NOW LOOK HERE!IT'S ALL VERY WELL THE BLOODY INTERNATIONAL OLYMPIC COMMITTEE SELECTING RUGGER AND MUD WRESTLING WOMEN ( GOOD GOD! ) FOR BLIGHTY IN 2012. BUT REALLY! IS IT APPROPOS I SAY?THERE ARE PLENTY OF OTHER SPORTS THAT COULD FILL THE GAP IF THE AVANT-GARDE IS REQUIRED. CORACLE RACING FOR ONE AND PEASANT SHOOTING FOR ANOTHER. WHAT ABOUT A THREE LEGGED MARATHON RACE TAKING IN TWENTY PUBS WHERE A PINT MUST BE CONSUMED AT EACH HALT? COME TO THINK OF IT I COULD ENTER THAT ONE MYSELF.I'LL HAVE TO HAVE A WORD WITH THE MEMSAHIB.D'YA KNOW? I ONCE SAW AN EGG AND SPOON RACE IN INDJA WHERE THE EGGS BELONGED TO CAPTURED COBRAS. IT'S TRUE. THE LOCAL LOWER CASTE'S WERE SENT ORF WITH AN EGG TIED TO THEIR ARSES WHILST THE COBRAS WERE RELEASED TEN FEET BEHIND THEM. I REMEMBER THINKING CARL LEWIS WAS SLOW IN COMPARISON AS GUPTAH KARACHI COVERED THE MEASURED MILE IN UNDER THREE MINUTES.WOULDN'T BE ALLOWED NOW OF COURSE; ANIMAL CRUELTY AND ALL THAT!TOODLE PIPQWT

During the dark days of World War Two the small village of Cwmparc was hit by a German landmine which killed some 47 men women and children in a single blast. That night and the stories that came from it passed into local folklore.One in particular was of Will and Edith Thomas who resided in a one up two down miners cottage just off Parc Road Cwmparc. On the the night in question Will was sitting on the ' thunderbox ' out in the back yard when the air raid siren went off. Will, who was attuned to any kind of danger having worked for thirty years as a miner, leapt up from his sedantry postion whilst grappling with his bracers and galloped into the house shouting " EDEE! EEEEEDDEEEE! GET DOWN 'ERE NOW". Edith who was upstairs preparing a fire for the night shouted back " WHAT DO YOU WANT WILL"? "THE GERMANS ARE ATTACKING EDEE. WE'VE GOT TO GET INTO THE ANDERSON SHELTER NOW." "WAIT A MINUTE WILL" came the reply. "I CAN'T FIND MY TEETH". Will now wide eyed and incredulous yelled "FOR CHRIST'S SAKE EDEE! COME DOWN NOW. THEY'RE DROPPING BOMBS NOT PIES.

Now look here!As I sit here in Whistleton Towers the problems of the world seem to dissipate in a haze of fine brandy and the twirl of effusive Havana cigar smoke.I was watchin' that Obama fellow t'other day trying to admit forty six million Americans into receivin' health care - by God what a great country America is - I thought - when forty six million people can survive without health care. I and the Memsahib have our own medical team on hand twenty four hours a day of course and, in a fit of altruism that I'm not at all comfortable with, I let them treat the staff once a year for scurvy and such. However I must salute the medical profession in The United States for the seamless way that it makes health synonymous with money; I should be the fittest fellow in the world by that crireria.Here in Blighty, the Brown creature continues on his ineluctable descent into the swamp of political doom. To the cachinnations of all and sundry he lurches from one disaster to another in a manner that reminds one of Orofice Minor at the Dean's ball back at Eton; he consumed several large sherry's on top of something called a Micky Finn and was caught in the Finsbury Road a week later with a young lady from Siam - quite extraordinary really.The Memsahib and I celebrate our fiftieth wedding on August the First. Do you know she has five sisters and I'll be damned if I know which one of them I was supposed to marry at the time. Bunny Warren and myself were so drunk on the day of the nuptials that I grabbed the nearest at hand and went with the flow. Had to try the rest out later of course as a matter of form don't cha know. All the bloody same In the dark I thought.Best go now. Must prepare for the Promenade at The Albert Hall tomorrow - some fellow called Holsten Pills or somesuch playing The Plants. Bloody nonsense! I'll be in Madam Pom Pom's by midnight.Toodle PipQWT

AT 5 MINUTES AND 6 SECONDS AFTER 4 A..M., ON THE 8TH OF JULY, THIS YEAR, THE TIME AND DATE WILL BE: 04:05:06 07-08-09THIS WILL NOT HAPPEN AGAIN UNTIL THE YEAR 3009!!!(I had a deep feeling that you just needed to know this) Ian.

There is a tradition in non conformist religions that when a person dies it is beholden on the Minister who conducts the funeral to say something good about the recently deceased.When I was a mere whippersnapper of a lad around the age of eighteen an uncle of mine passed away. Then as now, a service was first held in the deceaseds house before moving on to the internment. These services took place amid as many people as could be crammed into the parlour, living room, passage, and kitchen. In small houses the intensity of the occasion was increased tenfold by this gathering. This I thought was rather unfair on the immediate family as they were under enough stress without having to cope with the prying eyes and ears of a multitude of people who wanted the service to end as quickly as possible. However, just when you thought things couldnt get any worse there were occasions when they did. This was largely due to the selection of the Minister in charge.Ministers came in all shapes and sizes. The majority were sympathetic to the needs of the bereaved and would more often than not conduct a short low key service to spare the mourners any unnecessary grief. Not so one Carmel Jones. Jones was from the old school. He would deliver a service as though he were playing to the gallery. His voice would bellow with exhortations to the LORD a word he could hold and expand for a full five seconds. There wasnt an emotion he couldnt tap into at will and increase its intensity. The effect of this skill was to send some close mourners off into faints and levels of grief that would challenge a cult deprogrammer. And so it was in my uncles funeral that he started his mesmeric machinations.I, my cousin Tony and his father Gareth were situated in the passage of the house when the service started. It wasnt long before we got fed up with Carmels act and so we started talking amongst ourselves. I started to relate a tale about a man called John Treorchy who lived over the mountain in Hirwaun. He was a hated man and no one had a good word for him. When he died speculation was rife as to what the Minister would say about him, compelled as he would be to say something good. On the day of the funeral hundreds turned out for a man who in life couldnt have expected more than a grave digger and a preacher to bury him. As the wind and rain blew everyone strained to hear what the Minister would say about this most reviled of men. Well" the Minister said We have come to bury John Treorchy. Ill say this for him. He was a good whistler.Back at the funeral I was attending I hadnt realised that everyone in ear shot had listened to me and the effect of the tale had released some tension as everyone was trying desperately to stifle laughter. The harder they tried the more they wanted to laugh. The upshot was that we had to get out of the house as fast as possible which we did. Outside people were sympathetic as about fifteen men walked out hiding their faces and wiping their eyes. I remember an old woman saying to her friend. Duw. That Carmel Jones really knows his stuff.

Back in the late sixties Prince Charles was being put on display for the Welsh people in anticipation of his investiture as Prince of Wales. As fate would have it he was attending some official military engagements in the South Wales valleys accompanied by the Lord Lieutenant of Glamorgan. Their journey took them from Bridgend at the bottom of the Ogwr valley through Nantymoel and over the Bwlch mountain road into Treorchy where they could make their way directly to Pontypridd and Cardiff.On reaching Treorchy the Lord Lieutenant realised they were running ahead of time and he asked Charles if it would be allright to stop in the village for a while as the landlord of the Red Cow Hotel was an old friend of his as they had served in the RAF together during the Second World War. Charles agreed and accompanied the Lord Lieutenant to the pub. They were both wearing full dress ceremonial uniform.When they went inside there was no one there except Mrs Matty Evans and Mrs Dilys Lloyd who were employed as cleaners. The Lord Lieutenant enquired after the landlord who went by the name of Terry Vaughan. He was told by Mrs Evans that Mr Vaughan was upstairs but she could get him if they liked. And so she did. To save herself a climb up the stairs she stood at the base of the stairway and screeched TERRYYYYYYYYYYYYY. She did this a few times until there was a reply. What do you want Matty. Im busy doing the books. Matty indignantly replied Will you come down here please. A couple of your friends from the Cory Band are here and they want to see you.

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

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