I Hate It When a Plan Falls Apart

In which The Author is leading the Z-Team

Back in the good old days of the Carpenters Arms, one of the boys used to organise regular bus trips to see bands across South Wales and even further afield. (I know – bands actually used to play in South Wales in that long-forgotten century. You try telling the young people that …)

Benji Tours, as they were known, became a great favourite with the gig-goers of the time. I only went on a couple of them, because by the time I got back to Aberdare from Cardiff most nights, the gig had already started in Ebbw Vale, or Tonypandy Naval Club, or Llanharan RFC, or wherever.

[A digression: I'm fairly sure it was a Benji Tour that took a gang of us to see the great East Midlands power-boogie trio Engine at Llanharan RFC one Sunday night. I don't remember a great deal about the gig, because a considerable amount of drink had been taken by all concerned, but it sticks in my mind for two reasons.

There was a young girl in the audience whom I kinda knew by sight from the autumn of 1990. Richard D. and I had run a small pop-up bookstall at the FE College in Rhydyfelin, fairly near our base at Treforest. She was a student there, and used to stop by most days to browse our limited collection of set texts on her way to lunch. I remember her mainly because she was a bit of a goth (long black hair, black nail varnish, studded collar – you know, my type …), and therefore fairly cute; and also because her name was Cariad. (It's Welsh for love, so we're definitely talking hippy parents.) We said hi at the bar and that was that.

The second reason is because just before last orders I went to get a pint. While she was serving me, the barmaid – who was quite a bit older than me – suddenly produced a cat o' nine tails from a hook and, for no apparent reason, flicked it playfully in my direction.

I just smiled and said, 'Somebody's been gossiping about me, haven't they?']

Anyway, Benji was definitely the most successful of the day trip organisers. Jonathan E. undoubtedly came a close second. Compared to those guys, even the commercial bus operators were playing on a sticky wicket. For example, about ten years ago I booked two tickets for a coach outing to the National Botanic Garden of Wales, outside Carmarthen. My brother was a keen gardener, so I decided to treat him to a day out. The day before we were due to set off, the company rang me and told me the trip had been cancelled owing to lack of interest. Quelle surprise! as they say in Paris.

Back at the start of my second student days, I canvassed my friends to see if they'd be interested in a trip to see the Severn Bore. As I recounted in Time and Tide, it fell apart in the week leading up to the Saturday night. In the event only three hardy souls (Gaz, Huw F. and I) made the perilous journey across Arctic wastes, treacherous seas and parched deserts all the way to the previously undiscovered village of Minsterworth in Darkest Gloucestershire. We lived to tell the tale, too.

You'll forgive me for being optimistic, I'm sure, when I decided to try and get a gang together for a day trip to London. I thought it would be a nice break for everyone before Xmas, during that mental period when everyone's got loads of work and/or exams on. I asked on Facebook if anyone was interested, and a couple of people threw their hats into the ring. I invited a number of friends as well: Joe, Lee M., Hannah R.; Chazza, Philvis and Clare (pals of mine from the pub/karaoke sessions); Adrian T., Liz and Wayne B.; Rhian and Steff; Gaz, Huw and Martin H.; Mitch T. and his father Will.

The plan, I explained, was not to have a plan. Once we arrived in the Smoke, they were free to do whatever they liked and go wherever they wanted to, as long as they met us at the appointed time and in the right pub to head back home. As I've already noted, the shops in London stay open until 6.00 p.m. on Sundays. The Xmas lights will be in place. The museums and galleries are free. There's a pub on every street corner. What's not to like?

In fairness, Lee, Hannah and Joe were up for it from the start. Liz works Sundays, so she was a non-runner. Rhian said she'd have to look at her work shifts. Chazza was initially keen, but then started blowing hot and cold (as is her wont). On the other hand, Clare was totally in favour. In fact, she's talked about little else since I first mentioned it. If the worst happened, at least the two of us and Ade would be going. I created a closed group on Facebook and added the likely suspects, so that I could keep everyone posted with developments.

Ade came up with the best suggestion of all: since he holds a PCV licence, he could drive us himself. All we'd need to do is hire the vehicle. Since our friend Paul H. organises guided tours of Wales, he had contact details of a likely firm to help us out. A plan was coming together.

That was about a month ago.

Since then I've added all sorts of information to the group: stuff about Oyster cards, contactless payments on TfL, useful websites, and I've even mentioned the fact that The Works in Aberdare had a stack of little pocket guides to London. Nobody has shown much interest.

Last week Clare and I spent two whole bloody days trying to sort out ID for her. (She's twenty-three, and would have trouble getting served in a strange pub without it, obviously.) Yesterday we found out that her initial application had been rejected, so we were back to Square One.

In the evening Adrian came into the Prince of Wales, so we had a chat about the putative arrangements. Paul had got a quote for the bus hire, which was a hell of a lot more than we'd anticipated. At the same time, the numbers were dwindling. Ade said, only half-jokingly (I think) that it might end up as an excursion in his car.

Talking about fucking your own luck …

I spent a fair chunk of this afternoon running around Aberdare, trying to sort out Clare's second application for ID. About two hours ago she messaged me on Facebook to say she'd changed her mind, and wouldn't be coming after all.

I put a very angry message on Facebook about the machinations of the Goddess of Chaos and her love of Bureaucracy. (How the actual fuck can you get photographic ID when you need photographic ID to prove who you are?). Then I went into the group and asked everyone who was definitely in to confirm ASAP. I also told them that we'd be taking non-refundable deposits to cover our expenses in case anyone else dropped out/ fell ill/ died/ whatever.

Mitch said he'd try to get some pals on board (in the literal sense). I also advertised the spare places on my own Timeline, and opened the group up to anyone who was interested.

That was just over an hour ago. Since then, the activity within the group has been like the buffet at the Dippy Bint's wedding reception: not a sausage.

I can't see this little adventure happening, can you? As I commented on Facebook, I'm looking upon the whole enterprise as a failed experiment.

Except that it isn't quite a failed experiment. If anything, it's vindicated John Archibald Wheeler's predictions based on Einstein's field equations: you simply cannot escape from a Black Hole – especially when said Black Hole is called Aberdare.

So, boys and girls, my days of trying to organise anything more sophisticated than a quick walk to town are officially over. If anyone wants to join me for my next London adventure, you can make your own fucking arrangements and I'll meet you when we get there. I hereby resign my position as the leader of the Z-Team.

In fact, I might change my name to Howling Mad Murdock.

Crazy fucking fool …