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He was in a right hole.
He had been given a wedgie on many occasions as Chairman of the Planning Sub-Committee but this was a first.
Buried up to his waist in an old Air-Shaft in Mountain Hare meant he couldn't move a muscle.
Below him a 30 foot drop and above him only sky.
His search for the 500 metre buffet zone at East Merthyr Land Reclamation scheme had proved fruitless.
He checked the Council Minutes.yes there supposed to be a buffet zone.
There was no such thing as a free lunch he moaned as he hung suspended in the air by his three spare tyres.
The human Michelin Man had for once been saved by his preference for cramming as many free helpings that his Council meetings permitted.
As the early Autumn sky changed to grey, he feared that he would be stuck here all night and his expenses ran out at 7.00pm.
His cries for help were only investigated by some curious Ffos-y-Fran ponies and the odd solitary ewe who had managed to evade the impounding truck.
Soon it would be dark he thought and he would miss his free lift home from Keith The Night Porter - the Mayors Chauffeur.
Why oh why did he bother wandering off from the Planning Sub-Committee - it wasnt even like it was his own Ward the proposed scheme affected.
In his opinion twenty years of open-casting dust and asthma was a small price for the electorate to pay for global warming.
A better climate for Wales was the ticket he had been elected on and besides the resulting hole would provide refuse tips for the next millennia and beyond.
No wonder he had earned the nickname Land-Phil by his beloved Cefn Coed electorate.
As he gently patted his money-belt and flab holding him above the Mine Shaft, he wondered if this was the first such occasion where a Local Councillor had been saved by some green for not being green.
Looking through his night vision specs , Zoltan the Environmental Protection Warden, could see lots of glowing red.
Carefully positioned in the gorse bushes on the moorland upwind of Trecatti Refuse Tip , he lay motionless in the coal dust in full khaki combat gear and on full alert.
In the distance he thought he could hear vehicles buzzing up and down the A4060 Slip Road and the gentle hum of traffic heading back up the Valley from their daily commute to the Welsh Capital.
What he could in fact hear was the buzzing of one million fly larvae hatching in Biblical proportions intent on plaguing the good chapel-going people of Dowlais together with the hum of waste from Trecatti Tip wafting back and fore in a visible brown haze above the lead and exhaust-fume layer rising 1000 feet above sea-level.
Zoltans infra-red glasses had tonight picked up more than the Nucleur glow of the Earth below Trecatti.
Zoltan could as see a blob -too large to be human near the old air-shafts of the Trebeddau-Brithdir Coal Seam , and it wasnt the trapped Councillor.
The eco-warden bore more face-paint than Teacher Bessie at its prime but boy did he love his job!!!
Catching and prosecuting Fly-Tippers was his life.
He had once caught more than thirty people in one week dumping their old white goods on Cwmbargoed Common during the Hoover scandal.
After handing in his collection of washing machines and tumble driers he had become the only person in Merthyr to get Free Flight from Hoover for bringing back the empties.
As the blob grew larger Zoltan was puzzled as the blob seemed to become airborne.
Tonight, the term Fly-Tipping was to take on a whole new meaning as the hatchling bluebottles, greenbottles and Crane Fly larvae began to create a swarm so vast that it would make the Mummy Returns look tame .
At Dowlais Rugby Club, the locals looked aghast.
For nearly a decade the Australian-Style Fly-strips suspended vertically from the ceiling had done their job.
The car park behind had developed its own eco-system as Venus Fly-traps had mysteriously sprung up in the grass verges and training area around the pitch.
Even the local dogs were adept at snapping flies out of the Blaen Dowlais air to supplement their sparce diet.
Tonight, however was different, the regulars of Elwyn , Big Dai and Chico sat amongst other bar-flies too numerous to mention.
As they flicked at the flies with their yellow Klondyke tickets they realized something was wrong.
Poor Ralph Twtchs bald pate had become the landing strip for a multitude of insects so much so from the Lounge Wayne Jones pushed in the glasses onto the bridge of his nose as he thought Ralphs hair had been restoredfirst Austin Healy he thought now Ralph Twtch.
How come there are no flies on you? Elwyn ask Chico licking his roll-up cigarette in true Clint Eastwood-style.
Its down to his Old Faithful lucky jacketmused Big Dai
Even local celebrity Maxi , who had been reputed to gobble anything in a fly couldnt cope.
The swarm of pests began to cover the bar ,the lounge and even disrupted the Friday Night darts match.
But still none landed on Chico.
The Polish- Scots darts team decided to abandon the game after three consecutive darts speared flying insects before hitting the dartboard .
Complaints by Wayne Jones that he had scored One Bugshead and eighty were ignored as the participants headed for the open air.
Up at meat factory , the Portuguese workforce looked to the skies as their Iberian intuition told them that something was wrong.
Panic spread as the Autumn sun turned black as the swarm of flies hit town.
Those with green cards hit out at the flying masses whilst those without used the closest thing available to hand to fend off the incoming insects.
Pig Trotters and Cow Bollocks became impromptu weapons to save the Tesco bound Products.
Every Little Helps was the battle cry as the work force fought to prevent Linda McCartney Sausages becoming full of Wings..
Alone in the dark , Councillor Phil Bent began to sweat.
What if there are wild animals up here at night-like the Monmouthshire Panther or worse still the living dead that frequent the Kirkhouse on a Thursday Night (Over 25s nite).
The snapping of twigs ten feet to his right made him start and for the first time that night he felt movement.
The first of his spare tyres gave way and he sunk one rung deeper into the mine shaft.
Gears roaring the L-Passo driving instruction car sped up the Twynyrodyn Hill, flying over the pink tank-traps that doubled as Dukes of Hazzard-Style ramps as the white Peugeot 106 flew to the sound of Roxettes Joyride as the Galon Uchaf duo put their latest acquisition through its paces.
Fitted with He-Man Dual Controls this car was a joy-riders dream, as the two teenagers took turns accelerating and braking in tandem.
As they completed their latest series of handbrake-turns and doughnuts on the Formula One racetrack known as the Goatmill Road the road surface bore more Michelin skid-marks than the underpants of a councilor trapped in a hole.
Having circled the magic roundabout fifteen times the Bogey Road exit was selected being the favoured option of the seasoned car-thief as it offered ample opportunity to dispose of the stolen goods without detection.
The eldest waster ElviS had stolen all kinds of vehicles in the past from BMWs to Mercedes even an ambulance once the time his Nana had nearly been taken in.
He had earned the nickname from his reputation that his car passengers Were all shook up after joy riding with him.
That and the fact he had tattooed the name Elvis on his forehead in Indian Ink with a mirror in Junior School.
The problem is the S was printed indelibly but backwards.
His sidekick Astra (named after his penchant for Vauxhalls and throwing fireworks in letterboxes) seemed kinda quiet tonight, probably because at 14 years old he was soon to leave school and learn the ways of the dark side on a full time basis.
Having relieved himself of the contents of the glove compartment , he non-chalently slung the Spandau Ballet Gold compact discs like frisbies at his Rock-a Billy partner who was fumbling for his lighter fluid.
Dont sniff too muchleave some for me!!! he roared as the car became engulfed in flames.
The red L Sign on top of the car was symbolic of the Hellish World these pair of devils lived in.
The destructive duo waded through the grassland common towards the twinkling lights of the Valley Capital.
The Gypsy family heard the explosion and their heads turned as one towards the sound high up on the common above Trecatti and then back to their inner circle.
They had arranged a bare-knuckle bout of boxing but their sport had been interrupted by the discovery of an intruder in their midst in their turf.
Looking out from his air-shaft prison Councillor Phil Bent could make several dirty faces and by the glow of the make-shift twig fire they looked like wild savages.
Hair all matted and lice-ridden, with clothes all torn and damaged they stared at him like a lion looks at a downed zebra.
They spoke in a Romany dialect which was not English but not quite Gurnos.
It was guttural and reminded him of the film 2001-a Space Odyssey.
The oldest Gippo- Magwar reached down and stole his pocket-watch from his waistcoat and began to tug at his gold tooth.
Be off with you shrieked the trapped Councillor as the circle of scavengers drew nearer .
Fearing the worst , he sucked in his diaphragm and let out a deep breath and this had the desired effect , like a squeeze-box contracting the air moved to nether regions and he emitted the latest fart ever heard by man or gipsy and his remaining spare tyres gave way and he disappeared into the void below.
Magwar actually believed (judging by the sound) that the Councillor had spontaneously combusted.
Landing with a squelch , less akimbo Councillor Bents undercarriage told him that he hadnt yet hit rock bottom.
His soft landing owed a lot to the hand of fate.
He had in fact crash landed on top of a fourth generation Brithdir Pit pony whose ancestors had been abandoned to die in the anthracite after the pit became uneconomic to work.
The pony was blinder and tougher than any Champions League referee and had pounded the narrow passageways and tunnels that riddled the mountainsides surviving on a diet of plant roots and other subterranean vegetation.
Making adjustment for the extra weight the pony continued its perpetual forward motion in the pit shaft pausing only to let the odd one go.
The Councillor knew he was moving , but in the pitch dark couldnt work out how - not that was until his steed backfired.
Too frightened to light a match in view of the circumstances he just went along with the ride until he realized that he had a laser pen he had bought in Harrods.
The novelty pen designed to commemorate the wedding of Peter Andre and Jordan gave him an idea.
As he pressed the top a cheesy grin from Andres teeth appeared lighting up the passage with an incandescent light.
He also discovered that if he unscrewed the top two beams of green light shot out of Katie Prices nipples.
Looking down in the half-light at his Steed, he couldnt help but compare the Pen bride to his current mount as the face beaming back at him had huge white teeth and shaggy hair the only difference was that his own Mysterious Girl smelled of horseshit.
As he bumped his way his way into the night he could help but think Im a local celebrity get me out of here!!!
Staring down from his perch high above the Trecatti Landfill site, a swarthy skinned Portuguese man watched the Slip Road uneasily.
Eduardo Torres-Gracia had only taken the job as Refuse Tip manager because of his bonuses.
His Lisbon-based Agency had lured him to the El Dorado of the Valleys cos they had told him the streets of Dowlais were paved with gold and the Terraces there were named after Portuguese Kings.
The reality of Alphonso Street Penywern was that due to the overcrowding from illegal aliens from Portugal and the Eastern Bloc countries and the number of stray dogs the pavements were covered in a different material.
Since coming to Merthyr he had lost everything he ever had treasured.
When he arrived he had a job in the Meat Factory , a wife, a house and his pride.
Those Solicitors he had engaged had cost him the lot.
His misfortune started when the sub-zero temperatures of the Meat Factory cost him the feeling in all his digits.
Soon his wife Angelica complained in the divorce papers that he was always cold towards her and complained of frost bite and hypothermia of the womb.
His claim for Vibration White Finger was refused on the basis that he was Portuguese and therefore could not possibly have white fingers.
His solicitors fees and his divorce had drained all his assets and he could not raise anything to fund an appeal.
So he had decided to get back at the Factory the only way he could .by freeing their workforce from their minimum wage prison.
He watched intently as the convoy of green trucks snaked their way up the slip road towards the Penygarnddu Slaughterhouse.
As the trucks slowed for the Blaen Dowlais bend , the tail-gates opened and the latest batch of illegal aliens rolled into the hard shoulder and headed up the grassed bank towards their saviour at the Tip HQ.
AS brief handshakes were exchanged between ex pat countrymen and Eduardo Torres Garcia the steady flow of colonists headed towards the Alphonso Street Ghetto amongst them was one individual in a turban who stuck out like a sore thumb.
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From Outer Space, just beyond the dark side of the moon, the spacecraft stopped dead.
The odour filling the spacecraft turned the heads of ZARG and Wazz the Venusian spacemen filling each of their three noses with noxious fumes.
A quick check on their scanners pinpointed the source of the universally offensive stench.
Looking down at the blue planet the creatures the could make out the Great Wall of China, the Himalayas and a strange gold/brown glow from an Island off Europe.
As the mother ship sped towards Earth she feared that one of her offspring was sending a distress beacon .
They had to be careful because the last time they spotted a glow it turned out to be a disaster at Chernobyl in Russia.
And as any self-respecting Russian in Y-Fronts will tell you have to be careful or Chernobyl fallout.
And have three Alien penises it was not a pretty site.
Trudging through the narrow back passages guided by the back passage of his Pit Pony , Phil Bent realized that if he was to get out of the Mine he should follow the pony towards freedom.
The smell was overpowering but he preferred it to the stench of rotting landfill that had grown stronger as he headed North.
He had put away his Pen (which incidentally doubled as a Compass-Jordans breasts being silicon pointed magnetically towards Venus) because he had encountered an ooze of green slime which seemed to glow with a luminousity of its own.
As the smell grew stronger the passageways became more congested as he passed the remains of Oil-covered sea-birds , barrels marked Sea Empress, dead cattle stamped BSE carefully disguised in Old MuckDonalds wrappings, and literally thousands of non-biodegradable Asda carrier-bags which appeared to be breeding.
As he reached a sorce of light he realized that he must be below the core of Trecatti Waste-tip.
Looking up through the Pepper pots he saw a flame burning bright blue burning off the methane and he sat down in a discarded wheelchair staring up surrounding by thousands of MuckDonalds, KFC and Pizza Hut boxes..
At that moment he felt like Tanni Grey Thompson holding the Olympic Torch surrounded by the same sponsors.
Wading through unsold Merthyr Rfc Premiership Programmes which had been printed too early in that failed promotion season, colonies of white socks, discarded Muller Rice prototype Cherry Bakewell containers and free Spandau Ballet Gold CDs he trudged West in the hope of finding an exit.
His cries for help went not heeded by the Portuguese Tip Manager as he assumed they were the cries of the resident flock of seagulls flying overhead.
Eddie Torres Garcia had never seen seagulls this far inland and he believed that they were hatchlings mutated from the multitude of KFC boxes and their legs coated in breadcrumbs seemed to testify to this fact.
The Portuguese connection in Alphonso Street were busy checking into their new rooms.
Only ten to a bedroom was permitted and any Polish or Slavic guests were allocated attic or cellar space only.
Jobbi Jabbah the turban wearing Muslim from Leeds was given the coal cwtch on accounts of his religious beliefs.
The mobile ring tone of Eddie Torres sounded the all clear confirming that their escape had not been noticed by the Truck drivers.
High up on the Common , Elvis and Astra the car thieves turned up the collars on their shiny shellsuits and pulled down their baseball hats against the chilly Autumn wind.
Tonight the prevailing wind took the scent of Trecatti towards Gypsy Castle and Rhymney and they were able to breathe comfortably.
Wild Mountain ponies fought and frolicked over the ever decreasing patches of grassland worth eating that had not been contaminated by leachates.
As they reached the brow of a disused red ash tip they spotted a courting couple at play in the dingle below.
The mans teeth glinted pearly white in the pale moonlight and as they crept closer in true Stan Collymore Dogger-style they were startled to see a man being intimate with and talking to one of the Wild Mountain ponies.
Ive seen him before on televisionhis face, teeth and arse are familiar! whispered Elvis.
The only words Astra could understand with all those teeth and the Salt Lake accent was Crazy Horses wah-wah!!1
The man was no less than Donny Osmond back in Merthyr to trace his family roots and see where his past generations had hailed from.
The 1970s singer suddenly realized he was being watched and dropped the rear legs in fear of an Horizon expose.
He rang off into the night with white flares dragging in the coal dust .
That experience has ruined the song Puppy Love for me!!! retched Elvis discharging his stomach contents in the gorse bushes.
The close encounter of the first kind unsettled the pair whilst the second involved a two-headed rabbit with masses of human hair growing out of its head.
The sight of a Mountain Hare with Mounting Hare at Mountain Hare startled the pair as they stood motionless like they were mesmerized by the headlights of a mountain bicycle which thundered down the grass slope straight out across the slip road and under a Green mobile Auschitzcattle truck heading for the shambles in Penygarnddu.
The pair could not believe the look on the face of the Portuguese site manager E T Garcia as his cycle seemed to fly momentarily like a scene from a well Spielburg films.
Amazingly, in the space of three minutes the poor man was run over by four vehicles including a shop keeper, a taxi driver , Donny Osmonds chauffeur and finally a man wearing a Bridgend Nursing Park logo badge who was looking for the Park hospital in Bridgend.
It was ironic that the Asylum seeker should be killed by a fellow Asylum seeker wearing a BNP badge.
The cause of the crash was the Close Encounter of the Third Kind as a giant green spinning spaceship hovered over the heads of the pair.
Landing in a clearing of Gorse bushes the ship came to a stop with a bump and two odd-shaped characters appeared at the top of a light-filled ramp .
Poor Zoltan the Eco-warden had been crushed in his rush to capture the big onethinking this delivery of Fly-tippers was from the Planet Zanussi he had misjudged their landing strip and ended up part of the living landscape.
Elvis and Astra looked at one another in awe and the same telepathic thought was sent from sub-human to sub-human.
Did they leave the keys in the ignition.
Dez Cockney could hardly believe his luckhe had sold his house in Dagenham and bought three for the same price in Merthyr at Old Forge Park Dowlais.
He had rented the other two houses to 200 Portuguese immigrants and was making a fortune off the DSS in Housing Benefit.
He was collecting the rent of his tenant Angelica Garcia the former wife of the Tip owner when he noticed he was under surveillance.
The Ice Cream van parked in Azalea Drive had refused to sell cigarettes to some 14 year old truant rugby players which raised his suspicion that it was a DSS plant.
The DSS were watching the home of Mrs Garcia at the behest of Mr Gracias Divorce Solicitors.
As he opened the door of his other house he realized that his elderly incontinent tenant Mrs Runny had been trapped overnight in the Stairlift and the carpet below was ruined.
His years of roller-shutter door repair was to finally pay off as he proceeded to clear the jammed mechanism.
Kneeling in effluent he held his breath long enough to force the stairlift to continue its descent to the floor.
As he raced for the patio doors, he inadvertently let in a swarm of flies which had been stuck to the exterior glass like a scene from Salems Lot.
As he gasped and wheezed for air in the garden, his sharp London Eye noticed a glint of metal in the vegetable patch.
Where the carrots should have been he found different carets eighteen to be precise in the shape of a nugget the size of an egg.
After pocketing the item he made his tenant a cuppa Rosie Lee after her ordeal on the apple & pears .
She told him to take what he wanted from her allotment patch.
Des, beamed a broad grin as the Pearly King had found another goldmine in Merthyr.
Deep beneath the ground, Phil Bent thought he had discovered the source of the Nileor Morlais Brook at the very least!!!!
He had come to the confluence of three passageways and by his calculations he wasnt far from Caeharris House in Dowlais High Street.
The tunnel he had followed had been filled with Green ooze and lead away from the Tip under the Dowlais RFC pitch he had figured the same because of the stud-marks in the turf above and the fact that unlike the Scarlets rugby posts topped with sospansMerthyr Council Leisure Services had buried the posts upside down and the dragon emblems were below ground.
Coming face to face with Mary Twtch and Gwyneth Hopkins in that tunnel had scared him to death.
Tunnel two was filled with two kinds of cocoa solids which appeared to eminate from a certain chocolate factory and a cesspit formerly known as Morlais Brook.
Tunnel two was filled with all kinds of iron ore and phosphates from the old foundry site upon which Old Forge Park was built.
At the meeting point of this crossroads the soil and ground glowed with a yellowish hue the like of which Bent had only seen on the fingers of the nightmarish gypsies
No wonder those miners from Dowlais had emigrated to Canada , he understood now why the area of Blaen Dowlais was known as Klondyke .
Shoveling as much gold into his pockets as he did at his post-committee buffet lunches the Councillor tried to figure out what had caused the sudden bout of alchemy.
It seems that the merger of chemicals from the tip had combined with the base metals from the foundry site had fused with the cocoa solids creating a product made of Oxides and potassium with the chemical formula of OP-OK.
Whatever had caused it meant rich pickings for Councillor Bent.
Bent decided his best way out was to tunnel up through the pitch.
As he climbed through the hole in the centre-circle of the pitch he realized too late that the Uncle Festa lookalike bearing down on him was in fact the legendary Mark Onky Palmer and the resulting tackle was to put the councillor in hospital for the evening.
As the paramedic Dai Sullivan closed the ambulance doors he made a careful note of the cause of the accident.
Onky.
The third one this month he mused as he drove off at high speed towards PCH.
Aliens Zarg and Wazz could not believe their three eyes.they had only parked the ship up for three minutes to check out the glowing they had seen from space.
Thinking it was a fellow Venusian craft with its hazards on they had realised that they had made the same Chernobyl mistake again.
It was a semi-nuclear refuse tip surrounded by Wind Turbines and worse still they had been space-jacked by two-spaced out punkswho had displayed their own glowing middle fingers to their intergalactic cousins before screeching away at 100 miles per second.
Des Lynam was in shock he had received a Solicitors letter from the Divorce Solicitors of the Tip manager Eddie Torres asking for the return of their Ex-Gracia payments.
They were claiming that as Tip owners they held the mineral rights to the land upon which his houses were built.
They were no flies on that lot he thought but Im not giving up easy Ill make a big stink about the tip claims he thought.
Elvis & Astra had mastered the controls of the Venusian craft easily.
Compared to an ambulance it was a doddle - even the red laser beams and light on top were working.
As the spaceship shot raced over Gellifaelog, Galon Uchaf and the Gurnos at 3 Gs they passed over the three Gs Community Centre.
Pressing a button on the dashboard Elvis managed to buzz Dai Sullivans ambulance but sound like a helicopter.
Speeding passed Penydre High School the two vehicles raced at breakneck speed .
Sully and Elvis telepathically sent each other a message that the winning post was the speed camera outside the Penyfan View Police Station.
As the Police officer in the station eagerly pressed the button to fine the joy riders the camera flashed missing both vehicles but catching an unlucky Caeharris Taxi driver Fred overtaking the ambulance.
The joy riders decided to get their own back on the police who regularly buzzed their homes in Chopper Drug raids.
Hovering above the Police Station flashing their lights and lasers it was like Thursday Night in the Kirkhouse and some of the regulars now living in Ty Gwaunfarren Nursing Home left their beds in hope of a Cocoon style regeneration.
Down below Female Inspector Dawn Raid look worried.
The plods were panicking big timesome even stopped beating their prisoners momentarily.
Landing the spaceship with precision on the roof of the Police Station they began to spray-paint the roof with the letters UFO before legging it across the remaining gardens of Penyfan View and Forsythia Close that hadnt been exhumed
Two weeks later Councillor Phil Bent had recovered fully from his injuries.
He had recovered from his Onky tackle within hours but Dai Sullivan had dropped him off the stretcher on the way into casualty breaking his wrist.
The Council Chamber was silent as the future of the East Merthyr Land Reclamation Scheme hung by a golden thread.
The vote was tied at 32-32 and Councillor Bent as chairman had the Open casting vote.
As a short adjournment was called .
A buff coloured envelope was pushed into the hands of Phil Bent.
Like Neil Hamilton and George Graham before him he had a difficult decision to make.
The envelope was returned to the solicitor with interest and all the celtic energy he could muster.
Thanks for the tip! but no thanks.its an ecological time bomb waiting to go offI vote No.
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The cheer from the people of Dowlais and Twynyrodyn was heard at Trecatti Waste Tip.
Jobbi Jabbur the newly appointed Trecattis Site Manager sat dozing on an empty Cardiff furniture flat pack-backpack in place .
The Al Ikea sleeper was in place!!!!!!
THE END
Walking the Pembrokeshire Coast With a Harp! Welsh Folk Musician's Crazy Adventure
By AmeriCymru, 2019-03-27
Delyth set out to challenge herself both physically and creatively and combined three things that she loved: walking, playing the harp and the Pembrokeshire coast.
“The walk itself was a creative process. I had no idea when I started the walk that I would end up writing a book. I have also composed new music inspired by the walk – one of the pieces, Cofio , is on DnA [her instrumental duo with daughter Angharad]’s album Llinyn Aur ,” said the Delyth, adding:
“People seemed genuinely moved to hear my music. A couple from Spain felt that my music had magically managed to dispel the mist and bring out the sun. I played ‘Happy Birthday’ to someone who was absolutely delighted to be able to celebrate his birthday with the expected song but in the most unexpected of locations!”.
That Would Be Telyn is an account of the journey, but also a memoir. As she walked, she thought and remembered and the text is interwoven with autobiographical flashbacks including memories of her childhood, her life with her late former husband, the poet Nigel Jenkins, and her career in the world of theatre and Welsh traditional music. The book also includes a hitherto unpublished poem by Adrian Mitchell.
“What I discovered was that my music was not merely a form of expressing myself, but it also gave me the extraordinary privilege of having an insight into other people’s thoughts and emotions, and brought home to me that music is not just about the performer but just as much about the audience,” said Delyth of her experience.
Since completing the walk, Delyth has given several performances about the journey, including a show in collaboration with the poet Emily Hinshelwood called Salt On Our Boots . The overwhelming response from audiences has been that they would like to read about what was described during performances.
“I realised with some force that I don’t want to let life pass me by, and I am keen to take on more physical and creative challenges whilst there is still time. But probably my main reason for writing the book was that I wanted to write it. I felt very much that I had a story to tell, which I wanted to share,” says Delyth.
That Would Be Telyn has received high praise:
“A musician’s miniature odyssey, full of epiphanies, gentle meetings and haunting personal reflections.” - Stevie Davies
“Delyth writes just as she lives and plays music: with honesty, humour and a warm curiosity in other people and in the ancient land she travels through.” - Andrew Green
“Her descriptions lead the reader to wish they’d been there – had chanced upon this wandering minstrel and heard her play the Telyn while the waves crashed far below and the seagulls swooped overhead.” - Jo Mazelis.
Delyth Jenkins was born in Oswestry. She studied at University College, Swansea and has lived in the city ever since. It was here, in her early twenties, that she started learning Welsh and the harp. She started her career with the Swansea-based folk band Cromlech, and then went on to form the pioneering instrumental trio Aberjaber. She has made many albums both as a member of groups and as a soloist. She has toured extensively in Britain, Europe and America. She has also worked as an actor, composer and musician for various theatre companies, and has collaborated with poets and storytellers. But it is perhaps her collaboration with her daughter Angharad Jenkins that gives Delyth the most pleasure. Delyth and Angharad released their second album Llinyn Arian in 2018.
Delyth Jenkins will be reading extracts from the book and performing pieces inspired by her walk. Tickets are £5 can be ordered from Mission Gallery (01792 652016 | info@missiongallery.co.uk ) and will include a glass of wine or soft drink. For more information about the event, please contact Delyth Jenkins delyth.harp@gmail.com or Gwenllian at Y Lolfa gwenllian@ylolfa.com | 01970 832304.
That Would Be Telyn by Delyth Jenkins (£8.99, Y Lolfa) is available now.
The crisis of plastic in our oceans has been exposed on television in recent months. Now a Welsh author is introducing the importance of marine life and its conservation to children in a new wonderfully illustrated book.
The book is called The Grimpots , about a family of fun-loving umbrella octopuses and has a strong ecological message is published by Y Lolfa. Author Gilly John is fascinated by the natural world and its lesser-known inhabitants, and takes a keen interest in conservation.
“Encouraging children to be curious about the world around them can only be positive for them and the planet. Primarily I want my book to entertain children but raising awareness about the diversity in our oceans is important to me,” says Gilly John, adding:
“Marine conservation has had a boost in recent years, with the extent to which plastic is impacting our oceans being well documented as in David Attenborough’s Blue Planet II series. Children need to learn that the sea is full of living creatures and that we all have a responsibility to keep our seas clean.”
Twenty rhymed verses tell the story of Gus’ adventures in Barnacle Bay where he escapes from a shady shark intent on making him a snack and then helps a big blue whale named Dave. Umbrella octopuses are unusual in that they don’t have ink sacs like other octopuses and so have to use other defensive methods to escape predators.
The book is full of Janet Samuel’s beautiful illustrations which bring to life the underwater world images of cuttlefish, krill, sea snails and eels to name but a few of the creatures illustrated.
Gilly John was born in Gwent but now lives in Caerphilly. She trained as a children’s nurse before turning to write children’s poetry.
Janet Samuel enjoys working with colour and texture and bringing characters to life and has illustrated a number of children’s books.
The Grimpots by Gilly John (£4.99, Y Lolfa) is available now.
Gilly John will be attending the Spread the Word Festival(organised by The Stephens and George Charitable Trust) in Merthyr Tydfil on 11 April with a storytelling and book signing.
Week 3 of 52, Iannis Ireland
Into our third week already. We had a few hiccups last week and had to delay release but hopefully we’re back to the Friday release day from this week on. Monday was a big editing morning. There’s a need to be on top of it if we are going to get things out on time.
This week we introduce you to Iannis Ireland, self-publishing, self-financing author of the recently released, The Educator. Brought up on Bond Avenue , Penyfan overlooking The Morfa in Llanelli and educated at Bigyn Primary School and Coedcae Comp. Now living in Devon with his family, Iannis is a head teacher of a Primary School. He returns to Llanelli regularly to visit mum and dad and also to perform in The Spoken Word at Y Ffwrnes Theatre.
https://www.facebook.com/pages/category/Community/Spoken-Word-Saturday-471245999697311/
In his first novel Iannis uses his experience as a teacher to delve into the lives of the people around him:
The Educator - A Matt Greaves Investigation
Control And Dominance? Can He Survive? Self-Control Is Not An Option? Grisly murders! Targets carefully chosen!
Enter Year 3 teacher Matt Greaves, divorced, slightly jaded, thirty-something. Greaves will see his life changed forever in a battle where there can only ever be one winner, and where the lives of many others hang in the balance. Greaves will be the only one who can teach his opponent the hardest of lessons.
Mother Bear is hard at work this week, hoping to visit Yr Ysgwrn, Trawsfynydd later in the week for the final show of The Empty Chair – a multimedia poetry show, revisiting the life of the Great War poet, Hedd Wyn and exploring the nature of loss and identity. A video for the future with Americymru.
https://www.literaturewales.org/lw-news/literature-wales-presents-y-gadair-wag-the-empty-chair/
Oh yes and if you’re in Tenby for the Grand Slam weekend you will find Iannis educating friends on how to play obscure self-penned drinking games in The Lifeboat, singing karaoke in The Three Mariners and throwing some shapes in assorted nightclubs and bars all across the town!
Drink and be merry! - Cymru Am Byth!!!
Read Anisha Johnson's winning entry here: Flapper Girl
AmeriCymru: Hi Anisha and many thanks for agreeing to this interview. When did you first decide to start writing?
Anisha: I've been writing for as long as I can remember! My mother taught me to read when I was three and put a pencil in my hand as soon as I could hold one, so I was always encouraged to read and write as much as I could.
I was homeschooled by my mother my whole life, so I had the chance to write not just essays but also creative writing pieces for school. However, I wouldn't say that writing really became one of my hobbies until freshman year of high school, when I started to write outside of school hours as well. I started writing poetry first, and I finally decided to tackle the challenge of writing a novel when I participated in National Novel Writing Month in 2015. After that I set myself the goal of writing a novel every year, and I've continued to write short stories and poetry since then.
AmeriCymru: What is your writing process? Do you rely largely on observation or are your stories pure products of the imagination?
Anisha: Both, actually, although I would say that the latter is usually more prevalent. I've been writing a lot of historical fiction lately, which has seemed to require more observation and research than imagination, but whenever I write fantasy, short stories, or poetry, I tend to write from my own imagination as much as I can. As fantasy is usually my genre of choice, I spend a lot of time with my eyes shut just thinking about various possibilities and ideas (this is usually what I'm doing when I'm caught daydreaming). I feel obligated to think of all my worlds and characters completely on my own, because it somehow seems like cheating to borrow from something that I saw in real life (that being said, if I'm really stuck and desperately need inspiration, I tend to get it from my writer friends. I’ll tell them about my ideas and ask them to pitch in and give ideas of their own, and sometimes by the end of these conversations the story has changed completely!).
My writing process is very haphazard. I hate writing outlines, so I usually just trust myself to remember all of my ideas, although sometimes if I have an idea for a particular line or scene I'll write it down in a document full of notes related to that particular writing project. For all of my novels, I basically just have these twenty-page long documents full of random ideas and pieces of dialogue, that I scroll through periodically to remind myself. It's complete chaos, but it's worked for me so far. And it's very gratifying to finish writing a novel and delete the last random idea from my notes, knowing that I have incorporated everything I wanted to into the book.
I also try to write for at least an hour a day (even if I'm writing trash! Writing stuff that I know I'll throw away later is better than writing nothing at all, and many of my best ideas have come from short stories or false starts that were eventually deleted). Discipline is a very important part of my writing process. Consequently, I don't usually write out-of-sequence; I like to write all of my scenes in the order that they're going to appear in the final version.
I guess you said say that my writing process consists of organized chaos…
AmeriCymru: In his adjudication Mike Jenkins says:- "...in the end I went for 'Flapper Girl' by Anisha Johnson, which really caught a moment in time very well." Did you have a particular effect on the reader in mind as you wrote this story?
Anisha: Sort of, but I didn't put as much thought into it as I'd like to pretend I did. I mainly just wanted readers to put down the story and immediately start wondering what would happen to the character next. I think that everybody has experienced difficult situations where telling the truth could lead to disaster, and struggled with the outcomes of such situations. It's easy to feel sympathy for people going through similar situations, and I had this in mind when I wrote this story. I wanted readers to feel pity for the character trying to make a difficult decision, but I also wanted them to feel proud of her, in a way, for finally choosing to take the hard-but-right path, in the same way that we all feel proud of ourselves when we do the right thing despite the hardship that sometimes entails. Other than that, I really just wanted readers to enjoy the story!
AmeriCymru: Have you published anything else? Where can readers go to find more of your work?
Anisha: Yes! One of my poems, ‘human’, was published as a winner in the California Coastal Art and Poetry Contest, an consequently published in an electronic issue of Chapman University’s TAB: A Journal of Poetry & Poetics. My poem ‘sometimes’ was published in the Live Poets Society of NJ’s anthology “My World” in summer of 2018. And my short story ‘The Fog’ was published as an Honorable Mention in Bluefire, the literary journal of the Leyla Beban Young Authors Foundation.
AmeriCymru: What's next for Anisha Johnson?
Anisha: I graduated from high school in June 2018, and am taking a gap year before attending Mount Holyoke College this fall to study computer science, film, and creative writing. I have several more writing projects in the works, ranging from novels to poems, and I hope to learn screenwriting in the near future as well.
AmeriCymru: Any final message for the readers and members of AmeriCymru?
Anisha: Thank you for reading my story and my interview — it means the world to authors like me who are just starting out in their careers! Writing really would mean nothing without people to read it. Every new audience that I write for helps me grow as an author, so thank you for being one of those audiences.
Welsh punks Breichiau Hir deliver urgent call to arms with new single ‘Penblwydd Hapus Iawn' released by Libertino Records!
By Ceri Shaw, 2019-03-19
Welsh punk band Breichiau Hr deliver an urgent call to arms with their new single, ‘Penblwydd Hapus Iawn' . An unflinching three minutes of punk aggression powered by a wall of three pronged guitars and cathartic screams, underscored by brittle melodic interplay, reminiscent of the band’s early influences, Sunny Day Real Estate , At The Drive In and The Get Up Kids , it proves that Breichiau Hr's visceral prescient sound is primed for wider attention. Steffan Dafydd the band’s lyricist and vocalist explains : "the setting of the song is a catastrophic birthday party I attended a few years ago where I witnessed the worst in some of the best people”.
It's Breichiau Hr ’s third release on West Wales imprint Libertino records, home to the most exciting emerging Welsh acts( Adwaith, Los Blancos, Silent Forum ). If ever a band was needed to soundtrack these unhinged times, where there is a lack of political and social responsibility and accountability, Breichiau Hir fill that void with passion and honesty.
Breichiau Hir are a cult Welsh language six-piece with a rich history spanning over a decade that depicts just how committed they are to their cause. They met in 2008 when they were schoolmates in Cardiff, inspired by the post-hardcore, punk and emo bands of the 1990s. They released a handful of self-produced DIY singles and played numerous shows throughout their university years. "In 2015 we recorded our EP Mae'r Angerdd Yma Yn Troi Yn Gas.” Says Dafydd “We were still experimenting and seeing what fits. This was the first time we had recorded a collection of songs all in one studio with Mei Gwynedd who also released it via his label Jigcal" The singles 'Toddi' and 'Ti A Dy Ffordd' both received airplay and critical acclaim. Ti A Dy Ffordd was picked out as 2015's song of the year in Golwg magazine.
In 2018, they signed to Libertino Records and released the dark melodic sound of double-a side, 'Halen' and 'Mewn Darnau', rounding off the year with the speak/shouty punk single, 'Portread O Ddyn Yn Bwyta Ei Hun.'
“Welsh Language emo heroes Breichiau Hr are one of the best kept secrets I reckon, combining urgency and melody and leaving you want to cry and learn Welsh”
Huw Stephens
Artist: Breichiau Hir
Rhyddhau/Release: Penblwydd Hapus Iawn
Dyddiad Rhyddhau Digidol/Digital Release Date: 12 / 04 / 19
Label: Libertino
‘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 do.
“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.
Packed with lively double-page illustrations, a new book starring a small dragon has been hailed as the Welsh Where’s Wally? However, Find the Dragon! has an obvious Welsh slant, with every double page showing an iconic Welsh location, including Mount Snowdon, Caerphilly Castle and Portmeirion. Other scenes include the Red Wall at a Wales football match, a Gower beach and a farm full of disobedient sheep.
As well as searching for the little dragon, the pictures can also be used to search for many other bizarre objects and characters listed at the back of the book. The book is guaranteed to provide hours of discussions and fun for all the family!
Find the Dragon! is by the well-known cartoonist and illustrator Huw Aaron. Huw is based in Cardiff and he’s illustrated a number of children’s books and comic strips as well as being a regular contributor to Private Eye , The Oldie and The Spectator .
Speaking about his new book, Huw Aaron said:
“Between finding the little dragon, evil dragon-hunting baddies, funny characters and bizarre items hidden within the scenes, there are over 250 individual things to search for, so plenty to keep any child amused during a long car journey or rainy (screen-free!) afternoo. I love designing busy scenes and hiding funny details in the pictures, so it was a lot of fun creating this book... and a lot of work too! Good luck with the dragon-spotting!”
Find the Dragon! features Boc the dragon, a face familiar to many Welsh children as one of the characters of the popular Welsh-language children’s comic Mellten , which began in 2016.
Huw Aaron will be at the Cardiff Children’s Lit Fest on 7 th of April at Cardiff City Hall at 3pm with a session entitled Drawing Myths and Monsters and will be talking and doodling his new book Find the Dragon! Cost of session is £5. For more information, please see www.cardiffkidslitfest.com .
Find the Dragon! by Huw Aaron (£4.99, Y Lolfa) is available now.
In discussing this poem in the short 'Notes' section at the back of the book, Mike Jenkins says the following:
"The Aberfan disaster of October 1966 has had a lasting and profound effect on the Vallys and when someone put on Facebook shortly after the tragic fire at Grenfell Tower that 'this is our Aberfan', I knew exactly what they meant."
Most of the poems in this collection are, however, concerned with purely personal tragedies which are detailed in poems such as 'Steve the bus'. Steve is a pensioner whose wife has recently passed away. He takes to riding public transport all day using his bus pass:
It's winter time
now my missis ave gone
I'm straight down-a bus station.
All day I keep warm
If they took my pass away
I'd surely pass away.
The invaluable bus pass also helps him to keep boredom and loneliness at bay:
The missis woulda said-
'Yewer loop-the-loop,
all's yew need's blankets an soup!'
But I meet all kindsa folk,
drivers know me as 'Steve the Bus' -
better 'an ridin in an earse.
Then there is 'Ow Far Down' in which the protagonist has lost his wife, home and job and is now homeless and suffering from depression which the prescribed medication only makes worse:
Don' 'member what order
they come in-
booze,tabs,d'pression
mixed t'gether, Molotov cocktail
in is brain.
But there are also moments of light relief and in 'Famous f doin nothin'we find our hero drunk and collapsed in the Merthyr Poundland doorway. Unfortunately he has triggered the alarm and caused a commotion with police sirens wailing and choppers circling overhead. He confronts his wife when he returns from his nocturnal adventures:
Tol is missis when ee got ome
'Google it...I'm fake news, see....
MAN IN MERTHYR ACTING SUSPICIOUSLY -
I woz famous f doin nothin.'
She sayd, 'Nothin's changed 'en!'
The illustrations, by Alan Perry, are exquisite throughout and wrap around the words on the page to produce an almost graffitti-like effect which enhances the power of the poems.
Fans of dialect poetry may recall our reviews of previously published collections by Mike Jenkins. If not you will find them here: Barkin! and here: Sofa Surfin . 'From Aberfan t Grenfell' will delight all aficianados of Mike's dialect poetry and hopefully win him new admirers as well. In giving the dispossessed and disadvantaged a voice Mike Jenkins is creating a growing body of work which is at once insightful and compassionate, humorous and harrowing. Unreservedly recommended, buy it now, here:- From Aberfan t Grenfell
AmeriCymru: Hi Arthur and many thanks for agreeing to this interview. Care to tell us a little about your Welsh background and upbringing?
Arthur: I was born and bred in Caerau, a small mining village situated at the top of the Llynfi Valley, Maesteg. My father was a miner, as were many of my immediate family. I am the third of six children.
During the second world war my mother worked at the Bridgend munitions factory, until she married my father. We didn’t have a lot growing up, but our parents gave us all values and manners which stood us in good stead for the rest of our lives and careers. We had a very happy childhood, and at the time Caerau colliery was flourishing and there was plenty of work in the village, unfortunately the colliery is no longer, which is very sad indeed.
In September 1967, at the age of 17, I joined the Glamorgan Constabulary, which subsequently became the South Wales Constabulary in 1969. I retired from the police service as a Detective Sergeant in 1997 having investigated all form of major crime and counter terrorism. I then became a gardener. I worked mostly in nursing homes for individuals suffering with dementia. I retired completely in 2015.
AmeriCymru: When did you decide to write? What inspired you to take up the pen?
Arthur: After retirement I joined many coalmining sites on Facebook. One day I read a poem that had been posted. It was then that I decided to pen my first poem entitled ‘ABERFAN’ and from that day I haven’t stopped writing.
My main genres are Coalmining and the First World War, however I am able to pen poems about any subject.
My love of literature stems back to my time in comprehensive school, my biggest influence being my English Literature teacher Mr. David John, who was an inspiration, introducing me to all the war poets including Wilfred OWEN. Although I enjoyed poetry my career in the police service and my family took all of my time therefore I never did anything with the writing until I wrote ‘ABERFAN’.
AmeriCymru: What can you tell us about your collection:- 'An Industry Now Lost'?
Arthur: My first book of poems titled ‘AN INDUSTRY NOW LOST’ describes numerous mining disasters, and what it was like to work underground during the Victorian times, when lives meant nothing. I suppose you could say that my back ground growing up in a Welsh mining valley inspired me to write the 50 poem book.
AmeriCymru: How would you describe the effect of the loss of mining jobs in the Maesteg area and the valleys generally?
Arthur: After the miner’s strike of 1985, the death knoll of mining in the Welsh valleys sounded, and all the pits were subsequently closed, leaving a great deal of unemployment and poverty, even to this day, some thirty odd years later the scars are there for all to see. Our valley towns have been decimated, and now younger generations have to travel far and wide for work.
AmeriCymru: You have also written a series of novels featuring Detective Chief Inspector Terry McGuire. Care to tell us a little more about the character and his cases?
Arthur: In February 2016, I was trawling through a closed Police site on Facebook, when I read a post from Nigel Williams, also a retired police officer and an author in his own right, who had self published books he had written. In the post he asked if anyone would like to write a book, so I thought to myself, I wouldn’t mind a crack at that, so I got in touch and we began corresponding over the internet. I wrote the first book ‘UNETHICAL CONDUCT’ in ten days and Nigel ‘polished it up’ and put it all together.
The first time I actually met Nigel in person was when he gave me the book. I had no intention of writing another book, until Nigel asked if we could write together. That day ‘The Terry McGuire Crime Thrillers’ were created.
Terry McGuire began as a Detective Inspector in the series and is now a Detective Superintendent. He is in charge of a major crime unit in South Wales and he has hand picked his team. McGuire is a workaholic, who must always get to the truth. He is empathetic with an edge about him. He is a family man with two grown up children who live abroad. He is supported by his long suffering wife Molly who loves him to bits.
People who have read the books, and know me say that McGuire is modelled on me, to some degree he is, however when I created him, I didn’t have that in mind. All the cases that McGuire and his team deal with are serious and steeped in murder and corruption, and the stories are mostly set in and around South Wales.
At present there are eight books in the series:-
‘Unethical Conduct’ ‘Edge of Integrity’, ‘Death and Depravity’, ‘Angel of Death’, ‘Nest of Vipers’, ‘Nighthawker’, ‘Redemption’ and ‘Betrayal’.
Nigel and I are just editing the ninth in the series, ‘Ravwn’, which will hopefully be published later in the year.
AmeriCymru: You have donated the proceeds from some of your book sales to charity. What good causes have your readers supported by buying your titles?
Arthur: When we began self publishing the books, we donated the royalties amounting to around £2,000.00 to both ‘Marie Curie’ and ‘The Garnwen Trust’, Maesteg.
AmeriCymru: What's next for Arthur Cole? Any new titles in the works?
Arthur: In May 2017 I was lucky enough to sign a book deal with ‘Wordcatcher Publishing, Cardiff’ owned by David Norrington. David published my first two poetry books ‘An Industry Now Lost’ and ‘Poems for a Lost Generation - A tribute to those who fell in the Great War 1914-18’.
I have just completed my third book ‘50 Famous People’ which includes many famous Welsh people, which will be published in May this year.
Nigel and I have also signed a deal with David, who is in the process of re-publishing the first eight books in the Terry McGuire series. The books will have a more consistent professional presentation. The titles will not be changed, so that readers who have already bought them, will not purchase them a second time.
‘Unethical Conduct’ has recently been published on kindle, with a new cover. The paperback will hopefully be published within the next few weeks. All available via Amazon or from Wordcatcher Publishing.
AmeriCymru: Any final message for the readers and members of AmeriCymru?
Arthur: I would like to thank you Ceri, for giving me the opportunity to write about our literary exploits thus far, and hopefully members who may read the books will be able to enjoy and reminisce about their homeland.
The thriller web site can be found at https://terrry-mcguire-thrillers.com
Many Thanks
Arthur.
