A Hair-Raising Experience

In which The Author goes to the theatre yet again

In keeping with my promise to support our local performing arts scene to the best of my ability, I took Clare E. to the Coliseum on Saturday night. The Colstars were doing a show called Hairspray, which was completely new to me.

Clare is about half my age, and far more in touch with contemporary shows than I am. We met about a year ago, (naturally) through our shared interest in music; she's another of the Aberdare karaoke regulars. She'd already warned me that it was along the lines of High School Musical. I'd replied that it couldn't possibly be any worse than Grease, which I suffered in the cinema when I was twelve years old. It was that summer's 'blockbuster hit', apparently, so we went to see it purely out of a sense of 'everyone else has seen it'.

[A digression: I should have known better, really, having endured 1977's 'summer blockbuster hit' Star Wars during our previous holiday. It was only a Close Encounter with Steven Spielberg's mystifying masterpiece, a few weeks after Grease, that assured my lifelong fascination with Science Fiction – which, after nearly four decades, very neatly landed me the job I'm doing now.

I think it's fair to say that Grease almost entirely – and perhaps unfairly – coloured my vision of US teen musicals. I found the 'story' impenetrable, maybe because I was a boy from the Valleys and not especially interested in chasing girls at the age of twelve. How the hell I was supposed to relate to a US high school setting is a mystery I've never quite solved. It's only over the past few years that I've been able to listen to some of the songs without wincing. I certainly couldn't sit through the film again, never mind experience the whole show.

Hannah W. gave me a little more background to Hairpsray at her mother's birthday party a couple of months ago. In particular, she was wondering how the Colstars would be able to cast the black characters. After all, Aberdare isn't the most culturally diverse of communities, in spite of the chunterings of the Debating Society et al. Showcase and Colstars have a young lad of Indian heritage in their line-up (he's the chap with a flair for visual comedy I mentioned when I wrote up Hello, Dolly recently), but otherwise Hannah and I were baffled.

'Surely they wouldn't "black up" for a show,' I said, rather aghast at the idea. I vaguely remember the horrible spectacle of The Black and White Minstrel Show on TV when I was a kid. The whole thing seemed unlikely at best, and very uncomfortable at worst.

A couple of weeks ago Liam J. came into the library on a Monday afternoon, and rescued me from the merciless droning of the Local History Dalek. We repaired to Thereisnospoon and had one of our enjoyable free jazz conversations over a couple of drinks. Liam told me that Hairpsray was inspired by the John Waters film, which is a cult classic among some of my friends. He gave me a bit more background, but I was still none the wiser (I've never seen any of Mr Waters' films, except Serial Mom).

While I was browsing the DVDs in a charity shop last week, I came across a copy of the film of the show of the film (if you know what I mean). I could have bought it there and then, but I decided I was going to go into the show completely fresh, and without any preconceptions of how it 'should' be done.

On Saturday I met Clare in town, and we had a pint before heading to the Coliseum. We were first through the doors, because I had to collect our reserved tickets from Julie G. (and that's a story in itself!) We had a Coke each in the bar while we waited for the start of the show. Chris D. came in while I was waiting to be served, and told me that his wife Cath and his daughter Mali were both in the cast. Soon after that, I spotted Iwan joining Chris and the rest of his family. He was the talk of the town this weekend, because his picture had appeared in Saturday's edition of The Times. They'd done a feature on the incredibly competitive RADA application process, and Iwan had been photographed with some of his fellow first-years. (Afterwards, in the foyer, I teased him that his brief stint in London had put years on him. According to the photo caption, he's twenty-five years old.) He'd come back for a flying visit to check out his friends' latest show.

Clare and I were sitting three rows from the front, right in the middle, which gave us great views of the stage. The musicians were tuning up as we took our seats, and a gauze curtain with the show logo was obscuring the set. The lights went down, Clare gave my arm a squeeze, and we were off.

And I can honestly say that I enjoyed every minute of it. I love that doo-wop style of pre-Beatles bubblegum teen pop anyway, and the music set my feet tapping from the word 'go'. Once again, the energy and enthusiasm of the youngsters blew me away. The acting and singing were on a par with anything you'd see in a professional production; the costumes were vivid and authentic for the period; the lighting was atmospheric and exciting; the minimal set design proved once again that it's possible to do more with less.

The only slightly uncomfortable parts (for me, anyway) were the scenes where white people were playing black people, with obvious Afro wigs and a bit too much fake tan, but not really carrying it off. It was a slight improvement on the old am-dram standby of cocoa powder, but it made for awkward watching all the same. I couldn't help wondering whether a quick shout-out at the University of South Wales mightn't have turned up some talented performers who'd have been more suited to the roles. Still, when you've got a man playing the protagonist's mother, you can put it all down to the high camp nature of the Waters original.

In fact, my Tweet sent at the end summed up the whole evening: 'High camp, high energy, high hair.' I should have added 'hi-jinx' to the proceedings, as I mentioned on the Colstars Facebook page later on. You could tell that it was the last night, because things were going wrong and everyone was trying desperately not to 'corpse' – with varying degrees of success. The audience were really in the spirit of the show as well, doing their best to make the actors laugh during the brief cock-ups. When the whole thing is as daft as Hairspray is, you can't help getting into the party spirit.

Clare and I repaired to the Harlequins Bowls Club for the afterparty, and I introduced her to a couple of the regulars, including Iwan, Dan T., who'd played Link Larkin, and James D., who'd played Corny Collins. It turned out that she already knew Zoe S. who'd taken the lead role of Tracy Turnblad, and Damon M. (who'd played Wilbur, Tracy's father). If she ever fancies getting involved with the Colstars, she wouldn't be going into a room full of complete strangers.

And once again, a couple of the youngsters asked me when I was going to come on board. Well, I've left it too late to try out for the panto, but their next full show will be Carousel, early next summer. Deb J. is going to lend me the film, as I haven't seen it since I was about twelve. Who knows what'll happen once the audition dates are announced?

Meanwhile, in the Post Office ...

In which The Author continues Project No More Mr Nice Guy

On Wednesday evening I got home to find the now-traditional card from the postman in the pile of junk mail and takeaway menus. I'd been expecting it, because I'd ordered an item from Ebay which I knew would be too big for the letterbox. On Thursday morning I went online and arranged for it to be redirected to my local post office.

When I say 'local', I didn't want to fuck around in Trecynon again. The only-just-post-teenage chavs in charge most of the time have enough difficulty speaking basic English, never mind coming to terms with the written word. (NB Both lads were born and bred in Aberdare. Go figure …)

With this in mind, I went to the Royal Mail website and requested delivery to Aberdare Post Office. This was on Thursday morning, remember. The earliest possible delivery date was today – Saturday. Yes, I know – in the Twenty-first Century it still takes two 'working' days to process an online request. However, I wasn't in any great rush, so that was fine. The website advised that different offices have deliveries at different times, so I left it until about 12.30 to call in for my parcel.

In front of me at the counter was a bint who wanted to change a large bundle of notes for smaller notes. I've no idea why, but it took her nearly five minutes – after I'd joined the queue – to sort out a straightforward (aaaargh!) transaction. I've no idea how long she'd been there before I walked in, so I'm guessing we can add at least fifty per cent to the total. It gave me chance to sort out the 'local collect' fee, though, so it wasn't entirely a waste of my time.

I stepped up, handed my card to the postmaster, and said, 'I've got an item to collect. It's being redirected from Aberaman [the sorting office].'

He took my card, looked at it for a moment, and said, 'It says here …'

'I know what it says,' I replied sharply. 'I've been through all the palaver online to have it sent here.'

He looked at the box the postman had ticked again.

'Tell you what,' I said. 'Next time I get a card, I'll Tipp-Ex that bit out so you don't get confused!'

The queue was building up. I didn't care. My voice was getting louder as well. Did I give a fuck? What do you reckon?

The postmaster went behind the scenes and returned a few seconds later with my parcel. But that wasn't the end of the story.

I already had a pound coin and my driving licence on my side of the counter.

'There's a fee to pay,' he said.

'I know!' I said. 'That's why I've got my money here.'

I handed over the money and my driving licence, so he could compare my details with the details on the label. He made a great show of scrutinising the two sources of information before finally deciding that I was me.

'That's seventy pence, please,' he said eventually.

'I know!' I said, once again. 'I've done this before – several times. The last time was only about a fortnight ago, and you served me then, as well. Believe it or not, this is actually easier than spending nearly three quid trying to get to the bloody sorting office.'

I gave him my best Peter-Capaldi-as-the-Doctor 'Don't wind me up or I'll do something you'll regret later' grin, pocketed my change, took my parcel, and fucked off out of the place.

Short of going out to China myself to pick the items up myself, can anyone think of an easier way to do this? Answers on a postcard, please … (At least I know those will fit through my fucking letterbox.)

A Quick Single

In which The Author bowls a maiden over

As I told you in Half My Age Plus Seven, I've been single (apart from the abortive Jenny situation and a few dalliances with fucked-up born again God Botherers) since the Oz Girl heartbreak in 2001. Fifteen years and a bit later, I'm happy that way. I think my Facebook relationship status currently says something like 'Single, Not Looking, Really Can't Be Arsed With The Whole Fucking Thing'.

A couple of days I had a late lunch with Alwyn and Chris D., while we were putting the final pieces of Alwyn's website together. We were in Servini's in Aberdare, which is our registered office for meetings and things. While Helen O. was preparing my hot chocolate, she asked me if I ever go to the New Inn in Ystradfellte.

As a matter of fact, I have been there fairly recently, as I recounted in Further Up the River. But – as I explained in that earlier entry – it's not a journey to undertake lightly. I'm unlikely to be adding the New Inn to my regular Sunday walkabout any time soon.

Anyway, it turned out that Helen's casual enquiry was anything but casual. Here's one of those Six Degrees things that often feature in this blog, so hold on to your hats. There's a student named Lauren who works part-time in Servini's. Lauren's boyfriend is the son of the New Inn's landlady. And the New Inn's landlady – apparently – thinks I'm just her cup of hot chocolate.

I asked Helen and Lauren how she even knows of my existence. Since I've only been in the pub once this millennium, it seemed a bit unlikely that I made a massive impression. Helen was baffled as well, so we took our drinks to the Spying Table and sat down to look through Chris's design ideas.

A few minutes later Helen came over to talk to us. Lauren had helped her to solve the mystery. The landlady in question had seen me in Servini's one day, and overheard me telling Helen and Marino about the latest book I was working on. As she's into books and arts and crafts (according to Helen, anyway), she decided to put some feelers out to find out more about me. Where better place to start than in the place where her son's girlfriend works?

Now, Alwyn has only just reasserted his independence, after spending some time in a relationship with a woman who seemed determined to take his life over completely. I called on him to second my (almost identical) case in favour of the single life. (Chris and his girlfriend are well settled, so the three of us left him to his coffee and had a bit of a conflab.) We convinced Helen that I really didn't want to pursue any sort of investigations down that route, she went back to the counter, and we carried on chatting about the website.

That's not the end of the story, though.

As we were leaving in search of WiFi (a quest which led us to the Cambrian), Helen slipped me a piece of paper with this lady's name on it. It was in Lauren's writing.

'She's on Facebook,' Helen explained. 'Why don't you check out her profile and send her a message?'

'Because I'm really not interested in meeting any women,' I said, for the hundredth time. 'Anyway, it's been a very long time since any woman found me even remotely attractive. I've just checked the calendar to make sure it isn't April Fool's Day.'

And we made our excuses and left.

A little bit later, while we were in the Cambrian, Chris asked me why I didn't look up her on Facebook anyway. So I did.

Now, I've never met her (to my knowledge), so I'm having to base my decision purely on the customary unflattering Facebook profile pic. But if her face popped up on Tindr (which I've never used, by the way – I just know the general principles), my first thought, however cruel it might sound, would be 'Next!'

Apart from Lisa, when we were both doing our A levels, I've never gone out with anyone close to my own age. Sam is nine years younger than me; Michelle is about ten years younger; Gema and Oz Girl are sixteen years younger; my recent narrow escapes had a similar age gap. This lady is about my age. After all, she's got a son more or less the same age as my niece. I'm absolutely not interested in acquiring a ready-made family by default, even on a temporary basis.

And there has to be a degree of physical attraction as a basis for a relationship, doesn't there? If you simply don't fancy the other person, it's doomed to fall at the first fence.

Yesterday I popped into Servini's again, this time with Clare E. We had to go to Treorchy to sort out some passport photos, because the photo booth in Aberdare Post Office is fucked again. With time to kill before the train, we decided to grab some breakfast. Needless to say, Helen asked me if I'd followed up on her tip-off. I told her I had, but wasn't going to pursue it any further.

Then Helen had the cheek to launch into a passionate defence of her own continued singledom. You know the sort of thing: keeping your own schedule; being able to stay up all night and watch DVDs if you want to; booking last-minute day trips without having to consider what anyone else is doing; choosing what to watch or listen to, entirely free of interference. And so on.

On the other hand, Clare seems to go from boyfriend to boyfriend almost on a fortnightly basis, and then spends the rest of her time moaning about her ongoing run of bad luck. So does Chazza. So do half the young people I know, in fact.

Haven't been there; haven't done that; seen other people wearing the t-shirt and decided it doesn't suit me.

If I am in Servini's and this lady is there, I expect Helen and/or Lauren will point her out to me, and possibly contrive a meeting. If it happens, I'll say hello and maybe we'll have a chat. But that's almost certainly as far as it'll go. She'll have to be pretty fucking special (unique, in fact) to wrench me off course and set me sailing into unknown territory. I just think it's important to state my case – of which I'm certain – before Helen gets any daft ideas about launching a dating agency from our registered office.

Shhh/Peaceful

In which The Author can't hear himself think

On Tuesday afternoon I was enjoying a quick glass of a popular cola-based soft drink when a strange thing happened.

I should put this into context, and explain that I was in the Lamb and Flag in Glynneath.

Actually, when I say it's 'in Glynneath' it's pretty much on a par with the Lamb in Penderyn – just about as far as you can get from the centre of things before you find yourself in a different postal area. I think I'm right in saying that I've only been there twice. We might have gone when I was young, but it didn't make an impression if we did. I went for lunch with Mother once, and I took Stella the Mad Labrador there when we went exploring a couple of years ago. Mother was slightly easier to cope with, because she didn't knock our drinks over or steal crisps from the other customers.

But I digress …

The pub was fairly quiet, with some locals enjoying an afternoon drink and a few tourists who'd been up to Waterfall Country having a meal. It could have been any one of a thousand visitor-friendly pubs in Wales. The reason it's etched on my memory is the choice of music on the sound system. I'd assumed that, like every other pub, shop, cafe, restaurant, workplace and (as far as I can tell) ninety per cent of homes in the Valleys, they would have the radio tuned to the egregious Heart FM.

But I was wrong.

I was scrutinising Ordnance Survey – and thereby hangs a tale – map OL12 when a very familiar organ chord struck up over the speakers. I listened to it for a few seconds, thinking 'Where the hell have I heard this before?' – and then the rhythm section kicked in, shortly followed by some lovely electric piano and the abstract snatch-and-grab guitar licks of the wonderful John McLaughlin.

'Fucking hell!' I nearly said aloud. It was 'Shhh/Peaceful' by Miles Davis.

The Modern Jazz enthusiasts among you already know that In a Silent Way represents for that genre what Bob Dylan's legendary Manchester Free Trade Hall gig represented for folk music. Suddenly everything was electrified and electrifying. The purists hated it. Real music fans saw it for what it was: nothing less than a revolution. It opened the doors to a whole new movement – fusion and/or jazz-rock – and even forty-odd years on, it totally justifies Mr Davis's famous claim to have changed popular music five times in his life. I turned my old pal Paul E. – a man of taste and sophistication, and a fine musician – on to it when he was driving taxis at weekends. It was guaranteed to chill out even the most aggressive and potentially troublesome punters early on a Sunday morning. He actually had to write the title down many times for his customers, so they could buy it online. Result!

Back in the Flam and Lag, I could tell that this glorious piece of stupendously produced, multi-tracked, engineered-to-within-an-inch-of-its-life instrumental beauty had popped up without any forward planning. After about two and a half minutes – the exact point when Mr Davis blows his trumpet for the first time – the locals were growing restless.

'There aren't any words,' one of them said, by way of complaint.

Damn right. I'm a man of words, and 'Shhh/Peaceful’ leaves me speechless every time.

What he meant was, 'We can't sing along with this, because it isn't by Engelbert Humperdinck.' That's the Valleys for you, boys and girls.

Anyway, on Friday night I was in the Cambrian with my friends Philvis and Clare. They're brother and sister, both way younger than me; we met through our shared interest in music a year or so ago. Philvis idolises the King (hence the nickname) and has yet to discover anything recorded after 1959. Clare has rather broader tastes, but veers towards show tunes and heavy(ish) rock. I cover pretty much all bases, as you already know. Before he had a chance to hit the jukebox and fill it up with Elvis songs, I leapfrogged Philvis and chucked a quid in. I knew where I was going to go.

'Winter Wine' by Caravan is great – it's mellow, chilled, and it features some of the best keyboard playing of the early 1970s. When I finally get my band together – with some of the finest musicians the Cynon Valley has to offer – we'll be opening with that song.

'Save Yourself' by Soft Machine is a piece of psychedelic brilliance.

I don't really need to tell you about the Beatles or the Rolling Stones, do I?

And since I had one credit left, I selected 'Shhh/Peaceful'. It would have been rude to refuse.

Clare politely liked my music to start with, then found the Miles Davis track to be completely entrancing. (Her brother hated it, of course – Result! as the young people say these days.) However, the jokebox (not a typo) has an upper limit on songs. If it's longer than about five minutes, there's a very abrupt fade and a rapid transition to the next selection. That buggered my Caravan song (seven minutes and then some), completely fucks decent Pink Floyd or King Crimson, and you can forget about anything by Mike Oldfield apart from 'Guilty' and 'Moonlight Shadow'. (The Soft Machine track segues to the next one anyway, so there's a very nasty cut-off at the end.)

Just when Mr Davis and his Merry Men were raising a decent head of steam, the automatic guillotine kicked in and we were back to the same sort of plodding, cliched, static, hidebound 'Heavy Rock' that seems to be the default setting on Welsh jukeboxes. I've promised Clare a copy of the Miles Davis CD when I see her next. It ain't suitable for karaoke, but it’s still great.

But all of this is purely the organ chord leading into a longer solo improv on a theme.

You see, it's virtually impossible to go into a pub at any time of the day (except Thereisnospoon, of course) without being blasted by 'popular' music. And when I say 'popular' I'm using the word in its loosest sense. Trust me on this – after working in the book trade for two decades, having followed music for three and a half decades, and having seen the results of the last few elections in the UK, simply because people 'like' something it doesn’t necessarily correlate with quality.

[Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I invite you to examine Exhibit A – The Da Vinci Code – and Exhibit B – Fifty Shades of Grey – before reaching your verdict.]

Most of the time, of course, I can switch off. I get out my Netbook and do some work, or write a blog, or potch with photos, or compile a quiz, or whatever, without worrying about what's playing in the background. I used to do the cash in the shop with Radio 2 on every morning, and wouldn't get distracted by Ken Bruce's nonsense unless he said something that merited a quick text or email and/or when Popmaster was on. I can quite happily work at home with 4Extra in the background, not really paying attention unless an interesting documentary and/or a classic Round the Horne episode comes on.

It's a different matter in the library, of course. A few weeks ago I had to tell one of the Debating Society to shut his trap because I was working.

He looked very offended, and said, 'It's a public library.'

'I know,' I replied. 'And the general rule in a public library is to shut up.'

'Well, there should be signs,' he replied.

So I gave him signs. One involved two fingers; the other, just the one.

But I digress …

The problem is that almost every pub now has a jokebox and (at least) one TV permanently tuned to one of the 'music' channels.

At the same time.

A few Saturdays afternoons ago, I was in the Cambrian with my pal Neil, trying to have a conversation. The music was turned up to 11. The TV at one end was showing the horse racing. The TV at the other end was tuned to Vintage – the only half-decent music channel out of the six hundred or so on offer. It was about 4.00 p.m., and we could barely hear ourselves think, never mind each other. When I was getting the drinks in, I took Charlie the barbint to one side and asked her if she'd ever heard of the American composer Charles Ives. She hadn't. So I decided to educate her.

'When Charles Ives was a child,' I told her, 'his parents took him to an Independence Day parade in their home town. Ives later recalled that he heard two marching bands, playing different tunes, converging on the square from opposite directions.'

Charlie looked a bit lost, so I closed the circle for her.

'He said that his experiments with polyrhythms and atonality were inspired by the discordant clash of two entirely unrelated pieces of music.'

Then I pointed to the TV and the speakers.

'Ives was a genius – but I kinda know how he felt.'

The penny gathered a small amount of interest on the way down, but eventually she asked me, 'Would you like me to turn the TV off?'

'No, not necessarily,' I said. 'Just make your fucking mind up about whether we're listening to one or the other, and then stick to it.'

Silence. Not from the sound system – just from the barbint. Message received … I think.

The same is true of the Glosters, the Glandover, the Lighthouse, the Llwyncelyn, the Mountain Ash Inn, the Prince of Wales, the Lamb and Flag, the Skinny Dog (Pontypridd), the Golden Cross (Cardiff) …

In fact, it's true of just about every pub I've been into in the past six months or so, except in Penderyn – where even mains electricity is a novelty at times. You can forget any ideas you might have had about holding a conversation with anyone unless they're sitting on your lap and screaming into your ear. Even the Mount Pleasant in Trecynon, where I'm drafting this very blog at 11.30 p.m. on a Saturday night, has Magic on the TV and some meaningless bangy shit on the PA. Sorry, boys and girls, but if you want to listen to meaningless bangy shit at ear-splitting volume, then please fuck off to Judges or jump on a train and go to Cardiff. (NB I'm being polite – I did say 'please fuck off …')

If it wasn't for the fact that it's so fucking soulless – rather like an airport terminal, only with a half-decent bar, far fewer staff, and no decent bookshop – I would almost concede that Thereisnospoon presents a strong argument for not having a sound system. They take things to the opposite extreme, though; the TV is permanently tuned to BBC News but with the sound turned off completely. It gives my inner proofreading demon ample opportunity to laugh whenever I'm in there, because the subtitles are even more bizarre than my random keyboard assaults. (I still chuckle at the announcement from the Met Office that 'Today is the spring equilibrium within ox' a few years ago.) But at least you can have a chat with someone who is sitting more than nine inches away.

The crash between the sound and the vision does occasionally have unexpected consequences, mind you. Once a decade or so, there's a superb juxtaposition that makes it all worthwhile. A long time ago, I was in the Bute with my gorgeous and sexy friend Claire L. (with an i) one evening. The TV was on, showing what must have been Top of the Pops. (This was back in the day when the M in MTV still stood for 'music', after all.) New Order were doing their thang; Hooky was slinging his bass around like a weapon, as usual. While we were watching this nostalgic performance (remember, I saw New Order in 1985), the jokebox kicked in: 'One Vision' by Queen.

Claire grabbed my arm and said, 'Oh fuck, it looks like he's playing along to the record.'

And it did.

(It doesn't happen often, I grant you, but it does still happen. A few months ago my mate Joe and I were in the Lighthouse, watching Britney Spears lip-synching to Metallica. That's something that won't happen at the MOBO awards any time soon.)

On a lighter note, I made some new friends last night. I was walking to Trecynon when three teenage girls called me over by What-Used-To-Be-The-Little-Theatre. (I'm fairly sure that the new flats will have a more attractive name, but it'll do for now.) They knew me by sight – who doesn't, in this tiny town? – but instead of being cheeky, they were quite humorous and charming.

It turned out that I was in school with the uncle of one of them; another is the daughter of a friend of mine; the third one lives in my street, but we've never spoken before. Needless to say, they wanted me to go and get them a flagon or two. I refused, very politely, and explained that I couldn't afford to pay the grand fine for buying alcohol for underage kids. Besides which, all the shopkeepers know that I never buy cans. I'm a pub drinker. Everyone knows that. The alarm bells would have been ringing straight away. I also told the girls that if I set a precedent by going to the shop for them, I'd have to undertake shopping expeditions for all the kids in Aberdare who know me through family or whatever. They were very understanding and gracious in defeat, fair play.

I told them about the time a gang of teenagers approached me outside the Copper Kettle in town. One of them said, 'If we give you some money, will you buy drink?'

I said, 'Definitely.'

Then I stuck their twenty quid in my pocket, walked straight into the Conway (next door to the shop), bought myself a pint, and laughed at them through the window.

Is that a true story or not? You decide …

Spot the Difference

In which The Author sends his latest despatch from the front line of the War Against the Machines

I've been running Ubuntu Linux on a variety of Netbooks since 2009, and I think I've explored just about every release of the operating system from Lucid Lynx right through to Trusty Tahr. I haven't gone any further down the alphabet (they're currently at X) purely because I don't think my system will handle it. Still, Trusty is Long-Term Stable until at least 2019, so I should be able to manage until I can upgrade my hardware too.

In all that time, I've noticed an interesting trend developing. I don't know whether it's just me, or whether other Linux users have spotted the same thing. Maybe I'm just sensitive to the ways of the Cyberworld – even though, as I assured my pal Huw D. a few weeks ago, I'm not actually The One. I know I spend a lot of time online, and I wear a lot of black, and some young people think I'm cool (for whatever reason), but I can't actually reshape the Matrix.

No, what I've got in mind is the way that certain programs seem to start running slowly all of a sudden, when they've been working quite happily for ages. When LibreOffice begins to chug, freeze or close abruptly in the middle of a university assignment, that's bad enough. When it starts to chug, freeze or close abruptly in the middle of a 400-page novel you're working on, that's another matter entirely. We're talking about a fortnight's work here, not a little creative writing exercise you can (mostly) rebuild from the handwritten drafts.

That was what was happening on Friday night, while I was putting the final nips and tucks in my current project. After the fourth sudden shutdown, I got a bit worried, so I saved everything to a USB drive and continued work on the desktop setup.

I recognised the symptoms straight away. LibreOffice wanted to be updated. It's like a puppy, really (and one lightweight version of Linux is called Puppy – maybe with good reason). Normally it plays nicely, but every so often it feels a bit poorly and just wants your attention.

The problem was that I'm running Linux Mint on the other computer. It hasn't been updated since 2011, either. I had to give up the Internet at home when my university career crashed and burned. I can't really lug my entire system to the library and attempt to connect via an Ethernet cable. So the version of OpenOffice I was attempting to use is quite different from the current release. It didn't make a huge amount of difference until I saved my Notes and Queries and promptly lost everything I'd done, except for the numbered outline.

It's all marked up on the hard copy, of course, but it still meant that I had to start afresh and reconstruct the whole thing from memory. It turned out to be a happy accident, because I'd missed a few things on the first read-through that I've picked up subsequently. I'd have done a second pass anyway, but now I had a good reason to do it.

Anyway, this afternoon I had a few things I wanted to check online, so I've come to Thereisnospoon to use the Internet here. And – exactly in line with the Oracle's predictions – my system has just downloaded and installed the very latest, brand new, showroom-shiny and still slightly warm release of LibreOffice. It didn't even need to be prompted. It just went ahead and did it after I'd been online for ten minutes or so.

Windows users will no doubt be used to the deluge of updates, patches, licence agreements, online registrations and other virtual hoops they're expected to jump through every time they switch their systems on. Rhian first had her laptop back in 2010 or so. She couldn't connect to the Internet via Wifi until her system had been updated – and how do you update your system if you can't connect to the fucking Internet? Well, boys and girls, what you do is to take your laptop to a mate's house, connect via the Ethernet cable, start everything running, and then repair to the Llwyncelyn (in our case) for a couple of pints while Windows downloads and installs no fewer than 178 updates.

I really have no idea how many patches it's had since. Windows reminds me of the old TV advert for Allbright bitter ('the most popular pint in Wales' – allegedly). The landlord of the Sheep's Head had started selling Allbright. So many people started coming into the pub that he had to build an extension. Then he had to build an extension on the extension. Windows seems to be a bit like that. It's no wonder the system gets bloated and starts to chug over time, with all those extra downloads and patches cluttering the place up.

With Ubuntu, you can decide which bits you want to update, which bits are working fine, and which bits you can strip out entirely (the games, for example). And when critical updates come through, or when a whole package is upgraded (as with LibreOffice just now), it just goes ahead and installs them. You just need to authorise the procedure, and you can carry on doing whatever you're doing in the meantime.

Furthermore, it doesn't cost you a penny – apart from beer money in Thereisnospoon, of course. But I'd have come out for a pint this afternoon anyway, so I'm killing two birds with one stone.

Elsewhere, the War isn't going so well. In a few short months, my microwave, washing machine and my fridge/freezer seem to have packed in. The loss of the microwave is inconvenient, but nothing too alarming. The loss of the washing machine isn't desperate yet. I've been able to wash stuff by hand, and hang it outside during the nice weather. There's also a new laundry service in Aberdare, so I can drop stuff in there for the time being. My machine might be persuaded back into the fray if I can track Mike G. down. It's probably just a fuse or a bearing. I hope. I think the fridge/freezer will be buried with full honours, though. I think I'll be paying a visit to TooGoodToWaste this week and seeing what they've got for sale.

You haven't beaten me yet, you bastards!