In all his fifty years of farming on the Gurnos, Farmer Oates had never seen a sight quite like it. One minute he was rounding up his straying sheep and the next he'd found a stray that just didn't belong.

Clinging for dear life to the rock face of the Morlais Castle was the fat, balding, Gerry Mander. Despite the Autumn mist there could be no mistaking his local representative, the Portcullis emblazoned on his vest clashing with polka dotted pink jockey shorts. Gerry never had any taste! he thought as he gazed up, some hundred feet above his head.

"Well goodness me, Gerry. What are you doing up there?"

"I'm practising my next public address at Speaker's Comer... . What the hell do you think I’m doing?"

Oates remembered then why he didn't vote for him the last time.

"My life is in ruins. I feel as if I've lost the winning lottery ticket... I'm going to jump!" "Your life's in ruins? What about us poor farmers? I'm down to my last £300,000! What with the EC quotas and the BSE crisis ...."

"But you're a sheep farmer!" Gerry interrupted. "What has BSE got to do with you?"

"They've stopped using my infected sheep in the cattle feed, that's what. But look at you, you've got the lot! Big house, good job, plenty of money. Why do you want to end it all?!"

"You'll read it all in the Merthyr Express this week! It's all down to a chance meeting with a total stranger on the Bryniau Common. Offered me Welsh Rarebit at his place. I was curious, see. I'd never had Welsh Rarebit, Caribbean style!"

Farmer Oates looked surprised and said

"A man of your education! I'm surprised you didn't use a bit of'common'." "Well, that's why I'm here, in this predicament!"

"Don't worry, I'll dash back to the farm house and get a tow rope. Soon have you down from there."

"Tow rope! Oh God! I remember. They've pinched my car! The despatch box! All my bits and pieces! Now there's real trouble."

"Losing the Dispatch Box ? Perhaps you'll lose the Whip!" "That WAS part of my bits and pieces."

"Sentimental value then?"

*****

Meanwhile, to the rear of The Gumos Tavern, a Rastaman, dreadlocks waving in the night wind, jem­mied open the boot of a gold coloured Ford Granada.

"It's Christmas again," said one of his interested apprentices, peering into the boot. "Almost as much drugs as they found in Elvis, I'll bet!"

"Hush up and open the box," said the Rasta. "We could be putting a lot of bread on the table with what's in there!"

As the apprentice opened the red box, inflation took over! Looking up at the Rasta he said

"I don't know about bread, man, but can you get mutton from a blow-up sheep?"

"Hello! Merthyr Express? Farmer Oates here, speaking from Pontsam. Got an exclusive for you. Bring a photographer and the usual twenty pieces of silver to Morlais Castle Quarry. If it's a cheque, make it payable to 'Public Spirited Citizen' - I'd prefer my good works to be anony­mous. Income tax, you know!"

Meanwhile, Gerry Mander wondered if finding his way on to the quarry ledge was another 'Error of Judgement'. Yesterday, he was a happy, thriving, thrusting member of the Labour Taffia. Today the world was literally at his feet but he was without car, mobile phone, pride and his dignity. Even his'R Mahoney' suits were all gone. His panic drove him to hallucinate. From his left shoulder someone said

"Go on, jump. What are you waiting for?"

He turned to see a little creature in a red suit holding a mini pitchfork. The face seemed familiar.

"I know you," said Gerry, "You're that Old Devil Horace Charles Jones, Poet Esq."

"You public servants are all the same ... two brains and no balls. Go on, make the world a bet­ter place - jump," snarled the imp.

"Why are you tormenting me?" sobbed Mander

"Well I couldn't find any other druid at this time in the morning and besides I hate ALL Public figures, especially bent ones."

"Don't listen to him!" From his right shoulder came a second voice.

"Think of your family man. Put your wife and children first. Sit down and wait for the Fire Brigade."

The voice belonged to another familiar figure, this time dressed in white. Peering, Mander could make out the face of the second voice.

"God forgive you. You're Ironmaster William Crawshay ... . I recognise you from the painting I stole from my Castle School ... surely you didn't come from Heaven?" "Cefn, actually! Short for Catholic Heaven.. and my God did forgive me ... he told me so in the 'Vatican', that well known public house on my way to Cefn." "Ignore him, mun!" interjected the Imp. "He's been on the Holy Water again. You've got life insurance haven't you ... jump and we can all enter the 'spirit' world."

Gerry's head flashed to and fro, Wimbledon style, between his two Faustly companions.

"He's right!" moaned Gerry. "I deserve to die. I've committed too many sins ... ."

"There's no such thing as too many sins. Look at me, I've got my wings!" said Crawshay, sound­ing rather like Father Ted.

"Hark at the Angel; sermonising from the Mount ... and that's enough verse ... I'm the Dead Poet remember," waxed Jones the Red, lyrically.

"Confess and you shall be saved my son, "Whispered the Seraph.

"Well, it started in 1997 after my landslide victory by two votes from Keir Hardie Junior Junior Junior... a small town boy arriving in Westminster. Fresh from my Cyfarthfa Gramma' School H'education I was easy prey for the Chief Rod and Black Whips!" confessed Mander. "Don't you mean the Black Rod and Chief Whips?" enquired the Cherub. He meant what he said," roared Jones in a demonic voice. "After that, I was introduced to Mandy and his Millennium Dome and my life has been a sordid existence of Kinky Sex, Drink and Niagara since," continued Mander. "You mean Viagra," queried the Imp.

"Niagara ... mine falls after the stuff. I've gone from being a chapel-going unionist son of a miner to a Red in the Bed Trouser Pocket Socialist with a libido to match my IQ." "See, you haven't changed that much then," suggested Crawshay. "Look at me. I changed when I came to Wales. I had more than my share of chambermaids, serving wenches, even the odd Pandy pit pony when I was desperate. But I was saved from eternal damnation and came back as a higher life form. There's hope for anyone."

"I've often wished to come back in a higher life form," mused Gerry.

From the quarry top came the sound of a hunting horn and hooves.

"I say old boy ... you in the polka dot shorts ... who are you talking to down there?" The Head of the Taf-Fechan Hunt peered down from his steed.

"Yoiks it's Gerry! I nearly didn't recognise you without your apron and lederhosen. Remember me? Paul from the Lodge on Tuesday nights!"

"Oh thank God ... it's a brother. Pull me up old chap, I've changed my mind .., er I'll never sleep walk again." said Gerry turning round, uncovering his face. "No can do old chap ... remember the Anti Hunting Bill you proposed ... well how can I put it ... as far as the Hunt is concerned you're well and truly foxed ... Tally Ho ... Soho.. hohoho!!!" "I'll table an amendment to exclude Vaynor!" But Gerry's voice disappeared into the lifting mist.

Soho he thought, that place had contributed to his downfall and THAT local land deal.

"What local land deal?" asked Crawshay, reading his thoughts. "Don't you read the Express?" asked Jones.

"Who does?" replied Crawshay.

"Well it was your land they sold. Ask him about him being slagged off for his measly £1.00 tip?" stirred the homed one moving his pitchfork in a circle and then into Gerry's back. Gerry winced, not with pain but with embarrassment.

"Look at him complaining about back stabbing ... that would've cost you £30.00 at your usual Club!" sneered the Devil.

Looking down Gerry could see the Firemen and Police racing past the burning Granada towards the quarry along the Cart track adjoining Gumos Farm. Screeching to a halt, out jumped an overweight Policeman who, having run some ten yards, arrived exhausted.

"Don't jump Minister. The BBC Wales cameras haven't arrived yet!!!"

"Stand back!" shouted Farmer Oates, powering his way to the front of the crowd, waving his camcorder. "If anybody's getting a tape to Mandy Dingle for the £500 it's me."

"Is there one or two "Rs" in Gerry?" shouted up the Express Reporter who was acting on (and with) a hunch. "Only we want to get the obituary column to read proper."

Gerry was oblivious to the remark. Gazing down with unseeing eyes he failed to notice the Elvis imper­sonator collecting for Children in Need from the gathering crowd. Nor did he see the local Fire Brigade repairing their safety nets with sticky tape. His mind drifted back to the back benches of Westminster and the Maastricht debating that had taken up so much time.

The static and the raucous tones of the 'Mouth of Merthyr' filling the quarry brought him back to reali­ty. "Live on Valley's Radio we will hold a Jack Straw Poll to determine Mr Mander's successor. But first, we have a special DEADication from your loyal Local Labour Party ... Van Halen's'JUMP'." The sound of heavy metal music wailed into the morning sky, gently replacing the whiff of Trecatti No 9

Gerry could hardly believe his ears and eyes. Word gets around so quickly in Merthyr, he mused as he gazed at the three ice-cream and potato vans illegally parked on the Sanatorium Hill. His eyes began to fill with moisture as his life flashed before his eyes. If I die this way I'll become a Martyr he thought. Raising his right foot, he felt like Dic Penderyn ready to face his accusers. Loyalty, Trust and Party Politics meant nothing, he sighed.

Suddenly, the voice of his faithful under-secretary John Thomas boomed into the quarry from above. "Grab this R A Bush roller pole ... I'll pull you up. You may be out of the Cabinet, the closet and politics but you can always lead the Welch Assembly" cried his aide. "The Welch Assembly! You voted for that shower" cried Crawshay. "You've buggered Wales worse than I ever did. Listen to the Imp and jump NOW!!!"

Grasping the greasy pole, Mander climbed to the top, smiling as only the hopeful driver of a future gravy train does.

As he reached the rim of the quarry, he mentally saluted his rescuer. But Gerry's glee was short lived. He hadn't seen the magnificent shot played from the 13th tee of the nearby golf course. As the golfball struck the back of his head, he teetered on the brink for a second before plunging to his death on the quarry floor.

A moment's silence was replaced by a rapturous, spontaneous applause from the gathered throng below.

John Thomas tried to work out the sudden increase in volume until he realised that Gerry had landed on the Express Reporter.

As the Council Leader replaced his nine iron he knew he played a masterstroke.

"Book me a season ticket for Cardiff Bay" he said to his Director of Golf and Fairway Services.

Unnoticed by the pair, two flies left the quarry floor heading in the direction of the Vatican. Gerry had got his wish!!!

He had translated to a higher life form.!