No More Mr Nice Guy

In which The Author announces a change to the basic terms and conditions

I told you last time that I was in an extremely unpleasant frame of mind last week. I baled out of the Lighthouse on Thursday evening without singing – for the third week in a row – and without even saying goodbye to anyone.

Well, things haven't improved. The brief spell of fine weather we've had this week has done nothing to lift my mood. I've had precious little sleep because of the pain in my shoulder, which is only responding reluctantly to strong painkillers and industrial quantities of ibuprofen. (Ironically, the only times I have fallen asleep is while watching a film called Oblivion – not once but twice. Talk about the power of suggestion, eh?) Following a phone call from the minor injuries unit at my local hospital last week, I had to go to the fracture clinic at Prince Charles Hospital on Tuesday.

I hate going to that place anyway. A ten minute journey by car takes the best part of an hour and a half by public transport. Even though five buses an hour allegedly come past my house on their way to Merthyr Tydfil, I waited nearly thirty minutes for one. I just about made my connection at the other end, and then went on the now-traditional grand tour of the Gurnos estate. I'm fairly sure it would be quicker to jump off the bus partway into the journey, and walk to the hospital. I'll have to pack my street atlas next time, and try it for myself.

I got to the reception desk a few seconds before my appointment time. I checked in and headed for the waiting area, only to find a notice announcing that they were running approximately fifty minutes behind schedule. I Tweeted about the delay at 12.25, and added – half-jokingly – that I was tempted to go for lunch and come back later. I finally saw the specialist about an hour and a half after I arrived. The good news that the damage isn't as severe as the X-ray had hinted. With time and a few gentle exercises, it should settle down. Oddly enough, that's pretty much what Dr Wardrop told me when I first went to him about my right shoulder, back in the spring of 2001. I've got a feeling this one could run and run.

I was glad to get out of the hospital. I decided not to bother with the bus back into Merthyr. I had my camera with me, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. I took advantage of a free afternoon to wander around Cefn Coed y Cymmer, filling some gaps in my Vanishing Valleys project. I was hoping to find my way to the spectacular viaduct that spans the Taff, but I had to settle for a couple of fairly decent photos instead. It's another map job, I think.

I walked back into Merthyr, had a quick browse in the Works, jumped on the first bus and got back to Aberdare at about 4.00. I headed straight to the Lighthouse for a soft drink and some more co-codamol. I think I was in there for about five minutes – if that. The barbint, in common with most of her kind these days, was more interested in playing with her phone than in serving customers. In fact, everyone in the pub seemed to be engrossed with their phones. Let me explain …

I'd barely got through the door when Joe grabbed me and demanded, 'Who's singing with Meat Loaf on this song?'

'Don't know, don't care,' I replied.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Meat Loaf is 'rock music' for people who don't actually like rock music. I really couldn't give a fuck who was singing with him on a song I'd be very hard pressed to identify in the first place.

Even more annoying than being expected to recall pointless pop trivia at the drop of a hat was the fact that everyone sitting at the bar – Joe included – had fucking smartphones in their hands. Call me a revolutionary if you like, but if you're connected to the internet, why don't you fucking look it up yourself?

Having eventually managed to get served, I put up a Facebook status to that effect, swallowed two painkillers, drained my can, and left.

[A digression: I'm writing this in the Cambrian, because I needed another couple of painkillers and something to wash them down. One pub bore whose name I can't recall – always assuming I knew it in the first place – has just approached me 'to ask you something.'

I said, 'I'm working, sorry,' and went back to my typing. I don't know what he wanted, nor do I especially care. It can't have been anything too intellectually demanding, because one of the town's many chronic alcoholics was able to give him a satisfactory answer – and he's currently struggling with the Sun crossword. One lovely thing about working from home is that you can play the 'I'm working' card in pretty much any circumstances. It doesn't always work – it has yet to stop the Ancient Mariner in his tracks – but it's usually worth a try.]

I had to go the post office in Trecynon yesterday. I was chatting to my pal Liam online last week, and he asked me what I'd recommend as a good place to start reading Michael Moorcock. That was a tricky one, because so many of Mr Moorcock's books are interconnected (see 'A Head of Steam'). I suggested Mother London, which is one of his few standalone novels, and which I'd borrowed from Aberdare Library back when they still had books on the shelves. I'd passed up the chance to buy a secondhand hardback edition in a shop in Chepstow, when I was there with Pam a long time ago, and have never come across it since. I had a quick look on Amazon, and found a copy on offer for the princely sum of one penny, plus postage. Job done!

I think I've mentioned that Martin,our local postmaster, retired recently, and the dedicated post office closed. In common with a lot of smaller villages, its services have been transferred to the corner shop – in our case, the Spar, a few doors away.

I like the owner and his family, and the girls who work there are friendly and decent types, but he also employs two young lads who can politely be described as chavs. Their grasp of English seems rudimentary at best, and neither of them have the first idea about customer service. My heart sank as soon as I saw who was manning the counter, and I knew I'd have to explain in minute detail about the scheduled redelivery service. As it turned out, the book hadn't actually arrived, and it still took that thick twat about five minutes to find out. I made a mental note to have future deliveries redirected to the main office in Aberdare, where the staff not only know about the services on offer, but they also know how to talk to customers.

Anyway, I was potching with my recent photos in the library when Rowland strolled in. He'd been to see his mother, and needed a pint. I told him I knew that feeling, so I packed up my gear and we headed for the pub. I hadn't intended to have a pint, but since I haven't seen him since before the referendum, it would have been rude to refuse. We went to Thereisnospoon, which was fairly quiet for a Wednesday afternoon, and had a good catch-up over a few pints.

When Rowland went to catch his train, I headed for the Glosters, where Shannon was planning her going away party in style. After that, I called to the Cambrian, thinking I might stick around for the quiz. Islwyn came in, followed shortly by Andrew S. and Rob H. The quiz master was a first-timer, and – without wishing to sound rude – it kinda showed from the outset. I don't know what the fuck has happened to the quiz recently, but everyone seems to try and introduce far too many gimmicks and techie ideas that don't really work in practice. In addition, at least half the questions seem to be based on celebrities, TV programmes and advertising slogans. It's not what my old friend Paul David had in mind when he used to set his fun quizzes, back in the late 1980s. They certainly wouldn't pass muster in an Alan Everett quiz, either.

By the time it got underway I was fairly pissed, and not really in the mood for too-clever-by-half ideas from someone who'd never set a quiz before. I spent a lot of time heckling, and the whole thing made me even more determined to go back to basics when I return to the big chair on 2 November.

But this entry is called 'No More Mr Nice Guy' for a reason. As mentioned previously, I decided last week to have what Facebookers call a 'cull' – pruning the dead wood from my friends list. I hadn't realised how many of my friends had deactivated their profiles until I went into my list and scrolled to the end. That was a fairly self-selecting group, fair play. Then I literally found the dead wood – at least four people on my friends list have passed away, but their profiles are still active. Since I'm not expecting any online activity from them any time soon, I didn't have to worry about offending anyone by unfriending them.

Then I had to get rid of a few more people who fell into the category I mentioned last time. Chazza was pretty near the top of my list – since she'd completely blanked me on Thursday evening, I'd pretty much made up my mind to bin her anyway. Oddly enough, I had a text from her just after midnight on Saturday morning. I didn't reply, and announced on Facebook on Sunday that my phone had crashed, and deleted all my texts and a lot of my contacts. With this piece of shit phone, it's not beyond the realms of possibility, believe me.

Since then I haven't heard from her at all. I noticed from her own recent status that she'd gone to Cardiff one night, and was trying to arrange for someone to bring her home. (What was I saying a couple of weeks about the alarm bells ringing when she suggested we could have an evening down there?) I deleted both her old and new profiles, just to be on the safe side.

And this morning, when I logged on to Facebook, I found a message from Claire S, Gema's pal. She wanted to know why I was so rude to them last week. I told her that I'd been in a lot of pain (which was true) and that the beer wasn't really helping (which was also true). Then I thanked her for reminding me of something I needed to do – and unfriended Gema as well. Nothing personal, you understand, but the whole point about cutting out negative people from your life is to not allow them in through the back door.

So far today I've spoken to Simon in the library, Ian, Sarah, Jimmy N. and Charlie the barbint (all in the Cambrian), and Doz H. in Specsavers. I had to call in because one of my lenses had popped out last night. I said, 'Promise me you won't laugh – but I've got a screw loose.'

And, of course, I've spoken to one of the decent chaps in the Spar/post office. It's nothing personal against the owners, but – as I said earlier – it'll be the last time I have a parcel redirected there. I don't want to have to deal with a semi-literate fuckwit chav every time I have to pick something up.

Everyone else I've dealt with today has either had the brush-off or the metaphorical middle finger. It's a growing trend, and it looks set to continue. In the words of Alice Cooper (another case of 'rock music' for people who don't actually like rock music), it's going to be No More Mr Nice Guy all the way from now on.

I don't think I'll even bother going to the Lighthouse tonight. It's getting too much like hard work trying to get served in there, because all the barbints find whatever's happening on Facebook far more stimulating than serving customers. I'm going to drink up here and head to the Glosters, because the wifi in the Cambrian isn't working (as usual). Then I might head up to Thereisnospoon and see if there's anyone in the beer garden worth talking to. Failing that, I'll take my book home. Michael Moorcock's fictional world is so much more inviting than the real alternative, after all.