The Not-so Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle

In which The Author has the feeling he might have been cheated

I won't go into too much detail about this latest adventure. Suffice it to say that the other person concerned has been mentioned a couple of times in this blog already. I don't know whether she reads it – but if she does, well …

This story begins a few Thursdays ago, when I was out for karaoke in the Lighthouse. The usual gang were there, and we were drinking and chatting in between songs. One of the girls had just split up with her (female) partner after being cheated on, so she was feeling rather tired and emotional. Towards the end of the evening she asked me if I'd take her home in a taxi, as she didn't want to wait on the rank on her own.

I asked her where she lived, and she told me 'Aberaman.' Now, I spent quite a bit of time exploring Aberaman for the Vanishing Valleys and Street Names Projects, so I know that it's much bigger than you might imagine from the map.

I asked, 'Is that the Curre Street end or the Chapel Street end?'

'Maes y Deri', she replied.

I said, 'Good God, that's almost Pontypridd!'

It's a slight exaggeration, but it's pretty much as far south as you can get and still remain technically within Aberaman. But I agreed all the same, and rang a couple of numbers I had stored in my wallet.

We ended up getting a car off the rank at about midnight. Because the driver lives not far from me he didn't charge me for the return leg.

I didn't feel too bad about picking up the tab for that, to be honest. If I'd caught a taxi on my own it would have cost me nearly four quid. An extra pound to make sure my friend got home safely seemed like a decent investment.

The following Thursday we were both rather pissed by the end of the night, having gone from the Lighthouse to the Bush for the karaoke there. There was a decent gang out that night – Gema, Thi Nga, Mair H., Wendy, and another few people I haven't seen for a while – and for once the Bush was fairly bearable. We stayed out until closing time, and once again we jumped in a taxi to make sure my friend got home okay.

Anyway, the Saturday after that I was in London. On the Sunday my friend and I had pencilled in a visit to the Harlequins Bowls Club, behind the Coliseum in Trecynon. The Colstars were auditioning for Hairpsray; as I've previously mentioned, I think my friend would enjoy the Colstars. Even though she's missed out on the casting for the forthcoming show, I invited her along to meet some of the gang and see what it's all about.

I messaged her on Facebook on the Sunday afternoon, but she was skint and couldn't even afford the bus up to Trecynon. I couldn't sub her, either, because I was pretty much cleaned out after London. We said, 'Never mind, these things happen,' and agreed to go along another time.

The following Thursday I didn't go out at all, because I've been suffering from frequent dizzy spells over the past fortnight or so. My GP reckons it's just a touch of vertigo, and nothing to worry about. In fact, we had a bit of a laugh about it when I was in the surgery.

'Ironic, isn't it?', I said. 'Last weekend I climbed the Monument in London and didn't bat an eyelid. Over the weekend I could barely get upstairs without wobbling.'

On the Monday I was in town when I bumped into my friend. We went to Thereisnospoon for a coffee, and then embarked on a mini pub-crawl. (Actually, a full-scale pub crawl in Aberdare only takes about two hours these days.) All the time, I was waiting for her to put her hand in her pocket, as she'd just been paid, but it didn't happen.

When we were in Prince of Wales, I put some songs on the jukebox. I've been hunting for male/female duets that we might want to try out on a Thursday. Halfway through one of them, she said, 'This is so gay!'

I said, 'You can talk!'

'I'm bisexual,' she objected. I remembered Lawrence Durrell's line about bisexual people just wanting the best of both worlds, but I didn't mention it to her face.

On Wednesday evening last week I was in the Cambrian. It was quiz night. As an old friend of mine was in town for a few days, I'd decided to stick around and catch up with him and the other lads. I'd been there for about five minutes when I had a text asking if I around. Guess who it was from …

She asked if she could come over, so I invited her to join me. When she arrived I'd only really just started my first pint. (I was looking through a little bit of copy for another friend of mine at the time.) She got a drink, and I finished what I was doing while she looked through Facebook on her phone. We chatted for a little while, and then her phone rang.

It was her brother – allegedly – asking her to meet him off the train in Aberdare. She drank up, said she'd be straight back, and headed off to the station. By 9.30 it was fairly obvious that she wasn't coming back. The quiz was a bit of a shambles anyway, so I texted her to say she wasn't missing a great deal, apart from our sparkling company.

I didn't go to karaoke last week either, so I haven't seen my friend since last week. However, this lunchtime she texted me out of the blue to see if I fancied going to Cardiff tonight. She didn't say what venue she had in mind, but apparently the drinks are a quid each. I dare say you have to pay about ten quid to get in, though. (I didn't work in Cardiff for nearly twenty years without learning a thing or two about the nightlife down there.) I said that if we went to Cardiff tonight, I wouldn't be able to go to karaoke tomorrow as well.

She replied that she wouldn't be out tomorrow anyway.

I asked her what time she was planning on going.

When she told me she'd be getting the last train from Aberdare, and returning at about 2 a.m., the alarm bells started ringing very loudly in my head.

Since Dai the Shit Engine has to be safely tucked up in bed by midnight every night, I thought 'taxi!' immediately. The last time I caught a taxi home from Cardiff, Waterstones paid for it and didn't get much change from fifty notes. That was over ten years ago. Go figure …

But no, apparently, we'd be able to have a lift back with her brother's girlfriend. Now I've never met her brother, but I've seen him around town and on her Facebook, and (jumping to conclusions, I know) I don't like the look of him. I doubt if we'd hit it off somehow. I certainly wouldn't want to rely on complete strangers for a lift home at stupid o'clock.

Especially if – as is quite possible – my friend meets someone her own age, and with an active sex life, and vanishes halfway through the night.

So I didn't even leave before making my excuses this time.

I waited a little while, then texted her back. I told her I'd arranged to go out early with my good friend Alwyn the artist, to scope out possible locations for paintings. Since then, silence has fallen.

I was talking to another couple of friends the evening before last, and her name cropped up in conversation. They told me that she's got a bit of a reputation as a user – not of drugs, remarkably for Aberdare, but of people. I'd kind of suspected this for myself after the past few weeks, but I'd decided to let it go for the time being.

However, sharing a taxi to the arse-end of Aberaman, and subbing her a couple of pints beforehand, is one thing. Going to Cardiff on what might well be a fool's errand is a hell of a leap from there.

It's not as though we're even going to end up in any sort of relationship. She's quite literally young enough to be my granddaughter. The only way we're ever going to get 'together' is with mics in our hands on a Thursday evening. She knows it; I know it; everyone else knows it. She's a nice girl, and she's undeniably a talented singer. She's attractive and quite bright, but that sort of age gap is totally absurd. I had my fingers burned too many times with girls of that age when I was still young enough to be considered a viable prospect.

In fact, the more I think about it, I'm really glad I decided to listen to my Inner Sensible Person, instead of being led around by my prick, as usually happens on these occasions. Even if my Inner Sensible Person did sound surprisingly like Johnny Rotten leaving the stage at the Winterland Theater, San Francisco, on 14 January 1978 …