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When the reputation of politicians here in the UK is at a very low ebb, it is good to know we can turn to the past for a better model of how things should be. I found this instructive extract in the Swansea newspaper, The Cambrian, of October 1900 about the canvassing techniques developed by Judge John D. Holt, the Democratic candidate for the post of Governor of West Virginia.He may have been campaigning on the other side of the Atlantic but The Cambrian was mightily impressed by his determination and his versatility. To be frank there appears to have been nothing he would not do to secure a vote. In the first place he was an accomplished fiddle player, who plays quadrilles, waltzes, reels and two steps to the entire satisfaction of young people in the country districts. Apparently, as soon as he arrived anywhere on his canvassing tour he was playing away at a dance.Clearly it was hard work getting elected in West Virginia. You have to ask yourself, was it worth it? Was it really worth the humiliation of being the major attraction at some kind of ancient disco full of clumsy adolescents?But there was more. He was a good cook and handy at all kinds of housework. He didnt stop at kissing a baby. He could soothe it even in its most tempestuous moments. Obviously a man of real talent. His blackberry roll was apparently the best anyone had ever tasted. He would peel potatoes if it got him a vote or sweep the house or even undertake essential needlework in a way that defied criticism from the envious.What does this suggest? Madness? Desperation? Were there such advantages in getting elected that made it worth nursing someones ugly child to sleep? As a father I have always been uncomfortable with the idea that a politician might want to kiss any of my babies. But I know now that what I really wanted was for them to clean my house. Certainly it would have given me a real basis on which to make an informed judgement. Forget about their position on foreign policy. Lets see if they clean behind the sofa. In fact if you had lots of candidates you could get your house cleaned for a week on a rota basis. It works for me.I know nothing more about Judge John D. Holt but I am grateful to him. He has given me a model on which I can judge our current political leaders. Forget policy. Consider their pastry.Would I have given Judge Holt my vote? I would have given him a room in my house on the basis of his blackberry roll alone.

Whilst visiting the many and varied watering holes throughout the valley it becomes obvious, that despite the differences of locale, there are certain types of people who naturally gravitate towards bars - or at least develop certain traits because of their constant use of a pub. In each establishment one can see the gambler, the alcoholic, the sipper, the lone drinker, the cultured drunk, the needler and most interesting of all - the liar.The liar is a peculiar animal. Hes not really a vindictive man but has developed a sense of hyperbole borne out of listening to other liars. He has an irresistible urge to out do anybody who in his opinion is speaking nonsense. The fact that the best bar liars are mostly uneducated types with a scant grasp on reality or indisputable facts makes their pronouncements all the more interesting and deliciously preposterous. Better still is the fantasist liar who wants the world to be what its not and so sets about painting scenarios of surreal beauty just tinged with a dash of reality to make them digestible. When several of these types happen to meet in one room the best strategy is to keep a straight face and treat each pronouncement with deadly seriousness and the occasional appreciative chuckle. Its also well to remember that each liar, or shall we call them hyperbolists, seems blissfully unaware that another of their kind is close at hand. The effect of accumulative and escalating fibs however can be quite debilitating to the casual observer.On one Saturday morning many moons ago I had occasion to call at The Treorchy Hotel to pay some contributions towards a day trip we had booked to Carmarthern or some other place to the west. When I walked in I could see that four of the finest exponents of hyperbole were standing at the bar. This in itself was remarkable. Even more remarkable was the fact that the landlord Keith Evans himself known as Tom Pepper was serving them.First to speak was Dai Brunker. He looked at me and said Hello Ian. We were just talkin about Elwyn Thomas. Have you seen him lately? I said that I hadnt for some months and asked why. Was he ill? You could say that said Dai. Hes picked up with skinny Janice. You know her. Shes from Treherbert. Looks like a tape worm with a big ead. Anyway hes been knocking her off and we think shes killing him. Why I asked. Because he came in here yesterday and looked as though hes lost about three stone. You ought to have seen him. He looked like he had two bricks in his arse pockets. Hes nothing but bones. I started to laugh at this suggested visage. Its not funny said Dai Hes looking horrid. I laughed even louder.To his left was Brian Poole. Poole was the most inventive swearer Id ever come across and hed developed a nice line in droll insults and fantasy (he once told us that you could buy Star of David shaped pork chops in a butchers in Ton Pentre and some people believed him) and he could change any subject at the drop of a hat. Never mind about Elwyn he said Have you seen his brother Terry. He came in here last night. You know him. Hes only five foot tall but thinks hes six foot six. You ought to have heard him laying down the law last night about what rugby we were going to watch on the box. Everyone wanted to watch Cardiff except im who wanted Llanelli on the other side. I told him where to go and then he squared up to me. What happened? I was intrigued. Nothing really said Brian. I told him to get his sword out and go and fight the spiders in the corner of the room. Short arsed bonehead as he is. He then told me hed set his dog on me. HA! Have you seen it? It looks like an up turned scrubbing brush with four legs. I was becoming positively weak by now and sat down.Tom Pepper was the next to speak. He went over to Emlyn Hicks and said Been up the allotment today Em? Emlyn was a red faced man who never stopped smiling. He always had a wicked look in his eye and wouldnt give anyone a straight answer where a spurious one would do. Aye he said Ive been having trouble with rabbits eating my lettuce. Id just come back from chaining the mother in law up in the garden shed last night It was a full moon when I saw a pair of ears sticking up behind one of the lettuce. So I got up early this morning with my shot gun and as luck would have it, it was still there. Oh aye said Pepper Did you get it Nah said Emlyn I gave it two barrels and destroyed the lettuce. Thing was. When the smoke cleared there was a donkey standing there Everyone burst out laughing.Hey said Emlyn Dont laugh. The other day I was taking a lettuce to the vicar at the top of Church Hill when I dropped it. By the time I caught up with the bloody thing it had rolled all the way down to Railway Terrace and knocked one of the coal wagons over in the sidings. Anyway where have you been lately Tom? I havent seen behind the bar for some time. Ive been on a break Em. We went down to Hampshire to visit the in laws Did you have a good trip? asked Emlyn. It was OK see. It was a bit strange when we were asked to join a witches coven but we had a laugh. What balls are you talking about now? said Poole. Before he could answer Keiths wife walked in to the bar. Are you a witch Jen? said Dai Brunker. You cheeky bugger Dai. Ill put a stop to your beer if you cant keep a civil tongue in your head. Sorry Jen said Dai but Keith was saying that you joined a witches coven on holidays. Ha! We watched a film called Blood on Satans Claw. Thats all. You ought to know better than believe anything he tells you. You know hes a bloody liar like the rest of you.At this point the spell was broken so I drank my beer and said farewell. For the rest of the day I found myself chuckling out loud for no obvious reason. Im still chuckling as I write this.

Excerpt from my blog It started inauspiciously, with a where are you phone call, where I was is on the Sofa, freshly full of Paella and quietly knackered after a day on the hacking-off pneumatic gun smashing the shit out of a friends house re-furb.Lacking the ability to raise my arms beyond shoulder height, Id already mentally prepared for an afternoon of blissfull rest, but the boys were having none of it. Three separate mobile phone prompts had me togged up and wheeling the bike out of the shed in short order.So somewhat reluctantly I led the brigade into the valley. It all started quite sensibly and wellAfter fuelling up, we patiently posed through the villages, speeds and noise at a responsible minimum. 26 miles later wed disposed of a couple of streetfightered fireblades and navigated through traffic light enough to break up the flow and the group. Regrouping at Brecon, we again meandered through the spring sunlit market town and out into fairly deserted b road country.Upping the pace a little, we leave responsibility back in the town where it belongs. 5 miles in we blitz an unsuspecting sportsbike, making his own sweet way, till he gets swamped by the superbike pack in a first corner me first feeding frenzy. The road is ours for an uninterrupted hoot all the way to the next way point.The road gets all combat ready as we blip and blast across the MOD ranges of the Epynt, Red flags mean the real boys are out with real toys, just out of sight of the road (and out of range we hope). With no real straights for 12 miles or so, were butt shuffling, shoulder dropping and short shifting on roads that coil and uncoil like a sleepless rattlesnake. Part farm track, part tank addled tarmac and some perfectly resurfaced swiss army bends, useful for anything as long as its sideways.Crashing back into A road civilisation for a few short miles, its now officially competitive. No overtakes, but theres plenty of Front Wheeling in my mirrors as the faster boys demonstrate their intent to the slower riders at every opportunity. Sweeps and swoops as we gallop through and over the mountains, keeping near perfect formation, I feel like the wing commander of a fighter flight, headlights in attack order as we seek opponents for a dogfight.Denied our enemy, we spill onto another b road and peel through some roller-coaster scenery and arse crimping corners as they tighten on us like thumbscrews. Slowing very occasionally for the blind crests and farm entrances. Now hunched over the tank, now stood up and braking hard, heeling over, knee pointed at the exit, bike wiggling on the power as the bend is apexed, and the next, and the next.We plot up in a pub carpark for a giggle and a smoke, touch warm tyres and tut-tut at close overtakes and fumbled lines. Short spin for a cuppa and fill up, then were on the home stretch, or at least pointing back in the right direction (ish).Its always faster on the way back, weve passed the psychological midway point and theres a beer at the end of this road rainbow. Up and over again, little traffic resistance, we pass a couple of ancient Austin 7s full of cardigans, knitted hats and snotty kids enjoying a slow dawdle through the breathtaking scenery. To us its a road with a green blur for a border.We retrace our steps a little back through the ranges, descending to then rising up the Beacons once more, now were proper fast, proper confident, slicing and dicing the traffic, were in the groove, settled in formation, not stupid fast, not bullying ,but making progress and scaring squares, eyes stuck in tin box travel mode swivel to follow us as we waft past, all leather and noise.More tea and meets with mates at the burger bar with views to die for, we see friends freshly setting out for an evening spin, as were arriving most are leaving for home, we sup up and head out.Past the lakes and up over bleak moors stained pale by early spring setting sun. Suicidal Sheep hold their death urges in check as the squadron barrel rolls through the remaining home bound traffic. Clear road views allow wrong side corner overtakes, we can see hundreds of yards ahead and the sheep mercifully stay away from our flightpath.Into the home run, with only four miles of down followed by five of up, its winner take all to be first back to the bar. I sneak a lead through snaky off camber bad tarmac, we totter responsibly through the village and head up again to the high country we know so very well.Mug the first car, hard on the gas and up through the gears, reeling in a mini close to the next corner, out past and in for the apex leaving no room for the following pack. Sit her up and gas it again for the next uphill left, Im giving away 70 horses and 30 kilos to the blades behind, but its all relative cos Im in front and theres more cars ahead. Once more Im blessed by timing as I stuff myself in front of the queue on a right hander, expecting lights fading in the mirror, theyre on me, that cant have been nice for the drivers they just beat up.Now were just proper silly, rushed overtakes late passes and two long straights between us and the destination, full gas, full lean, full commitment, fully crazy, fully loving it. Eventually a lone blade cracks past and brakes brickwall hard into the turn off.We got there. Then the adrenaline rush and back slapping, shoulder punching, bar room boasting that leaves our fellow drinkers wistful and wanting detail so they can get some vicarious kicks from our blast. But listening to a story aint like being in one.

When it comes to sport, being a small country, Wales has managed to punch above its own weight over the years. Be it in rugby, athletics, football, boxing, snooker and even rugby league Wales has produced its fair share of heroes. A new book published this week will test how sport loving and how knowledgeable the Welsh public really are. So You Think You Know Welsh Sport? includes questions an all kinds of sports. The book has 50 rounds of 10 questions with the questions getting harder as you get along.

It is safe to say that the author Matthew Jones, a 29 year old chemist from Cardiff is a Welsh sports anorak. He spends his weekends travelling the length and breadth of Wales visiting sporting events and he has already published a quiz book on Welsh rugby. It was due to the success and the enthusiastic feedback to So You think You Know Welsh Rugby? that Y Lolfa decided to commission the new book. Matthew Jones said about his new book,

If you struggle to only get a couple correct then your knowledge is probably equivalent to a drunk dart player however if you manage to get ten out of ten then you are the trivia king of Welsh sport!

The book includes questions like:

Which Middle East country appointed Terry Yorath as their manager in 1995?

Who recorded Glamorgans best ever bowling figures of 7-16 in a one day contest, against Surrey in 1988?

In 1990, whose 27 year Welsh 100 meters record did Colin Jackson break?

Which future rugby union international scrum half was Welsh schools champion in the high jump in 1969 and 1970?

So You Think You Know Welsh Sport? is published by Y Lolfa and will be available in bookshops and on www.ylolfa.com , from Saturday the 8th of June for 3.95.

During the long dark winter nights in the Rhondda valley, long term married men and those who are otherwise bored gather in small groups to put the world to rights. They often congregate around snooker tables or dart boards pints in hand with opinions on every subject known to man. Inevitably when a band of brothers meet regularly there is a tendency to see themselves as a unique entity apart from the general rush of society. In such a climate it is often the case that secret societies are formed. In the wider world we see exemplar organisations such as the Masons or the Buffs. In small villages lesser known societies exist. Some time ago a group of local men decided that, as they were all members of the local darts team, allotment holders and pigeon fanciers, there were grounds to form their own arcane association. For reasons that defy explanation they called themselves The Order of Whippets. Their aim was to provide a sanctuary for fellow thinkers and a collective means of support for themselves and their families.As with all such associations the means of entry was by invitation only and shrouded in mystery. Taking the Masons as their guide but without their resources our trusty crew managed to book a room above a public bar in which to perform their initiation ceremonies. From time to time the locals at The Marquis of Bute public house were treated to a strange cacophony of bumps and thumps on the ceiling above their heads. This was regarded as a minor annoyance by landlord Sam Owens as the amount of beer consumed during these ceremonies more than offset the irritation of an hour or so of shenanigans.And so it was in late January of 1972 that the monthly meeting took place. Two new members were to be initiated. Messrs Charlie Ellis and Evan John had been given the all clear by the Grand Whippet Iestyn Morris for inclusion into the hallowed ranks. They arrived at the pub at seven sharp and to the bemusement of the great unwashed were blindfolded and led upstairs. It wasnt long before the thumps and bumps started.Meanwhile downstairs the bar had started to fill up. Included in the ranks of the local sumpers were Mrs Phyllis Pugh, Mrs Evan John and Mrs Stella Ellis. Mrs Pugh was a staunch no nonsense woman who had single handedly brought up six children. She was listening incredulously to the two other women waxing eloquently about the status their husbands would achieve in the village after they had received the rank of Initiate Whippet. What are they doing up there? said Pugh. Having caught her attention the other two proceeded to regale her with details of the ceremony that was taking place upstairs. I must swear you to secrecy said Mrs John Evan told me its a very dignified affair that involves oaths and .. she was interrupted by a loud thump from upstairs . oaths and signatures. THUMP! Really? Mrs Pughs eyebrows were fully arched. THUMP! Yes replied Mrs Ellis They have to put their Sunday best on . THUMP! .. and recite some beautiful poetry .. THUMP! Theres money in it . Before she could complete her sentence there was an almighty crash behind them. They turned around to see a man dressed in a duck costume laying flat out on the pool table surrounded by debris. Above him was a hole in the ceiling he had created and peering down through it was what appeared to be a chicken, a panda and a dog. The duck let out a strangled cry STELLAAAAA STELLAAAAAH. Stella Ellis could only get a quick Christ Almighty out before the duck said GET AN AMBULANCE.AAARGH! MY LEG.By now the entire bar was looking on trying to make sense of the sight before them. The landlords jaw was nearing the floor and refused to lift. When it did recover he looked up to the ceiling and howled IESTYN. Im going to bloody well murder you. Get down here and bring those tossers with you.After giving The Grand Whippet a dressing down that incorporated every swear word in the English language, Sam Owens managed to glean that the initiation ceremony involved the men dressing up in costumes and leaping from table top to table top whilst consuming a pint of beer at every stop. Ellis had lost his footing and missed a table after drinking six pints and had hurtled at the speed of sound through a weak spot in the ceiling.When word got around the village, The Order of The Whippets ceased to be. The members just couldnt maintain an air of mystery when everyone was laughing at them and so they joined the local bowls club instead. It was a safer bet in the long run.Sometime in the late seventies there was an attempt to revive The Order of Whippets but it was short lived. Charlie Ellis had been appointed Grand Whippet and had devised an initiation ceremony that involved walking along a six inch wide protecting rail that ran the length of a bridge. For some reason he failed to take into account the thirty foot drop to the river below and when the inevitable happened the police made it quite clear that anymore nonsense of this kind would lead to arrests for all manner of legal infringements. That unfortunately put paid to The Order of Whippets once and for all. We shall never see their likes again. More's the pity.

Interview by Ceri Shaw Email

Llangollen Festival to benefit from the British staycation

With many British holiday-makers opting to holiday at home this year due to the economic downturn, the town of Llangollen, North Wales is set to receive a record number of visitors as it plays host to one of the worlds most vibrant Festivals, the Llangollen International Musical Eisteddfod, which this year takes place from 6th to 12th July.

MORE HERE..

Llangollen ywr gyl yn gwyliau!

Gyda chymaint o Brydeinwyr yn dewis cael gwyliau adref eleni oherwydd y dirwasgiad, mae tref Llangollen, Gogledd Cymru yn barod i dderbyn y nifer fwya o ymwelwyr wrth ir ardal eu croesawu i un o wyliau mwyaf blaenllaw, sef Eisteddfod Gerddorol Ryngwladol Llangollen, syn digwydd y 6ed ir 12fed o Orffennaf.

MORE HERE..

Penderyn Distillery will be featured in a report on the BBC's The One Show tomorrow night. The show starts at 7pm.

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