Newly expectant Father Declan Anthony Pod paced nervously in the corridor of the Maternity Wing of Llanelli Hospital.

The Year was 1972 and like every Rugby Union Fan in Wales, he secretly wanted a son to follow in his on-field footsteps and play rugby first for the Scarlets and then for Wales.

The timing of his Wife’s labour couldn’t be any worse, as on this very day, Llanelli were playing host to the International Touring Team New Zealand.

The Grand Stand ticket in his shirt pocket was burning a hole in his heart, as he was caught in the horns of a dilemma.

Did he sneak off to the big match? Or wait in this draughty corridor for the 24 or so hours the Doctor said it could take for his first-born child to enter the World?.

It had been a cruel twist of fate that had led to this situation, as his Wife’s due date had been the following Monday but her water’s had broken that afternoon and all the women of his backward West Walian village of Llareggur (that had inspired Dylan Thomas’ Under Milk Wood) had warned him that the child would be born on the real Sabbath Day.

Times were so different in the early 1970’s for men and the maternity process.

There were no ultrasonic pictures, no amniocentesis or health testing.

No-one except for God knew back then the sex of the baby.

Going in to the delivery room was unheard of and taboo to the local midwives, who considered that ‘real’ men fainting was just another hindrance to their work.

Dec had prayed in his local chapel for a little boy to carry on his Surname, which was dying out in West Wales.

Other than him, the only other Pod was spotted in Carmarthen Bay- so he felt a sense of ‘porpoise’ about the whole issue.

His wife, Blodwen was considered old, as she having their first son at the age of 40, which back then was pretty unheard of.

The idle tongues of the village doorsteps rang with rumours that the Dec was not the true Father of the child, but that the local milkman used to deliver more than milk to that Cuckold ‘Blod Pod’ around the front, with the Coal man using the back entrance too.

Although in Llareggur, the whispers had be kept quiet, as it was still legal in West Wales to use the ‘Scold’s Bridle’ to stop women from gossiping maliciously.

It was hard too for women back then, as there was precious little to do- they only had the Water Mill, the Flour Mill and the Rumour Mill to entertain them.

True, there was sewing, crocheting and of course, the Chapel twice on Sunday, but there was little else for women of the village to do- so they either became a scrubber or cleaned their front step.

Whilst having a dalliance with a gentlemen friend was bad, having a dirty threshold was worse still and considered a sin in the eyes of God.

Was it was pure coincidence that all the other desperate Housewives and Rugby Widows of the village, at 10.00am every morning (save as to Sunday of course)?.

Back in 1972, there were no mobiles, no facebook or twitter, the only way to communicate was over the garden wall whilst hanging out the washing.

Dec the Collier, continued to pace the corridor nervously, waiting for news of his child and Mother which was relayed gruffly by the Matronly Mid-wives, who seemed to hold the man responsible for getting their patients into this predicament.

This whole process reminded him of disasters at the local collieries, waiting for news of which of his Brothers-of the Dust had been taken down to the other Pit.

He knew he was obligated to ring his Father-in-Law on the payphone in the Llareggur Inn Bar to update him as to events.

They in turn would ring the Sub-Post Office in Llareggur with the news, as they were the only one in the village who had a phone and then the ‘jungle drums’ would beat and news of the labour flashed like a ‘wildfire’ from doorstep to doorstep for the women.

If he had heard the word ‘dilation’ once that day, he had heard it a hundred times.

It didn’t help his cause to continually hear how many pints of ‘Felinfoel’ Ale that he had consumed in anticipation of the big match.

He was feeling foul enough already.

Worse still was the drunken singing in the background which reminded him of a scene from John Wayne’s ‘The Quiet Man’.

“ Any news yet?” slurred his Father-in-Law in the request for the hourly update.

“ Ten minutes to go in the Second Half…he said looking at his waistcoat pocket watch …are we still up 9-3?” asked Declan getting his priorities right.

His Father-in-Law nodded which wasn’t much help when he was on the telephone.

He hadn’t got the hang of these new-fangled devices yet in Llanelli.

“ Any news your end?”

“ No… but there are two nurses in there now and both are busy with cold water and flannels!” said Dec.

Suddenly, Dec heard his name being called by the more masculine of the two midwives called Miranda.

“ You can come in now!” she ordered.

Dec said “ Got to go now….something is up or more likely down…I will ring you back shortly!” as he slammed down the receiver in haste and headed for the delivery room.

As he entered the room, he could see that his Wife was holding a little bundle of joy in her arms, all wrapped in swaddling white clothes and from the look of her demeanour, she had been through a real ordeal.

The Midwives had cleaned up all the blood and shit from the bed, so that the physical evidence of the struggle in bringing his child into the World had been hidden.

The only sign was etched on the ashen face of Mrs Blod Pod, which was masked by a smile, as she cuddled the reason for the pain that felt like pushing a coconut out of a hole the size of a walnut.

“ Declan… this is your Son… .meet Trey….!” She said proudly, smiling up first at her husband and then down at the babe in arms.

“ Trey….I wanted to call him Barry John!” said Declan.

The look from the faces of the midwives meant he was outvoted.

It was only fair after all that effort that his wife get to name him.

Even if that name reminded him of the man from the Dairy- Trevor who always seemed to call when he was in work or in the pub.

All he could think of with the shadowy figure was ‘Milk Trey’ but he didn’t want to ruin his Wife’s moment of glory- especially as he wanted to go to the match.

“ That’s for your tea!” she said nodding at the afterbirth.

He ignored the remark- even if he was starving.

“ All your Father wants to know is has he got ten little fingers and ten little toes?....as the entire pub keep singing that song!” said Declan.

“ Well, actually that’s something I wanted to talk to you about !” said Blod.

She peeled back the covers to show that the baby was in fact Male.

“ Look at the size of that thing….he takes after his Father and is definitely my child now!” boasted Declan staring down at the baby.

Hang on he thought….there are more than ten little fingers and ten little toes.

In fact there were 25 digits in total.

“That’s not normal is it?” asked Dec of the midwives- as he had only ever lived in Carmarthenshire.

“ That’s why I decided to call him Trey!” said Blod.

“ Not Jake?” stuttered the shocked Dec thinking subliminally of the Rolf Harris song.

“ No!” spat back Blod.

“ Nor Peter the Metre either because he has three feet!” continued the Wife.

“ How the Hell could this happen?” asked Dec.

“ Is God punishing me for all Triple Crown beer I have consumed on a Sabbath?” asked Dec.

“ No….Dr Ganesha has been sent for and he will explain the situation to you!” said Miranda sounding like she had bollocks.

“Rejoice Dec A Pod…. you have a healthy son …who in time will be able to run faster than

Roger Bannister!” said Miranda falling over the bedpan.

Declan was ushered into a side room so as not to disturb the bonding session between Mother and new baby.

Dr Ganesha sat him down and delivered the news. “Your son has been born with an extra leg and my assessment of how this has happened is that he must originally have been one of a conjoined twin but that the other twin did not form properly when the egg subpided but was fed by the umbilical cord and attached itself to the correctly formed twin!” said the Medic.

“Please be assured that such birth deformities, where I come from make your child special and an object of worship!”

“ But you come from Carmarthen!” said Dec still open-mouthed at the surprise.

“ In my culture, this event is a blessing and will prove to be lucky- as during his lifetime, he will be adored by thousands!” said the Doctor as if he was experiencing a premonition .

“ So he WILL get to play for the Scarlets!” said Declan taking in a huge sigh of relief.

“ I don’t know much about rugby…I am more of a cricket fan but he would make a marvellous wicket!” said Dr Ganesha smirking.

The comment was lost on Declan, who was puzzling about the effect the birth would have on HIS life.

“ But hang on….I have a more immediate problem… where am I going to nappies to fit

Dec had an even bigger problem, as he suddenly realised he had missed the closing minutes of the big game .

He rushed back into Maternity, kissed his wife on her sweaty forehead and the baby and shouted out before she had time to reply.

“ I’m off to the pub to catch the match and to wet the baby’s head!”

The look of disgust on the Midwives’ faces mirrored that of his Spouse but Declan felt that he had been through an ordeal too and needed a pint to restore the balance in his World.

Never the quickest on the uptake, Declan puzzled to himself, as he headed for the local pub with news of the new arrival.

“ What did that Doctor mean by a ‘marvellous wicket’?”

As he reached the Llareggur Arms, in complete contrast to the new arrival everyone was legless.

The Llanelli Scarlets had beaten the All Blacks touring team 9-3 and everyone was elated.

Only Dylan, the Pub owner behind the bar was sober.

“ Pint of beer please Dylan!... I have good cause to celebrate!” said the new Father proudly.

“ Sorry there’s no beer left!” replied Dylan.

“ What do you mean there’s no beer left?” asked Declan.

“ Don’t you know Llanelli beat the All Blacks 9-3!” said Dylan even more proudly.

“ Yes….but you must have some beer…..what about your cellar?” asked Declan hopefully.

“ I have run out….no pubs in Llanelli have any left….don’t you think I have rung around?” said Dylan

“ So what have you got to celebrate my new special baby….born to run on the wing for the Scarlets…not just two legs like everyone else….my son has THREE LEGS….he will be a LEGEND!” said Declan.

“ I have only one bottle of Babycham left, two packets of Leek and Onion crisps and some pork scratchings… nothing else!” declared Dylan.

“ Till is loaded mind you…mostly with IOU notes from your Father-in-Law, that he said you would settle up when you arrived!” continued Dylan.

“ Cheeky Monkey!” he said in a strong West Walian accent last used in Hinterland.

“ Well what did you expect?... this is Carmarthenshire after all !” said Dylan.

Handing over most of his weekly pay packet, Declan sipped on his Babycham, trying to look as manly as a Collier above ground could.

After all years of those of firing blanks, he had finally found one good swimmer in his family.

“ Where is he then? Asked Dylan enquiring after his Father-in-Law.

“ Ty Bach!” replied Dylan.

“ Give me those notes from the till , he might need some paper!” ordered Declan.

“ Nice Try!” said Dylan.

“ Yes….slurred one of the pub regulars…the kick was charged down by Bergiers in midfield and he ped over for the first score!” said a regular who had that afternoon changed his name to Phil Bennett.

Declan just looked at him in horror, as he had just like in the classic Likely Lads episode, ‘Benny’ had just ruined the repeat on BBC Sport for him.

He made his way through a tangle of bodies lying on the floor, that was like a scene from Georgie Best’ bedroom that Morning.

He found his Father-in-Law where all men should be, at the top of the beer garden trousers around his ankles in the outdoor toilet giving birth to offspring of his own.

Declan knocked on the rotten wooden door.

“ Bugger Off…it’s taken!” shouted back the distinctive voice of his Father-in-Law.

He knew it was him anyway by the odour and the green fumes seeping under the door.

“ Dewi….you have a new Grandson called Trey!” announced Declan proudly.

“ Are you shitting me?” came the reply.

Dewi didn’t wait to wipe, but pulled up his trousers and pants and opened the door.

He hugged his son-in-law wildly.

“This calls for a celebration!” said Dewi…” Your round!” he continued.

“ There is no beer left… you lot drank it all!” said Declan

“ All well then home time!”

As the pair walked through the village, news of the three-legged baby had already filtered through to the women of Llareggur, who didn’t raise their heads up from their doorsteps in shame, as the pair walked past.

There was no internet or social media at the time but never underestimate the power of West Walian womens’ tongues.

Forward a decade for Declan and young Trey was now ten years old.

His birth defect was largely now ignored by the village children having grown up with his deformity.

1982 ushered in a war with Argentina over the Falkland Islands, which caused a degree of concern for the village as some had relatives in the biggest Welsh-speaking community in the World, including Wales, in Patagonia.

Declan was too young to go but many of the village men had joined up, as there was little work in these parts following the closure of the local creamery due to competition from the European Union.

Declan’s colliery had been put on notice it would be on the rumoured McGregor and Thatcher Pit Closure List- as it was an uneconomic pit.

Trey however, was insulated from the rigours of the adult World, he was just your average ten year old boy with three legs.

It was however, time for the end of ‘tag’ rugby that had been invented by a Merthyr Man with an electronic tag.

It was time for contact rugby- or as Declan put it Man’s rugby.

Sizing up his son, who was smaller than average for his age, he spoke with the coach for the Scarlets youth team who suggested that he would be better placed in the pack with his special ability.

What Declan hadn’t realised was that his three-legged son was a perfect natural hooker.

Two legs to steady himself in the scrum and his middle one to hook back the ball into the pack.

Trey was an instant hit.

“Trey-mendous!” in the words of his coach.

‘Cloggau Gold’ due to its lucky strike abilities.

The Scarlets had never won so many balls against the head and having the lions’ share of possession meant they went on an unbeaten run for three entire seasons between 1982- 1985 which had not been seen in Wales for many a year.

They didn’t even need to nobble the referees for a change.

Trey was also handy in the line- out, being semi-skimmed and light with his extra leg, he could be lifted into the air just like the milking stool he had been conceived upon.

But Trey didn’t only excel at Junior Rugby, he was brilliant at athletics and his ‘Triple Jump’ broke all County records before him, with his landing in the sandpit easily identifiable.

And just like his real biological Father, he was also talented in other ‘fields’.

His speciality was spotted in Junior school and put to good use in drama and dance.

On many occasions, he had his frizzy dyed green and with brown drainpipe trousers, as he was perfect for the background as a copse of trees.

But Trey’s three limbs would not tree limbs for long, as he was destined for greater things.

Out of mighty acorns Oakwood Parks are born.

No sooner than his teacher Miss Fame had realised he could dance too, then he was invited to do the chorus line, and later the Monty Python Ministry of Silly Walks which was followed with great hilarity and eventually a handwritten invitation to join a dance troupe at the forthcoming Eisteddfod.It was then that the Cloggau Gold dance ensemble of ‘Legs & Co’ were formed and named in Trey’s honour.

It was a marvellous site for a proud Blodwen Pod, as her son danced in a production of the ‘Riverdance’ in wooden clogs of all things.

But despite his dancing and sporting accomplishments, life was not all a bed of roses for Trey.

With every growth spurt, he was costing his Mother a fortune in having to buy new shoes and as money was tight in Llareggur- in keeping with the people of Carmarthenshire- his Mother had taken to shopping in Swansea- buying a pair from Clarkes but then pinching the third right, right shoe from the white rack outside the front of the shop.

But it was much harder to swipe rugby boots and therefore Blod was delighted to have come across a single ‘golden’ Gilbert boot sticking out of a landfill tip like it was Excalibur waiting for King Arthur to come along.

It was way too big but Trey would grow into it.

Luckily for her, CCT cameras were not invented in 1985- and not used in Llanelli with the arrival of electricity until 2017.

Trey’s shoe demands were not always down to his adolescent growth.

He was also busy wearing the soles out on his bicycle.

Most children of his peer group in the early Eighties had Raleigh bikes with bold Red Indian names like Chipper and Tomahawk that had stopped selling in the rest of Britain in the 1970’s.

Regrettably due to his extra leg, Trey was unable to ride a convention bike and was forced to stick to the Penny Farthing bicycle his Father had used in the 1960’s to get to work to the Pit on.

He was now using his third leg and shoes as a braking system, much to the annoyance of his parents.

It was from this regular occurrence that an event in 1985 was to change the course of little Trey’s life.

Chasing after the pack of cyclists, as he was unable to keep up on his Penny Farthing and despite being warned by his parents to keep away from it, he foolishly decided to freewheel down ‘Dangerous Hill’ near Tumble.

He found out why the village was so called, as he accelerated downhill to speeds in excess of 60mph with only his middle leg to stop his contraption.

He may have been alright, if he hadn’t collided with that Council Workman cutting the hedgerows.

The Insurance Company refused to pay out too, as they didn’t believe the claim, as they hadn’t heard the words ‘Workman’ and ‘Council’ in the same sentence before.

Trey in the accident lost his leg and despite still having two left, he was unable to regain his balance.

It didn’t help that Declan had whilst his son was still in his hospital bed, told his son to ‘grow a pair’ and that he would now have to ‘stand on his two feet‘.

In West Wales, they were very unforgiving of people who had not suffered their own work experiences.

As Declan had been forced down the Big ‘Cloggau Pit’ since he was Fourteen to feed his Family, he had becomes harder than the seam he cut coal from.

At 13 years of age, Trey’s rugby career was over, as he joined the world of biped after the bicycle crash.

The hokey-cokey would never feel the same to him again.

But the Scarlets Junior Section did him proud.

They set aside a glass cabinet on the portakabin wall for Trey’s amputated leg with a sign which read simply:-

‘Cloggau Gold’- in memory of the ending of the Minor’s Strike 1985’.

As predicted by Dr Garnesha all those years ago, Trey had become a living Leg-End.

“Good night and good luck!” said the Curator Derek Dunny as he locked the huge wooden front door of the Cyfarthfa Castle Museum.

The only Grade 1 Listed Structure in the whole of the Merthyr Tydfil Borough was imposing looking at the best of times, but on a dark wet Winter’s evening it was downright scary. Safer Merthyr employee Dicky Knight looked around nervously. It was his first night as a security guard and he didn’t feel very safe.

“Everything looks so much more scary in the dark!” he said to his shadow, who was his only companion for the night. Merthyr Council too had to comply with Central Government Budget cuts and were warned that they had to make savings, which is why they employed a youngster on the National Minimum wage to guard their museum, lit at night by solar powered lights.

This wouldn’t have been a problem anywhere else, but as most Merthyr people will confirm, we don’t get sunlight for six months of the year. Knight looked around him dimly, the old stuffed animal heads on the walls seemed to glower at him menacingly and the suits of armour looked ready to follow him as soon as he turned his back. His first ever night shift was going to be a long one. He sat down at the counter on a chair, with just a Pound shop flash light with a Polish battery in it for comfort. His senses were on high alert for every sound or movement as his imagination ran riot. The swirling high wind and driving rain outside didn’t help matters either .He had a mobile phone but he only had 20p of credit left on it – just enough to text HELP to his girlfriend – if he needed to.

In the half-light he carefully unwrapped his silver foil package peering in to see what sandwiches his mother had packed for him -hoping in anticipation for salmon. All he had was cheese- with bread so hard it could have been from Swansea Road. Bored silly after just ten minutes, he began to throw peanuts into the air and catch them in his mouth. He began to throw them higher and higher until one lodged in his left nasal chamber and he nearly choked to death. He sighed to himself as he checked his watch with the flash light 6.40pm....ten minutes gone only another 11 hours and 20 minutes to go. He knew he had to do something so he decided to pluck up enough courage to patrol the place.

After checking the entrance door was locked firmly, he made his way into the art gallery section filled with furniture not good enough for St Fagan’s Museum of Welsh Life. As he walked in, all the portraits on the walls seemed to looking at him. In his mind’s eye, Dicky could see the eyes moving behind the oak panel wall partitions and Frans Hals ‘Cavalier’ seemed to be laughing at him.

“I don’t know what you are laughing about....because the Roundheads kicked your arse pal!” he said aloud to the oil painting.

Dicky almost expected him to answer but no reply came. Dicky had heard wives’ tales for years of the Castle being haunted ...but apart from his teachers at the school, he never saw any monsters. Passing along the Crawshay dynasty, he refrained from spitting in the face of the Ironmasters who had abused the Town and its poor people. He looked around him at Lady Charlotte Guest, translating the Mabinogion into English and realised he was in a place of priceless historical importance to the people of Merthyr. Even so, he didn’t care...he just lit up his little roll-up fag and blew out a smoke ring onto the face of Richard Trevithick.

“Narrow Gauge ...he puffed closing his mouth... Broad Gauge!” he said opening the aperture.

As he grew more confident in his explorations, his stomach started to roll so he decided he would have a sniff around the cafeteria area known as ‘Crawshay’s Truck Shop’ and see if there were any freebies on offer. As he entered the dark underground area , he was disappointed to see that everything was shuttered down and locked up for the night. There was however, a single vending unit sponsored by Diet Coke, containing various chocolate bars , crisps and full sugar cans of coke to encourage healthy eating in the Borough. Dicky didn’t have any coins anyway , but he certainly wasn’t prepared to spend £1.00 for a Mars Bar in any event. He bent down, opened the metal flap and tried lifting his remaining hand up to flick the goods off their metal shelves. The machine was designed to stop this sort of petty pilfering. Bored further he decided to use the toilet. Sitting in peace he relaxed as he sent two beautiful ‘corn dogs’ down the River Taff. Dicky’s peace was shattered, when he looked across and realised that the Council cutbacks included toilet paper too. No velvet...like the brand his Mam and Dad had ‘pampered’ him with at home.

“Shit!” he cursed aloud . He suddenly had a thought. “What about those velvet drapes in the portrait room?” Walking with his trousers around his ankles, he shuffled along like a penguin until he reached the room with the soft curtains. careful to use the inside of the green and brown velvet, he noticed that they were beginning to stick to the wall near the window reveal.

“Shit happens!” he said as he raised his trousers and adjusted his clothing.

And then it hit him. Looking through the doorway, directly at him was a small Egyptian Death Mask of King Tutankhamen, in a small glass display case. It wasn’t the pharaoh that caught his eye but the rod of Osiris next to him. It was perfect to knock off a mars bar from the machine. He made his way to the cabinet and was dejected initially to find it locked.

“Now where would a Merthyr curator hide the key?” he said aloud.

Spying a plant pot, alongside the entrance door he went and checked and bingo there it was.

“Safer Merthyr....that’s training for you!” he said as he flicked the key high in the air, being careful not to throw it high enough to lodge in his nose. As he opened the cabinet, he grabbed the rod of Osiris and made his way back to the cafeteria. He returned minutes later with armfuls of chocolate, three bags of crisps and a can of coke, smiling inanely as he carried the magic rod in his teeth. Putting down his ill-gotten gains, he returned the rod to its place in the cabinet. As he did so, he noticed a cutting about the curse of King Tut and the mysterious death of museum benefactor Lord Caernarvon.

“I‘m not Brendan Fraser ...he said “ the only mummy I’m afraid of is my own!”

He placed the death mask on his face for a second and a few bits of wrist jewellery as a costume and ‘Walked like an Egyptian’ with the ‘bangles’ on. He then foolishly picked up the book entitled ‘Necropolis’ and began to decipher the hierographics. As his dad was a former postman , he had no difficulty in reading the writing out loud. As he finished the last sentence, he heard a dog howl in the distance. Like his father, he too had an innate fear of dogs and that sound was not unlike the sound Lord Caernarvon had heard seconds before his dog dropped dead at the exact time, when Howard Carter opened that tomb, in the Valley of the Kings in Egypt.

“Anubis...the Jackal Headed God!” said Dicky....”Guardian of the underworld!” he said reading the papyrus parchment scroll aloud, which crumbled to dust as he spoke.

“Where are those drapes again?”

As he made his way to the window overlooking the rear of the castle, two likely lads were digging in the woods behind the castle, looking for the money that a local drug dealer had allegedly buried there.The Gurnos pair of Mac Head and his brother ‘H’ were digging away, trying to find the buried loot. Sudden movement in the window above was noticed by the pair. The movement was the bare arse of Dicky , reflecting the moonlight , as he used the velvet curtains for a purpose not originally intended. Mac picked up a stone and launched it expertly at the aperture. It sailed through the gap in the sash window and landed on the table containing a priceless vase from the Ming Dynasty. It teetered on the table edge tantalisingly for a second, as Dicky lunged like Edwin Van Der Saar full stretch to catch it, in doing so knocking over a Bronze age cup –the only one left in existence- found by Tony Robinson and the Time Team in Swansea Road- as proof that civilised man HAD once lived in Gellideg.

The vase fell all the same and shattered into a thousand pieces.“ I want my mummy!” said Dicky sucking his thumb for a split second , until he realised it wasn’t just the drapes that were humming. When Dicky opened his eyes he was hoping it was all just a ‘nightmare’. But he could see the two teenage drug dealers making their way home with their ill gotten gains on the back of a black horse. More disconcerting to Dicky was that he could see a small bulldog looking at him slobbering away, with ectoplasm dripping from his mouth.

“What the Hell are you....Anubis?” stuttered Dicky.

Beyond the dog in the entrance hall Dicky could hear strange guttural noises – oh...um...chukka...oh um chukka....

Dicky backed away from the dog eventually circling the wall and running towards the strange sound. Dicky stopped ‘dead’ in his tracks, as he witnessed a strange bearded man step down off the canvas of Rolf Harris. He was all in white, like an outline of a person and was almost transparent.

“What are you...?” stuttered Dicky... as the trickle down the back of his leg began to fill his white socks too.

“Can’t you tell what it is yet?” asked the spectre .

Dicky stood white as a sheet (bar for his socks) shaking his head in terror.“ Are you a Rolftergeist?” he eventually stammered.

“I won’t harm you....different to him...he said nodding at the dog....he could put you in ‘Animal Hospital’ if I was to say the word!”

“What word?” asked Dicky.“

Churchill.....he’s my spirit guide...helping the recently bereaved to find their way in the afterlife....a ‘loss adjuster’ if you like ....oh and by the way .... that vase ....it wasn’t me....for insurance purposes....he nodded at the dog....I don’t want to lose my no claims bone-us....it was them out there....those ‘Two little boys’ on their ‘wooded horses’. said the ghost.

“Do you think I should go after them?” asked Dicky pretending he was brave.

“So let me AsBO’s go...son.....!” sung Rolf...singing to the tune of Tie me Kangaroo down sport .

“That’s the trouble in Merthyr ...said Dicky....I haven’t made the place any safer...I had my car wheel trims pinched from this very castle forecourt...and the GTI sport ones cost a fortune....thank God my father gets money in the mail regularly...!” said Dicky growing more confident.

“I know what you mean cobber....lot of ‘poor little blighters’ in the town...they’ll steal anything in Merthyr from scrap metal signs to shitty drapes ( Dicky blushed red at this point)...I even had to tie my kangaroo down sport to stop it being taken from the Park!!! So what are you doing here so late at night Sport?” asked the phantom.

“Having a little ‘Walkabout’ like you really!” said Dicky. “How come you live in that painting?” he asked not so scared now- safe in the knowledge that the dead wouldn’t hurt him.

“Every artist leaves a little bit of their soul behind in their work...you as a fellow arsetist chose to leave your impression on a different material- the drapes...for example!” said Rolf.

“But one thing I don’t understand....I know your career is dead...but I didn’t know you had gone to ‘Dreamstate’!” said Dicky.

“Neither did I until about ten minutes ago!”.......I was stood before the Queen ...she had previously given me the CBE & MBE honours....before she saw my 80th birthday painting of her....she said I was to be made Sir Rolf....for my services to animals and art and anoraks sales ...but then the flunky, told her that David Cameron had rung first, then Nick Clegg second and they had told her that the Royal Family were not immune to the public sector cuts.....then she went all ‘Helen Mirren’ on me.... and the next minute I’m ‘condem’ned to talking like Anne Boleyn.... !” said Rolf putting his head underneath his arm.“ Now I’m looking for a Stairway to Heaven!”

“Stairway to Cefn...I can help you with ...but not that one...you best follow Churchill.....!” said Dicky.

No sooner had Rolf uttered the ‘immortal’ line then the sun came up behind the shitty drapes. “Sun Arise!” wailed Rolf as he headed for the light. As he did so, the front door was opened by the returning curator.

“Enjoy your work experience?” he asked hopefully.

“I quit mate....once a Queen always a Queen...but once a Knight’s enough ....like Rolf Harris head....I’m off!” said Dicky tucking in his chocolate bars.

The curator looked at him somewhat bemused and shut the door behind him.

“C’mon Mun….it will be an internet sensation!” said 16- year old Brecon Farmer Kane Boddy.

His older brother Abel wasn’t so sure.

He preferred to trust his own judgement rather than his brothers.

The pair sat astride their skidoos on the peak of Pen Y Fan, the highest mountain in the Brecon Beacons National Park.

Kane had his mobile phone out ready to film the stunt- if only he could persuade his brother to do it.

“It’s only 886 metres Mun…straight down from the ‘Col’ to Cribyn…it will be Hell of a ride!” said Kane trying to cajole his Brother.

As most people know, when you have a pair of identical twins – one is born usually good and the other evil.

Or as in this case Evel.

The brothers had been out helping feed their Father’s sheep, on the side of the mountains in the worse snowfall in Wales since 1958.

After a week of blizzards, which had swept in from across the Atlantic and down from the Arctic Circle- the highest points of the Welsh Valleys had been covered in nearly six feet or snow and in some places the drifts were as high as ten feet.

Cars were completely buried, with snow ploughs having to be employed for the first time for a number of years.

Once again, the Local Authorities at Powys & Merthyr were caught napping - although in their defence it WAS Early May.

The sight of the Brecon Beacons covered in a white blanket, was the money shot that sold postcards in the nearby Towns of Brecon and Merthyr- but to trainee hill farmers it was a nightmare, as they had to get feed to inaccessible places, so that their sheep would not starve.

Their flock were more like family members than livestock, Kane & Abel saw them more like pets than commodities- each one having a distinctive name and cry.

The brothers having spent all their young lives around the sheep had become very attached to them- in more ways than one.

To be a sheep farmer in the valleys you have to be resilient, strong and resourceful.

Neither Kane nor Abel possessed such wisdom or acumen and their father feared for the future of his farm, as the boys could best be described in farming terminology as a little ‘twp’.

Who else would ride their heavy skidoos so close to the edge of the mountain ridge when the snow had been drifting.

Unbeknown to Abel, whilst he had decided to take the moral high ground from his Brother, he was in fact parked above him on three foot of frozen ice and soft snow which hung perilously over into the Col of the second highest mountain in Wales.

Perhaps, if he had taken the advice of Heavy Rock band Steppenwolf and kept the motor running, he might had stood a chance, but suddenly the floor collapsed below him, the combined weight of one man and his skidoo and of course gravity, sent him flying through the air, like the cartoon character Wily Coyote on a floating rock above a canyon drop.

Abel’s face went a whiter shade of pale and his underpants merged with the skidoo.

Kane suddenly realised what was happening and a look of horror shot across his face, as his chemical sheep- dip damaged brain processed the fact that his brother was in serious trouble- but even so like all youngsters who do not see danger, he kept filming the episode on his camera-phone- then his thoughts turned to his own safety, as the white snow drift he was perched on started to collapse over the edge too.

Luckily for him, he made it back to firmer ground- but only by a matter of inches and he suddenly realised that he needed to send his leather biker trousers to the dry cleaners.

In what seemed like slow motion- his Brother still sat astride his skidoo, disappeared out of sight in a snow cloud and white spray.

Kane was frantic- his Father would kill him-if he found out about his dare.

It was almost like it had been written down somewhere that he would kill his brother.

What did he do?

Go for help or join in his brother’s fate by leaping over the side after him?

As much as Kane loved his Brother- he wasn’t as brave as he thought he was, and staring into the Abergavenny facing abyss- his courage had deserted him.

He decided that discretion was the better part of valour and set off down the Storey Arms side of the Mountain, towards the A470 and civilisation, in the hope that someone could get hold of the Brecon Beacons Mountain Rescue Team and an air ambulance.

Falling through the air at nearly 100MPH, Abel’s short sixteen year old life flashed before his eyes.

He always wanted to get a ton-up on his vehicle but not like this.

Everything around seemed to slow down and blur- with a second feeling like an hour, as he and his skidoo plummeted off the top of Pen Y Fan , partially obscured by a white snow cloud.

Was it his brain preparing him for impact?

Or was there really a God?

Abel ‘s mind raced almost as fast as the skidoo, as he tried to think of a survival technique.

What if he was to time it just right and push his legs up off the skidoo, a split second before impact?…just like the Roadrunner in the Warner Brothers cartoon managed to do?

Abel felt like he was riding a white comet bound for Earth as he pushed with all his might and tried to jump sideways.

He wished he had paid less attention to cartoons as a kid and listened more in his school physics lessons about the effect of centrifugal force, as he was unable to move.

Skidoo and Youth just made a massive seven foot impact crater which was soon covered by falling snow from above.

Abel was knocked unconscious by his own knees and when he awoke in serious pain, he realised he was now in the yoga position of dwi pada sirsasana or ‘the silent frog.

Both his legs had become lodged behind his shoulders and he looked like a lady-boy contortionist on it’s Honeymoon.

He was trapped in a snow prison of his own making, surrounded by soft snow that very quickly would turn to ice.

Whilst Abel was in constant pain and aware that he had broken several bones in the fall, he was surprised to find that like his pet Jack Russell terrier at home, he was now capable of licking his own balls.

He was still Abel Boddy but no longer able bodied.

He looked around him at the air pocket that had luckily formed around him and his bike and tried to think rationally.

What would Bear Grylls do in this situation?

After he had finished panicking- he decided that he must try and reach the roof of the ice ‘cave’ to drill a hole for oxygen to pass in.

He estimated he had a maximum of twenty minutes before the snow solidified into ice and around ten more before the oxygen ran out and he would be found dead by the rescue services.

He needed something to punch a hole in the ceiling with but it was difficult, as he had been concertina'd and looked like a tin can crushed on a road by the weight of a passing car.

The only thing he had in his pocket was a silent whistle that he used to call up the sheep with.

A high pitched frequency only audible by animals- given to him by an award winner Sheepdog Trainer at the Royal Welsh Show- who had warned him to use it sparingly.

He reached it and blew it as hard as his punctured lungs would allow.

Kane skidded to a halt outside the ‘Gnat Free Lodge’ and rushed in to use the telephone.

He was picked up by his lapels and booted out.

His ‘sort’ wasn’t welcome at this five star establishment.

His protestations were ignored by the bar staff.

It was an absolute rule- no person was allowed in the building in the afternoon without a cravat.

No one in working clothes or especially Wellington boots were allowed in EVER.

Kane was beside himself with worry – until he remembered that there was a special call box near the Storey Arms for the Rescue Team.

He kick-started his skidoo and made his way back up the A470 towards Brecon.

His young brain was puzzled by one odd event.

Why were there so many dogs heading in the same direction?

Abel sat hunched on own partially collapsed ribcage.

He was trying to make peace with God- in the belief he was going to die.

He knew that if he slipped back into unconsciousness he would not survive his ordeal.

He tried to think positively despite the fact he had a bird’s eye view of his own bollocks.

He tried desperately to relive the games of snooker in his mind, that he had played out with his brother in an effort to stay conscious and not slip off into eternity.

Suddenly, he thought he heard a sound from above him.

Was it his imagination running riot caused by the lack of oxygen?

He HAD been talking to his own nuts for the last thirty seconds after all.

The scraping sound came again.

It got louder and louder until finally a small hole appeared above him in his ice prison.

A tiny amount of oxygen filtered in and Abel’s damaged lungs let out a sigh of relief.

It was followed by a small piece of woolly tubing.

It was only an inch in diameter but it acted like a chimney.

It looked like a ‘Ewe Tube’.

“Praise be to the Lamb of God!” said Abel suddenly rediscovering his religion.

His teenage mind tried to rationalize events.

Who the Hell could be on the mountain in this weather?

A second hole which appeared above him answered his question.

He looked up and saw a glazed sheep eye staring back at him.

His pet sheep Dolly must have come to his rescue in true ‘Lassie’ fashion.

The hole got bigger as the ovine tried desperately to claw at the ground with her hooves.

Who ever said sheep were stupid animals had clearly never met the indomitable, resourceful Dolly he thought.

“ Well Hello Dolly!” shouted Abel trying to keep himself focused.

He was sure that she answered him back in a human voice muffled by the six inch solid frozen igloo roof.

As the temperature like Dolly dipped suddenly, the snow turned to ice and making the hole larger proved to be difficult for the ovine rescuer.

“ Are you in it?” the sheep bleated.

This was interpreted by Abel as questioning whether he was of Eskimo stock.

“ Inuit?....no… I’m from Brecon mun!” he asked talking to his blue testes.

“ Am I going nuts…nuts?”

He thought the lack of oxygen and the acute pain of his injury was making him hallucinate and hear things too.

Above the warm confines of his igloo, the wind had picked up and was howling like a wolf around the bleak landscape of the Brecon Beacons.

From below Abel could with a squint make out Dolly looking around nervously at the sound, but like Nipper the HMV dog , the Sheep doggedly refused to leave his side or Her Masters Voice.

What Abel didn’t know was that Dolly wasn’t Dolly at all but a lost SAS applicant, that had lost his bearings in the blizzards and subsequent avalanche of snow whilst doing the military version of the ‘Fan Dance’- an Army exercise to determine the physical quality and mental resolve of recruits.

He had witnessed the accident and decided that the life of the young farmer was more important than any Army examination.

His Regiment had decided that rather than risk fatal dehydration again in the Summer Months for squaddies on Penyfan, Cribbyn and Corn Du they would use the Spring and Winter Months instead.

They still had to carry an 18 kilogram Bergen backpack, rifle and water bottle but as an added weight – a proper sheepskin as camouflage.

SAS now stood for Soldiers As Sheep.

Their unofficial slogan to get one up on the Royal Navy was – ‘Be the Beast- and beat the best’

There was much competition between the different arms of the Armed Forces.

It was a handy drill too, as preparation for the soldiers for those long nights in the Northern Iraqi desert, when the temperatures dipped way below zero and with no wife back home in Wales to cuddle up to - it was an essential to slip into a woolly jumper and stay out of sight of the enemy.

The 21 year old hopeful, Monty Redcapp, sighed knowing his act of heroism would be interpreted and punished as a sign of weakness.

Whilst his Drill Sergeant’s may wear the words ‘Help is for Heroes’ on their chests- for this act of individualism -his reward would be peeling more spuds than the Busy Bee Chip Shop in Merthyr did in a year- or cleaning the Officers Mess- which had been interpreted by Army Regulations in Brecon -as licking out with his tongue the Captain’s toilet bowl once again.

The rest of his Unit had carried on regardless- despite the three months of brainwashing – the remainder of his Civvy Street conscience would not let him forget the parable of the ‘Good Samaritan’.

He would not leave an avalanche victim die of asphyxiation or exposure- even if his own life or future career depended upon it.

In the distance, he could hear much barking and howling he could make out black shapes heading at speed towards him.

Now Private Redcapp wasn’t scared of anything in Civvy Street- except dogs that is.

He had developed ‘Cynophobia’ after his Mother had read him a tale from the Mabinogion about Gelert the dog when he was only five years of age.

His soldier Father had died in a football hooligan attack by Blackburn ROVERS at the Wolverhampton Wanderers Ground –Molyneux- in the bad old terrace days of the 1980’s and he had suffered flashbacks ever since.

His psychiatrist had cured him for a while – until his squaddie mates had rented comedy horror film ‘Dog Soldiers’ which had brought back all his night terrors.

The barking got louder as over the snow covered hill like Zulus at Rorke’s ‘Drift ‘- the pack of dogs headed toward the fleece- covered soldier.

It seemed like every dog within ten miles wanted in on the act.

Down in the ice prison, in an effort to stay awake, Abel blew his dog whistle as loud as he could.

It was silent to humans, but was of such a high pitch it was irresistible to canines.

The power of the patented ‘Wolf Whistle’ was not lost on its Merthyr inventor, but had not been a commercial success, as it turned Man’s best friend into Man’s worst enemy, as the frequency sent dogs rabid with desire to stop the sound .

They acted like moths mesmerised but compelled to put out a naked flame.

In the Cefn Coed Simbec laboratory, the test subjects had been known to kill to stop it.

In addition, seeing a solitary sheep lost on the hillside was too big a temptation for the pack of animals.

Legally speaking, the dog pack was banned from hunting animals on private land but the animals themselves didn’t know or care.

But they were a big ‘worry’ for the SAS soldier.

The big question for Private Redcapp was could he stop enough of the ‘Charge of the Bite Brigade’ before they ripped out his throat?.

He didn’t want to see his own version of ‘pink mist’.

He lowered his rifle and took aim.

He pretended he was back on the firing range at Sennybridge shooting at the enemy insurgent targets, as a burst of semi- automatic rifle fire took out the Dalmatian at the front, adding red spots to his black ones.

Another burst and the leading whippet took a fatal bullet in between its ribs.

The greyhound at the front was moving way too fast, so he concentrated on laying down cover fire at the body of the pack- who collapsed with yelps and squeals, as they ate more lead than a swan on Cyfarthfa Park lake.

As long as the pack stayed together, Private Redcapp had a chance.

Unfortunately for him, the more brighter dogs- the Lurchers and Golden Retrievers- being used to gunfire , as they were GUN dogs -broke from the pack in separate directions to outflank the Ovine Officer Material.

The Jack Russell’s had gone down on their bellies crawling- like they were on the local army assault course- to keep low and minimise the target.

Above the din of the battle, Private Redcapp could hear the distinctive sound of an incoming chopper.

He just hoped that his air support would arrive in time to save him.

The Air Ambulance dispatched from the Queen Camilla Hospital had not witnessed such carnage before.

There was more blood on the ice than a Canadian Seal Pup Clubbing convention.

From above, the helicopter crew was shocked at what was going on.

US Army veteran ,  Pilot Hawke Downe was stunned at the scene below.

He was a veteran of the Somali conflict and had seen some real action.

They thought they had seen everything in the Valleys, but this was their first sheep with an automatic rifle gunning down a pack of mad dogs.

It was Apawcalpyse Now, as ‘Lambo’ sprayed the howling dogs with lead.

They were expecting to aid the search for an injured farmer, not witness the killing fields of Caninebodia.

From the air- they could make out the shape of a Red Setter wearing a blood stained second placed rosette from Crufts Dog Show, no longer moving ‘like Jagger’.

The pack had now completely encircled the sheep who was firing at the closest dog to him.

He kept wheeling in a circle frightened that he would leapt upon and tore to pieces from behind.

The pile of dead Afghans and Russian Borzois grew until the moment the pack had been waiting for.

The click of empty bullet chamber on the rifle.

Private Redcapp now knew he was as good as dead.

“ C’mon land will you….relieve me like in South Africa…or I Mafeking dead!” he said to the Helicopter Pilot under his breath.

Down below in his ice cave, Abel heard the gunfire and the sound of the helicopter overhead but was still unable to move…all he could do was blow hard on his whistle to try and attract attention.

Little did he know that his rescuer needed rescuing.

The Pilot and paramedic were too frightened to land, it was against the rules of their NHS Health & Safety Manual-so decided the best course of action was to film it on their mobile camera-phones and upload it to the internet instead.

The short film ‘Ewe Tube’ had over 100 hits in seconds- as did Private Redcapp.

Ironically, it was the badly named German Shephard, that lunged at the brave squaddie and tore out his throat and the rest of the frenzied bunch ripped him apart like an unlucky fox in the Taf Fechan Boxing Day Hunt.

Normally battle scene bravery is confined to secrecy, but thanks to the action of the Pilot, the bravery of the Private in his last stand was recorded on film on the internet for posterity.

For his gallant actions, Private Redcapp was awarded by the Army not only the Victoria Cross and the Distinguished Service Medal but also Royal Welsh Best in Show.

Unfortunately, the British Government received writs and legal claims from compensation from the dog owners so ‘cruelly’ killed by Private Redcapp.

The redtop newspapers had named Redcapp -as the ‘bone gunman’.

As for poor Abel Boddy, his remains were never found.

His brother Kane inherited the Farm and his Brothers Birth-right.

The Helicopter Pilot made two million pounds from the video and is now working as a Director in Hollywood, California.

Scene of the action - Pen Y Fan in snow by Oakfield Photography

“ Can I take the blindfold off now?” protested his long suffering wife.

“ Yes ..okay!” said Myles Soginist to his spouse Gertie.

Blinking in the strong Italian sunlight, the 75 year old lady didn’t have a ‘scooby’ where she was.

Her husband, not normally the romantic type, had booked a surprise ‘Golden Anniversary’ to celebrate their 50 years together married.

“ What do you think then?” he said triumphantly as she faced the sign Veneto Aeropourto.

“ Bit noisy isn’t it!” she complained but not for the first time ever.

“ What did you expect…it’s a bloody airport for Christ’s sakes!” he protested.

“ Nothing is EVER right for you is it ?” he said as he shook his head trying to keep his remaining solitary brown tooth still in its gum.

Gertrude was a professional whinger, a better moaner than La Gioconda.

She was also deafer than Peter Andre having a lap dance off Jordan.

“ I brought you to Italy to see one of the most beautiful cities in the World that is rapidly disappearing under flood water and rising sea levels!” Myles said dejectedly.

“ But I’ve been to Dawlish before on tinsel and turkey!” said Gertie adjusting her NHS issue hearing aid which was whining louder like a smoke alarm on a Malaysian Airliner.

“ You daft old Bird….we are in Venice not the English Riviera!” replied Myles.

“ Venice….are you sure? …. it smells and looks like the Somerset Levels….!” said Gertie jutting her top set of false teeth up and down as she spoke.

“ Did you pack any Denture Fix ?” asked Myles.

He remembered the last time he had slept with her had been a nightmare, as with her snoring, teeth chattering and lip movements in the night , he kept waking up from a dream believing he had found the missing race horse ‘Shergar’.

Boy had Gertrude Frump changed from the woman he had first married.

Not only her Maiden Name either.

She had trebled in size- no longer the legs of Bette Grable- more like the legs of Beth Ditto…her hair had turned white and thinned so much and what remained was so straggly he felt like she could have been an extra in the ‘Waking Dead’.

She had false teeth, a glass eye, titanium hips, and drooping breasts.

She also had so many blue varicose veins in her legs she looked like a human version skin of ‘Spaghetti Junction’ on a Birmingham sat nav.

Myles being so egotistical, couldn’t see that he had aged too.

He was of the opinion he could have done better and still could if only Gertie would finally give up the ghost.

He already had his eye on the bingo caller at the local OAP complex , who always looked at him suggestively when she called the number six and nine ….69.

Myles didn’t care about her reputation as a ‘Black Widow’….or even that she came from the disputed region of ‘Chechnya’.

With Gertie’s false teeth problem, he no longer was prepared risking having a ‘Marie Antoinette’ style execution of his oldest friend and toy in the World.

“ Gondola Sir?” asked the Italian, Gio Barcorola.

“ I thought I ordered a taxi to meet us at the Airport?” asked Myles.

“ Sir, you do realise that Venice is located in a lagoon in the Adriatic Sea?” said Gio.

“ So you can’t DRIVE there then?” asked Myles.

“ This is a ‘sea taxi’ ….Is this your first visit to Italy?” asked Gio.

“ It is my first time abroad…I’m from Merthyr Tydfil, South Wales !” said Myles proudly.

At the conclusion of this statement Gio took a step back which is very difficult thing to do in a Gondola.

“ That explains it then!” said Gio.

“ 50 Euros UP FRONT please!” he said lowering the arthritic pair into the narrow boat.

“ Explains what?” asked Myles sensing the condescending nature of the statement.

“ Why you are dressed in a wrangler jacket and jeans carrying your change of underpants in a carrier bag!” replied Gio.

“ The traditional Merthyr Tydfil Wedding suit and office briefcase!” said Gio.

“ Bit choppy innit that water !” Gertrude protested.

On the surface of the grey/brown sea water filling the Venetian Lagoon , particularly around the jetty there was lots of flotsam and jetsam.

A filled ‘Pampero’ nappy floated past the gondola, as the trio made their way to the Medieval City.

“ Is it far to Venice?” asked Gertrude.

“ About ten miles by sea from the airporto!” said Gio dabbing his pole in the water and levering the little watercraft away from the shore.

As he did so he naturally started to sing ‘O Solo Mio’ only in Italian.

“ I don’t know about you Gerty, but as we are now ‘culture vultures’ …I cant put my finger on it but I have a sudden urge that I could do with a Walls Cornetto right now!” said Myles.

“ After all - we ARE on our second honeymoon!”

“ Coincidentally, I have two in my on-board mini-fridge….they don’t cost the ‘Earth’ either…only Ten Euros each!” offered Gio.

“ Ten Euros!” exclaimed Myles ….” You know where you can stick them don’t you!”

“ That’s the trouble with you Myles…in all my 50 years of marriage to you …you have always measured everything in terms of money…..!” said Gertie.

“ Money never has been my God!” said Gertie.

“ I’ll have one !” said Gertie reaching into her Merthyr purse designed with a little bell on it to detect pickpockets.

She handed Gio , a crisp Ten Euro Note who then reciprocated her smile.

“ What about him!” asked Gio.

“ After 50 years of marriage to HIM , old empty bollocks can pay for his own!” said Gertie.

Myles just scowled at his wife.

He knew that on the first bite from her loose dentures, the ice cream would go the same way the nappy did.

As if to spite him, the dentures stayed in place as she bit the chocolate and nuts off the top.

He glowered at her with every successive bite, counting 2 Euros off a time- she even licked out the wrapper so he couldn’t get even a sniff.

After thirty minutes of heavy punting, the gondola arrived at the quayside near the old Arsenale Building leading to Grand Canal.

“ What do you think of the view of this Grand Medieval city- once the centre of the European Renaissance ?” asked Myles.

“ Doesn’t it make you quiver with excitement to think that Marco Polo himself may have stood on this very spot?” said Myles.

“ Not really….said Gertie….I’d rather be down the Club with Elsie…Bingo tonight and all!”

Myles paid Gio and turned to him and said loudly.

“ Do you see what I have to put up with now?....never marry for lust Gio …marry for brains… they last longer than looks!” saged Myles imparting his wisdom.

“ Meester… I never marry …too much hastle…I am like my Venetian ancestor, Casanova my friend, I would rather screw the tourists who come here looking for love, romance and entertainment…I take their money , shag their women and eat and drink their hospitality…marriage is for eediots from abroad ….like your Mr Pilkington on Sky tv!” said the down to ‘Earth’- Gio.

“ What do I owe you?” asked Myles.

“ 70 Euros…!” said Gio.

“ It was 50 Euros when we started!” protested Myles.

“ But in the last 30 minutes there has been a run on the £…!” said the rip-off merchant of Venice.

“ I do take it you will need a ride back home at the end of the holiday!” said the Gondolier in a mildly threatening voice.

Myles realising he was in a foreign country, on an island sinking into a lagoon, with no visible alternative return vessel , suddenly realised discretion was the best part of valour and handed over the 70.00. Euros.

“ And zee tip?” asked Gio condescendingly.

“ Don’t eat yellow snow…I’ll give you a tip when you meet us back here at the Quay at 12 Noon in two days time!” said Myles.

By way of compensation, the Merthyr Man waited for the gondolier to turn his back and pinched two cornettos from his ice box.

As he waved Gio off with his remaining hand, he smiled at the greasy Italian, secure in the knowledge that he was not as stupid a ‘punter’ as he thought he was.

Myles felt a tug on the hand behind his back and turned to see a rabid mongrel dog known locally as Gobbi, foaming at the mouth , running away from him on the quayside with one of the ice-creams.

Gertie had made her way selfishly towards some shade.

Picking up the remaining half-chewed ice cream, he went down on one knee and offered it romantically to his wife of fifty years.

His knee clicked and he knew it might take a lifting crane to get him back up.

“ Well what do you think of the splendid Baroque architecture, the pastel colours and the exuberance of Venice- the Bride of the Sea- then?” asked Myles.

“ It’s alright… but it’s no Mecca is it?” said Gertie sounding like she was in fact related to Karl Pilkington.

“ Besides it stinks to High Heaven here…it doesn’t show that on the postcards!” said Gertie.

“ Why do I bother?” said Myles finally levering himself up.

“ This way!” he said pointing in the direction of the main town.

“ I hope you have booked me somewhere nice and not just a ‘Travellodge’ like last time in Weston Super Mare!” said Gertie.

“ The Doges Palace!” replied Myles.

“ I am not staying in any dog’s place!” protested the old dear mishearing her husband.

“ NOT the DOG’s PLACE….this is the DOGES PALACE…..it is a Five Star Hotel….the Doge was the Ancient ruler of Venice!” said Myles trying his best to educate pork.

A feat he had not accomplished in 50 years of Holy matrimony.

“ As long as I have somewhere to rest my varicose veins and put me teeth in a glass I’ll be fine….!” said Gertie

“ and somewhere to rest my Dukes…..!” mouthed Myles knowing in anticipation what his wife would say before she said it.

After 50 years of marriage, his life had become so predictable, so mundane and deliberate he secretly hoped death would take him soon.

Or better still Gertie.

That was part of the reason he had taken his spouse to Venice.

He knew from reading history, that it had lost almost a third of its population to the Black Death or bubonic plague in Medieval times and hoped his wife might contract it.

“ You’ll like this next bridge ….it is one of Venice’s most famous attractions…Ponte del Sospiri!” said Myles pointing up.

“ It was recently refurbished with a UNESCO World Heritage Site Grant…..it is called the Bridge of Sighs !”

“ What about it ?” moaned Gertie disinterested.

“ I don’t understand ….you normally like misery….especially mine …!” said Myles

“ Do you know why it is named that?” he questioned.

“ No….and I don’t really care…I could have won the National tonight!” said Gertie.

“ The prisoners from the local jail that were sentenced to death were paraded over this very bridge.!” continued Myles relentlessly.

“ You see my dear….in Venice…you are never far away from death…the Grim Reaper casts a shadow much greater than that of St Mark…!” said Myles chillingly, in a way as if in some Freudian way , he had finally made up his mind once and for all.

“ What are you mumbling on about …you know I am deaf …especially here in Venice…your bloody snoring did that….!” moaned Gertie.

For the rest of the journey to the Hotel, the pair moved in silence , through the narrow streets and alleyways in a similar fashion to those Venetian prisoners condemned to die had moved all those years ago.

When they reached the Doges Palace Hotel, exhausted from heatstroke and sweating like bingo players waiting on the final winning number, they collapsed inside.

“ Can I take your suitcase Madam?” asked the concierge.

Gertrude handed him her Aldi carrier bag containing one pair of C & A knickers and a spare pair of socks.

Merthyr people pack lightly- as they are too mean to pay excess baggage fares at Cardiff Wales Airport.

“ Is Madam staying long?” asked the fawning Italian hoping to get a tip for service.

“ He tells me he’s paid for Four days!” she said pointing uncaringly at her Spouse.

As if telepathically, the concierge looked at the underwear and back at Gertie.

“ Wear them once forward, once backwards, then inside and out and they are marked C & A so I know which direction to wear them!” she said to her Venetian ‘flunkey’.

The look of horror was enough to know that not only would he not get a tip, but that imagery would stay with him for life.

The other cultural ambassador for Merthyr walked up the reception desk with his little ‘pinky’ finger crooked upward in a vain attempt to appear posh.

“ Bueno Vista Mon Amigo…I have reserved the Honeymoon suite for my wife and I for four nights under the surname Soginist…!” said Myles.

The Italian didn’t even raise her head in courtesy from her mobile phone.

Myles coughed politely.

Gertie looked around her at the foyer and the extensive decoration of Venetian Gothic design with over elaborate golden gilded pillars and cameo reliefs in white alabaster and Murano stained glass.

“ Myles …..are we sure we can afford this?…it is like going into one of those Cardiff Solicitors offices…I don’t want to pay for all this!” said Gertie.

“ Don’t worry my dear…you have to live every day at our age as if it is our last….you might die tomorrow…you never can tell !” he said and then muttering under his breath….” I live in hope!”

Finally, the Italian Belladonna looked up at him with beautiful brown eyes….eyes that he could happily drown in for ever…..she looked like a younger version of Sophia Loren only even more attractive.

Louisa the receptionist, looked at the odd couple before her and immediately felt pity for them.

He had more hair coming out of his nose and ears than he had on his head with a bulbous nose that W C Fields would have been proud of.

Whilst she was more wrinkled than a walnut belonging to the character, Madge in the TV series Benidorm.

Her drooping lop-side faced made her look like a Basset Hound chewing a wasp.

Louisa looked through the booking list and asked for the passports to verify identity.

As she opened up the passports and photocopied them , she noticed that the British Government Uncivil Servants in the Passport Offices still had a sense of humour.

Whilst specific instructions were given not to smile, the Passport office had added holograms to the photographs which made Myles look as if he had a nose ring and a huge elephant ears , whilst Gertie had snipers crosshairs on her fore head which made her look like John F Kennedy in Dallas, Texas in 1963.

Sniggering to herself , she handed them back to Myles, who took this as a sign ‘he had pulled’.

“ Grazi Senor!” he said to Louisa.

Louisa signalled for Mario to collect their belongings totalling one Aldi carrier bag and one more expensive Asda bag.

When Mario asked about the same, Myles quipped that unfortunately he had now ‘two bags for life’.

A joke that was totally lost in translation.

But the simulation of wanting to strangle his wife was not.

Louisa felt particularly uncomfortable at the crazy look in his eye and the aggression in his face.

The lift ride was also uncomfortable as due to Gertie’s deafness , what she thought were silent chapel farts in the small claustrophobic elevator, could be heard by most people on most of the Hotel Floors and at one point did scatter the pigeons in St Mark’s Square- a mile away.

As they reached the 13^th Floor, Mario opened the lift doors and guided the ancient pair towards their even more ancient room.

He bowed gracefully but in all honesty mainly to get more oxygen in his lungs, he held out his hand for a gratuity.

Myles took it and shook it and placed a Werther’s original butterscotch sweet in his palm.

“ No need to thank me son!” he said slamming the door in the servants face before he could react.

Gertrude looked around at the four poster bed and ornately decorated room that would have not been out of place in a Sky Atlantic set of the Borgias.

“ Do you like it?” asked Myles still hopeful there was just the faintest glimmer of the girl he had married there under the surface.

The flame of love was quickly extinguished.

“ I can’t stay here!” protested Gertie.

“ But it’s beautiful…..it’s the Honeymoon suite ….to celebrate our 50^th Wedding Anniversary!” proffered Myles.

“ Golden walls for my Golden Girl on her Golden Anniversary in a city known as the Bride of the Sea!” he said romantically.

“ Don’t like it….you know I have condition called Khyzdophobia!” she snapped.

“ But those aren’t dwarves up there on the walls Luv…they are Cherubs…winged naked little boys known as ‘Putti’ to us Art lovers and culture vultures!” he said voice tailing off knowing that he could never reason with a closed mind.

The last 50 years or the ‘Golden Age of Matrimony ’ as he liked to call it had proved that very fact.

“ I can be putti in your hands tonight!” he said hopefully.

She just glared at him with her single eye.

“ Okay…I have Nanosphobia …I don’t care …..it is like being backstage at a 1970’s BBC Top of the Pops set….I can’t sleep with all those naked boys staring at me all night!” said Gertie.

“ You’d never make a good DJ then!” quipped Myles.

“ Those paintings are the work of the famous Renaissance artist Tintoretto….Philistine!” said Myles.

“ Never heard of Philistine!” said Gertie ….” Although that is a Goliath of a painting…who is that little shepherd boy using his catapult on that Orc …..is that the Lord of the Slings?”

Myles just shook his head at the woman that thought Stephen Fry was in the TV show IQ and that Meerkats from Russia could actually talk.

He wondered what he had ever seen in this human equivalent of a Booby bird.

That’s right…. it was her pert breasts fifty years ago.

Now they were so elasticated she had to tuck her nipples in the top of her stockings.

He knew he would get no peace tonight, if he didn’t ring reception.

He held his hand over the receiver and pretended to speak to Sophia.

“ I am very sorry to bother you !” he said in his best telephone voice even if it was to tell a complete lie.

“ But my loving wife is not satisfied with the best room in your hotel or even in fact it is the best in Venice but we need to switch to a much more inferior room ….if possible one without a sea view or overlooking the beautiful Campanile of St Mark ….yes I know she’s awkward try living with her for 50 Golden years…but Madame here doesn’t like it because she has a phobia of the little people ….it affects the older generation that’s why it is called NANosphobia…..yes try googling it ….it really is a true condition it just affects old awkward battle-axes who complain about everything….yes I appreciate there are gender differences….men are from Mars and women from Venice….but hey the customer is always right…..any chance you could move us to the lowest cockroach and rat ridden basement below canal level if possible next to a sewerage outfall ….just to give my spouse something genuine to moan about?.....sorry….what was that?” asked Myles in a Fawlty-esque conversation.

“Fully booked love!” he exclaimed.

“ Something to do with the Carnivale and of course - a Sky Film crew filming a documentary here!” said Myles.

“ Well , you will have to draw the curtains around the bed then so I can’t see them!.....I am exhausted I haven’t had my afternoon nap….I’m fit to drop!” she moaned collapsing on the four poster.

Myles seeing his opportunity tried his luck.

After closing the velvet drapes he asked his beau.

“Shattered are you?.....”

Gertie opened her one eye like a Cyclops.

“ Do you have a headache too then?” he enquired further.

“ No….!” said Gertie.

“ Well that’s the first time in a decade then….time for a bit of rumpy !” said Myles.

Gertie was trapped.

She like Boy George preferred a good cup of tea to sex.

Unlike Boy George she didn’t like the same kind of teabags.

It was her Second Honeymoon….how could she refuse?.

Myles was off like a shot popping a blue Cialis pill as he rummaged through more sets of drawers than a Gurnos burglar.

After removal five layers of lady undergarments, he knew he was close …either that or the Rialto Pescheria fish market was working late.

She may be hard of hearing he thought but not herring.

He looked down a sight he had not seen for ten whole years.

Surely it hadn’t closed up from lack of use?

Was that a vaginal cataract or just a cobweb?

Myles didn’t care.

The dog had seen the rabbit and was off on a chase.

To him an old one closing was just as good as a young one opening.

30 seconds later the old dog was a spent force.

He looked up to the painted Heavens on his Honeymoon Suite ceiling.

He felt like King David , Peter Andre and Gareth Gates must have after they had scaled the peaks of Jordan.

“ Have you finished yet?” asked Gertie looking down over her ‘Chat’ Magazine.

Due to the chemical enhancement Myles tool didn’t stay down long.

It was like it was spring loaded.

Like the Grand Old Duke of York before him, the new Doge of Venice grabbed his wife and began to use ‘Doge- y style’ on the poor woman.

If it got any hotter Myles knew he would have to dip it into the other ‘Grand Canal’.

Very soon the old man became de-hydrated as there wasn’t much liquid left in his body- but the same could not be said for Gertie who was like the ‘Orinoco Flow’.

He had not seen such foaming at the mouth since that rabid cornetto- thieving dog two hours ago.

Despite this marathon love session Myles was still intent on killing his spouse.

Unfortunately, this was no longer the preferred method of choice.

He collapsed on his side of the bed and tried to beat down his knob with his a piece of Venetian Carnivale costume.

It added a new meaning to the ‘Masked Ball’.

Gertie laughed in her sleep at his performance almost like a comedy of errors at the nearby ‘La Fenice’ Opera House.

She slept for four hours after his exertions.

Gertie’s mood suddenly darkened and then her face became twisted and distorted as her dream suddenly became a nightmare.

Inside, her mind played out a scene, where she was trapped on a Venice Bridge, surrounded by little people with jagged knives all out to kill her like the psychotic dwarf dressed in a yellow raincoat in the Julie Christie/Donald Sutherland film ‘Don’t look now’.

It was almost as if her body sensed that her husband now stood next to her with a pillow ready to suffocate his miserable wife.

Myles was weighing up in his mind whether or it was worth it or not.

On the one hand he would nag free, but on the other he would be sent to prison for the remainder of his natural life.

But the question he pondered was whether or not four square meals a day, no utility bills and peace and solitude would be that bad – after all at 78 years of age he was not like to be anyone’s prison bitch.

Gertie made up his mind for him, as she opened up one eye (full of eye-snot deposited by the Venetian sandman from the lagoon ) and asked suspiciously what exactly her husband was doing with that pillow in his hand , as he hadn’t made a bed ever in his 50 years of marriage.

He replied that he was protecting her from mosquitos in the absence of a net.

Gertie slept with one eye open for the rest of the night.

As did Myles, although it was on his Cialis enhanced knob which eventually tickled him under the chin to wake up to a glorious Venetian Morning.

They both dressed for breakfast and went down to the Breakfast Room in an uneasy silence.

The room was quite full with most of the seats and tables taken.

There was a full Sky TV film crew and several well- known actors buzzing back and fore for the continental breakfast.

Myles recognised the one off the television as being Ricky Gervais.

“ Don’t look know’ but there is that bloke David Brent from the Office!” said Myles quite proud of the fact he was in the presence of celebrity.

“ What Orifice?” asked Gertie loudly holding her ear-trumpet aloft.

“ Didn’t you have enough last night….you dirty bugger!” she continued.

“ Not the orifice…Extras etc…..!” he said innocently.

“ No Extras for you Myles …you had more than enough to last you another decade last night!” said Gertie.

Myles gave up.

He was intrigued to see a ginger tall man with glasses that looked like the bottom of milk bottles arguing with a bald Mancunian and what looked like a baby in a High Chair.

He couldn’t remember any of their names but they were all friends of Ricky Gervais.

“ Are these seats taken?” asked a young American Tourist.

“ No… help yourself….I’d only have to talk to her otherwise !” replied Myles.

“ Hi… the names Hank Marvin Haggler and this is my new wife Gloria….were from New Joisey…and we’re on Honeymoon!” said the young Yank.

“ Hello!” said Gertie looking up at the stranger, who was completely the opposite of her own husband being tall, dark and handsome.

Gloria sat down opposite her husband and looked longingly at him.

Myles looked at the beautiful young woman and then back at his wife of 50 years and wondered how a butterfly could turn into a caterpillar and then a deaf’s head moth.

“ Pass the sugar….sugar?” asked Gloria.

“ Okay …..pass the honey…honey !” asked Hank in reply.

“ Do you know …..interrupted Gertie….I have been married to him for 50 years and he has not ever once said anything like that to me!” moaned Gertie….getting in her first of many moans of the day.

Myles looked at his wife and said without a hint of emotion on his face.

“ Pass the milk you old cow!”

The silence was deafening apart from Gertie’s hearing aid of course.

More whine than the whole of the Italian vineyards.

“ This Venice water….it’s not like the clear blue stuff you get in the Venetian in Las Vegas !” said Hank sounding disappointed and trying to change the subject.

“ Well that is because everything in America is fake….fake water…fake cosmetic surgery and fake orgasms!” said Myles bitterly.

Another awkward silence prevailed followed with the American couple moving to another table as soon as one was free .

Gloria whispered to her husband ….” I hope that doesn’t happen to us!” .

“ It won’t !” said Hank…..” Say isn’t that the bloke who upset all the Hollywood A Listers at the Golden Globes?” said Hank pointing at Ricky Gervais.

On the adjoining table, the Sky TV Film crew was in uproar, as Ricky kept pinching food from the plastic tray in front of Warwick Davies and bouncing croissants of the bald-head of Karl Pilkington.

His sidekick, fellow bully Stephen Merchant sniggered at the scene and at their misfortune in a Twonks Tea Party.

Multi- millionaire Ricky had all the power and money and what he said went.

Like a real producer, telling his henchmen when to laugh and how to laugh.

Poor Warwick and Karl had to kow-tow to his bidding like ‘Idiots Abroad’ on a whim.

It was not like Ricky had done them any favours…other than make them World Famous Millionaires.

You could say if you weren’t an atheist like Ricky - that they had sold their soul to the Devil.

Gloria turned to Myles and said….” And that is the reason we never had children” she said pointing at little Warwick.

“ That’s a bit harsh isn’t it…even by your standards!” said Myles.

She then pointing at Karl, Stephen & finally Ricky.

Who just laughed like a hyena and made Derek-like expressions at the old pair.

Gloria finally plucked up enough courage to ask the celebrities for their autographs.

Ricky happily obliged asking politely who the autograph was to be made out to.

“ My husband Hank Marvin…please !” she said .

Hank waved from the other table.

“ I’m Hank Marvin too!” said Ricky picking up a sausage and eating it greedily.

“ He is a ‘shadow’ of his former self !” said Merchant following Ricky’s lead.

Both attempts at humour were lost on the young American woman, who was too young to remember the 1960’s band or that Cockney rhyming slang existed.

“ Do you want any of the others?” asked Ricky passing the pen to Warwick Davies.

“ Ewok from Star Wars…Willow Huffgood…and of course DER LEPRECHAUN !” said Ricky in a scary voice.

Warwick duly obliged in ‘shorthand’.

“ Him?” asked Ricky pointing at the bald Mancunian Twonk .

“ I’m sorry I don’t know who he is!” said Gloria.

Ricky thought this was hilarious.

The American woman didn’t have a clue who Karl Pilkington was.

“ I am sorry I should have introduced you….pointing at Karl….An Idiot…and then at the newly married New Jersey woman….A Broad…!”

Laughing at his own joke Ricky nearly fell off his chair.

Warwick Davies punched the plastic food tray with his fist in hysteria like a spoilt baby.

“ And him?” asked Karl in turn pointing at Stephen Merchant.

“ It’s okay I already have ‘Beaker from the Muppets’ autograph from Disneyland!” said Gloria.

It was Karl’s turn to join in this time as Merchant’s face went redder than a baboons arse.

Myles and Gertie had decided they had heard enough and needed to get some air away from the puerile banter.

Even their own company was preferable to this lot.

Grabbing his walking stick and her tripod wheeler walker, the pair stepped out into the magnificent Italian Sunshine to explore the Ancient City once the centre of all World Trade.

As she passed a stall Gloria picked up a postcard showing the Grand Canal and the shining white Rialto Bridge.

“ I must buy this one- if only to make Elsie at number 42 jealous that I have been abroad, do you know she hasn’t stepped one foot off British soil ever- the closest she came was as a Land Girl picking tomatoes in Guernsey….she’ll love this!” said Gloria.

“ Don’t forget to tell her that Venice is a lovely place but that all the streets are flooded!” said Myles sarcastically.

“ Good idea!” said Gertie ignorant of his jibe.

“ Do you want to go to go to see St Theodore and his crocodile in St Marks Square or the Rialto bridge that featured in Shakespeares’ a Merchant of Venice?” asked Myles hopefully.

“ What about a visit to the Pound shops or Charity shops followed by a McDonalds or KFC?” suggested Gertie.

“ Gertie- this is Venice not Merthyr- thankfully they don’t have a High Street dominated by multi-nationals unless you count Guchi & Prada…!” replied Myles.

“ But they have an Ann Summers shop…..look at all those masks in the window!” said Gertie.

“ And that one has a massive nose…is that for their Italian Prime Minster…Silvio Pinocchio …I think he is…the one who held all those Zumba Zumba parties!” said the Sun reader.

“ That mask my dear is to denote people of influence in Venetian Society ….the Doctors mask always had a bigger nose than anyone else…the mask was used as a primitive defence against the bubonic plague as people were more ignorant…like you…as they believed the disease to be carried by airborne germs rather than by fleas on the back of rats….!” said Myles trying but failing to ‘Educate’ Rita.

“ So if the disease was carried by rats….why didn’t Merthyr people get it?” asked Gertie.

“ One really big reason…Merthyr didn’t exist in the 14^th Century!” said Myles.

“ It was a hamlet back then!”

“ See Merthyr people have smoked for years ….cigars that long ago!” said Gertie once again displaying she had gone to a failing school.

Myles just shook his head in desperation.

He may as well talk to her about the plot of a tv soap.

“This is this World famous St Mark’s Square!” announced Myles triumphantly.

“ Good, I’m knackered !” said Gertie without even a glance at the beautiful architecture.

As she sat down at a chair outside the a café bar called ‘La Dolce Vita’ Gertie was pleasantly surprised as two handsome Italian waiters fought over her attention.

“ 10 Euros Pleeze…!” said the first one Don Giovanni.

“ But I haven’t ordered anything yet!” protested the Pensioner.

“ It is a charge levied to sit down at a seat in this square and its view of the Basilica!” said the oily skinned lothario.

“ What about the table?” asked Myles.

“ Nothing- but who in their right mind sits on a table?” replied the second Italian Hale Caesar.

“ Me…!” said Myles putting his foot up on his wife’s tripod and sitting cross-legged like the Dalai Lama on the glass table and obscuring the view of the Basilica with the back of his hand.

The waiters upon receipt of the Ten Euro note from a disgruntled Gertie, left the eccentric Mad Dog Eenglishman out in the Mid-Day Sun.

“ You always have to show me up don’t you….you think you are so clever….so superior to these Spanish …..!” replied Gertie.

Myles didn’t both to correct her ….he hated Latin in school but hated being ripped off as a tourist even more.

“ Where too next then my little bundle of Joy?” asked Myles sarcastically.

“ Il Ghetto…the Jewish Quarter….La Fenice or the Rialto ?” he asked hoping the haul around the narrow claustrophobic streets in this heat would see her off.

“ What about that Bridge that Alec Guinness built ?” said Gertie.

“ Your ignorance astounds me sometimes !” said Myles.

“ You have less Culture than Tory MP Maria Miller!” he said snidely.

“ Max Miller…..I used to love him…Wheeltappers and Shunters on a Saturday Night…and then bingo!” said Gertie nostalgically and very deafly.

“ Does everything in your sad World revolve around Bingo?” asked Myles.

“ That’s roulette!” replied Gertie.

Myles looked at her …her deafness had got worse and was now almost equal to her stupidity.

She was now only hearing certain words that she chose to hear…selective deafness …a condition known to affect men but not normally women.

“ C’mon I’ll show you the way to the local BINGO hall…!” he said .

“ Great!” said Gertie moving a little quicker on her tripod walker following the mention of her favourite word.

After another 15 minute walk they arrived outside the magnificent La Fenice Opera House.

“ That’s not a bingo hall!” protested the gasping old dear.

“That’s where the posh people go to hear fat people singing at stupid prices!” said Gertie.

“ The Three Tenors!” sighed Myles looking up at the hub of Venetian Society for over 400 hundred years.

“ More than that to get in there…..is that fat black woman singing there tonight?” asked Gertie.

“ Who?” asked Myles wondering what gem his ignoramus of a wife was on about this time.

“ Oprah….Oprah Winfrey?” she spouted.

Myles closed his eyes in temper.

If it had not been for the presence of a French Tourist filming a video he would have happily strangled her on the spot.

“ Time now for the piece de la resistance - !” said Myles.

“ Oh yes….I am busting too….it’s like Merthyr Town centre since they closed the Bus Station toilets…I have to find a bog soon or I will have to pee in that canal there!” said Gertie letting out a loud sulphurous fart.

“ You will have to excuse my wife…she is a little deaf!” said Myles apologising to Jean Michel Jarre .

“ Apologies….you may need more Oxygene soon!” said Myles.

“ Zut Alors!” came the reply as the cameraman wiped some shit off his lens.

The pair shuffled on like the ‘waking dead’ to the white Structure known as the Rialto Bridge.

“ This my dear is the most famous sight in Venice- this bridge dates back to Medieval times when Venice was the capital of Europe if not the World….the hub and trading centre for famous merchants like Marco Polo!” briefed tour guide Myles.

“ I like his mints but I think Trebor ones are better…you don’t get the hole in the middle!” said Myles taking the piss out of his wife before she had the time to react.

“ I know Marco Polo didn’t make mints….I’m not completely stupid!” said Gertie.

“ Who was he then?” asked Myles.

“ I don’t have to tell you!” replied Gertie defensively.

“ Come on I promise NOT to laugh….who was he then?”

“ That guy from Gladiators….they one they banned because of his drug taking….or that bloke from Made in Chelsea!” said Gertie trying to hedge her bets .

Myles broke his promise and pissed himself.

“ Marco Polo was an explorer and Venetian trader who is reputed to have started the ‘silk road’ to China!” said Myles.

“ Why would he have a Milk Round in China?” asked Gertie once again mishearing the important part.

“ Never mind!” said Myles treading the boards at the entrance to the famous Italian Bridge.

“ I’m sorry Sir but the bridge is closed today for the filming of a television series!” said a heavy duty bouncer .

“ He looks like Marco Polo from Gladiators!” whispered Gertie.

“ You can’t just close a bridge off to the public on a whim ….on whose Holy Orders…. A Papal Bull from the Pope in Rome?” asked Myles.

“ Higher than him….Ricky Gervais!” said the Scottish Bouncer Big Lonsdale Braun.

“ But there are other people on that bridge too!” protested Myles.

“ They are the crew!” said the impassive guard.

“ Oh those must be the ones Ricky asked me to get the ice cream for at breakfast this morning at our Hotel!” said Myles using brains to defeat Braun.

“ What hotel are you staying at ?” asked Big Lonny suspiciously.

“ Doge’s Palace….we were the couple arguing at breakfast!” said Myles.

“ Okay….if you’re getting the ice cream in ….mine’s a cornetto…have you seen the price on them here?” said the muscles from Musselburgh.

Myles limped away to the ice cream vendor and was disgusted to find they were 15 Euros each.

He had to buy ten.

It was a real job to carry them all.

Hidden behind a rubbish bin, lurked Lurkio the rabid dog.

He had already stolen one ice cream off Myles the day before and saw him as easy meat for a second one.

As the pair of pensioner were waived passed by Lonsdale, busily chewing on his cornetto bribe, both Myles and Gertie made their way onto the most famous bridge in all of Christendom.

Gertie motoring up the incline on her little tripod that afforded her mobility.

Myles still capable of walking unaided listened intently as the TV scene played out.

“ An Idiot Abroad Scene 5 Take 3….Gobbo the Hunchback on the Rialto Bridge” shouted Derek-tor Ricky Gervais to the entire cast and crew.

“ Action!”

Warwick Davies, all 3 foot 6 inches of him came out of the scenery dressed as Gobbo Di Rialto, the Hunchback of Venice in a bright red raincoat.

“ Don’t Look Now” said Myles.

He knew full well that his wife of 50 years always did the opposite of what he asked her to do.

Gertie opened her eyes wide as what was a remake of her nightmare unfolded.

Karl Pilkington appeared on the scene , naked bar a golden oak leaf to hide his ‘acorns’, as Ricky had put it , chased after the little blighter towards Gertie with a serrated knife shouting “Come back Gobbo you’ve pinched my nuts….come back with my Pound of Flesh!” in the worst Venetian accent ever.

The pair were heading straight in the direction of the frightened woman, who leapt onto the top of her Tripod three-wheeler for safety, away from the onrushing dwarf.

At the same time as Gertie was distracted, Gobbi the rabid dog seizing his chance ran at full pelt towards the shopping tripod and the now unguarded cornettos.

His bulk and frame combined with the wheel movement on the sloping bridge sent the old woman tumbling over the side off the Rialto Bridge into the turbulent waters of the Grand Canal below.

Myles couldn’t have planned her death any better if he had set it up.

As Gertie flew through the air….horrified bystanders saw her false teeth fly out and land with a splosh in the grey lagoon liquid.

The film crew were in uproar as they thought it was part of a stunt act hired by Ricky himself.

Stunned Ricky stopped the scene and shouted at Warwick.

“ It’s your fault get after her…!”

He picked the mini-actor up by the scruff of the neck and slung him off the bridge.

“ You too Golden Globes!” ordered Ricky to Karl.

“ I ain’t going in there Pal….I’m seen the Manchester ship canal and that is bad but this is a SHIT Canal...!” he protested.

Arriving on the scene came the local Jewish Venetian Policeman, Massal Toff to investigate the accident.

“ Did he try to kill her?” said Massal pointing at Myles to the gathered crowd.

“ He was reported as being unstable by the receptionist at the Doges Palace yesterday?”

“ No…it was an accident…!” said Karl defending the old man.

“ A Hunchback dwarf and a rabid dog knocked the old lady of the bridge!” said Stephen.

“ And you are …..?” asked Massal.

“ Stephen Merchant!” replied the googly-eyed ginger.

“ Of Venice!” quipped Ricky.

“ What are you some kind of comedian?” asked Massal aggressively.

“ Well I am actually!” said Ricky.

“ Idiot!” replied the detective.

“ No that’s him!” said Merchant pointing at Karl.

“ And if you are a Venetian detective….you must be….SHYLOCK HOLMES?” asked the all -powerful Ricky.

“ Any more outbursts from you and I’ll arrest you for obstructing the course of justice!” warned Massal.

“ Look Tom Cruise & Brad Pitt couldn’t shut him at the Golden Globes in Hollywood …what chance have you got!” said Karl.

“Am i reading this statement correctly….Gobbi the rabid dog…gobbled Gobbo the Rialto Hunchback…that sounds like Goobeldegook to me!” said the Policeman.

“ Are you taking the piss….hunchback dwarf….rabid dog…? …that sounds like a bad plot in ‘Extras’ on Sky TV!” replied Massal.

“ So you do know me then !” said Ricky smiling inanely.

“ No !” said Karl realising he had finally for once the opportunity to get one over on his Boss.

“ Ricky here threw Warwick off the bridge in temper!” said Karl.

Ricky looked at Karl with daggers coming from his eyes.

“ You do realise that ‘Dwarf Tossing’ is still illegal in Venice?” questioned Massel.

“ That’s why Warwick didn’t bring his wife on location with him!” responded Ricky trying to laugh it off.

“ Is it a strict liability offence?” asked Karl.

“ Meaning that WHOEVER you are …no matter or not if you are a celebrity you cannot be seen to be above the law in Venetian society?” asked Karl stirring the shit (with a huge pole into the Grand Canal).

“ And who says travel doesn’t broaden the mind!” said Ricky looking at the monster he had created.

“ Yes….!” Replied Massal…“ but sign this autograph for my kid and I’ll let you off!”

A call came through on Massal’s mobile.

He listened intently and then ended the call .

“ Good news Mr Soginist…they have found your wife clinging to a red and white barbers pole 300 yards down in the Lagoon….they have taken her to the Santa Maria Dei Miracola Church to give thanks…the same thing happened in the 15^th Century where a man survived after half an hour underwater….the bad news is they haven’t found her false teeth or that Dwarf yet…!” he glanced at Ricky disapprovingly.

Myles put on a happy face as he put his Wife’s Life Insurance Policy back in his pocket grudgingly.

Ten minutes later Massal got a second call.

“ Luckily for you… Mr Gervais your little friend was literally fished out of the Lagoon by a local fisherman who couldn’t decide at first, if he had caught a baby humpback whale or a demon in his net …..it was only when Warwick quoted Shakespeare to them did they believe his story he really was an actor in a Mini Theatre Company!”

“ Ah well ….said Ricky looking pensive from the centre of the Rialto bridge…The Quality of Mercy is not strained eh Massal….” All’s well that ends Well!”.

“ Get that dwarf dried out and let’s get on with the next scene….it’s costing me money!”

It was Monday morning at 8.45 am , as the flame haired librarian opened the front door of the Merthyr Central Library.

Greeting him was afamiliar sight …the back of the Statue ofLord Buckland - HenrySeymour Berry- resplendent in caped attire and open book in hand….only today , he wore an orange traffic cone on his head…which made him look like a modern dayHarry Potter.

“ I know he is due to be taken away to be cleaned soon but ….!”

Using all of his 6 feet frame, he managed to climb onto the plinth of the statue and stretchingout with old Imperial Pool cue , he pushed the offending cone down into the High Streetbelow.

“ Bloody Hoodlums…. they have no respect….” he muttered under his breath.

Senior Librarian Simon Stallone , had like the statue , been a permanent fixture at the Central Library for over 30 years and both had witnessed first hand the under-class generation of Merthyr Tydfil.

Their motives had changed over the years,they now only used the Library tosteal reference books ’with pretty pictures’ and surf internet porn sites.

But mild-mannered Stallone had had enough… whilst he still had a good head of hair ..his mop ofred hair was now tainted by a giant silver streak…however, his temper had not mellowed and hehad over the last six months enrolled inthe Dowlais Community Centre Boxing Gym and had bulked up to Eight Stone.

No longer was he- Simon ‘Rambo’ Stallone ,a push over …he had turned in his alter ego- Superhero Conan the Librarian.

Putting back his pool cue in his belt, the blue tunic flying defiantly in the breeze , he climbed the front concrete steps two- at -a time and spun the revolving doors aggressively.

“ Don’t push me !” he growled as the narrow glass compartmentshuffledhim from the street into the library hallway.

The street thugs had drawn ’First Blood’.

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

“ When shall we three meet again?” asked the shadowy female figure as the sun began to rise from behind the Aberdare mountain.

The three naked witchesstopped their circle danceand released each other’s hands as one.

As the wheelie bin fuelled firesank into its embers,the Heolgerrig Coven stopped its celebration of the Celtic festival of Sam Hain and Upper Colliers Row field returned to normality.

From his first floor window of his former Council house, former teacher Sean Fein, penned his latest CelticPoem.

The Bard of Brondeg sat silently as he observed his wife Dawn Corus dressing back into her NHS Sister’s uniform ready for her morning shift.

At this time of year, he was always up at the crack of Dawn.

The three wizened old crones who danced by night,transformed at the first light of the Spring morning into young women at the peak of their maidenhood ,by using a strange magic and lots and lots of Elizabeth Arden beauty products.

Her fellow witches also suddenly re-appeared as respectable members of the community- Megan Phillips -a District Nurse and her friendPippet Boots became awhite coated Chemist .

The remaining signs of their pagan sisterhoodwere removed, asthe District Nurse loaded her spell book into her Volkswagon convertible …ensuring that her black cat ‘Katy’ was safely installed in the front seat.

She like her fellow ‘white witches’ had people to heal.

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

Simon Stallone stood behind the library ‘issue’ counter and was busily stamping the books returned by one of his regular library users who enjoyed baiting the streaked- haired librarian.

His blue tunic bore testament to the number of minority groups and fringe societies to which he was enrolled as a member.

His pin badges proudly declared that he was part ofthe ’Save the Panda Fund’ , Plaid Cymru, Greenpeace, Help the Aged , the Rainbow Alliance.

His favourite was the Merthyr Vale Man United supporters Club badge Eric the Red Devil.

These badgesstood for everything the ‘ Street Scum’ did not.

He cared for the environment , for animals and for elderly people.

His latest boast was that he was the only person in Merthyr Vale to become botha member of the two WWF‘s- World Wildlife Fund and World Wrestling Federation…even if he did get a VWF from the local yob centre when he walked passed the Windsor Pub or the ’Black’ sporting his collection of badges.

“ Dead Men don’t wear Plaid!” said Mike Hammer looking at thepolitical pin badges on the librarian’s collar.

“ Don’t push me….!” snarled Stallone…anger bubbling just below the surface…as he snapped back at the customer.

“I’m sorry…whispered Hammer…I thought this was a library ….I will say it in that Dead Tongue language of yours…..- Welsh…..- so you understand ….. SSHUSSIO……”

As the queueof people behind the annoying Hammer began to increase…the librarian powder-keg began to shake….lifting a huge tome returned in amongst some District Nurse Study Books …he thought for a split second about whacking his agitator with a ’ Hammer’ blow.

Unfortunately, the library attracted oddballs from all walks of life- ……..and that was just the staff.

As he passedthe returnedbooks to fellow librarian Meibion Glyndwr….he turned to the next customer knowing he had to bite his tongue….” I wish that Hammer had a dead tongue…” he muttered.

As Meibion Glyndwr moped away …-as if followed by an invisible rain cloud- he carried the books back to theNon -Fiction 500’s- Chemistry and Science,failing to notice the strange glow coming from the heavytome.

“ Oi butt….got any books on badger baiting….“interrupted two scruffy youths - Hugo Pinch and Nick Adidas- from the other side of the counter.

“ Do you mind …wait your turn…said Stallone politely …as he served a elderly lady whose head had tilted and dropped through age onto her chest, who was innocentlyreturning her Mills & Boonlove stories and under the counter “ Lady Chatterley’s Lover”…..

“ Cor ….look at that Granny Hugo …did you pinch her neck bolts?laughed the baseball -hatted youth looking like an extra from theTrisha Show.

“ Excuse me….said Stallone to the insulted pensioner ….as Chairman of bothWWF’s …I have some pond life to deal with….!”

In the absence of a phone box to change in, our Hero entered the Junior Library as a mild-manner Librarian and returned asSuperhero-” Bookwormman!!!!!!” .

“ This a job for the tuniced crusader…Is it a bird …is it a plane…no…. it’s an infant’s chair!“ said….‘Rambo’ splintering the wooden seat over the heads of the youths to the cheers of the gathered book-returners and library staff , as he opened the emergency doorand bootedthe pair of street scum down the library steps.

“ Your both black-listed!!!!” Stallone shouted as Kong- like he beat his 26 inchchest.

Mike Hammer just sat unusually silently in the reading room doing his daily crossword .

He would think twice about baiting the ‘library’ badger again.

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

“ Oh Stallone….you are my hero…!!!!” .came the cry from a blonde Brecon Bombshell from her reference library home on the first floor.

“ I’m sure when I check your family tree later……I’ll find you aredescended from the finest stock of Welsh working class heroes…and street fightersMerthyr has produced.

“ I wish ….!!!“ declared Rambo picking up the Tome for the second time.

Looking at the beautifully hand carved Celtic writing he noticed its words seemed to shimmer orange then stop.

“ Meibion …cover the counter for me …I have tofeed the fishand send some corn-dogs down the Taff”

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

As he said on his library throne in the downstairs khazi …Rambo worried about the onset of his recent haemorrhoidproblem.

From within an inate voice was saying “ Don’t push me!!!!”

As he turned the front cover,he read the Celtic Words GRAN GRIMWAR…or the Witches Bible.

He realised immediately that it was written in a strange tongue…

He tried to translate , but it was difficult………. Twtty down by the bosh…. and I’ll be there now in a minute…… of course,he thought it is in Wenglish.

It contained a strange warning which read….

NON WYCH BEWARE ….FOR YE SPELL ATA PRICE….YOUR WISH SHALL BE MET… BUT ONLY THE THRICE….ROCKY TIMES AHEAD FOR YOU …. A PETRIFIED SACRIFICE …..

Rambo began to shit himself which was both a blessingand a curse.

“ I wish I could get rid of this piles… he moaned…I have more hangers-on than a Freeman of the Borough ceremony.

Like the toilet bowl below ….the book glowed orange …. And Rambo smiled as it dawned on him that this was the end of his ‘First Blood’.

He was happy as for the first time for years , he could lift pristine Persil white CND underpants….bearing the motto ’Y Fronts prevent fallout‘.

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

“ Have you seen a book ….?” asked the District Nurse…frantically to counter man Jan Bollock.

“ Unless you hadn’t noticed BIG nose….this IS a library…course I have seen a book…never read one though!”came the reply.

“ One with gold Celtic lettering….about 600 years old…ducking stool proof….” she continued hastily…only I am late for my next patient…I need it for a short spell….. Besides its my answer to L’Oreal anti-aging cream ”

Her black cat curled around her shoulders….

“ Are you a witch…. !“Asked Bollock in his native Pentrebach sarcastic brogue answering a question with a question.

“ Why do you say that? “ replied the hag…… worried that she had been spotted dancing naked in Heolgerrig again and not just in the Six Bells & Red Lion.

“ Cos you got a BIGGGGGG Nose!….besides …..!“ declared Bollock …staring at the cat…..she looks familiar……anything else I can NOT help you with?”

“I don’t suppose you havean eye of anewt or toadpoles ears do you ? Asked Megan aging by the second.

“ Try the Jamie O ‘Liver Cookery Section sponsored bySainsbury - Section 600 Domestic Science” came the seductive reply.

“ I don’t suppose you want to buy some Genuine Dylan Thomas sweat do you…the American Tourists lap it up. I call ’Under (arm)Milkwood ? . Asked Bollock

Like most exasperated customers of the Library, she threw her warty hands in the air in dismay , twitched her nose anddisappeared suddenly.

Only the cat remained …which darted passed Bollock and hid beneath the shelves of the 600’s Non- Fiction section of shape-shifting and MedievalSciences.

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

As Rambo wiped his hands on the reading room velvet curtains he noticed that the room was unusually silent.

As part of his Senior Librarian duties he had to put out the daily journals and newspapers in the Reading Room.

It was a plan designed by the Head of the Ranch - Chief Librarian Dan Blocker -‘Hoss the Boss’…who felt that it would increase the circulation and lead to a ‘Bonanza’ on lending book numbers.

The introduction of the daily newspapers pinned up on the boards had in fact increased the library users but made it look like a deaf man’s version ofLadbrokes.

Still Rambo ….loved a bet on the horses and he was as always in shares with the female library cleaner.

AnitaCoggins,theLibrary Cleaner,could always be found in the reading room studying form with her Racing Post and lucky can of Mr Sheen…to ensure that the horse produced a polished performance.

Looking up at the broadsheets in front of him Rambo declared “ Mirror…., Mirror on the Wall…who’s the fairest one of all!!!!”

As if by magic,the sporting pages dulled into the background as certain horse names seemed to jump out at him in Orange bold type.

12.30 REDCAR - BLACK MAGIC

1.15 RIPON-UNBELIEVER

2.30 - CATTERICK - SPELLBOUND

3.15 NEWBURY -TURN TO STONE

Was this his lucky day…he had to believe.

As the Electric Light Orchestra song ‘Turn to Stone’ popped into head he sensed an unease about his situation.

Was there a ‘ Strange Magic’ abroad on the Celtic festival of Sam Hain.

‘ Turn to Stone’hewondered aloud.

Mike Hammer sat crossword in hand buthad he been able to speak or move he would have warned the Librarian that the initials of the horses spelt the word….BUST.

His jibe about the Welsh language being a dead tongue had left him with a dead tongue and the two would never have a ’crossword’ between them again.

As Rambo shuffled Sammy Davies Junior - Style into Ladbrokes (brought on by his continual use of the revolving doors) he placed his bets at the counter on the four horses of his apocalypse.

He would have got better odds at Joe Coral but he was banned for life because of afolly in hisyouth.

During his days in PETA and ANIMALISTY INTERNATIONAL days he had ’cat burgled’ andfreed all the caged hamsters and white mice in the Victoria Street Pet Shop before setting fire to the premises.

Unfortunately ,the blaze had spread to the opposite Global Video store… which meant he was the first registered animal activist and environmentalist to be charged with Global warming.

Joe Coral too benefited , as they becameodds on favourites to annex the burnt out store.

The fact that had been ‘arson about’ was never declared to the Council otherwise he was unlikely to be allowed to work in the second most combustible building in town.

As he was found in the Town centre with pockets full of mice surrounded by more Cats than an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical , he was dragged to help withthe Police with their enquiries.

He had hated cats with a vengeance ever since.

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

As Rambo finished the rest of his shift, he continued to serve his beloved public but was surprised by his sudden interest in ELO songs.

As he put back onto the shelves volumes of Cowboy stories….he began to hum ‘Wild West Hero‘

In the Biography Section he placed back the Diary of one Horace Wimp.

Imagine his ’Confusion’ when ’All over his world’’Strange Magic’ was at work as every thing he did seemed to end in a ’Rock Aria’.

“ Shine a little light’ over here asked Bollock kneeling down beneath the Card Index System near the400’s looking for something.

He was joined by mobile librarians the bespectacledDewi’ Decimal’ Parry and Phil Collins.

“ What have you lost? “ asked Rambo

“ I have been doing some Cat A Logging….!” replied Bollock….and I know there is a missing ‘Southpaw under there somewhere….if only I had a ‘Corgi or aKorky cricket ball I could get him out!”

“ I thought there was something in the air tonight !“ replied Collins sniffing cat pee…. Well Rambo….I’d like to help …..but I ’ve got to get moving…they don’t call us mobile librarians for nothing.!”

Glancing up at the clock …Rambo could see it was 5 O‘clock and time for the first shift to leave.

He could see something else too.

He thought he could see the face ofa long dead boxing champion staring back at him from the clock face.

As the staff and customers filed passed him, Rambo could only mumble the word ‘Argloed’.

One bearded man refused to budge as he tried to climb the stairs to the reference library.

“ Excuse me Sir, but the reference library isnow closed” declared Rambo.

“ Waarawarra….SchooMU Chucka-I have come over from Australia to TRACE my family tree…my grandfather was from Merthyr…the names Rolf- Didgeridoo- Harris…you may have heard of me…two little boys and all that ….I only want a quick walkabout”

“ I thought you looked a bit dodgy…no one DRAWS in the Reference library ….OUT and stop making those irritating guttural noises….I am Chairman of ‘ Save the ABOS’ New & Old South Wales Committeeand you ’re notindigenous! Declared Rambo closing the wooden front door on his trailing beard.

“ Bloody Hell ..those reference users get stranger and strange…I know Jacobs crackers…but she attracts some ‘ real beauties’.

Looking up at the original ‘Dai Watkins ‘Dial M for Merthyr’ footballClock , Rambo againthought he could see the face of a long dead boxing champion staring back at him from it’s own clockface.

I must have spent too long in the Charles Dickens section,he thought shrugging of the apparition.

As he regained his senses , he bolted the front door and decided to check his betting results.

To his amazement his £10.00 accumulator bet looked good.

The first Horse ’Black Magic’ had romped home at 10/1, his second ‘Unbeliever’ was a 40/1 long shot but also had beaten the field

Rambo just felt that something was not quite right.

His third steed ‘Spellbound’ had won a photo finish at 15/1 .

His heart pounded hard in his chest…his brow full of ginger and greysweat… as he checked the final results ofthe Newbury races…..was it his lucky day after 30 years of ‘seconds’ and so many near misses.

As he stood waiting for the page to load …he was amazed to discover that in a locked library a black cat was about to cross his path.

Looking at the feline,he could not believe his eyes as the shape shifter transformed from Grimalkin into a beautiful young girl with perfectly manicured nails.

“ Who are you…?“ was the words Rambo heard his own mouth say.

“ She is Katy Copycat…copy-cat Katy….familiar to the head of the Heolgerrig Coven’ came a voice booming out of the computer speakers.

“She is a harbinger of doom….an’ Evil Woman!”…said the voice…re- starting the ELO flashbacks for Rambo.

“ I know your face …your Dic Penderyn! “ announced Rambo staring at the computer screen.

“ Well the rope does give it away!…. Announced Penderyn.

“ What does she want with me?” asked Rambo fingering hovering over the computer delete button.

Don’t push me …the button seemed to say as Rambo’s legs turned to stone.

“ Remember the book of shadows ….?“ came a male voice steppingforth from the darkness of the 700’s sporting section.

“ I know you too ……your world champion Howard Winstone …you’re myand everyone in Merthyr’s hero…you beat everyone they threw at you…you didn’t beat the Grim Reaper too!”

Looking to his rightRambo could see that Katy Copycat had transformed from her initial youthful selfinto a200 year woman and then into the deathly figurebut the whole timewas busily manicuring her cuticles with her scythe.

“ Out of the way …fatty… boomedMatchstick Man World championJohnny Owen to the Grim Reaper…..” butt…you should be like all us Gurnos and Swansea Road muckers ….leave allbookswell alone….. their dangerous see ….!

“ Yeah , too much of a Gamble!” ….said another famous Penydarren shadow- Boxer.

“ Win stone….win coal….Win iron…Win steel ….my Howard could win any one…announced Commonwealth Boxing legend and top promoter Eddie Thomas…and he beat that Mexican Saldivar in Cardiff in 1967too…dodgy judges!”

“ I can’t believe it ….all my boxing heroes in one room and a manicured Southpaw …come to see me…I feel champion.“ replied Rambo.

“ but why me…what do you all want…”

“ You accidentally summoned us when you opened the Gran Grimwar- the Book of Shadows was consulted by us all before we fought our way to the top…it brings mixed blessings… to all true Celtic Warriors…..!”

“ So that’s why the Rugby Team folded!….said Dic Penderyn from the computer speakers“

“ So that’s how you won…. Johnny …you cast a spell on your opponents….and that’s why Winstone was known as the Welsh Wizard…. but if that’s the case…. You won British Empire and Commonwealthand European Titles ….. so how come you didn’t win the World Title Eddie…?

“ Easy….Same judges as the Saldivar fight…of course…he replied head bowed uncomplaining.

“ Mixed Blessings”….muttered Rambo as he pressed the key board realisingthat he didn’t need a crystal ball to know the Newbury result.

“ Rubbish ….chuckled Winstone …“Eddiewas always ‘second’ to me… chuckled the ever mischievous Howard.

“ Can I see the price anyway ?“ Rambo asked the Reaper.

Who nodded a reply

His legs like his horse had ‘Turned to Stone’ and the £55,000.00riding on the final horse was lost .

“ Gone Bust….I see now !“ replied Rambo ….“Rocky times Ahead…. it is clear as a ring-side bell…!”

“ Oh , by the way….said Dic Penderyn……I did stab that Brecon Soldier Sergeant Donald Black…it WAS me…he wouldn’t let me in the Kirkhouse see….thanks for the pardon anyway…I blamed Rolf Harris Grandfather on his death bed!”

“ Mixed Blessings” was the echoing words of the trio of boxers and the Head Librarian asthey alldisappeared into the night.

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

As the Council Leader , Mayor and other dignitaries stood outside the Central Library.

Many people were baffled by the events of the night before.

Why was a dead man with no tongue found in the reading room.

Why were two ’Gurnos Muckers’ found killed by a Badger in Cwm Glo woods.

Why was visting celebrity Rolf Harris trapped all night by his beard to the Library front door.

Oh and where exactlyhad Rambo gone… his mother had rung into lifeline.

Asthey introduced the brother of Neath MP Peter Hain to the stand all was to be revealed.

“ I , Sam Hainnewly installed President of the Dic Penderyn Society hereby declare this fourth Celtic statue in Merthyr Town Centre to benow open”

If the good people of Merthyr had lookedclosely at the Statues in St Tydfil Square that morning they would not have believed their eyes.

The statues ofHoward Winstone and Johnny Owen appeared to smile knowing they had an new ‘Spar’ringpartner.

And the ‘eddie- face ‘ in Bethesda Street which had fought many bouts for and against the Council kept stony faced about their secret.

“ Did they ever find the body of Simon ’Rambo’ Stallone” asked Sam Hain leaning on the Ginger and Grey streaked Statue.

The inscription written in Wenglish on the Central Library statute plinth read mysteriously .

“ Don’t push me…I’ve gone bust!”

"I dont care what the ultrasound picture shows there is definitely more than one up there!" said the newly qualified Doctor. Jamie Roberts lowered his Davy Helmet so that the light didn't blind the expectant father , his Royal Highness the future Prince of Wales.

"Look I dont tell you how to fly that RAF Valley helicopter now do I ?" reasoned the former Cardiff medic. From inside the womb the twin babies continued their foetal conversation.

"Look I am not going out first into the land of the giants. Have you seen the size on that Doctors head?" said the male heir.

"Why should I go first?" asked the female twin.

"Well everybody knows its Ladies first when it comes to the aristocracy!" replied her brother.

"But if I go first it might cause a constitutional crisis on the issue of female succession!" replied the little girl.

"That one was probably hiding behind the other on the scan. Look theres definitely two of them up there. I can see three legs and hear them talking!" said Jamie.

"There was only one on the ultrasound and being an RAF pilot I know my radar screens!" said the Duke of Cambridge.

"Do you mind. I don't really care how many are hiding up there. It's not a Romanian lorry at Dover customs. Could you pass the pethadene?" asked the future Royal Mam.

"Is there any chance you could also ask the staff at the state hospital to stop taking photographs of my wifes lower parts on their camera-phones? I asked for a room with view not a Womb with a view !" said William.

"I am sorry but you will appreciate this is a state Hospital the Queen Camilla Hospital in Merthyr Tydfil - we treat everyone on an equal footing, gypsies AND future kings!" said the Doctor.

"I got a feeling that one of the babies whose head was engaged has headed North again as I can see its tiny little legs now!" he continued.

"Once more unto the breech Prince Harry!" sighed William as his brother looked on at the spectacle.

You'll never look at THAT the same way again brother! said Harry laughing. At least it proves we are blue blooded! he continued.

"Oh why couldn't you have flown me to a proper hospital which isn't on the top of the mortality league table?" groaned Kate.

"I told you, someone left the helicopter petrol tank half empty on his jolly back to Afghanistan !" said William pointing the Royal finger at his brother.

"I think its great that a future King and Prince of Wales be born in Wales !" said Harry trying to change the subject. "At least down here Grandpapa and Grand Maam wont interfere with your plans!" The soldier continued.

"Do you have any names yet?" asked the Doctor.

"Jamie is nice! Jamie Al Fayed Zorba Windsor Saxe De Coburg. Does have a pleasant ring to it!" said Harry.

"Great name for an English King after all Jamie IS a strong rugby mans name!" said the British Lion.

"Old HRH Mirren would have a thrombo if she heard that one!" said William laughing. "Though come to think of it our mother was fond of strong rugby players names!" said Harry.

"Carling anyone?" asked Jamie drinking from a can. "Come on its a celebration. It's not every day you get to deliver a future monarch!"

"Carling IS a nice name!" mumbled Kate.

From inside the womb the pair of siblings tested each other out.

"Well if you wont go down the chute first why don't we go down together?" suggested the female.

"Good idea one leg each we can pop out together. Do you think that giant with the head of a Cwmtaff Swede can catch us both at the same time?" asked the male.

"Well he is wearing a tee- shirt bearing the slogan Welsh & Irish Lions destroyers of Australia 2013I assume he must be a rugger chap!" said the female.

"Good spot. He should not only be able to catch us but throw us a dummy in the same movement!" said the male.

"Well if you go first you'll be third in line to the throne. Me just by virtue of my gender will be way down the Royal pecking order. I'll probably be married orf to a European Duke to secure a peace treaty or something!" said the female.

"Okay!" she said putting her leg in the delivery chute. As she did so her brother threw her a dummy of his own and shoved her in the back to the point of no return.

"Bastard!" she yelled as she flew down the uterus like a kid in a Walt Disneys Typhoon Lagoon water ride culminating with her head sticking out of the Middleton Minge.

"Well this little Princess didnt have much trouble exiting this tunnel.  Just checking that there is no obstruction. Whats this ?" asked Dr Rhino Pads 2013.

"Whats wrong?" asked a nervous Duke .

"Never seen this before. The umbilical cord is caught around something ...it's okay it is a little silver spoon in her mouth. Don't worry this child will never know hunger, fear or working stress in their lifetime!" said Jamie.

"Shit it doesn't have any front bits Willy?" said Harry dejectedly.

"Thats because its a girl!" said Jamie. "I learned the difference in the University Cardiff Medical School!"

"Are you sure its not unisex?" asked Harry looking down at the ladies parts. "I had plenty of that too being in the Welsh Rugby team but definitely a flatcock! Dad is going to be pissed orf. We carefully selected her for breeding to give us a king. Look what happened to our ancestor Henry the Eighth and the country after his six attempts to get it right!" said William.

"I told you should have gone for Pippa!" said Harry.

"Is there any thing we can do Doc to change things? Can we offer you a Knighthood or something in the New Years Honours List to put that one back up or throw it out with the bathwater?" asked Wills.

"Now Sir Jamie to add to my BMA MD..GS..TC !" said Jamie scratching his massive Neanderthal chin. Despite his caveman look he was the first rugby player to have a brain since JPR Williams.

"Sorry to interrupt but I have an obstruction the size of a melon in a hole originally the size of a grape and this pethadene has stopped helping!" said Kate two heads.

"If I take THAT out the other one is going to be kicked out of the womb by gravity!" said the William Webb Ellis scientist.

With a slight of hand that magician Paul Daniels would be proud of Jamie removed the baby girl and plugged the hole in one movement.

"That should hold you for a couple of hours. Now get her in the Sea King and off to St Marys Hospital London with you sharpish!" said Dr Roberts.

As the press gathered outside the hospital Nicholas Witchell and Prince Charles exchanged scowls at one another.The Royal baby had been born and weighed in at 8lb 6 ounces.The Harley Street experts were puzzled as to why there was a rugby ball lodged in the undercarriage of the Duchess of Cambridge. And the name the Royal couple decided on for the male heir born without hair? Gilbert. Arise Sir Jamie!

The sound of a helicopter buzzed overhead as the terrified Welshman cowered in his impromptu sand dune bunker.The soldier dressed in green khaki combat gear stood out like a pork pie in a Jewish buffet against the yellow sanded backdrop of Helmond region in Afghanistan. The war on terror wasn't working as far as Harry R. S. Crack was concerned.

The sound of explosions all around him sent him deeper down the steep sides of the bunker as he began to suck his thumb for comfort. He suddenly realised that he was not alone, as a ginger haired soldier dressed in a German Africa Korps uniform complete with Nazi swastika and black armed band dropped into his hidey hole.

"First Crusade Old Boy?" questioned the stranger. "My family has been at it since the Middle Ages! You get used to those dumb-shit Americans. I ran too...they cant read a map reference to save their lives, or ours come to think of it......it's only friendly fire, it wont harm you!" said the soldier trying to reassure the nervous Harry."

"Tell that to journalist Terry Lloyd!" replied Harry from his foetal position.

"Whats your name soldier?" said the Erwin Rommel lookalike.

"Harry Sir!" said the scared squaddie staring at the pips on the black tunic.

"What a spiffing coincidence, so am I ....although most of the boys call me Captain Wales!" said the stranger.

"What regiment are you with?" asked the Sandhurst-trained officer, as shrapnel flew over their heads.

"I am not in any regiment. I'm from the TA's. I signed up in a drunken stupor in my local pub on Friday Night, the Tredegar Arms in Dowlais, do you know it ?.... and got press ganged into coming here by accident. They shaved my beautiful hair off while I was drunk and that bloody military policeman from Brecon mistook me for someone else from Merthyr who was AWOL and shipped me out here under protest!" said Harry.

"Oiks.. so you could say you went from the TAS to the TAS and from Jarhead to Jarhead!" said the Captain.

"Rough deal, its like being born WITHOUT a silver spoon in your mouth!" he continued.

Shells exploded all around them as a Yank induced Sirocco wind blew about the pair.

"If it helps I was like you the first time. This desert and these sand dunes, its enough to drive ONE Barchan mad, still do you know what is under this sand and the REAL reason why us Brits care about this Allah-forsaken Hell-Hole?" said Captain Wales.

"Like Iraq and Kuwait its got oil reserves and rich mineral deposits....war on terror my royal arse...I want to grab a piece of this for Granny!" said the military man.

"Take a tip from me too and collect as much of this shrapnel as you can find ....the price of metal back home,  like this casing shell, has gone through the roof....... slip a couple of quid to the RAF pilots and it'll be home in Brize Norton before you know it!"

The shelling stopped for a brief moment and silence returned.

"Never worry about those Taliban weapons, we sold them too them years ago. They're rubbish! Even the Thatchers sell better quality ones than those old bangers!" continued the Captain.

"Me..I prefer Eton Rifles, like this one when you are in a Jam!" said Wales producing an enormous sniper rifle with a telescopic lens from his lederhosen shorts.

"Dear me,..now that is an enormous weapon!" said Harry unfurling himself from his hedgehog ball.

"This was what I was concealing in that photograph of me in Las Vegas playing strip billiards. Being a Royal isn't just about rest and play. Britannia still rules the waves with a little bit of help from across the pond against these terrorists. President OBomber, I mean..at least I can understand him because I thought the former President Dubya Bush with his Texas drawl had declared war on tourism and the causes of tourism to boot!" continued Captain Wales.

"But isn't one mans terrorist just another mans freedom fighter?" asked Harry nervously.

"Do you want me to shove this telescope sight up your arse and send your balls into orbit around Pakistan?" asked the Captain menacingly.

"Sorry, it's not that I am a traitor to the crown. I just think that young men dying and being disabled for a couple of sand dunes isnt right!" replied Harry.

Captain Wales ignored this last comment as his focus was on the horizon. Laying down the gun stand on the ridge of the sand bunker he closed one eye, held his breath and squeezed gently on the trigger. In the far distance about 1.5 miles away a black shadow dropped to the floor.

"YEEESSS!" said the new Prince of Persia clutching his hand into a fist in an aggressive way. Handing Harry a set of binoculars he pointed silently ahead.

"Why are those women walking in front of that group of men. I thought in the Muslim culture women were classed as second rate citizens and had to walk five paces behind men!" said Harry ignorantly.

"That was BEFORE landmines!" said the Royal. This McMillan TAC 101 sniper rifle can blow the nuts of a fly on a camels back at 1.5 miles away....in the dark too!" boasted the Captain.

Taking off his military hat the young Captain scratched his ginger hair and reached into his pocket. He began gnawing away nervously at his fingers.

"Well, I am surprised with blue blood running through your veins. I thought you would have better etiquette than to bite your fingernails!" said Harry returning to his cheeky self now the bombing had stopped.

"Oh these aren't MY Fingernails! said the Royal. Want one?" he said tossing a dismembered digit towards the horrified Harry. "SAS training in Hereford....eat what you can when you can. PPPPiss Poor Performance and all that....nose to the grindstone...fingers to the bone! My Mum was Queen of Hearts and all that but I prefer something lighter!" said the Captain. "The vultures will only strip them clean anyway. Lets look in here to see whats for desert!" said the Windsorite Bear Grylls looking in his tucker bag.

"Scorpion leg?" he offered politely.

"I cant eat the pickled eggs behind the bar in the Tredegar Arms so what chance have I got of surviving out here!" said Harry returning to reality.

"Hubbly Bubbly?" offered the other Harry, cannabis stick in hand. Some great shit out here mind you. You want to try the Kandahar Poppy! Blow your mind it will, better than any IED !" said the Royal. "As my relatives would confirm. Its a Knockout! We better get a move on Tiger Woods mate.....you don't want to be caught in the same bunker for long." he said brushing the sand with his hat.

"What are you doing that for?" asked Harry.

"Covering my tracks mate. Out here there is a fatwa on me crown. That Zabihullah Mujahid put a price on my head. He's the only one that still thinks my real father is Prince Charles. Little does he know.!" he said pointing at his normal size ears.

"Gotta hide the prints of Wales!" he said brushing the area free of signs he was there.

Do you think it was wise to have HRH cut into the soles of those shoes then? asked Harry the commoner.

"Those aren't MY prints...look at YOUR soles mate!" laughed Captain Wales. "We are all Spartacus out here private. Except me of course! Never heard of Montys Batman?" he laughed.

"What me?...take a bullet for you?" asked Harry. "Im Welsh!" said Harry. "You only have to see a Wales V England Rugby match match to see how much we hate the English!" he continued.

"Common mistake.....but I'm not English......nobody truly is. We are a mongrel nation. We Windsors are German and can trace our bloodline back to William the Conqueror... French. Grandpapa is Greek and Prince of Denmark too and that doesn't even include the Hewitt strain.!" said Harry's new found pedigree chum. "Besides I have been to the odd rugger game. Quite good at it actually. We had a game once back at Kabul HQ.... wrapped a head of an Afghan Hound in a cloth and no-one could get the rag-head orf me!" boasted Captain Wales. "I booted it so high over the base that I nearly got put on report for taking down an Apache helicopter!" he continued.

"So how long does your average squaddie tour of duty last?" asked Harry.

"About 1001 Arabian Nights or three months if your lucky. I'm popping back to Blighty for a game of polo or something, perhaps you might want to crash at my place but don't expect a palace!" said Wales.

The sky suddenly darkened mysteriously. The Captain went back in to survival mode instinctively. As Harry looked to the horizon, he could see strange shapes of Afghan men and mercenaries from the neighbouring countries approaching cross-legged on beautifully coloured flying rugs.

"How bazaar!" said Harry. "Watch out those crazy insurgents....they are CARPET Bombing again...we need to find some cover!" said his Highness.

As they did so an Afghan policeman appeared at the edge of the wadi wearing a massive clock-face. Captain Wales wasted no time in shooting him dead.

"How did you know he was one of them?" asked Harry.

"Never ask a policeman out here the time besides he was ticking!" said His Royal Harry-ness.

The Captain suddenly lifted his head as on the hot night air in the distance could be heard a faint bell ringing.

"Whats that ?" asked Harry.

"It if rings twice it means that a new camel train has arrived and you don't want to get stuck with an ugly one do you?" said the Captain.

"I thought you had a girlfriend!" asked Harry.

"Chelsy has been relegated to the subs bench out here besides the bell rang five times!" said the Prince.

"What does that signify?" asked Harry.

"The only toilet in Camp Bastion is free and whilst I am third in line for the throne of England you need to get there before 20,000.00 squaddies on a diet of curry and beans!"