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Beca a Catrin


By Ceri Shaw, 2019-02-21

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Beca a Catrin is now available on Amazon.

(The Welsh version of Reba and Katherine/Messy Hair Game)

Softcover * 36 pages * 8.5 x 8.5

There is also a corresponding coloring book.

Ages 3-7

ISBN: 9781945669385

Available on Amazon: Beca A Catrin

About the book:

Reba and Katherine are two sisters who learn a lesson about patience and forgiveness as their choice create more work for Grandma. The story provides opportunity for interesting discussion about consequences and decision-making. You can listen to a free English audio version on the website. The book contains both English and Welsh text.

Author Gail Gritts

Gail grew up deep in the heart of the Ozarks in Missouri, USA. Life led her to England where she and her husband Tom raised their own family of five. Today, while she still lives in England, she relishes the opportunity to keep the family tradition of storytelling, including the mishaps and adventures of Reba and Katherine, with her thirteen grandchildren. Gail has been a freelance writer for many years writing magazine articles and devotional materials. Messy Hair Game is the first in her series about Reba and Katherine.

Illustrator Javier Duarte

Javier is a Uruguayan illustrator. He specializes in profession illustrations, portraits, cartoons, comics and children’s books and is currently working as a freelance artist locally and internationally.

Translator Emily Stirrup

My name is Emily. I am eight years old and I love Messy Hair Game! I live in North Wales in a town called Colwyn Bay. My mom and dad are both Welsh and I go to a Welsh school. I had a great time translating the story for my friends. I hope you enjoy the story, too.

Website: www.truestorykeepsake.com  Email: truestorykeepsake@gmail.com

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The Royal We


By Philip evans, 2019-02-12

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The father and son made their way through the underground car park of the Civic Centre in Merthyr Tydfil.

They were in luck.

They didn’t have to walk through the crowds of people that were stood in the forecourt outside the main entrance.

Pressing the lift call button repeatedly, little Thomas was happy.

At the age of seven , everything was a game….no money worries…it was like being on his own Civil List .

His father , Richard tried to fake a smile, he knew he was at the Civic Centre for more serious business.

He was there to see the Council Social Services department to see if they would call off the dogs and let him remain in his late mother’s house a little longer.

At 59 years of age and working for minimum wage, he was outside the criteria to prevent the sale of her estate assets to fund her social services care.

All levied on a house his mother and father had scrimped and saved during their work-shortened lifetime to buy…going without holidays and luxuries just to hold a small piece of the British ‘Empire’ for themselves.

An Englishman’s home is his castle…but in Monmouth Drive Merthyr Tydfil…the Welshman’s home in Castle Park was being slowly sucked away from him by a parasitic Government who had not budgeted for the working classes living beyond the biblical three score and ten and their usefulness to the ruling elite.

They could take his home- legally anyway…the Act of Parliament was given Royal Assent , but they couldn’t take his love for his only son Thomas he thought as he ruffled his fair hair.

Times were so hard, he had to cut their hair himself with a fruit bowl placed on their already rounded heads which caused his son to fight daily in the local Gellideg Infants Primary School Yard.

As they ascended, the clunk of lift mechanism , jarred him and his son, as the doors opened unexpectedly on the first floor.

An elderly woman and her husband were ushered in by a burly looking security guard.

Little Thomas looked at the woman clad in a headscarf and sunglasses, she looked somewhat familiar.

She looked like that woman who made his Christmas dinner go cold every year .

And if there was one thing he hated it was cold KFC.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a coin and checked it up against the profile of the stranger.

She didn’t have that jewel thing on her head but it still looked like her.

The lift clunked again and stopped with a thud.

The light went out for a split second before the emergency lighting kicked in.

At the same time to balance the Council’s tight budget the lights went out in the Queen Camilla Hospital Operating Theatre.

His father put a reassuring hand on his shoulder and told him ‘Not to worry’ it would start moving again soon.

The bodyguard was however having kittens talking wildly on his headset to someone in the building high above their heads.

The lift didn’t afford much room for four adults and a child and a tiny dog.

Thomas wasn’t worried.

He lived in blissful ignorance of the lift cable snapping or an electrical fire breaking out.

The risk increased somewhat as the noxious smell of a sulphur fart hit the nostrils of the little boy.

Normally, in such delicate social situations adults remain silent.

Little Thomas looked at the nervous security man….then the old wizened Greek Racist….then the old woman with the baggy trousers….and finally he sniffed lightly at the dogs rear.

He knew it wasn’t his father’s brand.

His father knew what was coming from his outspoken son.

Finally, the little seven year old broke convention and asked loudly.

“ Come on… who Shit?”

The regal strangers held their heads in the air, just above the green haze, whereas poor Thomas was trapped in the bad air pocket…like a miner in former Taff Merthyr Colliery after his mate had tuna sandwiches for lunch.

He didn’t give up.

Turning to Chris Ryan, the security man he tugged his sleeve and opened his coat in doing so…”it was you wasn’t it!”.

“ The one that got away!” he said refusing to give up as his nose had been wronged.

“ It wasn’t me…it was that Pembrokeshire Dog!” he said ….”Okay!” he barked.

“ Then you need a Corgi registered installer to sort out his gas emissions!” said the kid not believing Ryan ‘s tale.

As a result, Thomas got his first sight of a loaded gun up close and personal.

“ Cor Mister….can I have a go of that ?” he pleaded as the barrel was pressed into his nostrils.

The security man ignored the child…..

“ You are lucky it is only American troops that shoot civilian kids!” he said a little disappointed.

“ Although if you give me the Royal Assent Ma’am!”

“ How much longer are we to be kept here?” she replied cricking her fingers as if ready to snap a pheasant neck.

Speaking into his headset, he replied ….” Not long now…. Your Highness…the Council have confirmed it is a fault with the lift mechanism….they are speaking to the lift manufacturers Otis in Reading as we speak!” reported the ex SAS man.

“Otis…. Reading!” interrupted the Duke.

“I’ve heard of him….isn’t he one of those tar baby types that used to pick our cotton?” he said leaning forward past the corgi’s arse which was also in Little Thomas line of fire.

The Helen Mirren look-a-like just frowned at her husband and stood impatiently.

“ They do realise that I am over 80 years old now and trapped in a cold metal lift….at my time of life you can’t go too far from the throne!” she said fidgeting.

“ Look Missus…if you gotta piss….you gotta piss !” said the kid.

“ I’ve done it in here before and I know he did too!” he said pointing at his red-faced father.

“ He claimed it was payback for them trying to take my grannies house off him….if you go ill ….will they take that Buckingham Palace Place off you?” asked the child innocently.

For the first time the Queen looked down on her two subjects.

They were ugly, dirty, stank of old chip fat had warts on their faces and roundheads with haircuts from an old pudding bowl.

She noticed that the father, the one with the older warts was holding a Notice to Quit from her own Court .

“ I hope you lot haven’t got rickets, cholera or TB!” she said glaring at Ryan for getting her in this predicament.

“ These peasants are revolting!” said the Duke holding a silk handkerchief with perfume on his noses.

“ So what is the point of having a Royal Family in the 21st Century…when we can’t afford to fund the working man?” asked the young Republican.

“ What is exactly do you lot do for your money….his family home and arrears of Council Tax paid for the last Royal Wedding?”

“ Tourism…!” replied the Duke.

“ That old chestnut…do many tourists come and see all of the other people on the Civil List too….what about tax….do you pay any?” asked the child of Chartism.

“ Of course, We…that’s the Royal We mind you pay lots of tax!” defended the Duke.

“ Might one enquire as to whom?” said Thomas sticking a finger up his own arse and talking poshly.

“ Revenue & Customs!” said the Duke .

“ Who’s exactly?” continued the baby Blairite condescendingly.

“ Her Majesty’s!” came the reply.

“ Exactly and we know where that is spent….not in Merthyr as you can see by our lift services!”

The captives were interrupted by the sound of the doors above being forced open.

The gap unfortunately was only one foot wide…only the corgi could get out.

“ Hurry up will you…she’s busting for a piss!” said Thomas eloquently.

“ If her waters go …I’ll be drowned first in the Royal Wee !” he said.

“ Remember, Britannia rules the waves…..not me!” he shrieked.

In the gap above, a selection of the Council members could be seen peering at them from a height above the lift.

“ At one time to be higher than the Monarch …I could have had them all killed!” said the Queen.

“ Like Diana…you mean!” alleged the straight talking kid.

Both the Duke and the Queen turned their heads of state, the child was below 10 and therefore below the age of criminal responsibility.

It was then the QE2 started to leak angrily.

“ I know it is your ‘Golden Jubilee’ but I don’t want a Golden Shower!” said Thomas.

“ Dad …get your camera-phone out….take a picture of the Queen in mid-flow…we’ll make a fortune….Hello Magazine here it comes….the other ‘celebrities’ take the piss…why shouldn’t wee…..we can save the house!” he declared triumphantly.

In a second the French made -camera flashed and all were blinded by the radiance of Louis 14th the Sun King- .

“ I can’t allow that to happen!” said Ryan.

“ Why not !” protested the child….” It is not illegal!”

“ Taking a shot at the Queen is….now I’ve been Civil….give us the camera-phone!” ordered the soldier.

“ 1789…Liberty, Equality, Fraternity….all them lot are my witnesses…democracy rules in Merthyr!” said Thomas pointing up.

“ Besides …dad has already uploaded it to my face-book account and only I know the password!” said the youngster.

“ What’s your surname kid….said the Duke….the British Government doesn’t negotiate with blackmailers.!”

“ Cromwell !” said the boy proudly.

Looking at the child with warts on his face, a roundhead and a puritanical attitude, the Queen felt a chill running through her blue blooded veins…..history has a nasty habit of repeating itself.

Her cavalier attitude changed.

“ Get ME out now!” she demanded as the level of urine reached ankle level.

Reaching up through the gap with her white Gloves…the gathered elite couldn’t be sure if it was Michael Jackson, the Queen or the snooker referee Len Ganley speaking.

“ If I am not out in five minutes…heads will roll….starting with you!” she said looking at the Council Leader.

After calling in the Council DSO, the gap was widened and she was pulled out albeit indignantly in less than five minutes flat.

The Duke followed.

The same way they responded to other pensioners trapped in the St Tydfils Court, Caedraw Lift.

“ What about the other three?” asked the Council workmen.

Tossing in to the lift shaft a jam sponge, a left over from the delayed bunfight, she said casually…” Let them eat cake!”

“ What’s to become of us?” asked the three sets of eyes peering out of the dark…like a cellar in Lower Thomas Street .

“ Send them to the Tower!” she ordered.

“ Thanks Ma’am…Tower Colliery!” said Richard Cromwell hoping at last to get a better paid Valleys job.

“ Tower of London…peasant!” she said shaking off the drippers through the gap.

The Divine Right of Kings and Queens had been restored.



AmeriCymru Top Twenty



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This playlist includes the tracks which have been most popular on the AmeriCymru site over the last ten years. Each of these tracks has been posted , liked and commented upon more than any others. They are not arranged in any particular order and no online vote was taken (we may do that next year). The list has been published to coincide with Dydd Miwsig Cymru 2019. If you don't know what Dydd Miwsig Cymru is, please visit their website here:- Dydd Miwsig Cymru

To anyone who is not familiar with Welsh language music we have included a track listing below complete with links to YouTube search pages for each of the artists listed. Enjoy/Mwynhewch!


Track Listing




1 - Swci Boscawen - Adar y Nefoedd

2 - Gwibdaith Hen Fran - Blaenau Ffestiniog

3 - Gwibdaith Hen Frân - Trons dy Dad (geiriau / lyrics)

4 - Dafydd Iwan - Yma O Hyd

5 - Carreg Lafar - Glan Mor Heli

6 - Tecwyn Ifan - Ysbryd Rebeca (geiriau / lyrics)

7 - Meinir Gwilym sings Mellt with Bryn Terfel

8 - Meinir Gwilym - Wyt Ti'n Cofio (geiriau / lyrics)

9 - Gwenno - Chwyldro

10 - Yr Anhrefn - Rhedeg i Paris

11 - Meic Stevens - Môr o gariad

12 - Brigyn - Haleliwia (geiriau / lyrics)

13 - Gwenno - Fratolish Hiang Perpeshki

14 - Y Tebot Piws - Mae rhywyn wedi dwyn fy nhrwyn

15 - Lleuwen Steffan - Myn Mair

16 - Lleuwen Steffan - Tachwedd

17 - Meic Stevens - Rue St Michel

18 - Elin Fflur - Harbwr diogel lyrics

19 - Gwyneth Glyn - Adra (geiriau / lyrics)

20 - Yws Gwynedd - Sebona Fi (Fideo)


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mikejenkins1.jpgHow many people know that the world famous International Welsh Poetry Competition began life in a small, independent pub, tucked away down a quiet side street in Pontypridd? Founded by Welsh poet Dave Lewis in 2007 the contest has been run and organised from the town ever since, is now in its thirteenth year and is the biggest poetry competition in Wales!

But what makes this competition so special? Some would say the judges, others the sheer quality of the winning entries but one thing is for sure the competition is here to stay.

Famous Welsh writer, filmmaker and environmental activist John Evans has played a big part. He judged the first two years and has returned on four other occasions choosing poems with subjects as diverse as 'the brutality of war', ‘the plight of captive killer whales’, ‘Munch’s The Scream’ and ‘vegetarianism’.

Other judges have included Sally Spedding, twice winner herself and a respected crime novelist. Celebrated children's writer Eloise Williams and Cardigan-based Bridport Prize winner Kathy Miles can also be counted amongst the competition’s excellent judges. This year, one of Wales' best poets, Cardiff City fan Mike Jenkins, returns for his second time at the helm.

But maybe there is another reason why writers from all over the world love this humble contest that began life as a drunken conversation between Dave Lewis and John Evans in a Clwb Y Bont backroom at one o’clock in the morning, and that is its honesty and integrity. Unlike many competitions your poems are judged anonymously and no filter judges are used. This means a complete beginner can compete against a seasoned veteran. A successful, traditionally published author can fight it out with a newly self-published blogger.

“We offer true equality,” says organizer Dave Lewis. “In a time when corporate greed and influence seem to infect every aspect of our lives and ruin the opportunity for the little guy to succeed the Welsh Poetry Competition is a rare beacon of hope,” he continues.

“Both myself and John love the underdog and coming from a no-nonsense town like Pontypridd you know you’re not going to get given anything for nothing, especially by the establishment that control the purse strings in Wales, so it’s best you just strike out on your own and go for it.”

The competition organizer, Dave Lewis, shuns the limelight however. A well-respected poet himself he continues to self-publish his often avant-garde work rather than seek acceptance from the mainstream just so he can continue to push the boundaries of his art. He also runs a small self-publishing company, called Publish & Print, where he helps other writers get into book form and realize their own ambitions.

This year’s judge, Mike Jenkins, needs no introduction of course being one of Wales’ top poets, famous for his lively performances and writing workshops. He has performed at the Hay Festival, won an Eric Gregory Award from the Society of Authors and has co-edited Red Poets for 25 years, an annual magazine of left-wing poetry from Wales and beyond. His latest book is ‘From Aberfan t Grenfell’ (Culture Matters) with artist Alan Perry.

With entrants from over 40 countries having taken part in the past this year promises to be no different and with £500 on offer to the winner, plus many other prizes for the chosen runners-up, the International Welsh Poetry Competition will once again punch above its weight in the literary calendar. If you want to enter just check out this year's contest on the official website - www.welshpoetry.co.uk


International Welsh Poetry Competition 2019


www.welshpoetry.co.uk

1st Prize - £500, 2nd Prize - £250, 3rd Prize - £100, plus 17 runners up published on our website and in a future anthology.

Judge - Mike Jenkins

Starts - 1st Feb 2019

Closing date - 26th May 2019

Poems in English, 50 lines maximum

Entry fee - £5 (£6 PayPal)

Entry forms, rules and details on our website:

www.welshpoetry.co.uk

Competition Web site - www.welshpoetry.co.uk

Competition Judge – www.mikejenkins.net

Organiser Web site – www.david-lewis.co.uk


Twitter - @welshpoetrycomp


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Snow Business


By Philip evans, 2019-02-04

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“ The weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful...let it snow, let it snow let it snow!...Nos Da!” declared camp weatherman, Derek Brockway live to the nation from the BBC studios in Cardiff.

“ Since when have you been interested in the weather Charlie?” asked Tommy ‘Hilfiger’ Silverback to the leader member of the Lavender Road Mob.

“ Duh!....since I learned that the boss man Mr Bigg gets coded messages over the BBC about his delivery times for his drug shipments!” laughed Charlie Kong.

“ Mr Bigg...who’s dat den?” asked Alan ‘Tit-che’ Guevara.

“ He is the man who got our leader sent to clink and I need to hit back at him to show our power ....make him an offer he can’t refuse....!” declared the New Gurnos Godfather.

By virtue of the fact he had a CSE from Penydre School in woodwork, he was the leader by natural selection of the ‘Gurnos posse’ following the incarceration of Urko Fosse, the previous Urban Guerilla leader.

Looking at his watch, he felt the familiar buzz of a light helicopter overhead flying towards Cefn Coed Y Cwmmer.

The three wise monkeys, stood on the Gurnos ‘Ring’ Road roundabout, in amongst the embers of their bonfire, lazily lobbing the remainder of their stones at the back of the Lakeside Gardens Houses and Heads of the Valleys Road.

It was reminiscent of a scene from the Arthur C Clarke film ‘2001’, except that it was in fact 2009 , and the only ‘hal’ in sight was the halitosis on the breath of their leader , visible in the night air , as he strained the follow the helicopter towards its pre-arranged rendezvous point on Cilsanws Mountain.

As it passed overhead , Tit-che was dazzled by the red lights.

“ Was that a UFO then or wot?” he asked his fellow crew members.

“ Well me homie, me tinks dat ET is in da hood!” declared Tommy in his red and white tracksuit and Peruvian Indian style hat.

“ Speak in English not Ghetto pimp ...you are not from the Bronx but from Lupin Close man...I’ve told you before, you stand out as a drug dealer dressed like an extra from N-DUBZ ...you need to dress casual like me ...smart ‘French Connection’ brand man from Q9 (lads & ladette’s) clothing.....see this jumper...it has some ‘snow’ sown into the inside material...I call it my ‘Polar neck’..... so there’s no obvious link to my dealing”

“ Anyway, I want to get one of you soldiers on sentry duty up there before the next ‘Bigg’ Drop.!”

As Tit-che whispered to Tommy out of earshot of the boss...” I just thought he had ‘Buy Polar disorder!”

Mechanic Alf ‘Keanu Reeves’ Feta-mean, stood in the pit changing the oil sump on the battered Ford Orion that had just returned from France.

His garage, ‘Brake Lines’ was recognised by everyone from Marseille to Amsterdam as being a recognised international specialised dealer.

He had himself been in the import and export business since his shareholding in the Pentrebach ski-slope went downhill.

Now he had decided to diversify into a different snow business .

As he removed the sump, he would normally be covered in black oil...this time he did not have to worry about dermatitis, a bubble wrap package covered in coffee beans fell out into the pit.

He smiled as was his ‘custom- ary practice’.

*******************************************************************

Carwyn McMuffin looked nervously into the rear-view mirror, checking to see if he was still being tailed .

At 17 years old , he had passed his driving test first time, but had regretted telling his Lupin Close neighbour , Tommy ‘Hilfiger’ Silverback he had a clean licence.

Forced into collecting a car from Marseille in the South of France, he had caught the Ferris Coach bus service straight to Cannes and hitch-hiked the rest of the way.

Nobody at the Merthyr Driving Test Centre told him on his test, that they drove on the right on the continent.

He had found out the hard way by putting his new found driving skills to the test , squeezing between two oncoming Petrol Tankers and the central reservation barrier with all the skills of Colin McRae.

He had proved his mother wrong ...the hours spent on his Playstation 3 , had been of use to him.

In-continent, he felt as his underpants bore more skid-marks than Brands Hatch.

His mother was also a concern , he had been gone three weeks and he knew he should have told her where he was going, because he had seen his face on the back of a Paris milk carton.

He hoped that his Pen-y-dre Headmaster , would believe the handwritten note from his mother, that he had run off to join the circus but would be back in time to re-sit his woodwork GCSE.

Carwyn was very worried in deed, because he could smell a sickly sweet perfume aroma burning from his vehicle and was being followed by a motorcycle cop.

He had been warned by his employer ‘Keanu Reeves’ not to go over 70 KMH , as the car had a ‘maximum speed’ and that the car was likely to explode...but his school education hadn’t explained MPH and KMH conversion rates.

He looked nervously at le Motorway sign and noted he was only 10 KM from Calais.

The motorcycle cop was being engulfed in the grey smoke coming from beneath his car.

The cop signalled him with a hairy garlic hand to pull over.

His weak joke that it was a Q9 ‘Polar neck’ sweater , not a pullover was lost in translation.

As he pulled into the layby , the traffic cop dismounted and approached the car in a Gaullic swagger.

“ Gendarme ...can I help you ?” asked Carwyn nervously handing over his child passport , worried that his mother would see his faced splashed all over the news by Interpol as McMuffin the Drugs mule.

“ Sir...I forget why I az to stopper u... (looking at the passport)...McMuffin ....do you have any thing to eat as I seem to have what you Eengleesh call ze munchies...non?”

“ I have a hairy wine gum stuck to the bottom of the front seat...I was saving it till Calais...but hey any port in a storm !” Carwyn replied handing over the sticky mess.

As he drove away, Carwyn was pleased to see that his Cannabis stashed in the Oil sump had finally stopped burning.

******************************************************************

Tommy sat completely inconspicuous in a bright red tracksuit and Black and White Peruvian Indian hat, high up on the Cilsanws Common overlooking the golf course and the ‘posh’ part of Cefn Coed.

He could see in the distance the Morlais Castle ‘ set to the backdrop of a million stars in the early November evening.

He was freezing , he wished he had a Q9 ‘Polar neck’, as he waited vainly with only his stolen mobile phone for company with one bar left on his battery.

He thought about how he had got caught up in the clutches of the Lavender Road Mob.

He had been shit on all his life...he reckoned that he had the reverse of the Midas touch....everything he touched turned to bling....a kind of ‘fecal attraction’.

Latchkey kid since he was three , his mother was in the Matchstick Man pub smoking and drinking away his inheritance.

Like Romulus and Remus the founders of Rome , he had been brought up suckling the milk from the multitude of teenage mothers on his estate...brought up by the Mob.

Tommy was proud of the fact he was part of the underclass.

His warped logic meant that he was responsible for keeping the only people in Merthyr with jobs employed.

His ‘one man crime wave’ ‘supported’ a lot of jobs in Merthyr...if it wasn’t for him there would be less policemen, firemen, prison staff, DSS staff, court staff and shop security employees.

Unlike New Labour...New Gurnos was head of ‘job creation’ in the economy.

It had not been Tommy’s fault.

The Penydre Careers Teacher had computed his skills and come up with promising careers in burglary, car theft or rap music for Tommy.

Burglary ...that reminded him, his mate was getting married on Thursday, at the Castle House Marriage Registry Office and his house and his future-in laws house-would be empty all day.

The sudden ring-tone awoke Tommy from his hyperthermia based slumber.

“ E-s are good...E’s are good...Ebeneezer Goode!” by the Shamen rang out on the silent common....as his mobile phone lit up like a Christmas Tree in the darkness.

“ Derek Brockway just said that Cilsanws Common would be full of ‘Galanthus’ this evening..... !” announced Charlie.

“ What about Mr Bigg’s cocaine delivery?” asked Tommy

“ Galanthus is a flower....snow drop...it’s code...!” shouted Charlie

....” I know it’s cold .....but is it still on for tonight...because I’m freezing and my gonads are so wizened they look like Paul Daniels forehead!” moaned Tommy.

“ Its CODE not Cold....what about the chopper ?” asked Charlie

“ My choppers fine ...me nan knitted me a Peruvian willie-warmer....its my balls that are wrinkled.!” replied Tommy as his reply was drowned out by a noise from the sky.

“ Look at that Twat in the red tracksuit holding that phone...announced Helicopter pilot Bob Boner to his passenger ........... .I think he is a foot soldier for the Lavender Road Mob.... if I swoop down low do you think you can get him!”

Tommy could hear the sound of the ‘Flight of the Valkeries’ but didn’t realise it was ‘Apocalypse Now’ as the helicopter ‘gun ship’ hovered above him red light flashing.

Tommy still thought this was a UFO and stood transfixed waiting for the music to change over and start to communicate with him by short blasts of ‘beat box’.

Tommy’s red tracksuit turned to brown as he was suddenly deluged in a downpour of shite.

As the contents of a former ‘Winchfawr’ septic tank were poured over the sentry, he had ‘close encounters of the turd kind’ as Tommy’s star trek ended with a Captain’s Log .

Dripping in sewage, Tommy admitted defeat , as he turned tail and fled home to the sound of much laughter from the helicopter crew.

As the chopper dropped off its load from the air –a strange delivery of stuffed Llamas , Alpacas and Donkeys were hastily packed into a horsebox trailer and whisked away by the waiting shadowmen.


As he squelched his way back to Lupin Close, Tommy tried to make up a good excuse for his failure to intercept the ‘snow’ for his posse.

“ What the Hell happened to you?” asked Charlie as he slid through the front door.

“ It was those Aliens they tried to abduct me... you gotta believe me....there were farm animals flying everywhere on that common....da horse...da donkey...da llama...!” bleated Tommy.

“ Da pigs?” asked Tit-Che.

“ No police there man !” he replied removing a ‘ baby stool’ from his earhole.

“ Mr Bigg...he is out of order....!” snapped Charlie slamming his fist hard down on a stolen blue ray DVD player with a Heolgerrig Postcode.

“ Tit-che I want his house in Cefn staked out ...I want to pay him a little visit!” said Charlie ominously.


A different kind of smell was on the mind of Carwyn McMuffin, how could he get his car and its illicit contents past French & English Customs - smelling the way it did.

He began to shake rattle and bang his aging catalytic converter, until it began to stink to high heaven.

He also remembered a trick that the IRA had invented at H Block, in the Maze prison, opening a packet of maltesers, he placed a few of the chocolate balls in the bottom of his cotton shorts , smearing some on the top of his legs .

The customers official motioned for him to wind down his window , and stuck his head close to the car.

“ Anything to declare Sir?” he asked .

The combination of the smell of a sweaty Penydre- pupil who hadn’t washed for three days, in a car without sunroof and air conditioning, together with the stench of the dodgy catalytic converter and the sight of the brown balls rolling from his stained shorts, meant he moved through customs quicker than Kevin Spacey at gate 7 of American airlines.

Carwyn smiled to himself , as he was waved through without challenge, sniffer dogs falling like flies as he went past onto the ferry.

Next stop ...’Brake Lines’ garage he thought.



Rhys Wonka couldn’t believe his eyes...one minute he was scrambling ‘Walkers & Wilding style’ across Pontycapel Road - the next he had slid off into a secret glen of stuffed donkeys and other animals hidden at the back of a massive mansion underneath the Cefn Viaduct.

‘Perfect’ he purred like his finely tuned engine...’we need a guy for the bonfire tonight....’ selecting one of the stuffed animals ...he declared that this ‘ass was toast’.

Taking off his helmet, the ‘easy rider’ put it on his stuffed pillion passenger and headed for the bonfire site at ‘the black patch’ Cefn Rugby field.


“ I know where Mr Bigg lives!” cried Tit-che in triumph.

“ Where?” asked Charlie.

“ Underneath the arches .....down Pontycapel Road!” the street boy sang like the recently departed Danny La Rue.

“ How did you find out....from your homies?” asked Charlie suspiciously.

“ I heard in the Gurnos Club , that his daughter’s marrying someone on Thursday and the house will be empty all day.....we can pay him a little visit then!” laughed Tit-che.

“ Roll on Thursday!” roared Charlie ...”I can’t wait!”

******************************************************************

“ I found him...I get first hit of donkey ‘Hote’!” shouted Wonka as the rugby boys hoisted the stuffed animal up the old oak tree.

“ Piñata ... Piñata... Piñata” the boys squealed as one , as Rhys Wonka swung his stick at the stuffed creature hanging like he was from Bridgend, high up in a tree.

As he struck its hide, huge clouds of white dust covered the schoolchildren.

“ Hey !” said Blue-bottle....”that powder gives me a real buzz!”

“ Careful...it could be ASS- bestos!” warned Zebulon the Prop.

“ I think its sherbet” second-rower Monsters Inc.

“ I thought it was washing powder...if I could be so Bold ...that was my automatic reaction !” laughed Dodger the scrum half.

“ I think it’s Cocaine.... dabbing it on his finger....I think that is ‘Columbian Marching Powder’” declared Polish boy JOW.... ‘and it’s a bad omen!”

“ We should get rid of it!” declared Bluebottle.

“ Let’s burn it ...like that witch Joan of Arc!” said Monsters Inc.

“Don’t be daft...half of Cefn Coed will be high...they will all think their on the stairway to Cefn !” said JOW.

******************************************************************

Thursday morning came and the Lavender Road Mob watched as the Silver Mercedes left its drive, dressed up to the nines in full wedding regalia , electric gates closing slowly behind it.

“ Now we move!” said Charlie to the rest of the mob as Mr Bigg’s vehicle disappeared down the narrow lanes towards Cefn High Street.

The three hoodies made their way expertly over the wall gaining entry to Bigg Mansion with the flick of a stolen credit card on the ‘yale’ lock.

Once inside the house, each of the Lavender Road mob knew their ‘modus operandi’ like a ‘crack’ team from Oceans 11.

Charlie removed the tapes from the security cameras.

Tommy located the loot – which was hidden as usual in used notes in the mattress of the King-Size main bed..

Tit-che planted the stolen knickers.

Placing the mattress against the external wall, they then got to work on the garden.


Carwyn McMuffin , the drugs mule was easing his way up the A470 happy in the knowledge that he was on the home strait.

Oblivious to his surroundings , cameras flashing meant little to him...it wasn’t his car.

His check of the vehicle at a service station had revealed Cannabis , Cocaine and Amphetamine with a street value of 2 Million pounds.

Pulling into the ‘Brake Lines’ garage he was met by the smiling owner Alf Fetamean.

The smile changed to a frown as an unmarked Police car pulled in behind him.

“ It’s a fair cop guv....!” he said in a TV ‘Bill’ style confession...(which happens all the time in the real world.... ) ...”but how did you know there were drugs in the car?” asked Alf & Carwyn simultaneously.

“ Speed Cameras!” came the reply....” that and the fact you phoney sump was marking a different kind of ‘white lines’ in the centre of the road!...the trail led us here to you!”


Knock Knock....came the sound.

Charlie looked at Tit-che nervously.

It was the sound of a schoolboy knocking the front door of Bigg Mansion.

“ Penny for the Guy Mister?” asked the angelic two foot Dodger.

“ Guy...? “ said Tommy...that’s not a guy it’s a donkey...!” snatching out of the hand of Dodger.

“ How did you get in here anyway...this gaff has electric gates!” asked Tommy.

“Threw Donkey Hote over the top and limbo-ed under them!” replied Dodger.

“ How come you can afford a place like this then ...are you a drug dealer or a gangster rappa ....anyway can I have my donkey back now?” he asked politely

The boot up the arse was the only reply.

“ I’ll get him back somehow!” ...pledged Dodger belying his size and picking up the mattress carrying it Masai- style on his head towards his rugby mates massed up at the entrance.


“ Penny for the Guy ...or Five Pounds a sniff!” declared Rhys Wonka to each of the boys as they passed into the Cefn Rugby Club.

He had only been sat outside for half-an hour, but he had made over £500.00 thanks to the generosity and stupidity of the older boys.

Prop Milo O’Shea- Bray, the only rugby boy with a single uni-brow placed evenly on his face, handed over a crisp £5.00 note.

Sniffing deeply, the tail end Charlie, he raced towards the rest of his mates who were heading towards Cefn Viaduct to see the impromptu ‘U2 concert’ of local man ‘Dai’ Van Halen’ had set up his amp.

Head full of ass and nose full of Charlie, he tore off his shirt and dived headlong at his friends who lifted him up and over their heads until he reached the front.

The prop was mad and lived life in the fast lane.

He had once tried to give himself ‘liposuction’ with a Dyson vacuum cleaner and a pen knife resulting in a lop sided gut – but Dirty Sanchez just sent the tape back unused.

The Dirty Sanchez effect was one thing , but the ‘Jackass’ effect was ten times worse.

This left Milo totally ‘West-life’ as he was caught up in the music he ‘went ahead and ‘Jumped’ over the side of the bridge.

‘Flying without wings’ the Prop went into survival mode stretching his flab skin like a flying fox squirrel.

Full of ‘the real thing’ he felt in his own mind like a shaman joining in with the Condor spirit soaring high on the thermals below the bridge and landing triumphantly on the Swansea Road side of the bridge.

“ Those ‘Nasca’ lines were brilliant!” he dribbled picking himself out of the gorse bush .

“ That’s a nice touch !” laughed ‘Don’ Charlie ‘Kilo’ Kong noting that Tommy had placed the head of the donkey in the bed in true Godfather style.

“ I am going to make him an ‘Eeyore’ he can’t refuse!” he quipped Don ‘Ki’ Kong.

The finishing touch was the calling card bearing their Christian names in the areas of the garden that they had worked.

“ Where’s that mattress gone?” asked Tit-che suddenly.


The bonfire was in full swing .

Gone were the days of old tyres billowing out black smoke.

The rugby boys ‘ donkey pyre’ had caught fire instantly and a huge pall of grey and white smoke drifted into the night sky...like they were electing Pope Don –key ‘Hote the First.

Fire ‘egg- spurt’ Frank Heavens, sat eating his sandwiches in the ‘Green goddess’ provided by the Fire Authority in his Don Estelle shorts and Jesus sandals looking like a pyromaniac staring intensely at the hypnotic flames .

“ I bet you a tenner... that pine tree will be a goner by 9.00pm !” he said to his Station Commander George O’Dowd.

“I haven’t had any overtime since those mysterious grass fires started in my garden last year!...lucky I found my own well to pump the water!” continued Frank.

The blaze continued well as the mattress and ‘Donkey Guy’ erupted.

“ Boy George ...can you smell money ....?” asked Frank sniffing the air.

“ Okay .....two hours tops and try not to burn the hose pipe again.!” replied O’Dowd.

“ And shut that bloody tender door....you might wear sandals in the Autumn ...but I don’t want another back-draft.!”


The helicopter buzzed back and forth over the usual Cilsanws common drop off point , but there was no sign of life.

Finally, a small flicker of a cigarette lighter was moved back and fore ... by and like a rocker with an afro in a Van Halen concert and the donkey derby was on again.

The ‘Mule Train’ was sent down the quite lanes from Cilsanws passing the aptly named ‘Drovers Arms’ and onto the viaduct before being tipped over the edge into the soft landing area in the garden of Mr Bigg’s mansion.


“ Jesus...!” said Tit-Che as another donkey narrowly missed him landing with a squelch, in the marshy area around the stable in the garden, he was working in.

“ Tell them there is no room at the inn!” laughed Charlie watching Tit-che dodging the incoming Ass-steroids.

“ I’ve heard of frogs and locusts but you don’t want a kick of one of them things!” said Tit-Che.

“ Hurry up with those signs Tommy ....I gotta feeling the ‘heat’ ain’t far behind!”

With that there was a giant explosion from the Common high above Cefn .


Mr Bigg stood on his door-step and just as he put his key in the lock...the explosion ripped through the air.

“ Good fireworks this year in Cyfarthfa Park!” he exclaimed...” There goes the tarmac budget again!”

As both he and his wife climbed the stairs, loosening his Colombian neck-tie, he noticed that his bedroom door was open and that his ‘Peruvian’ mattress was gone...and in its place was a donkey’s head and some stolen used ‘Evans outsize’ knickers were in its place.

“ What have you been doing while I was out....Muffin the Mule is one thing , but muffin the mule in garters is a criminal offence.!” said his wife.

“ Criminal offence...that’s music to my ears announced Drug Tzar Nicholas Shepherd!” appearing on the landing behind the pair.

“ Take some photos lads...!” he announced waving a search warrant.

“ What evidence have you got!” asked Mr Bigg rising up to his full height of 4 foot 10 realising that the mattress and all the donkeys had gone from the house.

As the pair walked out through the patio doors , Mr Bigg’s jaw dropped when he spotted his garden had undergone a transformation , while had been in the wedding.

In the centre, there was a giant igloo surrounded on all sides by a bumper crop of cannabis, coca plants and magic mushrooms.

Thinking on his feet, Mr Bigg said ...cannabis plants have grown wild in this country before 1957 ...and besides it is for my own personal use....the magic mushrooms ...too are primitive LSD but are natural products.....

“ Okay ....Mr Bigg explain why you have an six foot igloo and a door so small only you could fit in made entirely of crack cocaine..... !”

“ I’m an Eskimo...!” was all he could stutter by way of reply.

“ Well you are ‘Inuit’ up to your neck!.....besides..... who did your garden...?”

As he read the graffiti sprayed signs......Charlie, Tommy and Tit-che (Marsh)

“ Ground Force?”

******************************************************************

High up on the Cilsanws common, the explosion was the result of another ‘Ground Force ‘ battling with an ‘Air Force’.

The non-nonsense Drugs Tzar Nicholas Shepherd had a zero tolerance attitude when it came to drugs. He wanted to ‘can’ it completely...and put the perpetrators in the ‘can’.

‘Coke Zero’ was the mission code-name , after he had ordered the helicopter to be shot down by a surface to air missile imported from the Afghanistan Taliban.

Noting that the helicopter was registered to a local Doctor in Cefn they decided to take it down.

Dr U. G. Baron was clearly a pseudonym of Mr Bigg.

As soon as the crosshairs on the missile launcher caught the track of the helicopter, the pilot and his remaining cargo was toast.

In the face of adversity, there was no way in the world that Bob Boner could keep his chopper up and the huge explosion glowed red like a Merthyr Blast Furnace in the night sky.


“ And we have a special message from the boys in blue from Tregaron!” .. announced Derek Brockway live on BBC ‘weatherman talking’ .....” apparently Julie has had an Operation which has been a great success ...and wish her a ‘speedy recovery’....

“Finally, before I tell you about that Fete & Gala in the Woodwork Department of Penydre Comprehensive school, this Friday with loads of fairy cakes ...I love fairies don’t you.... there is a special message sent in by e-mail from Nicholas of South Wales....Red Sky at night...Shepherd’s delight.....Drug Dealers chopper on fire...Nos Da!”



Screenshot from 20190131 142034.png


https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/m00027xk

Link above to BBC Radio 4 Web Site Programme

Melvin Bragg did a radio programme. The link is above on the BBC Radio 4 Web Site

It's about Owain Glyndwr who proclaimed himself Prince of Wales and who is buried secretly in Herefordshire - the position of his grave is passed on to the next generation on the death bed. It's somewhere over in the Golden Valley that leads to Hay on Wye. They mention how the Mortimer Marcher Lord of Hereford and Mid Wales sided with him and how the Welsh were finally recognised through his decedents the Tudors. How Owain used the historian Geoffrey of Monmouths Books to try to unite others - who refers to the British being the decedents of the people of Troy.

Owain Glyndwr tried basically to unseat the Norman Marcher rulers in Wales and thus the Norman King Henry of England wanting himself the rule Wales & the West Midlands with Mortimer ruling the South East England.


Many thanks to AmeriCymru reader Owen Evans for the above message and heads up.


Posted in: History | 0 comments

Dydd Miwsig Cymru Playlist - Cyn Mynd Mas - Prinks, Welsh Playlist Cymraeg

Check back tomorrow for a new playlist. You will need a Spotify account to play this content.

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Dydd Miwsig Cymru is on February 8th this year. Here on AmeriCymru we are not waiting for the big day. As part of our campaign to support this event and make it the biggest online musical happening of 2019 we will be posting a new playlist every day between now and the 8th. Listen to our today's playlist above.  Feel free to re post and share.

Above all...spread the word!!!

Lets give these artists and musicians the recognition they deserve. Show your friends (and the world) what a wealth of extraordinary musical talent we have in Wales. There are ideas, suggestions and playlists on the official Dydd Miwsig Cymru site to help you out.

Prefer to make your own YouTube playlist? It's easy! There are full instructions here:- Make Playlist

Want to embed your playlist on your site or blog? Again....no problem! Go here for full instructions:-  Embed Playlist

Whatever you decide to do between now and the 8th; whether you participate or simply sample the wealth of musical delights on offer....enjoy/mwynhewch! :)


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Dydd Miwsig Cymru - The Biggest Online Musical Event Of 2019?

Ideas And Suggestions Here


dyddmiwsigcymru.jpg

Posted in: Music | 0 comments



Dydd Miwsig Cymru - The Biggest Online Musical Event Of 2019?

Ideas And Suggestions Here


dyddmiwsigcymru.jpg

Posted in: Music | 0 comments


"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.



smallpodd.jpgSt David's of Wales Day Benefit Concert

Celebrate the patron saint of Wales' day with the Portland Phoenix Chamber Choir and the Welsh Dragon Choir, as they sing traditional songs of Wales and other cultures. There will be music followed by dessert and a silent auction.

The concert is to raise funds for the Chamber Choir's trip to compete at the Llangollen International Eisteddfod in Wales in July 2019.

BUY TICKETS HERE



Chamber Choir Hi Res.jpg



AmeriCymru: Hi Justin and many thanks for agreeing to this interview. What can you tell us about the history of the Phoenix Choir?

Justin: The Portland Phoenix Choir is a new non-profit choral organization made up of two separate choirs - the auditioned Chamber Choir and the non-auditioned Choral Union. It's made up of students, faculty and community singers who used to perform as the Marylhurst University Choirs. Sadly, Marylhurst, where I served as Director of Choral Activities, unexpectedly closed last spring, leaving us all musically homeless. In a really touching gesture, the singers asked me if we could continue singing together - thus the Phoenix choirs were born, choosing as our name the well-known image of the mythical bird that resurrects itself from its own ashes. It's our Chamber Choir that is traveling to sing and compete in Wales this summer.

AmeriCymru: You will be performing at the Llangollen Festival in north Wales this year. Care to tell us more?

Justin: It's a huge honor even to be accepted to compete at the Llangollen Eisteddfod. It's know worldwide as one of the finest choral festivals on the planet, and this year they received over a hundred applications. We're competing in two categories against choirs from all over the world. The winning choir gets the title of Choir of the World and the Pavarotti Trophy (named after the famous singer), but in reality, we're just thrilled about the chance to hear so many exceptional groups from all over the world, as well as represent Portland, Oregon, the Pacific Northwest and the United States on a highly visible global stage.

AmeriCymru: I guess transporting and accommodating a choir to an event like this is a massive logistical exercise. How are your plans proceeding thus far?

Justin: It's a logistical challenge, true - but it's a financial challenge above all. Since we're a non-profit that's literally six months old, and no longer have a university backing us up with their resources, raising the money to go is a tall order. Our singers are rich in musical talent but not so in financial resources. So we're looking for community partners interested in helping us represent the region and the world, as well as create ever stronger ties between Wales and the United States.

AmeriCymru: You have a fundraiser on March 1st here in Portland. Can you share the details?

Justin: Yes, we're very excited to collaborate with the Portland Dragon Choir, our city's fine Welsh chorus, on Friday March 1st. I'm sure I don't need to tell your readers that's St David's Day, the feast day of the patron saint of Wales. The music will feature Welsh favorites, storytelling, a silent auction, and our Chamber Choir singing the music we're taking to Llangollen. It's Friday, March 1st at St David's of Wales Church (of course!) in SE Portland, and tickets can be purchased online at wales.brownpapertickets.com.

AmeriCymru: How would you describe the choir's repertoire? Will you be performing any old Welsh choral favorites at Llangollen?

Justin: Our repertoire is quite eclectic; everything from sixteenth century polyphony, to challenging modern works, to African-American spirituals. En route to Llangollen, we're honored to be invited to sing two Evensong services at Christ Church in Oxford, so we're diving into that Anglican repertoire, too.

But we mainly want to celebrate Wales's incredible and beautiful choral singing tradition. We're currently learning "Calon Lan," so that we can be sure to please our Welsh audiences! We'll also be singing a Gymnafa Ganu in June at Bryn Seion Welsh Church, which looks like it will be terrific fun. Welsh is such a beautiful language, but quite difficult, so learning to sing it has been quite challenging!

AmeriCymru: Any final message for the readers and members of AmeriCymru?

Justin: We cordially invite you to attend our St David's Day Benefit Concert on Friday March 1st, to celebrate Welsh-American friendship and the choral music, songs and storytelling of Wales, and help us get across the pond to represent America at the Llangollen Festival. More information can be found at wales.brownpapertickets.com or, if you use Facebook, here: https://www.facebook.com/events/313780339242497/



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