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?