I'll Have a Large Retcon, Please

In which The Author has a sensible conversation on election day

At about 1.30 this afternoon, having been driven from Aberdare Library by the xenophobic drivel churned out by the Debating Society, I decided I needed a pint.

I can't entirely blame the fuckwits who come in every day 'to read the papers' for swallowing the neo-Nazi bullshit peddled by the Desmond and Northcliffe press. Most of them don't listen to the BBC Radio 4 news, or read a quality paper, or have the 21st-Century skill set necessary to access something like the BBC's 'Reality Check' website. Following the latest round of financial cutbacks within Rhondda Cynon Taf, the only national 'news'paper available to the public is the Daily Express.

As the unofficial house journal of the British National Party, this rag (along with its cut-down comic digest for knuckle-draggers the Daily Star, and its rivals the Sun and the Daily Mail) has been responsible for many of the myths, half-truths and downright fucking lies spewed out during the nastiest, most hateful and most deceitful election campaign I have the misfortune to remember. For some unknown reason, this 'socialist' council has decided that the only print media available in our central library will be this poisonous chalice. I'm sorely tempted to fork out £2.50 a week of my own money and sneak a copy of i into the rack every day. (Needless to say, I'll then be withholding a tenner a month from my council tax. I'm willing to pay for one or the other, but not both.)

Anyway, I repaired to Thereisnospoon, which seems to have had a bit of a reinvention furniture-wise. The tables have been completely rearranged: the small tables are now dotted around the place, rather than being lined up at one end; the high tables are all near the bar; the average height tables have been turned through 90°, and the high circular tables have been moved to the middle of the room. (I'm sitting at one of them at the moment, feeling very conspicuous.) Meanwhile, a small round table, big enough for two, with two comfy wing chairs, has been positioned beside the patio doors.

I decided to grab that small table, and was enjoying my first pint of the day when a shadow fell across me and a voice said, 'Hello, how are you?' I looked up into the vaguely familiar face of a chap in his twenties, with wavy mid-brown hair, casually dressed in 'student' style. I knew I knew him from somewhere, but I couldn't think where.

I invited him to join me, and we started chatting about the election in general. Both of us had voted on the way into town, so we were able to avoid the pros and cons and discuss it at a sensible level. I mentioned my Plaid Cymru membership, and he talked about his instinctive anarchist tendencies (which I could sympathise with to a great extent). Then we started talking about politics generally – Jeremy Corbyn's track record, our shared admiration for Dennis Skinner MP, the prospects for the Tories in the event of a 'Remain' result tomorrow – and the historic internecine feuding on the left of British politics which kept Labour out of power for eighteen whole years.

Before long the conversation turned into one of those free-jazz conversations over beer which I always enjoy: veering from topic to topic with no obvious connection; exploring a theme in depth before changing direction abruptly; pulling in information from elsewhere and incorporating it into the development; harking back to something which was mentioned earlier; looping and spiralling into an overall work the structure of which neither of could have predicted, and which would have been impenetrable to anyone arriving late on the scene.

I do know that we chatted about film-making, the Spanish Civil War, the Vote Nobody campaign in South Wales a decade ago, the Battle of Verdun, family history in Cwmaman, Geoff E.'s book The Men Who Marched Away, my last copy-editing job, my forthcoming proofreading job(s), Throbbing Gristle, Industrial music in general, gigs I went to in London in the mid-1980s, the German sense of humour, a Czech film (which I've never seen), BBC radio comedies, psychology, ancient history, abortive ideas for Situationist happenings, anarchism in general, police spies, obscure neo-folk bands, interesting books and documentaries, Doctor Who and Blake's 7 …

I also remember that my pal was heading off to Bristol by train, and couldn't stick around any longer. In fact, considering that in the course of an hour and a half we'd covered a range of subjects worthy of a full day of blogging, I remember a fair amount of what we talked about.

But do you think I can remember his fucking name?

I know that we've met before, because he mentioned this very blog. However, I've got no idea of his name, or where it was that we first started chatting, or how long ago it was. It was a very refreshing change to have an afternoon drink with such an intelligent, interesting, well-informed and stimulating young chap, all the same. I just wish I could remember his fucking name!

The only reason I'm writing this now is because after a few more pints I won't even remember the broad outline of this afternoon, never mind the fine details. I blame the Retcon, personally.

The Oyster is Your World

In which The Author makes up a bus tour as he goes along

As I said previously, I was awake at the crack of dawn on the Monday morning. From the outset I decided to forgo breakfast in the hotel. There was no guarantee that there'd be anything more than cornflakes as a vegetarian option (as I found out in Putney in 1991), so I decided to eat out for the second morning in a row.

I had a quick shower, gathered my things together, and checked out at about 8.30. I walked up London Street as far as Paddington, then made my way past St Mary's Hospital. There were plenty of cafes and coffee shops open, but they were packed with people on their way to work. I bought a paper, then headed down the Edgware Road, more or less retracing my steps from the night before.

This is an area I'm not very familiar with, even though it's where the mainline trains from South Wales arrive. On the handful of occasions I've travelled to London by train, I've usually gone straight onto the underground from the concourse at Paddington. In most cases, I was able to get my fare refunded afterwards, so the train was a viable option. Nowadays, I get the coach and hit the tube network at Victoria, Earls Court or West Kensington – purely on the grounds of cost.

There's some amazing architecture in these parts, including some of the oldest Underground stations. Look at the above-ground part of Edgware Road, for example.

There are little side streets and mews tucked away, and it's a very cosmopolitan area. I passed no end of restaurants, some of which were open until the early hours of the morning during Ramadan. I thought that was a brilliant idea – I could have had a very late supper/early breakfast if I'd felt like it. There's a fantastic old pub in Praed Street, too, which has been converted into a Greek restaurant. At least it's still there, and retains much of the original design.

A couple of minutes away I came to St Mark's Church, tucked away in Old Marylebone Road. I can't tell you very much about it, but it's obviously Victorian and probably much bigger on the inside.

I made my way down the Edgware Road, and after a few minutes I arrived at Marble Arch. I'd seen a couple of statues in the vicinity when I was passing on the bus on Sunday, and I wanted to check them out in more detail. I can't explain anything about them, but they're intriguing works of modern art nonetheless.

I don't think I've ever paid much attention to Marble Arch itself, in spite of passing it many times. On the Monday morning I decided to investigate it further, and was amazed by the intricate carvings at the top of the arches. It's probably possible to walk around London with a camera for the whole of one's life and not see all the interesting and intriguing statues and monuments for oneself.

I walked into Hyde Park, purely to kill time. There were plenty of walkers, cyclists and joggers around. I haven't been into the park for years, and it took me a while to get my bearings. With Marble Arch behind me and Park Lane on my left, I knew I could walk diagonally to the Serpentine, and from there make my way to the museum area. The sky was fairly bright to the west, but there were dark clouds everywhere else. I set off towards the Serpentine, and then felt a couple of raindrops. I didn't fancy getting caught in a sudden downpour, so I turned back towards Park Lane and checked out the bus routes.

The beauty of the Oyster card is that the daily fare is capped, depending on how far you've travelled across the city and how many modes of transport you've used. If you combine buses and tubes, and stay in Zone 1 and Zone 2 – which encompass most of the tourist spots you're likely to want to visit – the most you'll pay is ₤6.50. On the other hand, if you stick to the buses, the daily maximum is ₤4.50. (By way of comparison, a Day Rider ticket on Stagecoach in Aberdare costs ₤4.80, and is next to useless after about 6.00 p.m.)

[A digression: If you're planning a trip to London, bear in mind that the iconic red buses don't accept cash. You can pay by Oyster or by contactless bank card, but cash has been a no-no for about a year or so. The daily caps also apply to contactless payments. It's a hell of a lot cheaper than buying a one-day Travelcard, and much more convenient.]

Anyway, I found out that there was a bus to Camden Town from Portman Street, a couple of minutes' walk along Oxford Street. It sounded like an interesting journey, too – route 274 takes you through St John's Wood and skirts Regent's Park. I was just in time to jump on, and sat back to enjoy the view.

My cousin Mary lives in St John's Wood, so it's an area I know fairly well. I wondered how close we'd get to her flat, but the bus doesn't go into the heart of the village. Instead, it follows Prince Albert Road and curves around the northern edge of Regent's Park, with the Regent's Canal between the two. Primrose Hill is just to the north; my friend Paula H. lives in a tower block on the other side of the hill, with breathtaking views across the whole city. (I'd swap with her tomorrow, if she ever fancies moving back to Aberdare.)

From the bus you don't get to see very much of the sights, though. Prince Albert Road boasts some stunning John Nash villas, but – perhaps fortunately – he didn't get to build along the whole of the thoroughfare. You can have too much of a good thing. We passed the Anglican church and the London Central Mosque, but the view of Regent's Park was obstructed by hedges and fences. (Watch this space for some more photos of the area in a forthcoming project, though.)

There seem to be a lot of bus diversions in force at the moment, so we entered Camden Town by a side road. One passenger didn't know about the detour, and complained loudly to the driver when she missed her stop. She should have spent ten years trying to commute to Cardiff when Shambles Shamrock Coaches were still in business, that's all I can say on the matter.

I jumped off near the tube station and walked to Camden Lock, where there's a pleasant Thereisnospoon overlooking the canal. By then I was ready for breakfast, and while it was cooking I logged into my emails and sent the edited manuscript of Christian Cameron's forthcoming book back to my contact at Orion Books. I checked out the weather forecast – heavy showers all day – and ate my breakfast while watching the first fat raindrops splashing against the window. I'd got to the pub with a few minutes to spare, and that was to be pretty much the story for the rest of the day.

I finished my breakfast and decided to check out the market stalls at Camden Lock. I was there on a Friday afternoon in March, but it was thronged with tourists and not the ideal time for browsing. First thing on a Monday morning it's a completely different story. As I left the pub a narrowboat was making its way out of the lock, and I stopped to take a couple of photos. This is one holiday idea which I've fancied for many years, but I've never been able to interest enough of my friends in joining me. Perhaps one day I'll do it for real.

On my last visit to Camden Lock I’d spotted an interesting second-hand bookstall tucked away among the noodle bars and racks of t-shirts. At the time, it was packed with tourists (which doesn’t take much – more than about six customers at a time would probably constitute a fire hazard), so I decided to have another look now that I had the place to myself.

I hadn't been browsing for long when I came across the screenplays to Dennis Potter's last two TV dramas, Karaoke and Cold Lazarus, in the original Faber paperback bind-up. That was a bargain, so I snapped it up straight away and carried on browsing. I didn't find the elusive Thucydides (was everyone copy-editing Christian Cameron's latest manuscript that weekend?), but I was tempted by a good many books on the shelves. After about ten minutes I found a copy of Ginger Geezer, the biography of the cult musician, artist, broadcaster, piss-artist and all-round English eccentric Vivian Stanshall. Two books for under a tenner? Don't mind if I do, guv'nor.

I made my way back to the canal, and just as was I crossing the bridge the rain returned with a vengeance. I dived back into the pub, ordered another glass of Pepsi, and settled down to read about Mr Stanshall's remarkably conventional childhood. When the downpour ended, as suddenly as it had began, I walked back to the main street and jumped on a 134 bus to Bloomsbury.

I'd taken that route into town on my birthday, so I wasn't surprised when the recorded voice message announced 'Mornington Crescent' as we approached the station. It comes to something when the bus beats the human players in an absurd panel game, doesn't it? It was drizzling again when I jumped off near University College Hospital, so I didn't take any photos of the amazing Cruciform Building – yes, that's what it's called – or the other fine buildings in the area. I know this area pretty well now, so I made my way towards the British Museum with a little detour past Waterstones. That turned out to be a good decision. They had a box of clearance stock outside the main door, and Kurt Vonnegut Jr's novel Breakfast of Champions was reduced to a whole pound. I needed a replacement copy, so I snapped it up and then headed for the back entrance of the museum.

That turned out not to be a good decision. As with the Science Museum, they've recently instituted bag checks. As with the Science Museum, there was one person doing the checking. As with the Science Museum, there was a queue of schoolkids out of the door. I decided to leave the exhibition on Egypt’s sunken cities until I'm travelling more or less empty-handed (as usual) and concentrate on exploring instead.

I walked down the side of the museum into Russell Street, made my way past the Museum Tavern, and called into Atlantis Books for a good look around. The place has been rearranged since my last visit, and looks a lot more welcoming. There was plenty there that caught my eye, too, but I decided that buying five books in one visit to London was enough to go on with. In particular, I was shocked by how expensive the New Falcon list has become since I finished in the book trade. I don't know whether Airlift still handles their UK distribution, or whether Atlantis were sourcing them directly from the States – either way, I might try and plug the gaps in my collection via the second-hand market.

At the corner of New Oxford Street I made my way to St George's Church (again) and had a quick look at the buses heading east. The 55 to Leyton was just pulling in. While I had no intention of going that far, it would take me into Clerkenwell – a part of town I don't know at all, and according to Peter Ackroyd's London: the biography (Chatto & Windus, 2001), a psychogeographer's dream.

I have been to Clerkenwell twice before. The first time was late in 1984, when I went in search of a unisex hair salon which – according to Time Out, anyway – offered a student discount. (I found it, but it was closed on the afternoon I was there.) The second time was late in 1991, the evening after I'd recorded Fifteen to One. Ross D. was a student at the London College of Printing, and his after-lectures local was in Clerkenwell Road. Clerkenwell doesn't even feature in my little Dorling Kindersley pocket guide to London. It's not part of the City of London, as it lay just outside the city walls, but it's got a rich and varied history dating back to medieval times. It's also got some quite amazing architecture, and fascinating nooks and crannies which are definitely worth a return visit.

I jumped off the bus immediately after we'd crossed a fairly obvious bridge and retraced my steps. I'd guessed straight away that we'd crossed a railway line, and I decided to try and photograph the infrastructure below. The walls enclosing the railway cutting were easily my height, and I had no idea how thick they really were until I looked at the photos afterwards. I suppose they have to be relatively unclimbable to prevent people jumping onto the tracks. If ever a selfie stick was called for, photographing this little gap north of Farringdon Station was the time. I was lucky to get one half-decent shot while a train was coming through, but that was about it. If you've ever been on a tube train when it breaks cover for a couple of seconds, this is probably the sort of thing you're surrounded by.

I was able to get another half-decent shot of the approach to Farringdon Station itself, with two iconic London buildings – an enduring symbol of post-Fire reconstruction, and the ultramodern – side by side. (I know they're on opposite sides of the river, but you get the idea.) It's not often you get to peel back the layers of history like this, and even though it's not a great photo I quite like it.

The cutting itself is lined with some beautiful old buildings, which somehow survived the Blitz (and the sixties) relatively unscathed. In fact, Clerkenwell is crammed with unusual and eye-catching architecture. I came across a poster advertising guided walks, so I'm going to try and join one next time I'm in the area.

I wandered towards Clerkenwell Green, which Mr Ackroyd has described as 'a small area enclosed by buildings with a disused public lavatory in the middle. On both sides are narrow streets which in turn lead off into alleys or other streets, The green has its restaurants, two public houses, commercial premises and offices for architects or public relations consultants. It is, in epitome, a typical area of central London' (Ackroyd, 2001, p. 461).

Its history is much more intriguing than that, though, as Mr Ackroyd explains in the pages following that brief introduction. Wat Tyler and his rebels gathered here in 1381; in the centuries after that a whole host of proscribed (or barely tolerated) religious, political and occult-tinged groups have made it their base, just outside the City and therefore beyond the long arm of the law. It's been a notorious haunt of criminals and prostitutes until comparatively recently, too.

There's little sign of its radical history now, but just to the north I spotted a lovely church. I knew it wasn't one of Nicholas Hawksmoor's, and I didn't think it was a Wren design either. It turned out to date from quite a bit later – the end of the eighteenth century, in fact. St James's Church was designed by a local man named James Carr and built on the site of a medieval nunnery dissolved by Henry VIII.

I took a few photos of the exterior and then noticed that the door was open. I made my way inside and was struck by the perfect interior, the beautiful stained glass, and the quaint little organ in the gallery. My camera isn't best suited to interior photography (especially in low light), and I remembered – again – that I need to buy a new tripod for this sort of thing.

The churchyard seems to be a popular spot for people to sit and relax on their lunch breaks, and there were quite a few locals using it as a short cut across this mysterious district of London. I took a few more photos and then headed back towards Clerkenwell Green. Here's a fantastic street name, one of the many you'll find in this part of town.

A green plaque on a corner caught my eye. Unsurprisingly, Mr Ackroyd can shed some light on this curious character:

He was an itinerant vendor of coals who lived above the coal-shed in Jerusalem Passage … despite his humble trade, in the words of Walford's Old and New London, he 'cultivated the highest branches of music, and drew round him for years all the great musicians of the day, including even the great Handel'. … Britton's death was no less fanciful than his life. A ventriloquist named Honeyman or 'Talking Smith' 'threw' his voice and announced that, unless Britton recited the Lord’s Prayer immediately, he would expire within hours. Britton fell on his knees and prayed 'but the chord of his life was unstrung by this sudden shock'; he died a few days later … It was rumoured that he was a Rosicrucian, one of the sects which haunted Clerkenwell, and naturally believed in the efficacy of invisible spirits. So the trick of the ventriloquist, or the atmosphere of the area, deeply affected a credulous mind (Ackroyd, 2001, pp. 471–2).

I decided to walk along Jerusalem Passage and came out in St John's Square. Here I found a fantastic shop which seems to have fallen through the Rift and planted itself in modern London. I could almost picture Charles Dickens coming out of the door, armed with a ream of foolscap and some Indian ink.

I turned around and then stopped in my tracks. I must have seen it marked on the map, but I had no idea what it was, or even that this remarkable place existed.

This strange structure turned out to be St John's Gate, a remnant of the Grand Priory of the Order of the Hospital of St John of Jerusalem. This building dates from the early sixteenth century, the original having been destroyed during the Peasants' Revolt, and contains a small museum which is open a couple of days a week. However, I wasn't in museum mood after the past couple of let-downs, so I've added it to my 'to-do' list for a return visit. I decided to just wander on and see what else I could find.

I followed my nose back to the main road and found a couple more eye-catching buildings before getting slightly lost and emerging at Smithfield Market. I'd found my way there last time I was exploring the City of London, too (see Life in the Slow Lane). Why someone who hasn't eaten meat since 1987 keeps getting drawn to that spot is another peculiarity of the area, I think.

One of the beautiful things about London is the way that many buildings were fitted into the street layout, rather than the streets being designed around the buildings. Look at this fantastic space-packing exercise in bricks and mortar, for instance.

A few yards along the lane I found one of the unusual pub names that also pepper the oldest parts of the city: the Fox and Anchor. It was open, but I decided against a pub crawl – that could have turned into a lengthy and expensive exercise. Instead, I walked on and (somehow) emerged in the middle of Charterhouse Square. There's a big restoration scheme in progress at the moment, and many of the medieval buildings are hidden behind fences and sheets of polythene. Even so, I managed to get a couple of photos of this remarkable hangover from bygone days. Like St John's Gate, I'd seen it marked on the map, but I had no idea what it looked like on the ground.

I was going to carry on exploring, but as soon as I got to the Barbican the rain returned with a vengeance. I jumped onto the first available bus (which, oddly enough, was going to Liverpool Street) and took advantage of an effectively free ride along the northern perimeter of the City.

That was the end of the photographs, too. The weather was too wet for me to use the camera outdoors, so I criss-crossed the City back as far as Tottenham Court Road, walked along Oxford Street in a gap between showers, then cut through Soho (via the Coach and Horses) to Piccadilly Circus, and down Charing Cross Road to pick up a bus to Victoria Coach Station. I've written about these areas before, so I won't recap them here.

The good news is that after many years, I'm starting to know my way around the City of London. This fascinating little square mile is rich with centuries' worth of history, packed with unusual buildings, and contains surprises around every corner. Thanks to my ever-growing knowledge of the place, and armed with Tom Bolton's handy little book, I can plan systematic walks through London and bring the results to you here. Watch this space …

One Evening in the City

In which The Author explores more dusty corners of London

The weekend before last I spent a night in London, which is something I haven’t done for about twenty years. My friend Andrew C. had booked a hotel room for work purposes, and then discovered that he wouldn’t be able to use it after all. Unable to get a refund at short notice, Andrew offered the room on Facebook on the Friday morning.

I saw his posting a couple of hours later, and sent him a quick message to ask whether the offer still stood. I imagined that by this time he’d have been inundated with messages, and the room would have been snapped up within minutes.

But this is Aberdare, remember. At least half the people I know would see a night’s stay in London as equivalent to Major Tim Peake’s recently completed mission in space – a nice idea in theory, but completely beyond their reach. On the other hand, I’d missed on a trip just after Whitsun, and I still needed something to compensate for the disastrous trip on my birthday.

Nobody had taken Andrew up on his offer in the interim period. He gave me the details of the hotel, and arranged to pick me up just before midday on the Sunday morning. By this time I already had the Megabus booking form open, and it took me a minute or so to finalise the journey home.

I made my way into town early on the Sunday morning and had breakfast in Thereisnospoon. A late breakfast would set me up for the day, and save me having to take a packed lunch. I wouldn’t be short of places to have something in the evening, so the plan was coming together nicely. Andrew and his partner Dawn picked me up outside the pub, and we drove to Pontypridd to pick up Steve H. and the ‘works van’, for want of a better term.

The boys were filming in Imperial College London late in the afternoon, so they were heading for Cromwell Road. This is the area which contains ICL itself, as well as the Natural History Museum, the Science Museum and the V&A. It’s not exactly central, but it’s close to Kensington Gardens and a short tube ride from the West End. We got there at about 4.00, the lads dropped me off and headed for their rendezvous.

I headed straight for the Science Museum, which is another place on my list of things I haven’t done in London. Unfortunately, there was a queue of kids a mile long waiting to go inside. There was also heightened security at the entrance, with one person searching everyone’s bags on the way in. I decided that if I hadn’t been inside in thirty-two years, another couple of months wouldn’t make any difference. I headed to South Kensington station, topped up my Oyster card, and caught the tube to Victoria.

I thought I might have more luck with the British Museum, so I jumped on a 73 bus and sat upstairs to watch the city unfold before me. The first thing I came across when I reached Tottenham Court Road was a fairly large branch of Waterstones, so I called in. In particular, I was trying to track down Thucydides’ account of the Peloponnesian War, as background material for a project I was just finishing off. I drew a blank there, but I had a nice cup of hot chocolate and checked out the hotel in my trusty A–Z.

Andrew had told me it was on ‘the other side of Hyde Park’ and ‘near Paddington’, which doesn’t really narrow it down much. It turned out to be in Sussex Gardens, which is pretty convenient for the station.

With that sorted out, I walked across to Waterstones near the University of London. I didn’t find Thucydides there either, but I picked up a remaindered book on the Great Fire of London, and Tom Bolton’s walking guide to the lost rivers of the city.

It struck me that the shops stay open much later on a Sunday than they do in Aberdare, and quite a bit later than they do in Cardiff. The mystery was solved when I saw the opening hours on the door. They don’t open until midday, and close at 6.00 p.m., which seems a lot more civilised and user-friendly than the 10.00–4.00 arrangement in Aberdare, or even the 11.00–5.00 arrangement in Cardiff city centre. Then again, when you’ve got public transport that operates pretty much 24/7, it doesn’t make a great deal of difference. And it was these extended running hours that enabled me to take full advantage of the evening in the city.

It was too late to bother with the museum by the time I came from the shop, so I ducked into the Museum Tavern to dodge a sharp shower of rain. It's not bigger on the inside, and it was crammed with people who'd had the same idea about avoiding the weather. It charges about average London prices, and allows families in for meals, which will be worth bearing in mind for future visits.

I walked back to Oxford Street and caught a 98 bus towards Sussex Gardens. I don't know when it was built (I'm guessing early to mid-nineteenth century), but just about every one of the grand villa-style houses in the street is now a hotel. The place I was staying in was a few minutes' walk from the Edgware Road, with friendly receptionists and a nice comfy room on the ground floor.

The weather forecast had been for heavy showers, but they hadn’t materialised by the time I reached the hotel. I checked in, had a quick look at my bus map of the city centre, and decided to take my camera for a wander around.

The whole area around Paddington Station is being redeveloped as part of the Crossrail project (as is much of London, in fact), so I decided to catch a bus and see where it took me. The first bus that came along was on route 23, heading to Liverpool Street. An idea came to me, so I jumped on and made my way upstairs to get the best view of the sights.

We headed down the Edgware Road to Marble Arch, then turned onto Oxford Street. The whole street was decked with union flags to mark the Queen’s ninetieth birthday celebrations, and I took a couple of photos while we made our way along and then into Regent Street. That was lined with flags, too, and while I’m no ardent royalist it was quite thrilling to see the streets decked out like that.

I was at the front of the top deck, taking photos through the window, when a Japanese girl in her early twenties jumped into the seat opposite and started snapping away as well.

I waved my camera at her and said, ‘We’ve got the same idea.’

She laughed, and we started chatting. It was her first time in London (as I’d guessed at the outset), so I slipped effortlessly into ‘unofficial tourist mode’ and gave her some background as we headed through Piccadilly Circus, down the Haymarket, and into Trafalgar Square. For instance, did you know that the statue of Eros (officially called the Earl of Shaftesbury Memorial) was the world's first statue to be made entirely from aluminium? Neither did I until I read about it Peter Ackroyd's London: the biography.

I didn’t take many photos along this stretch (been there, done that), but I did spot an interesting relief at the top of a building on the corner of Cockspur Street. Quite why there’d be an ancient Egyptian deity here is a mystery.

I filled my fellow photographer in on snippets of history as we made our way along the Strand, through Aldwych, and past the Royal Courts of Justice to Temple Bar. I made her laugh when I pointed to the emblem of the City of London and said ‘Here be dragons!’ Then we headed into Fleet Street, where a remnant of the journalistic profession lingers on in the form of the Reuters news agency.

This area is still fairly unusual in that most pubs reflect the old City working practices: they close early on Friday night and don’t reopen until Monday morning. There were a few coffee shops open (by now it was well past 8.00), but on the whole the place was almost deserted. The area around St Paul’s was crammed with tourists, of course, and my new friend was completely blown away by the size of the place. She took loads of photos as we crawled past, and then picked up speed to descend Cannon Street. Then we hit the inevitable weekend detour, which meant that we couldn’t see the Monument (as I’d intended).

Instead we headed towards the Bank of England and the Royal Exchange, which have some of the most impressive facades in the entire City of London. It’s not easy to shoot from a moving bus (even when it’s stopped at traffic lights), but at least I know my way around for the next time I’m exploring on foot.

It’s only a short distance from here to Bishopsgate, and the terminus at Liverpool Street was a couple of minutes away. My travelling companion and I got off here, I told her to enjoy the rest of her stay, she made her way to the mainline station, and I headed out into Bishopsgate. I haven’t been to that side of town for years, and it’s been redeveloped almost recognition, but I walked along the street until I found the place I was looking for.

When Dad was living in Chadwell Heath in the 1950s, and working on the electrification of the Liverpool Street–Shenfield railway line, he and his mates used to call into a famous pub for a pint or two after work. In the late summer of 1985 he took me in there to show me one of his old haunts. I’ve been meaning to go back there for thirty years, but I’ve never got around to it before.

On that Sunday evening, seeing a bus in the Edgware Road heading right across town, I decided I was going to raise an elbow in Dad’s memory. I don’t know why. Maybe in the back of my mind I had the ‘it’s been ten years’ thing going on. Maybe it was just because I was on my own in London fairly late in the evening, which I very rarely am. Perhaps it was a combination of the two. Or maybe after a long day I just fancied a pint.

Whatever the reason, I was really pleased to see that Dirty Dick’s hasn’t been turned into some dreadful theme bar, or a craft ale outlet full of millennial hipsters, or (worst of all) totally unaffordable flats. It’s still an old-school boozer, with a small bar, a TV showing the football, a few tables dotted around the place, and friendly staff. There’s an area upstairs as well, but I didn’t venture up there. I bought a pint, logged into the wifi on my phone, and sent a couple of tweets about having a nice nostalgia trip. I wondered about having a bite to eat, but it was getting quite late and it seemed as though the kitchen was about to close.

I bought another pint and chatted to the barbint for a while. I told her how long it had been since I first went in there for a pint, and it turned out she wasn’t even born then. I went to the gents, and on the way back into the bar I met a chap wearing an England football shirt. We had a laugh about Wales being at the top of the group, and he took it in good part, fair play.

I finished my pint and walked back into Bishopsgate. Only a short distance from the pub I found one of the many mysterious thoroughfares which pepper the City of London, together with its unusual name.

I didn’t walk through this tiny passageway, but if I had I would have emerged in Middlesex Street – the respectable Victorian renaming of Petticoat Lane, probably the East End’s most famous outdoor market. That’s an adventure for another visit, I think.

I caught another bus (route 8) and retraced my journey through the City as far as St Paul’s. The bus took an unexpected turn here, and I lost my bearings for a few minutes. We were in High Holborn before I was able to work out where we'd been. I spotted a Thereisnospoon on the main road, and it was still open, so I jumped off and walked back a couple of hundred yards.

A Thereisnospoon is a Thereisnospoon wherever you are in the country, so I knew I could have something off the ‘Deli Deals’ menu and not spend a fortune. This one is called Penderel’s Oak. Richard Penderel was a Catholic farmer during the English Civil War, and the future Charles II famously hid in an oak tree on his land after the Battle of Worcester. It seems to be one the few places in the City open on a Sunday night. I ordered a snack and found a table near some bookcases full of law textbooks, a fair number of which predate even my time selling them.

There was a group of people in their early twenties, all of different nationalities, on the next table. I guessed they were students celebrating the end of their exams. One of them asked me if I’d take a photo of the whole gang with his phone, which I was happy to do. By this time, the pubs in Aberdare would have been winding down and people would have been heading for home. The gang next to me seemed as though they were just getting started. What a contrast!

I finished up and headed back to the bus stop, hoping to get a service straight back to Edgware Road. I was out of luck, but the first bus (a 55) was heading to Oxford Circus, which was about the halfway point of my journey. I decided it would do. At least the rain had held off, so I didn’t mind the prospect of walking back to Sussex Gardens if push came to shove. Failing that, I could always get the tube to Edgware Road and walk from there.

At Oxford Circus a 98 bus arrived, which was heading along Edgware Road. I jumped on and retraced my steps from earlier that day. As soon as we rounded Marble Arch I was amazed to see the street thronged with people; the bars and restaurants which line both sides of the road were crowded; even the little supermarkets and the chemist were still open. It dawned on me then that it’s Ramadan – many families would have gone out after sunset to break their fast, and would probably stay out past midnight.

Not for the first time I realised how much I miss the varied and cosmopolitan life that London has to offer. On the way up, Steve H. had said something about Paddington ‘being rough at night’. Well, as usual, I felt a hell of a lot safer walking around London at night than I would have felt walking home from the centre of Aberdare.

I got back to the hotel just before 11.00, and couldn’t sleep even though I’d had a long day. I read Mr Bolton’s book on the lost rivers for a while, and finally turned in at about 1.30. I don’t think I slept at all, mind, and I was awake at the crack of dawn the following morning.

This Sporting Life

In which The Author is on the run

Quite by accident, I seem to have invented a new sport. Unlike William Webb Ellis's famous departure from the rulebook at Rugby School, though, I can't see this one catching on any time soon.

I call it DODGEBORE.

I've actually been playing the game at strictly amateur level for about thirty years, but I started taking it seriously back in 2009. I reported on some of the matches during my university days in my other blog, starting with 'Freaks, Geeks and Space Invaders'. Over the past eighteen months or so, however, I've thrown myself into it with a passion and a devotion which I've found quite astonishing.

It's surprisingly easy to play, requiring absolutely no specialist equipment or regular training. All you need to do is identify people who are likely to bend your ear for hours about devolution/rugby/immigration/'the council'/trips down Memory Lane/the NHS/reality TV/public transport/Euro 2016/stamp collecting/the European Union/the Second World War/whatever, and then make up a perfectly believable excuse for running very quickly in the opposite direction. The winner is the person who manages to make it through a whole week without being captured by one (or more) ill-informed fuckwits.

For a comparatively small town, Aberdare has several first-rate Dodgebore pitches, including the Prince of Wales, Thereisnospoon, the Lighthouse, the Market Tavern … In fact, every pub offers the novice player ample opportunity to hone his/her skills against a huge number of vastly experienced, full-time, professional Bores.

For those of you who don't fancy a pint, fear not. The library has a large crowd of regular Bores (every morning between 10.30 and midday) who will give you plenty of scope to develop your Dodgebore abilities.

When the weather is fine, outdoor Dodgebore is a great way to spend half an hour. Simply park your arse on one of the benches in town and Bores will gather as if by magic. After a few moments a Dodgebore match will kick off around you, leaving you to work out an exit strategy without appearing rude or resorting to foul language.

Experienced players of the game have a number of 'gambits' (short strategic sequences) which can be employed whenever a Bore hoves into view. My personal favourites include 'I can't stop – I've got to catch a train' and 'I can't stop – I've got a doctor's/dentist's/hospital appointment.'

A word of caution: being busy with work doesn't deter the professional Bore. The prevailing belief in the Valleys holds that you aren't actually working unless you're down a coal mine, serving in the armed forces, standing on the production line in a factory, sitting in an office, or punching the till in a shop – and even that last option isn't a safeguard against being invited to play the game. Working on a manuscript in public is as good an invitation to play Dodgebore as anything else I've encountered so far in my sporting career.

Furthermore, Bores can find you anywhere, at any time of the day or night. Just this morning I had to play the 'train' gambit against a notorious Bore before I'd even arrived in Aberdare. There were gasps from the crowd as my quick thinking and nifty footwork enabled me to give her the slip with remarkable ease. (Admittedly, it completely fucked any chance of my going for breakfast in Thereisnospoon – but there's no such thing as a perfect strategy.)

In fact, I'm becoming so good at the game that I'm seriously thinking about turning professional. There won't be any money in it, of course, but I might be able to secure some corporate sponsorship to tide me over. When I become too old to play for real, maybe I can coach youngsters in the subtle art of telling certain people to go fuck themselves without actually using those very words. It's more of an art than a science, after all.

Jesus Christ Almighty!

In which The Author accepts a dare

A couple of months ago, one of my friends threw down a metaphorical gauntlet in my general direction. Deb J. (for it was she) was on Facebook, and said something like, ‘Tickets are now on sale for the Colstars’ production of Jesus Christ Superstar. Book now. You won’t be disappointed.'

Well, I know a comedy feed line when I see it, so I replied, ‘I bet I will be – I’m usually disappointed by Lloyd Webber’s stuff.’

Deb responded a few minutes later and dared me to go to the show. She was so confident I’d enjoy it that she even offered to pay for my ticket if I decided to bale out halfway through.

Now, I do like many of the classic musicals, and some of the more offbeat ones too – Oliver!, My Fair Lady, The Wizard of Oz, Scrooge, and Paint Your Wagon are definitely among my favourites. A fairly late addition to the list is Chicago (and thereby hangs a karaoke tale not suitable for family viewing). However, I’ve always fought shy of the Rice/Lloyd Webber oeuvre for some reason.

It’s absolutely nothing to do with Sir Tim’s way with words – indeed, he’s one of the wittiest and most entertaining semi-regulars on Just a Minute. It’s nothing to do with his lordship’s compositions, either. It’s just that I’ve only heard the ‘greatest hits’ when they’ve been in the UK charts, and thus taken totally out of context. Think of ‘Memories’ performed by Elaine Paige, or ‘Oh, What a Circus’ performed by David Essex, and you’ll see what I mean. They’re great pop songs, but I’ve never taken the time to listen to the entire show and see where they fit in.

Jesus Christ Superstar is slightly different. I remember watching the film on TV when I was probably in my early teens, and I simply didn’t get it. I couldn’t remember any of the songs (apart from the title song, of course), and I recall being utterly baffled by the film.

There was a single of ‘I Don’t Know How to Love Him’ released quite a few years ago, and I remember thinking then that I probably needed to revisit the show. When I was involved with YES (the Youth Entertainment Society, not the legendary prog rock combo) we seriously talked about staging it. Then circumstances kinda got in the way, so our production never got further than the discussion stage.

I also haven’t been to see the Colstars for ages, in spite of knowing several people involved with the group. As the name suggests, they strut their stuff a couple of times a year at the Coliseum in Trecynon. I think the last production I saw them do was a brilliant Fiddler on the Roof (another of my favourites). I think they fell off my radar when it became virtually impossible to get home from work in time for the show, and never really made it back on screen for some reason.

Anyway, I decided to accept Deb’s challenge when I found out who would be appearing in the show. My old friend Chris Davies, the former keyboard player with Cripplecreek and a phenomenal musician in his own right, had been cast as Simon Zealotes. Chris had also persuaded our eccentric pal Geraint Benney to audition for the part of Herod. Geraint is probably best known for his comedy creation Elvis Preseli (the world’s only bald, Welsh-speaking, burger-frying Elvis tribute act who doesn’t actually sing any Elvis songs). Having played Herod himself in an amateur production a little while back, Chris had a crazy idea that Geraint would fit the part to a T. Best of all, Chris’s teenage son Iwan, whom I’d only met briefly a few years earlier, was playing the title role.

Geraint, Chris, Iwan, Jonathan E. and I ended up sharing a table in Thereisnospoon on a Sunday afternoon a couple of months ago. I started chatting to Iwan about his ongoing applications for drama school. After notching up a couple of background artist appearances in Doctor Who and Torchwood, he’d tried for the last intake for RADA, but had failed to get a place. Since then he’d been accepted for LAMDA, and was giving RADA another shot. (I found out on Saturday that he’s got in. Kudos!) A few weeks later we were in the pub again, and Geraint was so enthusiastic about the show that I decided to accept Deb’s challenge and check it out for myself.

Over time the posters went up, too – including one in my neighbour Eirlys’s window. Eirlys is Hannah W.’s mother, and a long-standing member of the society. Hannah asked me if I was planning to go, and I said I’d try and make it if I could.

By an odd coincidence, Elaine Paige played one of the songs from the show on her Radio 2 programme last Sunday. I’d honestly forgotten what a great groove it had. If I hadn’t already had my arm twisted enough, that was the final persuasion I needed.

On the very sensible grounds that quite a few of my friends were going to be in the show, I went along on Friday night. The place was heaving when I arrived, and I was lucky to get a seat downstairs, seven rows from the front. The curtains were closed, and I could hear the band tuning up in the orchestra pit. There was a real buzz in the auditorium, and I spotted a fair number of my friends dotted around the stalls.

The overture struck up and the curtains opened to reveal probably the most minimal set I’ve ever seen: a flat painted to resemble a stone wall, with a gateway in the middle; two flats at either side of the stage, again resembling a wall, and a slightly raised platform centre stage. Two Roman soldiers came on, leading a man carrying a cross (which looked really heavy, too), and exited on the opposite side.

Enter Judas, played by a young man named Daniel Thomas. I haven’t met him before, but I’m sure I know his face from somewhere. (He’s either been on TV, or he’s got a lookalike.) Judas is obviously trying to give the soldiers and the Pharisees the slip. At first I wondered whether it was going to be a modern dress production – maroon jeans probably weren’t the rage in first century Judea – but when the disciples and the chorus came on, it was obvious that they’d gone for a Biblical setting.

The men were wearing loose trousers, tunics, and the sort of scarves which are still worn in the Middle East today, while the women wore plain dresses and headscarves. In addition, every one of them wore sandals (did the charity shops in Aberdare do a roaring trade in the run-up to the dress rehearsals?), which must have made the dance routines quite a challenge.

And then the singing started. Straight away I was blown away by the power and passion in Dan’s voice, and by the precision with which the chorus wove their patterns around the front line. The band were tighter than a gnat’s chuff (as they used to say in Viz), and the young men and women in the main roles were simply astonishing. Since I’ve already namechecked Iwan and Daniel, I’ll credit the rest of them as well: Bethan Karen Jones as Mary Magdalene, Richard Lee Thomas as Pilate, Kieran Griffiths as Peter, and Daniel James as one of the priests; alongside them were the ‘old hands’ Derek Williams as Caiaphas and James Dyer as Annas. The purity of Bethan’s voice, the power of Lee's, and the richness of Derek’s, made me wonder if I actually was watching an amateur production.

The chorus, a fine blend of younger and more experienced players, were just as strong as the front line. Nobody put a foot wrong, nobody dropped a note, nobody missed a cue; it was an emotional rollercoaster of pure pleasure and a joy to witness. The moment when Chris and Iwan got to perform together will doubtless be a memory they’ll treasure for ever.

With no set changes, bar the addition of some colourful banners during Geraint’s turn as the campest Herod ever (think Sir Elton John doing Elvis Presley), a table for the Last Supper, and (of course) Christ’s cross for the heart-stopping climax, the Colstars delivered a fine lesson in doing more with less.

There were some great costumes on display, too: the sinister black garb of the Pharisees; the rather Pharaonic styling for Herod and his backing singers; Pilate’s magnificent outfit; the rags worn by Jesus’ supplicants … I can only imagine the chaos backstage as people changed their clothes in record time.

Judas’ post-suicide reappearance in black trousers and a black shirt topped with a sparkly red waistcoat, delivering the title song to a shattered Jesus, huddled sobbing in the corner, backed by Deb and two other women in Supremes-style outfits, accompanied by the whole chorus in shiny blue and silver, was the perfect random touch to bring the story to its inevitable and heart-stopping climax. The crucifixion itself wasn’t played down, either – Iwan’s remarkable performance as the suffering man was alone worth the price of admission.

Dispensing with the usual curtain calls, the show ended on a suitably downbeat note, with the main players taking the stage once more for a solemn single bow before the curtains closed. I sat for a couple of minutes before making my way outside, reflecting on what an absolute treat I’d just experienced, a few minutes’ walk from my house on a Friday evening.

I know I've referred to this previously (in my old Wordpress blog), but I never had the chance to get involved in a show like that. An all-boys school in the late 1970s and early 1980s was focused almost entirely on sport, or on choral singing. The chance to do something a bit different only came about when the culture of the place changed, a couple of years after I'd finished my A levels. Outside school, the only shows that people put on were Gilbert and Sullivan operettas or things like The Student Prince – all very well, but still stuck well and truly in the past.

Now, young people have a chance to study Performing Arts in school, as well as take part in exciting contemporary productions like last week's. Or, at least, at the moment they do. Moves are afoot by the government to shove Performing Arts out of the curriculum, or to make it so inaccessible that many people won't even bother trying to study it. In addition, small theatres are facing closure, and the sort of companies which give youngsters a chance to see what it's like to be on stage are winding down.

And yet I was in London on Sunday and Monday. The West End is are full of musicals and plays which are impossible to get tickets for, and which between them must pull in a colossal amount of money from tourists, British and foreign alike. The performing arts in general account for a sizable chunk of the country's GDP. It's the young people – the likes of Iwan and his amazingly talented friends – who are going to keep British theatre alive in years to come.

It's not just a question of the class system preventing youngsters from trying out for audition places (although that plays an enormous part in the equation, as has been pointed out by some critics recently.) J. K. Rowling pointed out just last week that kids from poorer families stand little or no chance of even seeing a play in a major theatre, never mind getting the opportunity to get involved at a deeper level.

If ordinary kids from places like this are going to play their part (no pun intended) in the cultural life of our country, then groups like the Colstars and venues like the Coliseum are vitally important. They're the breeding ground for the next generation of real stars, after all, not the queues of people waiting to parade themselves in front of Simon Cowell.

After the show, I asked on Facebook if anyone had photos from the dress rehearsals that I could publish on here. Derek, the director of the show and one of the mainstays of the group, very kindly emailed me some pictures yesterday, so I'll share them with you now.

So, you won’t be surprised to learn that Deb’s money is safe.

In fact, I enjoyed it so much I went again on Saturday night. You can’t say fairer than that, can you?