarry.
Reynaldo wasn’t ready to give up the ghost just yet-if that Fantastic Mr Fox had been one thing during his lifetime it was he was very lucky.
So lucky that they named Foxy Bingo.com after him.
They say fortune favours the brave and Reynaldo was not just lucky – he was brave too.
Fate played a hand too in the shape of local resident, Lewys Street.
Lewys was only sixteen but had Bedlinog tattooed through him and on him like Blackpool Rock.
There was more Bedrock in him than the Flintstones.
Today, he was busy tootling along on his 998cc motorised hair drier.
The funky moped had a top speed of 30MPH having been fitted with a speed limiter and integral tracking device by an Insurance Company- otherwise his premium would have been £10,000.00 a year.
Lewys had left school with a GSCE in Woodwork and was busily searching the job market for suitable job opportunities in the Merthyr Borough to encompass his qualifications.
Not surprisingly, the Job Centre was not overflowing with opportunities.
Enticed by the glut of cheap cookery shows on television- he wanted to be the next Mary Berry only without the recipe for wrinkles…but they no longer wanted a chef at the Food Bank.
So he decided to do some volunteer work for new Political Party UKIP.
He was driving along the country lanes leading from Treharris to Bedrock whilst checking on the numbers of telegraph lines in the area.
He checked the job description and confirmed he was asked to ‘Count the Poles’ in the Merthyr Borough for Head Office of the Party.
After a while he had realised that the poles already had a serial number.
He thought it would now be an easier task than he first thought.
He was shocked to happen upon the stricken fox and even more surprised to find that the Fox could speak in Welsh.
He was surprised to find someone that did given that the National Average was between 22-30%.
And in foxes even lower.
“ Bore Da!” spake the Fox.
Lewys nearly crashed his moped into Pole number 86543.
“ What the Bluddy Hell are you doing hanging there?” said the youngster.
“ Just chillin’!” replied Reynaldo leaning back on the wire to pretend like he was not in excruciating agony but sunbathing.
“ How did you get there?” asked Lewys.
“ Haven’t you seen a flying fox before?” replied the cunning Reynaldo.
“ No…!” replied Lewys…” I’m from Bedrock…we don’t see much wildlife down here at all- apart chucking out time at the Bedlinog Rugby Club!”
“ Doesn’t that hurt then?” asked Lewys.
“ Wot hurt?” asked the balding fox.
“ Those barbs in your guts?” asked Lewys.
“ Oh …those body piercings you mean…I am hard …I’m Welsh mun…these are all the rage now in hip places like Merthyr!” said Reynaldo.
“ They are one on from body piercing –and are the ultimate stress relief too….!” continued the wily one.
“ If you come over here…I will show you how they are attached!” said Reynaldo.
“ My Mother warned me not to talk to strangers….especially Super Furry Animals or Lost Prophets!” replied Lewys.
“ But I am no longer a Super Furry Animal…my hair is much depleted ….like the Welsh Language…I have less than 22% left….and I am certainly not lost….!”said Reynaldo.
Lewys was a little reassured and came closer- as did the sound of the barking and hollering of Old Gellert & Caradog in the near distance.
“ I see you are wearing a ‘Friends of the Earth’ badge!” said Reynaldo.
“ You…I am against that Opencast lot…!” said Lewys pointing in the direction of where the sky was black.
“ Did you know that a group of foxes is called an Earth…Lewys ?” asked Reynaldo.
“ How did you know my name?” asked the teenager.
“ It’s written on your coat label!” said the fox …eyes…well like a fox really.
“ Oh!” said the Low Achiever.
“ So that makes us Friends…doesn’t it…!” said the cunning one.
“ Like on Facebook!” said Lewys.
“ Fox-book!” chuckled Lewys.
“ I don’t know what that is….but yes…friends none the less !” said Reynaldo.
“ And what do friends do Lewys?” asked the fox.
“ Help each other!”
“ So what do you want me to do?” asked Lewys hesistantly.
“ Come closer to me!” said the fox.
Lewys moved closer to the trapped skulker.
“ Closer please!” asked the prisoner of the wire.
“ But you don’t know my nickname do you….everyone in the Valleys has a nickname!” said Lewys.
“ Is it Einstein?....Socrates?....” asked the sarcastic fox.
“ No….it’s the Rock innit….as I am from Bedrock and I want to be a chef one day…!” said Lewys.
Lewys was now level with the fox who was splayed out with his undercarriage on full display- totally defenceless to any form of attack.
“ I don’t care how much of a friend you are or how much fur you have lost…I ain’t sucking THAT thing!” said Lewys.
“ Don’t be daft!” said Reynaldo.
“ I would merely like you to assist me with undoing the barbs holding me on this fence- I have done enough sunbathing for one day!” said the canny vixen lover.
“ Are you sure…because that’s what I was told priests and prophets do….and if I help you…you will not bite me?” asked the tentative Lewys.
“ Of course not….have the heard of the expression …not to bite the hand that feeds you?” said Reynaldo.
“ No….but I am not feeding you anyway….or touching THAT thing!” replied the nervous Lewys stepping closer.
“ It’s a figure of speech….trust your gut…!” said Reynaldo.
Lewys looked at the bleeding gut of the trapped animal in front of him and released the first barb from around the fox tail.
“ Now -You haven’t got that disease you catch from rabbits have you?” asked Lewys.
“ Mixamitosis?” asked the knowledge fox with a higher IQ than the human.
“ No rab-ies?” replied Lewys.
“ No- I’m clean I promise…..and if you help me out I will give you my lucky charm so that as a trainee Chef you will always have something to put in the pot!” said Reynaldo.
He reached inside his cheek and regurgitated something from his extended jawline.
“ What is that?” asked Lewys patiently undoing the last twisted metal spike from the barbed wire fence from the fox’s midriff.
“ That my FRIEND….is a lucky rabbit’s foot!” said Reynaldo proudly.
“ Go on then pick it up and rub it for luck and watch what happens!” said Reynaldo.
“ Lucky rabbits foot…it wasn’t that lucky for him was it!” said Lewys.
“ His name was Warren Want….and he was the King of the North Walian rabbits and he had magic powers!” said Reynaldo.
Lewys picked it up and rub the fox spittle on his WWF tee-shirt.
“ Now blow on it three times and I promise you in less than five minutes over that hill will come more rabbits than the cast of Watership Down!” boasted the fox.
Lewys blew on it three times and watched the horizon for signs of life.
“ Keep looking now…I promise you will never be hungry again!” said Reynaldo skulking pass his new friend.
After five minutes had passed- there was no sign of any leverets, does or bucks anywhere.
With the only hairs in sight that of the red fox fur still attached to the sharp metal fence.
As Lewys turned he could see his first Bedlinog Flying Fox ever, as Reynaldo came passed the field entrance riding Lewys’s scooter.
Pursued by two ugly slobbering bloodhounds with hang dog expressions.
Old Gelert and Caradog stopped and asked Lewys in Welsh, if he had seen a ‘chicken chaser’?
Lewys replied- ‘No …but if you do….it belongs to me!”
Gwenno Dafydd - AmeriCymru St David's Day Ambassador To The World - Sings For Wales, May 4th 2020
By Ceri Shaw, 2020-05-04
'SING FOR WALES' FACEBOOK GROUP HERE:- SING FOR WALES
Message from Gwenno Dafydd
Enunciation (with subtitles)
The Anthem performed by the Morriston Orpheus Choir
Join the Facebook Group here:- SING FOR WALES
A message from Sarah Evans, 'Sing For Wales' organiser:-
"SKY NEWS have come on board # singforwales and will be televising you singing the WELSH NATIONAL ANTHEM on MONDAY 4TH MAY, 8PM!
They may even be doing a live feed from one of your streets, so make sure you spread the word and get everyone out and singing.
MONDAY 4TH MAY, 8PM stand on your doorsteps and SING the WELSH NATIONAL ANTHEM for all those affected by Covid-19.
For the NHS and keyworkers, for everyone staying at home, for everyone self isolating, for the businesses that have had to shut, for the children missing their schools and friends, for everyone doing their part in the fight againsy Covid-19 and for those who were sadly taken by Covid-19.
Keep joining, keep sharing, keep practising and STAY SAFE!"
Feel free to download, print and display the official event posters below. It's a great way to stimulate interest and participation. A few posters in your front/bedroom window and the whole street knows about the event!
CLICK HERE TO DOWNLOAD THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE VERSION
CLICK HERE TO DOWNLOAD THE WELSH LANGUAGE VERSION
THE INDOOR MORTAL ORCHESTRA NEEDS YOU!
WHO ARE WE?
A team of talented and experienced music creatives from around the UK assembled under the collective The Indoor Mortal Orchestra — a celebration of collaboration and community.
WHAT ARE WE DOING?
A fundraising challenge, as part of Mark Watson’s 24 Hour Watsonathon in aid of Fareshare , Hospice IGN and Next Up — helping those who, through no fault of their own, currently can't help themselves.
WHAT’S THE CHALLENGE?
Record, professionally produce and release a cover version of You Give a Little Love from the musical Bugsy Malone. All from crowdsourced singers and musicians. With a music video. All in 24 hours.
WHAT’S OUR GOAL?
Raise LOTS of money and, hopefully, morale. The completed song will be available on Bandcamp in the last hour of the event and a week later across all major streaming platforms. It’s our care package for the ears.
HOW CAN YOU HELP?
We need singers — LOTS of singers — and proficient musicians with unusual instruments, with the ability to home record audio and video, to help us complete this challenge and raise lots of money.
WHEN’S IT HAPPENING?
Mark Watson’s 24 Hour Watsonathon starts 9pm May 1st and continues until 9pm the following evening.
IT WOULD BE AMAZING IF YOU CAN JOIN IN AND HELP GIVE A LITTLE LOVE BACK TO THE WORLD!
(hashtag) JoinTIMO (hashtag)TIMO2020 (hashtag)TheIndoorMortalOrchestra
The Indoor Mortal Orchestra
Email: theindoormortalorchestr
Facebook: https://fb.me/
Twitter: www.twitter.com/
Mark Watons’s 24 Hour Watsonathon
Twitch: www.twitch.tv/
Event Fund: www.gofundme.com/f/the-
Facebook: www.facebook.com/
Twitter: www.twitter.com/
Charities
fareshare.org.uk/ — national network of charitable surplus and unwanted food redistributors
www.hospice-ign.org.uk/ — professional association for UK Hospice fundraisers
Nextupcomedy.com/ — emergency fund for COVID-19 displaced professional comedians
"Maid of Sker is a first-person survival horror, set in a remote hotel with a gory and macabre history from British folklore. Coming to PC, PS4 and Xbox One in June 2020. Coming to Switch in Q3 2020."
If the quality of the trailer is anything to go by this could be a great game.
While you await release why not catch up with the ghastly history of Sker House here:
Sker House – Where Fact & Fiction Collide by C.M. Saunders
From the article: "The history of Sker House dates back almost a thousand years to when it was first built as a monastic grange to support nearby Margam Abbey by monks of the Cistercian order. After the dissolution of the monasteries, ownership of the estate changed hands several times in quick succession whilst it remained a refuge for renegade monks. In 1597, then-owner Jenkin Turberville, a staunch Roman Catholic, was allegedly tortured to death after being accused of promoting the 'Old Religion' and in 1679, the missionary Saint Philip Evans was hung, drawn and quartered in Cardiff after being arrested at Sker House the previous year. Many other dignitaries and prominent historical figures have spent time there, and visitors once travelled from far and wide to marvel at its spectral beauty. Over the years, Sker House became a hive of paranormal activity. People have reported seeing ghost ships just off the coast and disembodied lights flickering along the beach, as well as hearing mysterious banshee-like wailing sounds in the grounds. Visitors often experience a crushing sense of doom when entering the premises, and there are also accounts of poltergeist activity and shadow people."
Read More Here
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Little Daniel Boyd was lost.
The seven year old thought he was clever, when he ignored his teacher’s command to hold the hand of his classmate on a trip to Dan-yr Ogof caves in the Glyn-Neath Valley.
True, it was an act of revenge by his teacher, Mr Don Oxbridge for his recent behaviour in class at Gwaun Dowlais Primary School in Merthyr Tydfil.
Dan had sulked because he didn’t want to be paired with gypsy, Gustavo Worrell from the local travelling community that lived close to the Slip Road in the former mining Town, as he more ‘bugs’ than a spy from GCHQ in Cheltenham.
Whilst Gustavo was a lively character, he was too easily distracted to learn from books, as all his family were illiterate and he had no intention of being the ‘white sheep’ in amongst that flock.
The children all knew that Gustavo used to pick his nose and eat it with his blackened fingers that were not cleaned from one month to the next.
His class nickname was ‘Fun Gus the Bogey Man’.
Daniel looked around him at the dark limestone cavern trying desperately to find a way out.
He had long since given up trying to retrace his steps, as he had no idea of direction and with the only light coming from the front of his miniature pith helmet, he couldn’t see any obvious exit in the gloom.
He decided to pause and lean against a rock to try and get his bearings.
His lip began to tremble and the tears began to roll down his little ruddy cheeks.
He longed for the comfort of his Mother but being from a broken home knew that his estranged Father would have no sympathy and would tell the little seven-year old to ‘Man Up’ otherwise he would get a smack.
He promised himself that if he got out of this situation alive he would never run off again.
He had tried shouting for help but his feeble soprano voice was drowned out by the sound of rushing water in the caves which was magnified by the hollow echo chambers of dripping limestone that surrounded him.
He had lost track of how many caves he had squeezed his way into as part of his little adventure.
He had pretended he was Indiana Jones looking for treasure, as his fertile imagination ran riot being outside of the confines of the classroom, with his 20p pick n mix of sweets having to be rationed.
After a brief spell, in which he devoured both his packet of swizzles and his sticky pink n white drumstick, he decided that he would follow what looked like a pathway on the low floor of the cave in a downward descent.
Something instinctively told him he would find a way out in that direction.
In the main chamber of the caves, school teacher Miss Adventure was busy pointing and explaining the different limestone rock formations to the young children.
“These long finger-like features that hang from the roof….can anyone tell me what they are called?” asked the young teacher more in hope than in expectation.
“ Daggers?” asked one of the local urchins called Wesley Hermon, originally from the Dowlais Flats area of Merthyr .
The flat complex was a pile-them high attempt at cheap housing in the valleys to help with the surplus population after a massive slum clearance from the Town that died.
“ Knives?” asked another called Gwernllwyn Close.
Miss Adventure was well aware that a lot of her ‘flock’ were on the Social Services ‘watch list’ being allowed to play the violent Playstation game, Grand Theft Auto and of course subjected to Video nasties such as ‘Child’s Play’ and ‘The Texas Chainsaw Massacre’.
She shook her head- as she wanted to engage her audience without alienating them from the class.
“Suzy….do you know?” asked the teacher of her class pet.
The little Chinese girl looked up at the teacher and announced proudly that there were called stalactites and were made of limestone.
The daughter of the local Chinese Takeaway ‘Wok around the Clock’ was always Wong but was always right too being exceptionally bright and was determined not to fall into her parent’s trap of working every hour Buddha sent to make ends meet.
“Correct!....You are such a clever little girl!” praised the teacher.
Suzy glowed with pride.
She loved all her teachers but Miss Adventure was her favourite.
The rest of the girls in the class glowered at Suzy with envy.
“And now boys only -what are these called that grow up from the floor?” demanded Mr Oxbridge in a sharper more expectant tone.
After a minute silence and no takers, the teacher tried to encourage a male response.
“ Sounds like Stalactites….!”
“ Stalagpricks?” asked Wesley not so innocently.
“ Stalagcocks?” offered Gwernllwyn catching on.
The class began to giggle at the rude words.
“Wesley, Gwernllwyn, you pair have about much hope of getting a good job in the future as I have of finding a mate!” said Mr Oxbridge.
“ Go and stand over there by Gustavo!” ordered the disciplinarian.
“ Gustavo….stop eating your headlice there’s a good boy!” said Miss Adventure.
“ And where is Daniel?” she continued.
“ Dunno….!” said the child scratching his head and shrugging his shoulders- in doing so sending lots of nits to their death on the cold stony wet floor.
The two teachers looked at each other in horror as they realised that one of the children in their care was missing in a very dangerous environment.
They like Gustavo, did an impromptu headcount.
Again, just like Gustavo they were one short of a picnic and their emergency plan had to kick in.
“ You stay with the children….ordered Mr Oxbridge ….I will retrace our steps and see if the little ‘Duffer’ is sitting on a rock further back on the trail eating his packed lunch or something!”
Daniel carried on slowly in the dimly lit cave hoping to find signs of life.
As he rounded a big rock, he suddenly froze, as he could make out a dark shadow of a human reflected on a wall.
He could make out the muffled sound of a voice which was almost whispering.
After a few seconds , he realised that a phrase was being repeated over and over again.
“ When I catch you I will eat you!”
Daniel was horrified- he was petrified that he had stumbled across a real life Gollum from the film, ‘The Lord of the Rings’ and that he was next on the dinner menu.
Whilst he was tempted to run as fast as he could backwards- he was oddly pleased to hear a human voice again.
He stared at the shadow on the cave wall which appeared to show a large one-armed figure in silhouette touching his head.
“ When I catch you I will eat you!” the voice continued.
Daniel had seen this shape before recalling his classmate Gustavo dirty habit.
The little lost boyo plucked up some courage and rounded the corner realising that it was a man sat on the floor cross-legged dressed in some rags with his finger up his nose.
“ You dirty bugger!” said the seven-year old.
The shock of seeing a Caucasian child challenging his eating habits shocked the man into reply.
“ Who are you infidel?” said the stranger through bogey encrusted teeth.
“I’m Daniel and I am not an infidel….unless that’s what you call someone whose parents are not married…is that an infidel?” asked the youngster.
Daniel stared at the dirty unkempt figure sat cross-legged before him.
“ And why do you have a dirty bath towel on your head?”
The stranger smiled.
He had forgotten how innocent a bastard child could be.
“ Are you Father Christmas’ dirty brother?”
Daniel somehow felt less scared being with a new companion.
“ No….Daniel…my name is not important!” replied the stranger.
“ But have you been a good boy this year?”
Daniel nodded.
“ And what would you like for Christmas?” he continued.
“ A gun!” spouted the child without any inhibition.
“ You are in luck….I have lots of them…!” said the stranger.
“ When I was your age in Saudi Arabia I had plenty of British made guns and ammunition to play with!”
“ On your list of demands ….did you ask Allah…sorry Father Christmas for which ones….An AK47 perhaps or a Stinger Surface to Air Missile launcher like the one that I used to play with in the poppy fields of Afghanistan?”
Daniel felt at ease with his newfound friend-they had something in common to talk about which was their love of playing soldiers.
Daniel did what came natural to a child and offered to share the remainder of his sweets with his new pal.
“Chew?” asked Daniel offering a blackjack to the stranger.
The stranger’s demeanour suddenly changed, as he went into a rage ranting that he hated all chews especially Zionist ones.
For the first time, Daniel started to fear the beard.
He had developed pogonophobia when his Estranged Father had grown one for Movember and then left his Mother for a Gurnos Woman, who had done the same for Fanuary.
“Come closer, my little friend ‘, begged the stranger using a softer tone of voice.
“Sorry, for my little outburst but those sticky sweets take my fillings out and I already have a toothache, as I haven’t been to register with a NHS dentist as I am not supposed to be in the Country”
“Officially, I am dead to the Western World and I wish it to stay that way!” continued the stranger.
Daniel was a little more wary at the mention of a dentist….he had already lost all his adult teeth from his sweet only diet- he shivered in the cold dank confines of the cave.
“ I see you are cold little soldier, why don’t you put on one of my specially made vests that are very popular in Somalia and Sudan….they will keep out the cold….although be careful not to pull this string on the front….!” Warned the stranger.
“ Is it like an Action Man?” asked Daniel.
“ My Father bought me one from a car-boot sale and if you pull the string he says
‘Action Man patrol fall in’.
“ Yes…this is a real ACTION Man vest but you mustn’t pull this cord until I give the order….as soon as you hear the phrase Ali Akbar you pull the string okay….!” he said glaring at the child like Rasputin and commanding obedience
“You see I am the Sargeant in the Suicide Squad whereas you are the private and you must obey only MY orders!”
“ Is that clear Private Daniel?
Daniel stood upright, clicked his heels like he was a reincarnated member of the Hitler Youth and marched toward the stranger in character.
Children have wonderful imaginations.
He stood proudly as the vest was fitted around his waist and chest.
“Remember Private Daniel this is an Order …do NOT pull this cord until I tell you!” insisted the stranger with mesmeric eyes poking out from under his turban.
“ Are you hungry Soldier?” asked the stranger.
“ Here is your chocolate ration!”
He handed him a square of dark chocolate.
“ Aren’t you having any?” asked Daniel.
“ I already have a bounty on my head!” laughed the stranger making eyes towards the turban.
The joke was wasted on the wannabe child soldier.
Mr Oxbridge was glad he was thin and able to pass easily through the narrow passages between rocks, as he tried like a Red Indian scout to follow the path the little boy had taken.
Luckily, just like Hansel & Gretel, he had left a trail behind him.
Coming from Merthyr, the little boy had no qualms about dropping litter and every so often, Mr Oxbridge would find a remnant of a 20p mix by way of sweet wrapper as a sign.
As the floor got wetter, there were child-size footprints on the cave floor, so unless he was following Wee Jimmy Krankie or Dennis Wise, he knew he was on the right pathway.
Mr Oxbridge was glad that he had joined the Scouting Movement as a child and read that Baden Powell Handbook from cover to cover, otherwise he would have had no chance of tracing the boy.
He needed to find him before word got out about a child going missing in his care.
If he found him alive and well then, he would keep his job.
He was already on report with the Headmaster for chapel farting next to the slow children making them think they had shit themselves- as he loved to see their confused expressions.
That teaching assistant, a paid- up Member of the Green Party, had never liked him and had ‘ratted’ him out to the Head over his emissions and methane fart-print.
As he squeezed passed below the main Cathedral Cave and the Bone Cave, he felt certain he was closing in on his quarry, as he felt he heard voices and assumed the little lost boy was keeping up his spirits by talking to and answering himself.
He often did it himself, as he had no friends and lived the life of a lonely bachelor like most male Primary School Teachers.
As he rounded a rock, he realised that Daniel was not in fact talking to himself or to Hank Marvin or any other member of the shadows, but an Arab man whose face was very familiar.
He did look like the man that served him a kebab when he was drunk on a Friday night but he couldn’t be certain it was him.
As he joined the pair, he suddenly recognised the face of the Arab man before him and couldn’t believe his eyes.
“ Greetings Infidel , welcome to my cave!” said the stranger.
The teacher nodded suspiciously at the man, in the same way he would nod at a paedophile passing the closed school gates.
“ Do you know who I am?” asked the stranger.
Mr Oxbridge knew he daren’t say he recognised him or he and the child would not leave the cave alive.
The teacher looked nervously at the array of weaponry, all within close reach of the Arab, who sat cross-legged like he was practising yoga.
“ No…I am only a primary schoolteacher and the only Arab I know of based in a cave from Western culture is that of Ali Baba!” said Mr Oxbridge trying to bluff his way out of trouble.
“ I don’t think he cuts hair….look at the state of his beard…!” said Daniel unhelpfully.
“ Not Ali Barber…..Ali Baba!” said the teacher in a gentle tone of voice designed not to frighten the child.
“ He was the one with the forty thieves!” said the stranger.
“ Another bias Western portrayal of the nature of my Countrymen!” he continued.
“ Was he from the Gurnos too?” asked Daniel.
“ No… he was a fictional character contained in the book 1001 Arabian Nights!” said the Teacher.
“ It was every much a work of fiction- just like your Holy Bible!” declared the stranger hitting back.
“ If there are any thieves then they are ALL Jewish ….imagine trying to say that Jerusalem is the Capital of Israel indeed!”
Daniel looked back and fore at the two adults and sensed that they would not be big friends in the playground.
“ You KNOW who I am don’t you?” pressed the Arab.
“ I know who you CANNOT be!” replied the Teacher.
“ Who CANNOT I be?” asked the stranger, as the conversion took on a surreal turn..
“ He told me he is Uncle Sam!” interjected Daniel.
“ Uncle OSAMA if you please!” replied the outed Saudi.
“You can’t be he….he was killed in a compound in Pakistan as part of Operation Neptune Spear by US Navy Seals!” said Mr Oxbridge clinging to life by a narrow thread.
“ Sharks -yes- said Daniel ….but not Seals no…!” said Daniel tugging on his teacher’s sleeve to correct him.
“ Do you think that that desert rat Montgomery and your fat Prime Minister Winston Churchill are the only persons important enough to have body doubles?” continued the Saudi.
Hearing this statement made Mr Oxbridge as effectively dead as the passengers on the hijacked planes involved in the 9/11 plot.
“ If you in fact are Osama Bin Laden and not just some lookalike wannabe ….prove it….you look more like John Pertwee dressed as Wurzel Gummidge to me!” said the teacher trying to muddy the oasis water.
“ Okay….what if I told you that I was not responsible for that whole New York thing and that it was an elaborate insurance scam all set up by the Jews to pay for a defective building that was due to crumble anyway inside 5 years!” said the Saudi.
“ Then I would believe you without question….!” Said Mr Oxbridge.
“ When I read the Merchant of Venice….I am always on the side of Portia and Antonio against that evil Shylock …charging interest rates in line with Wonga.com….who does he think he is….does he not have a Jew’s eyes, organs, dimensions etc….and as for that unmistakable nose….!” Said Mr Oxbridge suffering a little from Stockholm Syndrome.
“ But we have a problem don’t we Sir!” said the Saudi.
“ You KNOW who I am and you cannot be allowed to tell anyone!”
Mr Oxbridge gulped.
He knew what was coming next.
“ Child….pass me that AK47 please!” said the Saudi.
In a split second, the hyper intelligent Mr Oxbridge questioned as to why the Arab hadn’t moved towards the gun himself.
He called upon all his authority and ordered Daniel to STOP.
The little boy stopped midway between the pair, unsure who to listen too.
In his tiny mind, he felt the burning eyes of the Arab against the voice command of his teacher.
It wasn’t so much a Mexican stand-off it was more of an Afghan one.
Mr Oxbridge suddenly realised that their captor hadn’t moved his legs in the entire time he had spent talking to him.
“ What’s the matter with your legs then Mr Pertwee?” asked the teacher trying to confuse the Arab.
“Very observant of you SIR ….I stood on one of my own IED’s didn’t I….and now I have even less in the testicle department than my idol Adolph Hitler….!” Said the Arab.
“ IDOL ?” asked Mr Oxbridge.
“ He didn’t recognise those trespassers in Palestine either he had his own solution for them!”
“So let me get my history straight….the Arabs are the true land owners and the Jewish people just squatters?” asked Mr Oxbridge.
“So if they wanted a desert place to live in….why don’t they just go and live next to Las Vegas in Arizona?” asked the teacher trying to find ‘common ground’ with his hijacker.
“ You make a good point!” said the freedom fighter, playing the teacher at his own game.
“ Boy…bring me that gun!” he whispered to Daniel.
“ STOP Daniel….you are in a veritable lion’s den and if you give that gun to Uncle Osama you nor I will never see your Father again!” pleaded the Teacher.
Daniel had taken one step closer to the gun but now stood frozen to the spot, just like a jackrabbit caught in the headlights of a US Marine jeep.
The child was extremely confused.
He had common ground with the stranger and had always disliked the teacher intently.
His comment that he would never see his estranged Father again left him in a quandary.
Daniel was a free spirit but was slowly being indoctrinated by the teaching profession, as to how he should think, react and behave according to society rules.
On the other hand, he was standing in front of the ultimate rebel- a man from a millionaire family who was fighting American Imperialism and oil exploitation of the Middle East and multi-national Companies who sold arms for a living to wreak havoc in underdeveloped nations pitting brother against brother in the process.
Daniel didn’t understand World politics or the concepts of greed or evil.
He just wanted to be a child soldier.
He suddenly became aware of the string attached to the belt around his chest.
He remembered what his Mother used to say back home when he was in a fight with his younger brother over his 20p mix sweets.
“Now…you two … STOP arguing and pull little fingers OR I will pull this string!” he threatened.
Both Osama & Mr Oxbridge put their hands up as one asking the little boy NOT to pull the string.
Daniel was delighted with his new-found power.
He felt like he was role- playing his biological Father, on the many occasions when he had come home from the pub drunk and was ordering his Mother around under the threat of violence.
He felt like those times he had sat crying on the top of the stairs in his Spiderman pyjamas hadn’t gone to waste.
Mr Oxbridge was worried.
On the one hand, he knew that at some point the Company that owned the cave would send rescuers to look for him and Daniel and if they did, his time at the ‘chalk face’ was numbered.
Besides, he did want anyone to be held hostage by a desperate terrorist with no legs and little reason to live.
Surely, the Arab must have a helper above ground bringing the cripple some food?
The answer to this mystery didn’t take long to reveal itself.
Out of the cave shadows stepped another Arab.
His face too was familiar to the teacher.
As he strained to pull little fingers with Osama he realised that there was a Terrorist Cell operating in the South Wales Valleys.
He was also so tempted to drop one bomb of his own at the thought of ‘pull my finger’.
The other man was local Cynon Valley Kebab shopkeeper Mustafa Kemal.
Mr Oxbridge was a regular at the late-night eatery even in his local Environment Health Department had given the establishment ‘Two Food Safety Stars’ in their ‘War against Botulism’.
In the window, meats of all kinds cooking on skewers, some of which looked decidedly humped, with their delicious smell wafting down the littered streets, enticing late night revellers for both hot food and the chance of a good punch-up.
Mustafa himself was always subjected to racial abuse and many a time had chased some of the local youths with meat cleaver in hand.
He was particularly upset when lost in translation he was asked ‘if there was Saladin’.
Mr Oxbridge could see by the way Mustafa was looking at him that he had peeled many a Westerner in his Iraqi Torture Chambers under the Saddam Hussein Regime.
The key to this whole sorry episode was how Daniel would react.
One false move and he would be blown to Kingdom come and he didn’t think that the other 71 virgins would be pleased to see him intruding on their Turkish Delight.
He had managed to grab Daniel’s tiny hand in the dark and began to take small backwards steps in the direction he had appeared from.
Mustafa was slowly trying to outflank him to block his escape.
In one movement, he reached down to Daniel’s legs and lifted him Fireman Osama style like he was carrying a body in a Persian Rug.
“ Quick! ” he shouted to the stunned youngster, as he pinned his arms to try and prevent him pulling the detonation cord by accident.
Slipping and sliding over the wet limestone rock, the teacher ran for his life, followed in pursuit by Mustafa Kemal who had produced a curved knife not dissimilar to a scimitar.
Fortunately, the teacher had been a cross-country champion in his college days and despite his spindly legs and knobbly knees, he was more adept at covering the difficult terrain than his pursuer, whose turban had started to unravel after a fall and began to slow him up.
Daniel kicked and screamed, just like his Mother had done, the time his drunken Father had tried to knock her unconscious with the intention of using her as foundations for his patio.
Mr Oxbridge didn’t have a clue in which direction to go but took guidance from the Yazz & the Plastic Population song- ‘The only way is Up’.
He stumbled about in the dark, whispering to Daniel not to make a sound or the ‘bogey man’ would get the pair of them.
Mr Oxbridge knew that Mustafa must be close, as he could smell the spices that oozed out from his pores.
At one point the Arab passed the pair, metal skewer in hand calling out like a Middle Easterner version of the Child-catcher from the film Chitty Chitty Bang Bang for Daniel to reveal himself.
It took all of Mr Oxbridge’s strength to keep the boy quiet.
After waiting for several minutes, which seemed like ‘double mathematics’ to both pupil and teacher alike in the inky blackness, the Teacher felt it was now safe to head out from the sanctuary of the crevice that had hidden them from view.
Following the cave in a Northerly direction, the former hostages made their way in the opposite direction they had come, hoping to find a way back to the main chamber.
Miss Adventure was starting to get really worried.
Mr Oxbridge had asked him to give him one hour to find the boy, after which she was free to raise the alarm with the relevant authorities.
As he held her mobile in her hand about to ring the Headmaster and spill the beans, both Mr Oxbridge and Daniel emerged blinking into the light from behind a series of rocks a couple of yards away from the main school party.
The children cheered loudly, as did Miss Adventure at the relief the pair were safe from danger.
However, when it comes to school outings then peril is never far away.
This peril came in the form of Mustafa who leapt off a high rock with the skewer in his teeth like a mad pirate about to swash-buckle John Phillip Law in a Sinbad Film.
Unfortunately, for the would-be Cynon Valley Assassin, a loose fold from his turban got trapped around his neck and became lodged in a fissure in the rock and what a cry that started as ‘Ali Akhbar’ petered out to Ali ARRRGGHH.
As he hung there choking the schoolchildren all cheered as they thought it was part of the school outing.
After all they had been to see Merthyr comedian Owen Money’s pantomime Aladdin and watched him die a death on stage in that.
Daniel started to raise his hand towards the string-pull on his chest as if acting under a trance.
As the skewer dropped from the mouth of Mustafa, as he struggled to breathe, the two teachers looked at each other as they realised they now had a way out of their ordeal which might now save their face, their jobs and get them on the much coveted BBC Wales Six O’Clock News slot.
All they had to do was to let the Arab die in front of the children by asphyxiation.
“Nothing to worry about children…..he is just a practical choker!” said Mr Oxbridge making eyes at his fellow teacher, nervously farting like a trooper next to his slow children.
“ Why has he gone red in the face?” asked Wesley.
“ My Father used to go that colour when my Mother used to put his pillow over his face when he was snoring!” said Gwernllwyn.
After a brief version of Michael Flatley’s Riverdance – the Arab suddenly became more Flatliner than Flatley.
Mr Oxbridge on the other hand was no longer flatulent.
His job was safe, as was his pupil and there had been no harm done.
Save as to a terrorist cell member and a man that was already listed as dead.
And that is the way it would have stayed if Gustavo hadn’t spotted the ring pull on Daniel’s shirt.
He wanted to beat his hypnotised classmate to it.
He loved Action Men too.
After the explosion everyone was in denial, except Daniel and Gustavo who were in pieces.
