When it came to matters of superstition, the occult and the supernatural, Huw Griffiths was a sceptic of the first order. He had nailed his colours squarely to the mast of scientific explanation and would not be moved in his opinions of inexplicable phenomena as anything other than the fanciful imaginings of the weak minded. . His friend and confidant one Jack Protheroe was less inclined to be so brutal in his dismissal of the unexplained. This was because Jacks grandmother had been a practicing medium; through the years Jack had witnessed too many strange incidents including the manifestation of an image of his dead younger brother to match Huws all weather contempt for anything that fell outside the realm of the established natural scientific disciplines.The subject of the supernatural often came up in their conversations and so it was on a warm summers evening as they sat in the bar of a small local pub called the Pencelli Arms. Huw as always was the louder of the two as he found a great deal of pleasure in allowing everyone within a twenty foot radius to gain the benefit of his thoughts and voice. Its preposterous Jack he bellowed There are no such things as ghosts or spectres or phantoms. Its all the product of an over fertile imagination or drugs or probably both. You were duped by you grandmother and as for your assertion that supernatural phenomena is simply phenomena that hasnt or cant be explained by established scientific practices then I suggest that until it is it is nothing more than tosh.As he continued on a self important peroration a small but clear voice interrupted him. Excuse me. Huw turned and was presented with the countenance of a very elderly woman. Yes my dear? How can I help you? Huw said slightly embarrassed. The little old woman smiled at him and said I couldnt but help overhearing your conversation a minute ago and I was wondering if I could persuade you that you are wrong in dismissing those things you cant understand. Huw was now caught between being polite and being ready to launch into a tirade. However he restrained from his usual dismissive attitudes and asked the old woman what she meant. What if I can prove to you that you are mistaken? Would you be willing to change your views if I could give you proof? Huws mind started to whirr. Here we go. he thought Im going to be asked to attend a well planned sance where theyll attempt to tuck me up like a kipper. The old lady looked at him and said Its not a sance Mr Griffiths. Huw was momentarily fazed then thought Shes following the line of likely thought and made a lucky guess What do you have in mind? He said. Would you spend tonight alone in a house that I own? Its located at the top of the village in its own grounds. she replied. Haunted no doubt? Scoffed Huw. Would you? pressed the old woman It gets light at five thirty. I and your friend here will meet you at the front gate tomorrow morning. The entire bar was now looking at Huw to see if he would bottle out. He could feel them waiting for him to show fear. Of course I will he said. I bet its got more tricks in it than a fair ground ghost train he thought. Good said the old lady Itll be dark in an hour. We can go then. Oh! There are no electric lights installed in the house but there are candles and plenty of books to keep you amused if you cant sleep during the night.Huw sat down at the table and looked at Jack. Candles and books! Ive half a bottle of scotch in my jacket. Im going to get a good nights rest and Ill see you at five thirty tomorrow morning. I expect the old girls got the place rigged to give the gullible a fright or two. Well shes barking up the wrong tree here. I know every trick in the book.At around ten thirty that evening Huw, Jack and the old lady travelled to the top of the village. The last of the twilight was disappearing over the mountains when they reached the front gate of the house. Here are the keys. said the old lady Well be back tomorrow morning. Ok chirped Huw Ill stand you both breakfast. See you then.Huw made his way to the front door and opened it. The house smelled a bit musty but after lighting eight or nine candles he noticed that although the furniture seemed a little dated the place was quite cosy. There was a large settee in the lounge Thats for me. he thought. All around the room, as the old woman had said, there were a great many books. After orientating himself Huw decided to look around the place to see if there were any obvious signs of the chicanery that he expected to start at any moment. He went through the living room into the kitchen and upstairs through three bedrooms. It all seemed pretty innocuous to him and so he decided to retire to the settee and his scotch. It wasnt long before he started to doze and within the hour he was fast asleep. Some five hours later he was awoken by birdsong. He looked at his watch. It was five twenty five. Well he thought That was fun. What the hell was it supposed to prove to me? The old bat must be some kind of eccentric biddy. Huw doused the lit candles and walked to the front door opened it and locked it behind him. He could see the old woman at the front gate and some way behind her he could see Jack walking towards them along the street. Huw was smiling like a Cheshire cat when he reached the old lady. He was thinking of the fun he would have that night in the pub letting everyone know of the terrifying night he had spent in the house before ridiculing them all for being so gullible. He looked at the old lady in a very superior way and said Here are your house keys. I must say it was a .. The old woman raised a hand and simply said What house? Huw turned to face an empty lot. Thats when Jack heard him scream.

The cemetery in Treorchy sits on a hill above the village of the same name. It contains the remains of some thirty thousand people. It has consecrated ground for Church of Wales punters, non consecrated ground for chapel people, a plot for the Catholics who like to be buried separately from Protestants and one or two graves for Muslims who insist on being buried West/East as opposed to North/South. They all have one thing in common though theyre all dead and buried.In my capacity as one of four temporary grass cutters I spent the summer of 1982 working in and on the cemetery. We were in the company of eight or so gravediggers. Their number included a pot smoking hippy who didnt have a tooth in his head, a farmer who had a manic look in his eye who just liked digging, a religious nut, a very small fellow who was used to sliding over coffins in walled graves, a peripatetic gravedigger who plied his bull nosed shovel trade all over South Wales and an old man called Em who had seen it all and wouldnt be phased by anything.Each of these men although different in their own ways had one common trait. They all had developed a serenity brought on through years of studied solemnity standing back during funerals. They all also could tell you blood curdling tales of corpses and the finer points of burials not generally known outside of an undertakers convention. For example, tales of coffins sliding through the earth on the sloped mountainside were rife. You see. In order to locate a coffin in a grave, that could hold six or more corpses, one had to use a spike that was inserted into the earth until it reached the last coffin that had been placed there. Of course some graves hadnt been opened up for decades and so it wasnt unusual for the coffins to have slid away from the position that they were originally placed in. This wasnt so bad as there was enough space to place another coffin in the grave. It was a bit more disconcerting for the gravediggers however when the coffin had rotted and they dug down straight into the coffins contents. Tales of men leaping out of graves in a single bound was not unheard of. This was not because of any fear of the undead rising from their graves (gravediggers are the most non superstitious people alive) but because many of the bodies had died during the Nineteenth Century when cholera, smallpox and typhus etcetera was rife; many bodies were buried in lead lined coffins to keep in whatever had caused death in the first place.On other occasions the men were mortified to find that there was barely enough space to place a new coffin in a grave and so banks would be built up around the circumference to make it look deeper. This generally worked as the earth was stacked up on top of the coffin to allow gravity to work its magic. However there were cemeteries in other boroughs that revealed their contents from time to time as there was less than two inches of top soil covering the coffin. There was a tremendous scandal in Merthyr Tydfil because of this.These tales were told to us in a workmens hut during the longeurs of rain soaked afternoons. Initially there was an attempt to scare the living crap out of us by adding, in hushed tones, elements of the supernatural to the stories. When it became obvious that we were quite happy to spend the night up amongst the tombstones the anecdotes became more mundane. However, there was one genuinely creepy tale about an oak coffin that was opened accidentally. Oak was used in the nineteenth century as the wood of choice for coffins. This wood is very hardy stuff and when sealed is hermetically tight. By all accounts Em was digging an old grave when the pick he was using penetrated an oak coffin. He pulled back and the top of the coffin came with him. Inside was the corpse of a woman. She was 19 when she died as was shown on the gravestone. He said she had long black lustrous hair to her waist and skin like alabaster. Within seconds the shell that she was disintegrated as the air entered the coffin. It unnerved him for a while as he had just seen his own great grandmother.What you have to remember is that despite the job and the locale there was nothing morbid or frightening about working in the cemetery. If anything it was as though we developed a comical attitude to the whole thing as a sort of defence I suppose. There were incidents where a man who had come to pay his last respects to his brother had a heart attack and fell into the grave and died. This is gallows humour of the first order. There are those who are buried there who obviously had a sense of humour in death as well as life. One ex publican of The Red Cow Hotel had a statue erected on his familys crypt. Its an image of him with an outstretched arm and an open hand. Its designed to show all those to whom he gave credit that they still owed him money. To emphasise his disgust he had the statue erected with his back facing Treorchy. One other amusing incident springs to mind concerning a local wit and poet called Hughie Davies. He was in his eighties when a contemporary of his died. The man used to be his boss and there was mutual hatred between them. It was something of a surprise therefore that Hughie turned up at his funeral. What the hell are you doing here? You hated him. he was asked. I never trusted him replied the droll Hughie. Im here to make sure hes dead.

In the days before central heating every house in the Rhondda utilised coal on open fires. The result of this heating method led to vast quantities of ash residue. This was deposited in metal bins and placed on the roadside of the valley streets in order to be collected by men employed by the local council for that purpose. These employees were called dustmen or ashmen and like all men who find themselves performing a job generally avoided by the majority of the population they developed a particular camaraderie. Crucial to this camaraderie was a tendency to develop a black but good natured humour.The crew who worked each tender comprised six men - each with their own distinct personalities. During the summer of 1982 I worked with one crew when I did some temporary summer work and I remember them well. The driver was Tom Mathias. He was a quiet man abstemious in his ways who absolutely refused to swear under any circumstances. He also had an all weather hatred of religion, the Tory party and alcohol. His best friend was Emrys Davies. This came as a surprise to everyone as Emrys had a tendency to swear at every opportunity often inserting swear words in between swear words to get greater effect. He was also a life long member of the Labour party but had a grasp of politics that bordered on the remedial. He was also passionate about cricket.Other members of the crew included Billy Thomas and Rex Jones. Thomas entire life outside of work revolved around the local Conservative club. He was known as Apple and he wasnt in the least bit political or a conservative but he had a deep love of rough cider - the cheapest and worst of which was to be found in the club of his choice. Then there was Rex Jones whose nickname was The King. Rex was a divorced man who could start a fight at a hundred yards because he had no social skills whatsoever and absolutely no sense of danger.The remaining two of the crew were James Pumford Lloyd known as The Lord because he had a demeanour coupled with a well groomed moustache that would have singled him out as a member of the aristocracy had it not been for his council overalls. Finally there was Gordon Collier. Collier was a trade unionist first and last and a man of immense self importance and a master of the obvious who felt the need to educate the great unwashed at every opportunity. He would often sidle up to someone and say, in tones that indicated that he was passing on vital life changing information, that its always best to wear a coat in the rain lest one gets wet.Each day these men would start work at seven AM sharp. Their working routes were far and wide taking in hills and bends, dips and stretches and the occasional tump. Climbing into the cab with them one could sense an air of familiarity. There in the corner was Billy Thomas with breath like petrol fumes complaining about his ex wife. Gordon Collier had lit his first pipe of the day and was quietly contemplating the finer points of the TUC annual report. Emrys was listening intently to Billy Thomas interjecting from time to time with several choice expletives that placed the ex Mrs Thomas squarely in the camp of Lucrezia Borgia. Pumford was busily rolling up a fag and Mathias had pulled out a transistor radio tuned in to Radio 3 which was broadcasting Mozarts Don Giovanni. It was surreal.As I appeared at the cab door Rex Jones said Look out boys. The hired help has arrived. Hes come to teach the old dogs new tricks. Gordon looked up. He told me in the most profound manner to take no notice of the banter as it was well known that the king was suffering from a hernia brought on by attempting to lift too many ball droppers. Ball droppers? I enquired. Thats right said Rex. Ball droppers is ash bins that appens when someone leaves the lid off and it rains. The bastards are heavy enough to lift when dry - let alone when wet. Its like liftin 15 stones of concrete. Dont try it or youll be walking on your balls. This was the start of a memorable three months.Looking back it seems that not a day passed without some incident or other that raised a smile. I remember the day we picked up a foxs tail and a large bed warmer. These things are innocuous enough in themselves but when utilised by the crew it resulted in Gordon Collier being taken to hospital for suspected concussion. You see, Gordon had a tendency to walk about in deep thought; he would thrust his hands into his pockets drop his head and cogitate. On this particular day Billy Thomas had decided to play a prank. He had wrapped a piece of wire around the end of the foxs tail and made a tight hook at the other end of the wire. This he delicately attached to the back of Gordons overall trousers as he was walking about contemplating God knows what. The rest of the crew were now presented with the sight of Gordon sucking on his pipe, his flat cap tilted forward walking around with a foxs tail majestically wagging in the breeze. Billy, now determined to capitalise on the obvious mirth he had given us, picked up the bed warmer and started to walk behind Gordon fanning the thing up and down as if to bang him on the head. This was exactly what he did when Gordon stopped unexpectedly. He was knocked senseless and taken to hospital tail intact.If it wasnt for the fact that Gordon was out cold and couldnt be revived we could have laughed until we keeled over. He did revive however and was uncordial to all talk of bed warmers thereafter.On another occasion we were in the throes of being thoroughly pissed off in a week of drizzle and had no time for the niceties of thought. Anything in our path short of babies were thrown into the back of the lorry. Somewhere near Volunteer Street in Pentre we picked up chunks of metal that simply stood in our way. I mean how were we to know that it was an engine ready to be put back into a car? A similar fate went for a suitcase full of clothes placed on a doorstep waiting for a taxi driver. Howard Pipe the foreman in Ystrad Yard was distracted beyond all understanding whilst Bacon Nuts McNullty his boss was considering murder. It all blew over however because of some obscure bye-law that allowed for the cleansing of detritus of and off streets in the opinion of the collector.The most incredible incident took place however, when a local hard case by the name of Dai Thump took it upon himself to throw Emrys in the back of the ash cart. Thumps missus was a well known finger pointer who enjoyed nothing more than proving her husbands love by watching his reaction to spurious tales of other mens affections. On this particular day, Emrys was the object of her ire. Emrys was lifted into the air and thrown into a place that had very large mechanical teeth that would have chewed him to pieces if it hadnt been for the quick eye of Jim Pumford Lloyd. Lloyd stopped the chewer by swiftly throwing the manual overdrive at the back of the lorry. It was then that Tom Mathias revealed a talent for boxing that no one had suspected. Tom calmly stepped down from the cab, removed his glasses and placed them in his top pocket. He then delivered a swift array of punches that left Dai Thump in no doubt that he had overstepped the mark.After three months of these adventures I was relocated to the local cemetery where a whole new series of strange behaviour was observed. I was to be a grass cutter in attendance to eight or more grave diggers. If I thought that disposing of human rubbish was an eye opener the best was yet to come.

Waking up on a train full of tobacco smoke surrounded by bleary eyed men with hangovers is a sight to behold. There are a lot of vacant stares, a lot of longing reminiscences about bottles of cold water and the realisation that the pubs dont open for another ten hours.Amongst our motley crew was a guy who had travelled from Merthyr Tydfil. It was his misfortune that the train we were on would only come as close as ten miles from his home. He sat there in a semi stupor pouring out his woes in a very droll and exhausted manner.He started Did anyone go to Marks and Spencers yesterday morning? I sat there for an hour wrastling (sic) with a sausage until I gave up. What do they cook their food in up here? It must be a mixture of axle grease and cow shit. Everyone started to chuckle.We got soaked in the morning and couldnt get into a pub until one o clock and when we did it took us fifteen minutes to get to the bar every time we wanted a pint. Glasses were scarce as well so we ad to go back and fore, back and fore. We thought everybody would bugger off when the game started but they all stayed put. By four o clock I was knackered with all the tussling so went outside and bought a bottle of scotch to help me on the way home. Its now sitting in the guards van in my very hour of need. Bollocks!He was quiet for a while and then started speaking again on a range of subjects some linked some not. I remember him saying. Im going to get to Pontypridd station at seven thirty and there are no trains or buses running until two in the afternoon. I phoned a butty of mine and asked him if hed come and pick me up. Feck off is what I had We were in stitches by now as his world weary delivery had struck a chord in us all.His coup de grace came however after he had picked up a discarded copy of the Sun newspaper. Wed all read it at some point and as was usual for the time there were articles about Princess Diana and Sarah Ferguson The Duchess of York. The Sun had proudly declared that because of their looks they were the envy of the known world. Well! Our new found friend peered over the top of the paper and said Have you read this? They must think were bloody stupid or something. Look at Diana. Shes got a nose like a woodpecker and feet like Olive Oyle. And look at that Fergie. Shes got a chin like Desperate Dan and an arse the size of a skip. That was it. We laughed ourselves to a standstill. Eventually however tiredness took over again and we all started to doze in fitful sleep.When travelling on a train like the Killer theres always a chance that something unusual will happen. This trip was no exception. At around a quarter to four somewhere in the vicinity of North Wales we were aware that there was some kind of disturbance at the rear of the train. We soon discovered that one of the local boneheads travelling with us, who went by the name of Archie, had partaken of a fiendish cocktail of drugs. This coupled with an almost pathological hatred of the Law had led said bonehead to confront the travelling police officer in the guards van. Ordinarily the officer would have dealt with the situation relatively quickly. However on this occasion the bonehead in question was threatening to pull the communication cord if he was so much as approached by the copper. His hand was on the cord in fact. This unavoidable reality and the inescapable truth that we were travelling at some 90 miles an hour meant that to do so would cause the trains occupants to suffer God knows what in the way of injuries. Fortunately we were in luck however, as travelling on a Sunday meant trains would be subject to any number of diversions because of track maintenance. Normally we would travel non stop back home but as fate would have it we pulled into Derby station twenty minutes after the bonehead had started his misbegotten actions. To our relief we last saw Archie being frog marched down the platform by a police constable and sergeant. Mental notes were made by all who knew him to have a quiet chat with the fellow when and if he returned to Treorchy. We assumed hed be put in a cell and charged but amazingly the police decided that they would have some fun at his expense and so they placed him under escort in another guards van on a train destined for Paddington station in west London at least another 200 miles in the wrong direction from Archies home. We wouldnt hear from him again until mid afternoon when he telephoned one of the local pubs begging for money and transport. Needless to say he was told to go forth and multiply. He arrived back in Treorchy on Monday night a great deal poorer and remorseful - which was just as well because people had been lining up in groups to give him a right royal welcome. As it was he only suffered a black eye and the loss of two teeth.We arrived back at Treorchy exactly 36 hours after wed left, swearing never to be so foolish as to venture north on such an odyssey again. However, two years is a very long time where rugby and booze are concerned and so it was that on the next occasion that Wales played Scotland at Murrayfield someone mentioned early on Friday evening before the day of the match Wouldnt it be a great idea if we all went to Scotland on The Killer ?

Many cultures have rights of passage. In ancient Sparta, boys would be sent alone into the wilderness to kill a lion. In certain American Indian tribes, boys would perform a similar feat of bravery by killing a bear. In Wales there was another kind of right of passage. It to concerned a journey, an endurance test and a killer. It was called The Scottish Trip.The Scottish trip took place every two years when the tribes of the Taff sallied north in order to remind the clans of the Picts and Scots that any illusions they had about being the superior Celtic rugby playing nation was just that an illusion.Old warriors who had earned their spurs would save up for two long years, book into a nice hotel, travel to Scotland on a Wednesday and return at leisure on the following Monday. They would return with trophies designed to placate their wives; phenominal amounts of whisky, haggis, Pringle sweaters, plaid shawls, Scots bonnets, Arran cardigans and tartan blankets would travel south two days after the game at Murrayfield.The more impetuous of the Taff however, who, being young and or just plain stupid would opt often on a whim to travel to Scotland without a match ticket on The Killer.The Killer was the name given to a train and a journey that entailed travelling from the South Wales valleys to Scotland and back in 36 hours. We would depart at 20:00 on Friday night and arrive back at 08:00 on Sunday morning. In that time, myths were created, legends where born and some were lost forever in the mists of the Scottish moors. The more fortunate were lost in the arms of a welcoming Scottish lass.The trip for my compadres and I would start at Treorchy station. We were greeted by a twelve car set Pullman with very comfortable seats. We were also greeted with posters that had twelve inch high letters categorically stating that no alcohol whatsoever would be permitted on the train. To ensure that this edict was obeyed, a police officer was assigned to be our councillor and friend. The officer, who was wise in the ways of rugby supporters, knew full well that this was a bad law written by a bad god and so after a brief pep talk about behaviour would disappear into the guards van for the duration. He was rewarded with our complicity; by the time we left Cardiff General Station, some twenty miles away, the train was in effect a peripatetic brewery with a couple of distilleries and vineyards thrown in for good measure.The outward journey was usually a calm affair as we wound our way north through the Saxon lands. We would pass non stop through Gloucester, Lancaster and Carlisle finally reaching Waverly station in Edinburgh at 06:00 on Saturday morning. Those with enough sense had stopped imbibing at around midnight and had settled down to be lulled to sleep by the clickety clack of the rails. Others, who regarded themselves as stuntmen of rail travel and alcohol consumption, would continue partying until around four in the morning only to find themselves in a terrible mess two hours later as they were ejected into the cold Scottish air.On arrival at Waverly there was a sudden realisation that kick off at Murrayfield wasnt for another eight hours and the bars didnt open for five. Despite this set back we would all wander into Princes Street in search of frolics and food but mostly food. Fortunately the good burghers of the city, who were never short to see a financial opportunity, had opened such outlets as British Home Stores and Marks and Spencer. Inside these emporiums it was warm and cosy and all day breakfasts were on hand. This was when the first culture shock would hit.The Scots had a predilection for frying almost everything they ate in beef dripping. This included eggs, bacon, sausages, tomatoes, hash browns, and bread. It also appeared that everything had been cooking for about three hours before we reached Edinburgh. The eggs were of the consistency of vulcanised rubber whilst the sausages defied cutting by all but the strongest of serrated knives. Brittle bacon rashers would disintegrate on sight and convinced us that consuming the stuff was as close as most of us would ever get to eating broken glass. I and my brother Chris attempted to get through this fare but failed miserably. It was the coffee that finished us off; we realised it had the look and smell of Bovril and so we decided to search the metropolis for something more palatable.After wandering around for sometime we noticed what appeared to be a small restaurant at the very top of Princes Street. There were only a few people sitting inside and so we decided that this was the place for us. We sat down and asked for the menu only to be told that there wasnt one as the only food they served were pancakes with or without syrup or cream. Allright! We thought. Lets have one each to start off with - both with cream. Kerrist! The pancakes were the size of dart boards presented on flat plates. Eating them piping hot with the accompaniments was obviously an art form that would need a ten year apprenticeship. There was no fear of putting on weight with this food as the effort needed to control the cream meant we had to burn up at least a thousand calories per pancake keeping the stuff on the table. Nevertheless, we ate three each.Looking out of the restaurant windows between frenzied cream corralling we could see that the city was coming alive. Pipers had been strategically placed outside various establishments to drum or should that be pipe up business and small groups of red and white wearing punters had gathered to listen to the unfamiliar. We wandered out to join them and I distinctly heard someone say as they passed I love the sound of bagpipes disappearing into the distance. Then it started to rain.The drizzle persisted throughout the morning. Familiar faces appeared and disappeared in the greyness of Edinburgh and its looming castle. We were wet, cold, tired and very thirsty by now. After a quick recce we realised that the centre of Edinburgh had scant few watering holes. This coupled with the fact that there was a temporary population explosion of beer deprived Taffs led us to form a plan. We (Myself, my brother, Will Panic, Gwyn Jenks and Old man Eynon) would climb the hill to Edinburgh castle and drop down into the old town on the other side and find a nice quiet place to sip and rest.The hill to Edinburgh castle looks innocuous enough until one stands at its base. The penny dropped after the first fifty yards; we were in fact trying to get into a castle charming buildings designed to oppress and dissuade unwelcome visitors. By the time we reached the top, old man Eynon was looking for an oxygen tent, Will Panic could see doom in every step and Gwyn Jenks swore hed never look at another Woodbine again as long as he lived. Chris and I were veteran mountain walkers and failed to see what all the fuss was about. Mind you I wouldnt have fancied the climb if someone had been shooting arrows at us at the same time.The climb down the other side was equally as steep but a dawdle for all. At the bottom Gwyn Jenks lit up a Woodbine and professed to have enjoyed the mountainous excursion whilst Panic was looking intensely at the slope wed just descended and seemed to be making mental notes about the return journey he would have to make in the semi darkness. Eynon, succinct as ever, looked at his watch and gasped Right! Thats it! Its eleven oclock. If we dont find a pub in the next ten minutes Im going to fucking kill you all. As providence would have it we did. It was called The Scots Grey and it was open.When we walked inside I remember saying Why did we travel to Scotland? - this was because it had the look and feel of a pub called The Bricks in Tynewydd just up the valley from where I lived. The bar was small with a pot bellied stove in the middle of the room. There was a TV stuck up in a corner behind the bar. There was a dartboard, the smell of old tobacco and there were about ten punters in there who looked as though they had stayed there throughout the previous night. Panic whispered to me Where have you brought us to boy? We must have looked rougher than the clientele who never batted an eyelid but to say that the landlord was bemused is an understatement of the first order. He gave us a knowing look and asked Up for the game? As we were festooned with leeks, daffodils and all things red and white I felt a quip was in order. No I said Were fishing. Isnt this Loch Lomond. Thank the stars he laughed out loud.It wasnt long before we had gleaned that the game would be shown on the television if we wished to stay and watch. And so we did. The usual three hours of pre match revelry ensued where Celtic connections were re established at the expense of the English establishment. We drank copious draughts of Tennants Extra beer and the occasional scotch. By the time the game ended we were convinced we could run back up to the castle and down the other side. Fortunately we were directed away from this tortuous route and told that there was a gentle slope that would take us straight to Waverly station. We thanked our hosts for a memorable afternoon and made our farewells at around half past four. The train home was due to leave at six that evening and so after a swift mooch for gifts in Princes Street we headed for the platform and the anticipation of another fourteen hour journey. I bought a packed quilt which was on offer at a farcically low price; I figured I may as well be comfortable on the sobering return trip.Many of the walking wounded met at the Waverly platform clutching their bottles of Scotch and memorabilia. The train was standing waiting for us - as were about forty police officers who had been told to confiscate anything alcoholic. This wasnt theft though as the goods could be redeemed once we had re entered Wales. It was standard policy apparently because of all the trouble English football supporters had caused in Glasgow over the years.. Whatever, I retained my quilt, found a comfortable seat, placed it behind me and settled down for a snooze. I woke at around 2AM somewhere in Northern England.TO BE CONTINUED.

Now look here!I'm all for giving your celt a fair shake of the whip providing that I'm doing the shaking but I think it's a bit rich havin' the English Lions being dominated by the Taff and Mick.There were days when we took along a few of the Celtic fringe as mascots but all this democracy has got well out of hand. I remember the days of Billy Beaumont who managed to lose every test as captain in South Africa in 1980. I think he was given a knighthood for that having have to deal with the Boer at his front and the Celtic Johnnies in the rear. And of course there was Saint Lawrence of Dallaglio ( I think he was English) and that Johnny Wish you were here Wilkinson Blade.Fine Saxons to a man and born leaders. Where are they now? Buried that's where by that Jocko Brown and his ilk. BAH! I say.

How did Soames die in The Forsyth Saga? A quiz question Ill never forget.In the Rhondda people get up to all kinds of activities to distract themselves from the daily grind. Some play darts. Some play pool. Some become philanderers and some play rugby. In the 1970s in a desperate attempt to get punters to spend their hard earned cash on beer, a number of the local workingmens clubs decided to hold quiz nights. The quality of the quizzes depended on the club; the more intellectually inclined gravitated towards the RAFA, Conservative and Liberal Clubs whilst others chose the Labour and Communist clubs not because the questions were any easier but because the beer was cheaper.One local establishment was called The Comrades and Marxist Club. Its nickname was Smokey Joes after Joseph Stalin the well known Russian philanthropist. There wasnt a single communist member of the club however, but by a quirk of fate the committee realised that if they utilised communist ideals and ploughed all the profits they made back into the club then they could sell beer at about a third of the price you could purchase it anywhere else locally. This made the place extremely popular and with supreme irony it made more money than out and out capitalist ventures.One of the perks of the quiz nights at Smokey's was that they would pay the quiz master in beer checks one quiz would be the equivalent of ten pints of beer. The checks would be valid for a year and so it didnt take a genius to calculate that if you only did five quizzes a year and saved the tokens you could have a backlog of fifty pints to get through. This was quite useful at Christmas time.The punters who took part in the quizzes there tended to be miners who may not have had the greatest range of general knowledge available to them but they were sticklers for procedure and unambiguous answers. And so it was that on one very warm August evening in 1979 yours truly took to the stage as quizmaster. It was to be a memorable night.There were about sixteen teams there that evening - mostly men but with one team of women who were local librarians. Those women were as sharp as tacks when it came to quizzing and were eyed with an all weather suspicion by the regulars. At the back of the hall sat Dai Jenkins and his cronies. Jenkins was the acknowledged master of being argumentative just for the sake of it and would question even established mathematical certainties set down by Euclid and Pythagoras. The rest of the teams were made up of assorted students and members who had been coerced into joining the quiz by committee men.Despite the heat the quiz proceeded along established lines with everyone within a few points of each other. Jenkins team were edging slightly ahead with the ladies side a close second. Beer was being consumed at a rapid pace to keep cool and windows were opened to allow some air to circulate.Sometime into round three a set of almighty shrieks and screams emanated from the ladies team.Everyone was looking perplexed and every man quickly noted there didnt appear to be any reason for this outburst. One of the women then stood up and pointed to the ceiling. Naturally we all looked up and there flapping about around a light fixture was a bat. It had flown into the building through a window behind the women and had tarried awhile around them before launching itself skyward.It was decided for the sake of propriety that the quiz should be suspended the women couldnt concentrate and that the bat would have to be removed. And so it was that five committee men armed with snooker cues and wrangler jackets pursued the bat around the room for forty minutes until it finally escaped through a fanlight.In this time Jenkins had started to formulate a plan that the bat was nothing but a ruse to disrupt his ineluctable procedure to the winners podium. The fact that his team were drinking far too much didnt help his reasoning processes. More to the point as the quiz progressed, the women, who were now composed, were getting closer and closer to winning it. As it happened the final round saw them draw even with Jenkins side and so a tie breaker question had to be asked.In situations like this its normal to ask a question about a date in history or a numerical question where the nearest to the date or amount required wins. For some reason however I asked the question How did the character Soames die in The Forsythe Saga? Was he run down by a bus? Did he have a heart attack? Or did a burning painting fall on his head?The correct answer is a burning painting hit him on the head.The answers were written down and passed on to me. The women answered correctly whilst Jenkins answered that a bus had knocked him down.And so I delivered the result. The ladies were of course delighted and came forward to collect their prize money about 7.50.At the back of the hall however Jenkins went a strange colour and stood up. He pointed an accusatory finger at me and shouted in deadly earnest WAIT A MINUTE! HOW DO WE KNOW IT WASNT A PAINTING OF A BUS THAT KILLED HIM.Bursting into laughter wasnt the best thing I could have done in retrospect I suppose and I remember thinking this at the time as he started towards me. Jenkins was over six foot and built like a brick out house and he meant business. His cronies and the other punters were sitting back and waiting for the inevitable end of evening hammering to ensue when I was saved.By whom? The womens team. They rounded on him like a pack of wolves and started recalling every stupid thing hed done in his life from failing to return library books to GBH. There were a few personal jibes thrown in as well for good measure.It transpired that one of the women was his ex wife, one his sister and the other two had had uncordial dealings with his nonsense in the past.I left shortly after that with a memo to self. Never ask how Soames died in The Forsyth Saga again.

After waking up in casualty after a cardiac arrest I recollected a game worthy of the sobriquet tense. It wasnt exactly a brilliant game, it wasnt exactly a fast flowing game, it wasnt exactly the game Id hoped it would be and yet because of the stakes it seemed exciting.It started off rather politely where letters of introduction were exchanged in the form of a game of patty cake. You know the kind of thing? A swift left here, a sharp right there, an uppercut or two to get better acquainted. All good friendly stuff. The game then went into some kind of torpor mode where the players seemed to be playing as an afterthought a tough afterthought but an afterthought nonetheless. There were a few slick moves but nothing to suggest that the game was going to be anything other than a war of attrition.Half time came and went with Wales in a 6 - 0 lead.The start of the second half reminded me of The Battle of Islandlwana where the Zulus moved so quickly through the ranks of the South Wales Borderers that the tips of their cigars looked like the paths of tracer bullets. Ireland went bananas and scored two tries in as many minutes it seemed. The Taff then regrouped and slowly and steadily pulled back by superior play aided and abetted by the Irish who seemed hell bent on giving away penalties. The upshot of it all was that the last ten minutes of the affair will go down in Irish folklore forever.It was a deserved Irish Grand Slam and all the better because sitting in the stand was Jack Kyle the captain of the last Irish side to win the Grand Slam in 1948.