Monday 30 January 2017

She's Out of My Life

In which The Author surveys the extent of the damage
It always takes a little while for a regeneration to settle down, as all Doctor Who fans know.
The Ninth's Doctor's unexpected change (at least, new viewers wouldn't have expected it) was the first of the new-style transformations. Having told Rose that Time Lords have 'a way of cheating death', Christopher Eccleston's transition to David Tennant was a spectacular piece of television. Gone were the lo-fi morphings of the Classic Series; in came the explosive process which epitomises the current high production values.
The Tenth Doctor spent most of 'The Christmas Invasion' in bed, before recovering to defeat the Sycorax champion in single combat, still wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown.
I've already written at length about the Tenth Doctor's regeneration in New Year, New Start, so I won't discuss it here. It was a tremendous climax to Russell T. Davies's time at the helm, and the production team pulled out all the stops to make it a fittingly epic couple of minutes.
The first Eleventh Doctor episode, 'Zero Hour', saw Matt Smith clowning around with young Amelia Pond, rejecting all her offers of food before settling for a tasty bowl of fish fingers and custard. It didn't take the Doctor long to gather his wits and drive away the alien threat, in a clever sequence which saw all his previous faces (except one) flash up on screen. It was clear from that brief scene that the new showrunner, the mischievous lifelong fan Steven Moffat, was going to draw on the programme's history as never before.
The last episode of Matt Smith's time in the role, 'The Time of the Doctor', saw the character do something he's never had to do before ‒ grow old. He's exhausted his regeneration cycle; he knows it's the end of the road. Hiding on Trenzalore, the ageing Doctor divides his time between mending children's toys and fending off the alien armies which are warring over the planet.
It's a messy, frustrating Xmas special, filled with new characters whose roles aren't clearly explained, rapid-fire dialogue delivered too quickly to be intelligible, silly enemies (a wooden Cyberman? I mean, come on!), and rather unnecessary rudeness for prime-time family viewing.
But it does feature one of the most satisfying plot developments for a long time. Clara, the Impossible Girl, (Jenna Coleman) discovers that the Time Lords are in a pocket universe connected to the real universe through the crack in reality which has haunted the Doctor since his first meeting with Amelia Pond. She asks the Time Lords to help him, because he'd saved them (even though he wasn't sure it would work) at the end of the Time War. And then we get the most spectacular display of regeneration energy in the new series, followed shortly afterwards by the most low-key ‒ but heartbreaking ‒ regeneration ever.

In 'Deep Breath', Peter Capaldi's first adventure in the part, we saw the most troublesome post-regeneration ordeal since the Classic Series. Stranded in Victorian London, his memories fuzzy and incomplete, the Twelfth Doctor is rescued by the Paternoster Gang. For the first half of the episode, he struggles to come to terms with his new body before embarking on a mission to rescue Clara from the self-repairing robots we first met in 'The Girl in the Fireplace', back in Season 2.
The end of the episode takes the Doctor and Clara back to the present day, where there's an unexpected twist in the tale. Standing outside the TARDIS, Clara gets a phone call from a familiar-sounding voice.
And that's the episode that I was thinking about on Wednesday last week, when I wrote the previous entry. In particular, I remembered the line about Clara not being able to see the Doctor, because she's still hung up on the young, trendy, good-looking guy she's been having adventures with. And I remembered another brief exchange, which occurred slightly earlier in the same episode.
The Doctor: I'm not your boyfriend, Clara.
Clara: I never thought you were.
The Doctor: I never said it was your mistake.
It may be just a coincidence that Clara differs from Clare by only one letter. What isn't a coincidence is the fact that Clara can't see the tall, serious, intelligent, not conventionally handsome middle-aged bloke standing in front of her, because her attention is totally focused on the young, trendy, good-looking guy she's been talking to on the phone.
On Thursday, having had a good twenty-four hours to settle in, my new regeneration went for a little walk around town. As it was Thursday, it was karaoke evening, of course. I wasn't expecting to see Clare, but as I'd heard back from Gaz about her exam results earlier in the day, I headed for the Lighthouse anyway.
I'd written her a note explaining the situation (which is more complicated than we thought). I knew I could pass it on to Phillip, along with the college paperwork she'd forgotten to take home on Tuesday evening. To tell the truth, I didn't even want to see Clare after the events of the previous morning. But when I walked into the pub, she was sitting at our usual table with a pint in front of her.
'Ah, I'm glad you're here,' I said, lying convincingly as always. I told her what Gaz had come up with, and made a couple of suggestions as to how she could proceed next. Then I told her that Saturday's guitar browsing expedition was off because I had 'a Plaid Cymru thing in Pontypridd' in the morning. (That's another good reason for being a grassroots activist in an election year ‒ there's always 'a Plaid Cymru thing' going on somewhere when you need an excuse for blowing someone out.)
She told me that she wouldn't be around on Saturday either. Presumably the friend with benefits had the day off.
Instead of sticking around for karaoke, Clare couldn't wait to leave the pub. Even Phillip thought it was odd when she ran off to catch the 7.00 bus home. I told him we'd fallen out and it was a bit of an awkward situation all round. I didn't go into details, because he wouldn't really have understood anyway (no offence to him), but I told him that I'd be avoiding her from now on.
About half an hour later, I glanced at the big TV set on the wall opposite the bar and saw the back of someone else I was anxious to avoid. There are about six CCTV cameras in the pub, and on busy evenings the TV displays the live feed in a series of small boxes. It allows the staff to monitor the place without leaving the bar, which is a good idea. It also lets customers see who's just walked in without turning around and making it obvious.
Chazza was standing at the bar.
She'd texted me a little while earlier, presumably asking if I was going to be out that night. I deleted the message without reading the whole thing. I'd already deleted her number, so I couldn't have second thoughts and reply to her. About ten minutes later she texted me again, but I deleted that unread as well.
She'd obviously come straight from work, as she still had her uniform shirt on, but she didn't approach me and I didn't acknowledge her. I finished my pint a couple of minutes later and headed outside. I told Phillip I was going to get some cash out, and went straight to the Prince for a pint.
While I was there, I unfriended both girls on Facebook, just to be on the safe side. I also took the opportunity to change my profile picture. Since our last trip to Cardiff, I'd been using a photo of Clare and me in front of the alien-looking beach. Well, that wouldn't do, would it? I changed it to this one, which I took in Salford when I was there in 2012.
Then I updated my status as well:
If anyone is wondering about the new profile pic, let me explain. Daleks don't eat, drink, borrow train fares (because they can fly) or get into bizarre sex-based relationships with other Daleks simply because one of them says 'Fornicate?' They may be genetically modified psychopaths designed to wipe out all other life forms, but at least you know where you are with a fucking Dalek. We're getting engaged this weekend.
I went back to the Lighthouse about an hour later. Phillip was still there, of course, sitting with Chazza and two blokes I know by sight on the Singers' Table. He was surprised to see me come back in, so I just said hello and staked out a place by the end of the bar. Chazza looked in my direction a couple of times, but I didn't pay her any attention. I didn't even join in the applause after she'd sung her song. I wasn't surprised when she left soon afterwards. There are young lads in the Bush on a Thursday night, after all, and no doubt she could blag a drink or two down there instead.
I sang one song ('Ziggy Stardust'), refused to move when Tara called me up a second time, had an argument with Huntley when he tried fucking with my phone in mid-text, and went home early. 'Ziggy Stardust' was a good song to end my karaoke time in Aberdare with – especially as it includes the lines 'When the kids had killed the man, I had to break up the band.' Since I won't be involved in any of the music projects I discussed with Clare and Chazza, it seemed rather apt.
Clare rang me a couple of times on Friday, presumably to ask if I was planning on going out. I didn't answer. I deleted her texts unread as well. I knew I was fairly safe otherwise, because her thickphone doesn't do social media. Anyway, since she was off my Friends List, she wouldn't have been able to message me. I thought …
I was in the Cambrian when Phillip walked in. He told me Clare wasn't coming down, and I said I didn't care anyway. Then I argued with the third woman that week. This one had been brewing for a while anyway, so it was only a matter of time.
There's a jukebox in the Cambrian which is connected to the Internet. It means that – if you know what you're doing – you can access a vast database of music which most people couldn't even begin to imagine. Some young lads were playing pool when Phillip came in, and they'd stacked up a load of shitty dance/rap records before leaving and inflicting their crap on everyone else. I'd already suggested that there should be an immutable rule of jukebox use: You leave, your songs get bounced, and you lose your money. No ifs, no buts.
When I say 'bounced', the remote control allows the bar staff to reject the current selection. It's only really useful at the end of the night, or when the quiz is starting, or when the live musician is setting up on Sunday evenings.
Most of the time the jukebox pumps out the same tedious round of 1960s and 1970s easy listening pap (Ian the guvnor's choice), Thrash Metal and/or Dance music (fuck knows who puts that crap on), the entire Oasis and Phonics back catalogue (the favoured music of the 'trendy' weekend boys who think that what happened two decades ago is at the cutting edge), or current chart stuff (the default setting when nobody wants to pay for it).
But I know how to 'open the Rift' (as Karen and I call it) and access the hidden tracks. So that's what I did on Friday night. I put two quid in, called up a couple of early Soft Machine tracks ('10.30 Returns to the Bedroom' and 'A Certain Kind'), and then chose three Kevin Ayers tracks. At least, I tried to choose three Kevin Ayers tracks. The problem is that Mr Ayers recorded several takes of some songs; they were released as LP tracks, live sessions at the BBC, and so forth, and not all of the takes are great. If the screen showed the cover artwork, as it does with non-Rift stuff, I'd have had no problem finding the versions I wanted. Instead, I was flying blind.
I found 'Stranger in Blue Suede Shoes' without a hitch, because it showed me the LP cover. I thought I'd selected the enigmatic and haunting early release of 'Lady Rachel'. I took a chance on 'Two Goes into Four', because the live version at the Rainbow Theatre on 1 June 1974 is pretty much the definitive recording. I gave the next five songs to Phillip, knowing full well that he'd choose Elvis all the way.
Jenny the barbint's face was already like thunder when the first Soft Machine track crashed in. She didn't look any more impressed when the second one got going. Then the machine did one of its mysterious things, and pulled up an Elvis track first. Normally, it plays the songs in the order they've been selected, but this time they came out randomly.
After another Elvis song, we had some more dance crap, then another Elvis tune, and finally 'Stranger in Blue Suede Shoes' came on. It's a fairly up-tempo little tune with a nice beat and a cool melody line, and even if people have no idea of who Kevin Ayers was, nobody's ever objected to it before.
The recording of 'Lady Rachel', by contrast, wasn't the one I'd expected. I hadn't heard it before – it was a lot slower and less powerful than the version on Joy of a Toy – and Jenny shouted across to me, asking if I'd put it on.
I said, 'If the machine made it clear which version you were choosing, it wouldn't have been this one.'
'It's rubbish,' she said.
I wouldn't have gone that far, but it certainly wouldn't make it on to my Desert Island Discs.
Then it ended prematurely. I saw Jenny put the remote control down, and that was where I ran out of patience. After all, nobody's appointed her to the position of Chief DJ and Official Arbiter of Public Taste, as far as I know.
'Bounce my fucking records again, and you'll be giving me my fucking money back!' I shouted, loudly enough for the entire pub to hear.
Jenny tried laughing it off.
'I'm not fucking joking, Jenny!' I shouted again. 'If we put money into the machine, it's because we want to hear our music. We have to put up with everyone else's shit – you never bounce fucking Oasis or Rammstein, do you?'
I turned to Phillip and told him I'd be leaving after I finished my pint. We chatted for a couple of minutes while the rest of his Elvis songs played, and then I decided to stick around anyway. Charlie had come in to work by then, so I got another pint from her. I wasn't going to go anywhere near Jenny. Given the mood I was in, things could have escalated pretty quickly.
Jocelyn came in and started setting the karaoke up. Phillip sang one of his usual songs; she asked me if I was singing, and I said no. Then one of the town's many fuckwits came in and crashed our table. I made my excuses and left.
On Saturday I went to Cardiff to watch the Trainspotting sequel T2. Before I set off I had to call into the post office in town. As I was taking some cash out, James P. came in and asked if I was going to the Cambrian for the live music (last night, in other words). I told him I wasn't a fan of Seasick Steve anyway, so going to see a tribute act would be pointless. I also added that I wouldn't be going anywhere near the pub if Jenny was working. That rules out quiz nights, karaoke, live music, and just about every Saturday during the 6 Nations. (I've yet to explain the situation to Ian, but I'll make it clear that it's nothing at all to do with him or any of the other regulars.) Who cares? There are plenty of other pubs in Aberdare.
While I was on the train my phone rang. Even though she's not in my contacts any more, I recognised the tail end of Clare's number. I rejected the call and switched my phone off. The battery was running low anyway, and I'd need to keep an eye on the time for the return journey.
I called into Waterstones, and was pleased to find Jeff working for the first time for ages. He told me he was spending a lot of time covering in other branches – Newport and Abergavenny, mainly – and if he could, he'd leave tomorrow. I felt a bit sorry for him, really. He's older than me, and has spent his entire life in retail. No employer will look at him now, given his age and relative lack of 'up-to-date' qualifications. The poor bugger's going to be stuck there for ever, I think. I gave him my number and we're going to meet up for a pint when the weather improves.
The film was excellent – every bit as good as the first one, I thought – and afterwards I needed a pint to settle myself down. I headed for the Golden Cross, where it's disco night on Saturdays. I hadn't been in there long when I spotted Lee coming from the bar. We'd met through Adam L. at the end of Just Another Weird Wednesday, and we had a good chat about all sorts of things over a couple of pints. He asked me when I was bringing my singer friend down for karaoke, and I said, 'Not going to happen, mate.' I told him about the non-situation with my former companions; while we were talking, Clare texted me at least twice and rang once. As before, I ignored the call and deleted the texts without even reading them, so Lee could see I was serious.
The final episode of this saga came last night. I was having a pint with my good pal Ceri H., talking about a project which he and Adrian T. are putting together for St David's Day. Ceri was trying to get me on board, but I didn't think it was my kind of thing. Even while we were talking, I was rejecting calls and deleting texts from Clare.
Then I had a ping via Messenger. Apparently you can still send messages to someone who's unfriended you on Facebook. Well, that was news to me.
'Are you talking to me?' it said.
I'd never seen Clare as Travis Bickle, but you never know what Performing Arts students will get up to next.
I didn't reply, but simply opened up the menu and blocked her. About twenty minutes later I had a Friend Request. I wasn't particularly surprised to find that it was from her other brother, who's never shown any interest in me or my Facebook before. It would be a good way for her to eavesdrop on me, though. I couldn't find any great moral reason against rejecting it. To be on the safe side, I unfriended and blocked her stepmother as well.
I was in the Prince later on when Ross W. asked me if I'd seen his niece.
'No, mate,' I said, 'and I'm not going to see her again, either.'
'Why's that?'
'It's her own fault,' I told him. 'We all know that superpowers can go wrong if you're not careful. Well, she disappeared once too many times, and now she's permanently invisible.'
Well, it's now Monday afternoon. Performance and Cock-ups will be starting in about an hour or so. Phillip will be there, naturally. So will Keith, Danelle, Carl, Spanish Steve, Sheila, and the rest of the daytime singers. It's a matter for conjecture whether Clare will turn up. It all depends on whether she gets a better offer from the Friend with Benefits.
(After I typed that, she texted me again. I'm guessing she's around, then. I didn't reply to it,needless to say. She's just rung me, too, and there are no prizes for guessing what happened next.)
I won't be in the Lighthouse, whatever else happens this afternoon. Or on Thursday. Or in the Cambrian or the Bonki on Friday night. I might make a monthly trip to the Golden Cross just to keep my hand in, but I won't be taking any proper singers with me. This new Doctor travels alone.

Wednesday 25 January 2017

The Lazarus Experiment

In which The Author gets a new lease of life
This blog is sad to report the untimely death of Good Old Steve O'Gorman.
Steve, an eccentric 50-year-old copy-editor, former bookseller, music lover, amateur writer and photographer, lifelong science fiction fan, Doctor Who wannabe, cinema-goer, pub regular and political animal, passed away at Cwmbach Railway Station, a few miles from his home in Aberdare, South Wales, just before 11 a.m. on 25 January 2017.
In recent weeks, Steve's blog had detailed how his mood was being adversely affected by his friendship with two fucked-up young girls. It appears that recent developments had disturbed the balance of his mind. Armed UNIT soldiers confronted him on the station approach and emptied several clips into his defenceless body.
However, eyewitnesses reported that within moments of his death, Steve got to his feet in true Time Lord style. He caught a bus to Aberdare and carried on if as nothing had happened.
Almost nothing …
Let's put this into some sort of context here.
On Friday evening, Clare asked me if I fancied going to the Bonki for Karaoke and Shots. I was in the mood for trying something new. I'd seen the terrific 'jukebox musical' Sunny Afternoon last Wednesday in Cardiff, so I agreed to join her. After all, when you've got so many of Sir Ray Davies's fine songs uppermost in your internal playlist, it would be rude not to attempt at least one of them yourself.
After being fucked around by Gareth for well over two months, Clare had decided to kick him into touch a few days before. She still wanted to go, though, purely so that she could give him the cold shoulder. When we arrived, we started chatting to Kylie by the bar. Clare announced that the reason she'd been missing for most of the week was because she'd been in Ebbw Vale, having 'got back together' with her ex-boyfriend.
That was news to me. I hadn't even had the chance to play my (admittedly weak) hand again. But fear not – it's nothing serious, apparently. It's obviously still more serious than it was with Gareth, because this bloke has been promoted from mere fuck buddy to friend with benefits. Because her phone had died, she spent most of the night using my free texts to chat to him while I sat around like a spare prick at an orgy. Again.
When we returned to town, I decided to return to the Cambrian, where the karaoke was winding down. I made a second attempt at 'Waterloo Sunset', following its debut at the Golden Cross last week. It needs work, but it was something I hadn't done in Aberdare before. Then I headed to Thereisnospoon for a last one, with a nagging feeling that I'd have been better off staying at home on Friday night – rather like the guy in the song, in fact.
On Sunday evening, the Incredible Vanishing Girl 2 made the transition from a disappointing remake of the 2009 original to an ill-judged weekly series.
I was in the house in the afternoon when Chazza texted me, asking me if I fancied going for a pint. I texted her back, saying that I had to go to Trecynon Hall at 4.30. I'd arranged to pick up some posters for the Colstars' forthcoming panto Aladdin, which I was planning to distribute around local businesses owned by friends of mine. It wouldn't take me long to get to the Welsh Harp, so I said I'd meet her there. I warned her to pace herself, because we'd be going on to the Cambrian, and said I'd see her whenever she was ready.
Remember, we're talking about a young girl here. 'Whenever she was ready' could involve anything from simply putting her shoes on right through to a full-blown makeover and shopping expedition in Oxford Street. I was prepared for the long haul.
Anyway, I got to the pub to find Gaz in conversation with Spike. He's an old pal of ours (his grandparents lived a few doors away when we were kids), and he still pays occasional visits to see his family. We had a good chat about our childhood memories of Aberdare, local history (Spike had come across my entry A Pub Crawl to Die For (Part 1)), public transport, the assorted frustrations of modern life, and various other topics. I popped back to the house and brought up the two volumes of Aberdare: Pictures From the Past, which the boys hadn't seen before.
In return, Spike showed me photos of bottles from the former local breweries and soft drinks manufacturers. He's been collecting them since he was very young, and had even unearthed a couple that afternoon while walking around the Country Park. Elfed has lent some of his own stash to Aberdare Library, but Spike's collection dwarfs Elfed's. Look at these lovely old artefacts of Elfed's and you'll see why they're so interesting.
Spike is extremely knowledgeable about the subject, so I tried to convince him to write an article for Old Cynon Valley (first volume in preparation). That led us to an idea Gaz had a few years earlier, about writing an article about the local football scene. (In an area known best for rugby, football seems to have had the lion's share of success in the Cynon and Merthyr Valleys.) I mentioned my two abortive projects for the Cynon Valley History Society as well. Will any of these ideas come to fruition? Watch this space …
'Watch this space' is also good advice when it comes to Chazza, it seems. At about 6.30 Clare rang me, because Chazza had messaged her to ask if anyone knew where I was. Needless to say, I was in the Welsh Harp. Spike had gone home to make tea for his mother, so Gaz and I were still chatting. There's no WiFi in the pub, so I was off-grid to all intents and purposes. According to Clare, Chazza had gone straight to the Cambrian. I said that seemed a bit daft, because she'd have had to pass the Welsh Harp on the way into town. Just after 7.00 Chazza herself rang me. She was walking through Trecynon and wondering where I was.
'Exactly where I said I'd be,' I told her.
She came in a minute later, so I bought her a drink and introduced her to Gaz. The three of us chatted for a while before moving on. I dropped my books and the posters into the house, and Chazza and I walked into Aberdare. When we got to the Cambrian it was fairly quiet, so we grabbed a decent table and waited for the guest musician to arrive.
Dai C. Thomas (for it was he) is a very talented, charming and eccentric young fellow from Llandeilo, who's played here a few times as a solo artist and as one half of Nomadic Ways. After he'd set up his gear, he joined us for a pint and we chatted about his occasional extra background artist work in TV. He was going to a costume fitting in Bristol on Monday, before appearing as a Frenchman in Poldark. No disrespect to Chazza, who seems to have settled into her job after a shaky start, but doesn't that sound more fun than serving up fast food for minimum wage on a zero hours contract?
Dai played the first half of his set to a fairly small audience, and Chazza went for a smoke (she said). You'll be amazed, I'm sure, when I tell you that she didn't return. I texted her after a little while, to see if she was coming back, and she told me she was in the Prince. I thought maybe she'd gone to look for her uncle Ross, but when she didn't reappear I realised she'd conned me out of another couple of beers again.
Dai finished his second set, we had a brief chat as he was packing his stuff away, and I decided to head for the Prince myself. More than anything, I wanted to try and catch Chazza in mid-lie. When I got there, I asked around but nobody had seen her. I texted her and told her she could take her invisibility cloak off.
I had a last pint there, texted her to say I was giving up on her slowly, and went home.
Clare didn't show up for Manic Monday. She and her friend with benefits had been to the cinema in Merthyr. As I told you in Strange Little Girl, Clare tends to throw herself in at the deep end when it comes to boys, so I wasn't surprised when she told me she was thinking of moving to Ebbw Vale. (Remember last autumn's week-long engagement to the chav from Blackwood? Yeah – so do I!)
It would be the end of our singing partnership, and would also totally put the mockers on everyone who thinks we're an item. There suddenly doesn't seem to be a lot of point in going to look at second-hand guitars this Saturday, as we'd arranged over the weekend. I'd managed to rope in my mate Wayne B. ‒ who's in at least three bands at last count – to come and give them the once-over with us. I messaged him about an hour ago to tell him not to bother. Six-string instruments won't be able to compete with no-strings sex.
Even so, she managed to find time out from her precious bedtime schedule to meet me for lunch yesterday, before we went to Merthyr College for the open evening. (We were supposed to have met for breakfast, but she was running very late. As I said on Facebook, when you come in for breakfast and end up ordering from the lunch menu, you've either walked into a remake of Joel Schumacher's film Falling Down or you're meeting a girl. I didn't see any cameras.) I agreed to stand her lunch in return for her footing the bill today, when she gets her money. That's one offer Chazza has never made, in fairness to Clare.
We caught the train to Merthyr, had a glass of Coke in the Crown, and then walked over to the college. The open evening was getting under way, and one of student ambassadors directed us to one of the tutors. He took us upstairs, introduced us to his colleague, and they told us about the music options they've got on offer. There's the traditional A level, of course, very much focused on classical music and requiring a fair bit of theory, as well as at least Grade 3 proficiency on an instrument. (That rules both of us out. Clare used to play guitar, but I don't know what standard she reached. It was almost certainly higher than mine.)
Alternatively, there's the BTEC. It's far more hands-on and contemporary. The old town hall in Merthyr is now the Red House, a music venue with a growing reputation, and the college uses the basement for their practical tuition. They've got state-of-the-art equipment, more computers than the whole of RCTCBC Libraries, visiting tutors with huge amounts of experience, and a talent base that enables students to network across all aspects of the business. The course covers all aspects of popular music, from playing and singing through to songwriting, production, marketing … It's got to be way more constructive than singing 'Proud Mary' every Friday night to an audience of half a dozen Valleys pissheads, hasn't it? It sounded ideal for Clare, and the more the four of us talked, the more I could see the excitement growing in her eyes.
Clare and the tutor started filling in the application form while we chatted about the scene in general. I explained how we'd met, and how I was slowly weaning her off the backing tapes and onto solid instruments. The whole thing was going very well.
Then we hit the inevitable snag.
Clare doesn't have her certificates from school. She couldn't even remember exactly what exams she'd sat during her rather unpleasant time in the system. Without the paperwork, her application would fall at the first fence.
But (naturally) I know a man who works for the exam board. In fact, I'd had a couple of pints with him on Sunday afternoon. I said I'd ring Gaz in the evening and see how we'd go about getting copies. He'd done the same for me back in September 2009, when I fell back into university, so I knew it could be done.
We shook hands with the guys and went downstairs to the atrium. A young lad with a practice drumkit was demonstrating his skills, and another young lad was setting up a guitar. We chatted and listened to them for a while, then headed for The Works to see if they had any music tuition books. There was nothing at all on learning the guitar (although they had one on stripping down an electric guitar and rebuilding it from scratch). It seemed a bit odd, considering how many young people are into playing music these days. On the other hand, I did find a book of piano chords, so I treated myself to that. I've always fancied playing both instruments, and one of my New Year's Resolutions was to start some serious work on them both.
[A digression: This lunchtime, in their Aberdare branch, I found the companion book for guitar. While I was at the counter, I mentioned to Stacey that I'd found the piano book in Merthyr yesterday, but nothing for guitar. She agreed that the stock distribution across neighbouring shops seems to be haphazard at best. I jokingly commented on Facebook that the next Bill Evans could be in junior school in Aberdare right now, and the next John McLaughlin in junior school in Merthyr, but on the strength of the self-teaching materials on offer, we'll never know.]
Clare and I caught the 1708 train from Merthyr and arrived at Abercynon just in time to find that the Aberdare train had been cancelled. Southbound trains were falling off the board as well. According to Arriva Trains Fails, a passenger had been taken ill and had to be to taken off at Llandaff North. We parked ourselves in the shelter and I texted Gaz to explain Clare's situation, adding 'BTW trains are fucked up big time!' He replied a few minutes later to say he already knew – he'd been on his way home when the disruption started.
I sent a couple of sarcastic Tweets about the trains from the Plaid Cymru Cwm Cynon account to pass the time, and then started chatting to a bloke I know by sight. Clare, meanwhile, spent the hour happily texting her friend with benefits (from her new thickphone) until an Aberdare train finally pulled in. It was packed – unsurprisingly – and we got to Aberdare only about an hour and seven minutes late. On the way, I noticed on Facebook that Chazza had also fallen foul of the trains in Cardiff. It gave me a warm feeling inside, and Clare laughed when I showed it to her.
I commented, 'I told you the novelty of commuting would soon wear off, didn't I?'
As we were getting off I spotted Gaz, so we captured him and invited him to join us for a pint. He didn't take much persuading. On the way into town, he spotted a piece of paper lying at the roadside. It was a tenner.
'Might as well spend this in the pub,' he said, which seemed like a decent plan.
We hadn't even got to the pub before Chazza texted to ask if I fancied a pint. Luckily for me, I had a Plaid Cymru meeting in Mountain Ash last night.
In the Cambrian, we sat down and looked at the exam board website. It seemed as though Clare was going to have to jump through hoops again. She wasn't even sure if she'd sat WJEC papers or those set by one of the other boards. Gaz said he could check in the system today, so she wrote down her details and we carried on chatting.
Gaz left at about 8.00; Clare stuck around until about 8.45; I went home on the 9.30 bus. Before she left, I asked her what time she wanted to meet for breakfast today. She suggested Thereisnospoon at about 9.30. It seemed like a plan.
Just after 8.00 this morning, I texted her to say I'd be leaving the house in about an hour. She just replied, 'OK', so I assumed everything was on track. I had a bath, got some stuff together for her, and was on my way into Aberdare when she texted me again. Apparently she was feeling too ill to go out. She'd been complaining of earache yesterday, but it hadn't occurred to her to mention it an hour earlier. It must have been one of those very rapid escalations that get the doctors so worried in Holby City.
I had a flashback to our non-trip to Pontyclun before Xmas (see Just Another Weird Wednesday). That was also a day when she got her money and when she'd woken up feeling like shit. (She'd been all right to go to the Bonki in the evening, strangely enough.) I remembered our last trip to Cardiff a fortnight ago, when she'd baled out early because she'd been feeling like shit. That was a Wednesday, too.
I didn't say anything about that, but told her I hoped she felt better soon, and went for breakfast as planned. My food hadn't even arrived when she rang me to ask if I wanted to go to Cardiff with her and her parents. (Now you know why I've called this entry 'The Lazarus Experiment.' Not even Lazarus made that rapid a recovery.)
I said I was going to the Coliseum tonight – which is true – so Karaoke and Shots in the Golden Cross was out. However, Clare said they'd be coming back at about 5.00. I didn't get where I am today by catching rush hour trains home from Cardiff. (Actually, I kinda did, because I decided I just couldn't fucking do it any more.) It wasn't a nice idea from the start.
I asked her what time they were planning on going. She said they'd meet me in time for the 1052 train. I said OK, finished my breakfast, and headed to the library to chase up Plaid Cymru stuff yet again.
I was by the cashpoint at about 1040 when I spotted Clare heading into Whitcombe Street, away from the station. I called across the road, she shouted something and pointed vaguely along the street, and then I lost sight of her behind a lorry. Because of the traffic noise I didn't know if she was heading to the post office or the pharmacy. There's fuck all else in Whitcombe Street except a dental surgery, a tattoo studio and a plethora of hair salons. None of those are 'in and out in two minutes' jobs. It was too early for fish and chips, even by Clare's standards; neither of the pubs would have been open. I grabbed my money and headed for the other side to wait for her.
After a few minutes I decided she might have gone around the block and towards the station that way. There was no sign of her in the pharmacy or the post office when I looked through the windows. I headed to the station to see if I could spot them on the train. Unfortunately, the hanging around meant that I had only a few seconds to dive through the open doors. Within nanoseconds of the train leaving the platform, Clare texted to ask where I was.
Do you remember when the Tenth Doctor regenerated in 'The End of Time'? Even before he could say his goodbyes to everyone, the energy was already forming a halo around his hand. He turned to Wilf and said, 'It's started.'
Well, I think my recent unexpected regeneration must have started in a similar low-key fashion. I sat in the seat nearest the driver's cab (in other words, furthest from the guard) and sent this reply:
On the fucking train as agreed earlier. Getting off at Cwmbach without buying a ticket and coming back to town.
Which was exactly what I did. Having been shot down by the combined forces of UNIT and Torchwood, I underwent full regeneration in time to reach the bus top at Tre Telynog.
The new Steve looks exactly the same as the old one, I'm sad to say, but (rather like the Master's successive incarnations) his personality has become much darker and far less predictable. And, as usually happens when Time Lords regenerate, his companions are often shocked or even frightened by the sudden transformation.
Clare texted back to ask why I was swearing, and to tell me they'd be on the 1122 from Aberdare instead. The ensuing exchange went like this (bear in mind that she's using a thickphone):
Not in the mood for fucking around today, so I'll see you when I see you.
As in be on 11,22 train
I spent enough time freezing on Goddessforsaken stations yesterday. Nice and warm in library.
Wel [sic] my dad said 11 train but waiting on my step mum x
Yeah, well I'm waiting on the bus back to town.
OK
Good thing I went looking for you in Whitcombe St. At least I didn't have time to buy my train ticket before it left. Never arrange to do anything with me on a Wednesday morning again, because you always cry off sick.
Before I had time to send that last one, my phone rang in my hand. It was Clare. I killed the call, finished composing the text, and sent it before catching the bus into Aberdare. Good Old Steve could quite easily have walked back to the station and met them on the next train.
But Good Old Steve isn't around any more.
This new regeneration is calculated to piss off young people who like the trendy, ironic, eccentric but lovable character, while appealing to hardcore older fans who recognise elements of themselves in his irascibility, cynicism, and unwillingness to suffer fools gladly.
I killed at least three more calls from Clare between getting on the bus and finishing this entry off using proper WiFi. Normally the Doctor carries a companion over into a new regeneration, to give old and new viewers a sense of continuity. The Tenth Doctor didn't, though. Funny how I keep referring back to that one, isn't it, boys and girls?
I'm kinda wondering how the Plaid Cymru Muggles (to mix cult SF/fantasy sagas slightly) will respond to Evil New Steve at the next (actual) branch meeting. After all, it'll have been a month since I asked them all to give me some content for our election campaign website. My inbox remains barren. At least one of the candidates knows what happened to the online presence I established for the Cynon Valley Quiz League back in the autumn. Project No More Nice Guy hadn't even got as far as the drawing board. Good Old Steve was alive and well.
But, as the Doctor's pal Captain Jack Harkness famously said, 'The twenty-first century is when everything changes, and you gotta be ready.'
Are you ready?

Friday 20 January 2017

Calling the Shots

In which The Author pitches a new Reality TV show
A few months ago, two friends of mine named Simon and Kylie took over a big old pub in Phonicstown Cwmaman called the Boncyff. It's a place I've been to a few times over the years, but it's too far from home to have become a regular watering hole.
It was originally called the Fforchneol Arms. First recorded in 1872, according to Richard Arnold's definitive essay 'The Pubs, Clubs and Breweries of Aberdare' (in Old Aberdare Vol. 2), it's more commonly known as 'the Bonki'. The origin of its peculiar name is – as with so many aspects of Valleys life – a topic for debate, mythology and downright bollocks in pubs and elsewhere. I once read (somewhere) that the boncyff was a large tree stump on Gooseberry Hill, more or less opposite, used as a counting table for the miners' wages. By association the word transferred itself to the pub, and gradually mutated to its current form.
The name 'Fforchneol Arms' seems to have fallen into disuse over the past two decades or so. The side of the building currently reads Boncyff. (I can't tell you what it says on the front. We just dive straight in after getting off the bus, without stopping to look. I took the photo a few years ago, but I doubt if it's changed since.)
[A digression: My friend Florence grew up in Uganda, and occasionally falls into the language gap when she's among fluent Wenglish speakers. A few years ago, she had to go to the old Aman School for a dance class one evening. Being new to the area, she asked her work colleagues how to get there by public transport.
Having been advised to catch the bus and 'get off by the Bonki', Florence boarded the Glynhafod service and asked the driver for 'a return to the Bonkers.' When she told me about it a few days later, we roared with laughter, and I said, 'You're bloody bonkers!'
Anyway, Simon and Kylie introduced Friday night karaoke a couple of months ago. You won't be surprised to learn that Phillip, Clare and I have been up to check it out a few times. In fact, it was – partly – the reason why Clare started going there in the first place.
But it's not just karaoke. It's Karaoke and Shots. Every time you sing, you get a free drink. It's never a free pint, unfortunately, but one of those 'blink and you'll miss it' drinks in a little plastic cup that looks like something a nurse might hand you when you're standing behind a curtain. Still, a free drink is a free drink. They have the same offer at the Golden Cross in Cardiff on Wednesday evenings. As Jade Justine the host/ess always says, 'The more you sing, the more pissed you get for free.'
Clare got royally pissed the first time she did Karaoke and Shots. In fact, she spent most of the Saturday feeling very sorry for herself, drinking soft drinks, occasionally moaning and mopping her fevered brow, and eventually baling out before Lindsay had even set up her gear in the Glandover. Shot to death, one might say.
Later that night, I had an unfortunate incident myself. I'd stayed in the Welsh Harp until closing time, with a nice gang of friends I hadn't seen for a while. When I got home and put my key in the Yale lock, the bloody thing snapped in two. Luckily for me, the mortise lock opened without any problems, and I was able to shoulder charge the door open. (Yeah, I know – is there any more damage I can do to my shoulders?)
On the next Manic Monday, I showed the remaining portion to Phillip and Clare, and suggested that the Broken Key would be the perfect emblem for our karaoke get-togethers. Every time someone makes a hash of a song, we could display the Broken Key on the table in front of us.
Goddess knows I earned it myself on Wednesday night, when I struggled through a very high arrangement of 'Waterloo Sunset' in the Golden Cross. 'Lola' would have been better suited to my voice, but since Jade is a drag queen I didn't think it would go down too well.
However, the very words 'karaoke and shots' gave me an idea. Let me explain …
It seems that half the country spends Saturday nights glued to Reality TV 'talent' shows like The Voice and The X Factor. At least three of my friends have tried out for one of these shows, and failed to qualify. It wasn't because they weren't up to the mark – it was just that there were other people on the day who offered better entertainment value. Take this young lad from Aberdare, who appeared on The X Factor a few years ago, for example. He looks the part; he talks the talk; he certainly thinks he's the best thing since sliced bread. But look at Louis Walsh's face as soon as he starts singing. Cheryl Cole's reaction is priceless, too.
After seeing Clare's pitiful attempt to get through the Saturday after the Friday before, I realised that Karaoke and Shots is actually a brilliant idea for a talent show. I'll pitch it to you so you can see what you think.
Hopeful wannabes with a half-decent voice get to do their party pieces in front of a panel of judges. The successful ones go through to the next stage. So far, so predictable.
But here's the twist.
Instead of just sitting there saying, 'It's a "no" from me,' or refusing to turn their chairs around, each judge is provided with a 9mm revolver loaded with live rounds. If any contestant fails to reach a decent standard, he or she gets blown away live on prime-time television.
See – Karaoke and Shots just got real.
I first outlined this idea on Facebook a couple of months ago. A few of my friends thought it had legs. I also sketched it out in the Golden Cross last week. Jade was horrified, but the barman seemed to like it.
Jade said, 'You can't go killing people live on TV.'
'Not in this country, no,' I agreed. 'But I bet the Japanese networks would bite my hand off for the rights.'
After all, I'm old enough to remember the insane clips from Endurance that Clive James used to feature on his TV show. I'm just taking things to the next level.
I was in the Golden Cross on Wednesday night, drinking with a good crowd of performing arts students from St Paul, Minnesota, for some bizarre reason. Suddenly, a young girl sitting beside me literally launched herself off her stool and into the middle of the crowd. I started laughing and told her, 'It's only the lighting system – that bright red dot on your chest isn't really a laser guide for a sniper rifle.'
But the plot thickens. Phillip and I were sitting in the Lighthouse last night when I noticed that Spanish Steve had a bright red dot in the middle of his back. We looked around and Martin had a bright red dot on the nape of his neck. I told Phillip what had happened in Cardiff the night before. Maybe there really were snipers positioned around the building, ready to take down anyone who murdered 'Delilah' for the thousandth time. Was Karaoke and Shots about to come to life?
Anyway, having kept the proposal to my Facebook friends and my fellow members of the Broken Key Club until now, I'm putting it out there for anyone to buy. It's even got a working title, courtesy of the barman in the Golden Cross, who mentioned that it sounded like a plan for a snuff movie.
How does Can You Come Up to Snuff grab you?

Thursday 19 January 2017

A Flashback to 2012

In which The Author finds history repeating itself again
Now that I've relocated my base of operations from Wordpress to here, I'm taking the opportunity to retrofit the disused blog to a consistent 'house style'. Every so I often I go through the original posts, tweaking the text and the HTML to a standard format. I usually call this 'extreme proofreading for geeks', incidentally.
Anyway, this afternoon I've been revising an entry from the summer of 2012, called Courting Controversy. If nothing else, it goes to prove that there's nothing new under the sun …

Monday 16 January 2017

Friends Without Benefits

In which The Author makes a late new year's resolution
A few days before Xmas, Rhian, Steff and I were in Thereisnospoon when the subject – for some unknown reason – turned to the fact that I've been de facto single since March 2001. Rhian, of course, was there when the whole Oz Girl situation imploded a few months later (see From a Land Down Under). Steff was't.
Since then, my 'romantic life' (*snort*) has consisted of a brief unconsummated dalliance with Jenny, unrequitable one-way love affairs with a Dippy Bint and a Nigerian Princess, two 'dates' with a born-again God-botherer and drug casualty, an online relationship with a Russian chick who may or may not have been Russian (or a chick) at all, a couple of drunken flirtations with a beautiful and kinky single mother, and a few snogs with a woman my age for whom the phrase 'as mad as a box of frogs' seems sadly inadequate. I'm not necessarily listing them in the right order …
Steff wondered why I hadn't invested more into furthering any of these potential relationships. I told her I really didn't have the time or energy to spare.
The way I look at it, it's rather like (not) learning to drive.
Learning to drive takes ages, costs a small fortune, and – unless you're in a well-paid job or drive a company car – simply adds another financial black hole to your personal universe. Into that bottomless pit of tax, MOT, running costs, insurance, repair bills, parking charges, and so forth, you watch every single spare penny of your income drain away just as surely as Manic Monday follows Silly Sunday.
Even if you can afford to run a vehicle, your social life suffers; you can't have a pint whenever the mood takes you, because that precious licence depends on your continued sobriety. As well as being the designated driver on days out, you become the unofficial taxi service for family and friends, constantly on call for hospital appointments and so forth.
I didn't go any further down that road after failing my driving test in 1983. Sometimes – about once a decade – I wish I had. The Nigerian Princess said she'd love to see the Gower Peninsula, with its spectacular beaches, quaint buildings and mysterious ruined castles, before she went home.
I replied, 'I'd love to take you there, babe. But on public transport, by the time we got there it would be time to come back again.'
Which leads neatly to my next point. Not learning to drive forces you into the grip of private companies like Arriva Trains Fails Wales, Stagecoach and First Group, or transport authorities such as TfL. You're constrained to go wherever they go, and forced to rely on the oldest form of transport known to our species if you want to go further afield. If you need to travel off the beaten track, or at short notice, or outside the normal operating hours, you are (to borrow a technical term from the urban planning industry) fucked to buggery and back.
But you learn to live with it. My other blog Is Your Journey Really Necessary? came about because of the frustrations of living in a place where, as far as the Powers That Be are concerned, nothing whatsoever happens after 6.00 p.m. or at weekends. Yes, it's annoying when there's something happening in Cardiff – which you simply can't get home from. It's even more infuriating when there's something happening in Swansea – which you simply can't get to in the first place.
After a couple of decades, you begin to realise why most people in Aberdare perceive a universe that's bounded by the corner shop, the pub, the local playing field, the betting shop and the takeaway. You try telling them that twenty miles away there are interesting shops, and a whole range of pubs and clubs and restaurants, and cinemas and shows and gigs and plays and museums and galleries and talks and meetings and all manner of events going on seven nights a week, pretty much the whole year … And after a few minutes, you realise that they're about to phone the police to report an escapee from a locked psychiatric ward. This world you're describing is as alien and unfamiliar as any SF scenario dreamt up by the masters of the genre. They can't even begin to imagine living in that world.
In essence, that's pretty much what I've done with regards to 'matters of the heart' over the past sixteen years or so. I've cut myself off from that world, and no longer take any interest when other people talk about their visits there. When I see my friends pair off, settle down, and start a family, naturally I'm pleased for them. Who wouldn't be? For Goddess's sake, we need some genetic variation in the system simply to fight a rearguard action against the fuckwits.
But I really can't visualise myself in that situation. If it was going to happen at all, it would have happened twenty years ago. It didn't. It's a virtual simulation of a world that simply isn't real for me.
Which puts me in an interesting position, as Steff found out when she pressed me on the subject that evening.
'Not even a one night stand?'
'No.'
'Fuck buddies?'
'No.'
'Friends with benefits?'
'No – plenty of friends on benefits, but that's as far as it goes.'
I only found out the meaning of the term 'friends with benefits' a few years ago. I'd probably overheard it in conversation, but Рas with Call of Duty, Grand Theft Auto, Game of Thrones, The Walking Dead, and so forth РI'd assumed it was some sort of yoof cult thing. Maybe a weird hybrid of a popular US sitcom starring Jennifer Aniston and a Channel 4 expos̩ of dole fiddlers. How the fuck was I to know it was an actual thing?
But it turned out to be an actual thing.
As far as I can tell, friends with benefits are people of the opposite sex (usually) who occasionally exchange bodily fluids, but with no commitment to a proper relationship and no intention to embark on one. I don't think I know any people who are in that situation. I expect if I paid more attention to the ongoing soap opera Life in Aberdare, I'd find a few people sitting not too far away from where I am now who fall into that category.
But I'm not interested in other people's lives. I'm not in a position to offer a shoulder to cry on when it comes to fucked-up sex lives. Whenever Rhian and Steff have an argument, I'm the one they turn to for advice. Goddess alone knows why. It's hardly my area of expertise. I can help people out with their English grammar and spelling, but why bother asking me about anything else? It's a bit like consulting King Herod for childcare tips.
Fuck buddies are even more mysterious than friends with benefits. I don't even know whether fuck buddies are supposed to be friends, or whether their sexual encounters are as transient as the mating of foxes along the banks of the river. The whole fuck buddy phenomenon seems to be another manifestation of the sex-obsessed culture we've built for children over three decades of music videos, easy access to online pornography (in spite of what the ISPs say), the wide availability of fairly effective contraception (not that everyone uses it), and the general I Want It All And I Want It Now mentality we've been instilling in society since I was a teenager.
I know a number of people who fall into this category whenever they're with the opposite sex. (Or maybe not even the opposite sex – this is Aberdare, remember, where most young people seem content to fuck pretty much anyone.) In fact, I think I was out with one of them on Thursday night.
Oh yes, my friend Barry Normal's summary of The Incredible Vanishing Girl 2 turned out to be amazingly accurate – especially the last bit.
The text I'd been expecting (from a number not in my contacts list) arrived at about 2.30, asking me if I fancied going to the Lighthouse in the evening. In the event, Chazza arrived at Thereisnospoon only about half an hour late. We had a bite to eat, chatted about the latest development in her romantic roller-coaster ride, and then went over the road in time for karaoke.
Phillip was there, naturally, but Clare was at home nursing a cold. The place filled up slowly before Tara arrived to set up her gear, but then the snow started. At first it didn't look as if it would come to much, but by about 9.30 p.m. it was piling down. Tara lives in Tonyrefail, two mountains away. Deb the barbint lives in Maerdy, only one mountain away, but still impossible to get to if the roads are closed. It looked as if the evening was going to be cut off in its prime.
Before we baled out, Chazza had made a point of showing off her latest new phone – not the one she'd had for Xmas, apparently, but a more recent acquisition again – to everyone in the pub. A gang of lads in their twenties had come in – trendy haircuts, beards, beauty products, off-the-shelf 'designer' clothes, cutting-edge gadgets – and Chazza had latched on to them straight away. After taking selfies with them all, she spilled half a pint of beer and decided she wanted to move on to the Bush.
I wasn't keen on the idea from the outset. As I've said previously, there's too much testosterone and way too much white powder in the place for my tastes. But we haven't sung together for ages, so I agreed to call in for just the one. We were in Commercial Street when Chazza spotted two youngsters she knows, one male and one female, ducking into a doorway out of the snow. From what I gathered from the brief conversation, the girl had been involved in a fight in the Bush – I wasn't really listening – and the police were going to get involved and someone's father was coming up to sort things out (know what I mean?) and there was a restraining order in the mix somewhere …
I had a brief flashback to the drug-addled lowlife I met in Aberdare Library five years or so ago (see Not Born Beautiful), so I made my excuses and left. I told Chazza I was going to the Prince for a pint, and that I might see her later on. She started arguing, but I told her I was too old to get involved in an Excerpt From a Post-Teenage Soap Opera.
I left them to it and finished the night in the Prince. It was quiet, unsurprisingly, and Chazza and I had a brief argument online about the way the night had panned out yet again before my battery died. At one point she asked me how she was expected to get home if the snow kept falling.
I replied, 'Same way I am – walking.'
When the snow falls, there are precious few taxis on the road. When two people are heading in opposite directions, trying to share one is a waste of time.
Then the Incredible Vanishing Girl 2 vanished once again. I thought I saw her walking past the window a little while later, but if it was her she didn't call in. Since then, nothing. As usual. Did she go home on her own? Who knows? I certainly did.
Just the day before, I'd been crashed out of bed by Clare, who was trying to smash my front door down at 7.27 a.m. A couple of days ago she'd told Gareth that it was over between them. Even though they'd never been 'a couple' (according to her, anyway), he was fine as a fuck buddy for a little while. Once the novelty wore off, she fell back to Plan A: Good Old Steve. She wasn't feeling particularly well, and she'd had an argument with her family, so she'd left the house at the crack of dawn and landed outside the only place where someone might be awake. I wasn't feeling particularly well-disposed towards her after she'd launched into what sounded like a fucking police raid, but apparently she'd tried ringing me beforehand. My phone doesn't stay on overnight. Now you know why.
After breakfast in Thereisnospoon we caught a train into Cardiff, and went for a walk around the bay to blow the cobwebs away. We crossed the barrage, and I texted Rowland to see if he could recommend a decent pub in Penarth – or, even better, join us for a pint. We walked into Penarth, visited the town's eight (or possibly nine) charity shops, and had a quick catch-up with Rowland before we all caught the bus back to Cardiff. Clare and I went to the cinema, then called into the Rummer for a pint before she decided to head home. I stayed in town for the duration, but I didn't miss a great deal again.
While we were walking around the bay, I wanted a photo of us against a strange alien landscape which the wind and water had carved out of the shoreline. Luckily for us, we met a couple from Tyntetown who were happy to help us out. It was especially breezy on Wednesday, as you can see.
Now, bear in mind that we're just friends. Clare made that perfectly clear a couple of months ago, remember. However, the number of people in Aberdare who think we're seeing each other continues to grow. I don't know how many times since October that Clare and I – or both of us – have been asked if we're an item. People have even started saying things like 'See you, both' when we leave the pub. It's a bit like that running joke in Torchwood: Children of Earth, where Ianto has to tell Jack every time someone sees through the facade and realises they're a couple.
But look at the photo again.
I know she's much younger than me, but most people don't believe how old I really am anyway. Check out the way we're dressed. To all intents and purposes we look as though we're together, don't we? It even looks as though we're holding hands. (We weren't, of course. It was blowing a gale, so Clare kept her hands inside her sleeves.) And – most importantly – neither of us would ever feature in a glamour magazine, never mind a porn shoot.
As I've said before, Clare's an attractive girl, but she certainly isn't the prototype for the Robert Silverberg 'Caliban'-style clones walking around Aberdare every weekend. With her black leggings, black top, black jacket, slightly spiky dyed hair and unusual tastes in music, she's certainly far closer to my type than the rest of the Thereisnospoon/ Rasputin's/ Judges crowd. In fact, before we set off for Cardiff she asked if I could lend her a collar for the day. She didn't put it on until we got to Thereisnospoon in Penarth, but then she wore it quite happily for the rest of the day, and all day on Friday as well. We even found a pair of lace gloves online, which I gave her yesterday as a late Xmas present. When we walked into the Cambrian last night, with Clare going more Goth than usual, everyone assumed that we'd finally bitten the bullet and decided to make it official.
On the way there, we laughed about the number of times we've had to disabuse people of that idea. The last time it happened was in Thereisnospoon on Saturday afternoon. (It still wasn't as funny as a woman in the Lighthouse over Xmas asking me if she was my daughter.) I teased her that maybe we should start saying 'yes' whenever anyone asks us if we're an item. She thought it might be a good idea as well.
Then, of course, we got to the Bonki – where Gareth was DJ'ing – and things changed. Even though she'd said she only wanted to go up there for karaoke, I knew that she was really still hung up on her latest fuck buddy.
In fact, on Thursday night, she'd texted me (when I was in the Prince on my own) to say Gareth was on his way into town.
'Why should I care?' I texted back. 'He's your fuck buddy, not mine.'
A few minutes later she told me he wasn't her fuck buddy any more.
But we still had to haul ass to the fucking Bonki on Friday night, simply so she could sit in the corner with me and smile knowingly at her non-fuck buddy while he tended to the sound system. Then she took a phone call from a 'friend' (with or without benefits, I’m not sure) in Pontypridd, whom she'd met for lunch in the afternoon. She spent about an hour talking to him while I sat there like a spare part at an orgy, and then wondered why I couldn't be bothered to get involved with the karaoke.
We went out for a pint on Saturday afternoon as well, but as soon as we were in a pub with WiFi, she spent the rest of the time on her phone, messaging a string of 'friends' on dating/chat sites. You can probably understand why I'm starting to get a bit pissed off with the entire situation.
Clare's certainly the nearest I've come to meeting a girl who's my type for a number of years. We get on well, we make each other laugh, and we enjoy spending time together. We like the same sort of style, and everyone thinks we would work well together. But – as I said in You Don't Know What You've Got Till It's Gone – I can't possibly compete with the endless parade of tattooed chavs vying for her attention whenever she's connected to the Internet. She's got this idealised picture in her mind of her 'perfect man', and she's not going to be happy until she meets him.
The fact that he's a former rock star who would be about my age now (always assuming he's still alive) doesn't enter into it. Similarly, I could decide to stay single until the remote possibility that Clara from Doctor Who walked into the pub and fell head over heels for me. It's as likely a scenario as Clare's ideal bloke deciding to pop in to the pub for karaoke on a Thursday, after all.
It's slightly different with Chazza, who (in spite of being all loved up) chases anything with an X chromosome when she's pissed. It's sex addiction, pure and simple. I wouldn't dream of giving some random stranger my phone number – much less adding them on Facebook. I don't accept friend requests from people I might know, much less from friends of friends whom I've never met and probably never will.
On the other hand, As far as young people are concerned, simply brushing against someone in a shop doorway is enough to elevate them to instant 'friend' status. I've got about five hundred friends on Facebook, only about half a dozen of whom I've yet to meet in the flesh. Kids have thousands of 'friends' online, and they wonder why they get into scrapes all the time.
(Incidentally, shortly after I'd posted this entry I read this story on the Daily Mirror website: Teenage girl found dead 20 minutes after being reported missing 'had gone to meet man she met online'. Go figure …)
Here's my reading of the situation. Most of the guys these girls – and others – meet online are just looking for another fuck buddy, in the guise of offering true love to a gullible female who's never experienced true love before and who keeps getting short-changed as a result. Then we (i.e. men in general) have to put up with the constant barrage of misandrist memes posted by silly bints who've allowed themselves to get hurt in return for a quick fuck behind Judges at stupid o'clock on a Saturday morning.
In the early hours of that very Saturday morning, I logged into Facebook from the warmth of my bed – with no random bint snoring beside me – and posted the following status:
In an alternative universe not recorded in the Bible, the Garden of Eden scene ended differently. God came to Adam while he was on his deathbed, and said, 'Adam, I created woman from your rib, to be your helpmate and companion, so that the two of you would populate the world. Now you're about to die, and there's still no patter of tiny feet. That didn't go according to plan.'
And Adam replied, 'Lord, you have only yourself to blame. If you hadn't created mobile phones and equipped the garden with free Wifi, I might have had a shot with Eve. Instead, she's spent the last eight hundred years blogging, updating her Facebook status, playing Candy Crush, and posting selfies on Instagram - "Do these fig leaves make my bum look big?" and so forth. I never stood a chance.'
And on Saturday morning I commented on it myself:
Incidentally, Eve's only Facebook friend was this serpent she'd met randomly one day, and she still had a crush on him. She only ever liked Adam as a friend.
When Clare left the Lighthouse just before 6.30 p.m. on Saturday night – going home, apparently – she said, 'See you Monday?'
'Yeah, probably,' I said.
But there's no guarantee I'll see her today.
There's no guarantee I'll even be available to take a message from her. Or from Chazza, for that matter. It's the next stage of Project No More Mr Nice Guy. Progress report to follow …

Tuesday 3 January 2017

Just the FAQs (Part 1)

In which The Author saves you asking
  • No, I'm not gay, I've never been married, I have no kids, I'm single and failing to mingle, and I'm not fucking either Chazza or Clare.
  • No, I'm not a Welsh speaker. My mother bought me this wallet as a present from Mount Snowdon, and didn't realise the wording was in Welsh until she unwrapped it.
  • Yes, I did appear on Fifteen to One. It was broadcast on S4C in December 1991. I made it into the final three on the day, but didn't win. We need never speak of it again.
  • Yes, I do have friends from all over the world, of all ethnicities, religions and sexual persuasions. Suck it up, buttercup, it isn't 1947 any more.
  • No, I probably can't fix your bloody laptop, especially if it's running anything later than Windows XP. In the words of Rufus T. Riley, take her to Radio Shack.
  • Yes, I do read a great deal.
  • No, I won't tell you what kind of music/ films/ books/ whatever I'm into. That conversation could outlive the universe.
  • No, I've never played the guitar or bass in a band. You're obviously thinking of someone else. I'll quite happily give you my autograph, but it'll be worthless.
To be continued …