Faintheart

In which The Author experiences another mere coincidence

The book I'm currently working on is the third instalment in Christian Cameron's 'Age of Chivalry' series, which began with The Ill-Made Knight and continued in The Long Sword. I’d worked with Christian back in the spring, on the latest part of the 'The Long War' saga, so I was quite flattered when Orion approached me and asked me if I'd like to copy-edit his latest novel. (I won't reveal the title here, because I don't know whether it's been officially announced yet.) I'd like to think I did such a good job on The Rage of Ares that Christian himself asked if I was available. I haven't asked him directly, though. I'm not that conceited, after all.

Since I'm familiar with his style, and I'd had such a great time – buried under a mountain of books in Aberdare Library, some of which had probably been untouched since they arrived on the shelves – I jumped at the chance.

Well, I have to say that it’s been a bit like battling the Hydra. You put one query to bed, only for another two to spring up. I haven’t attempted to draw up a query sheet this time. Instead, I’ve been using the ‘Comment’ feature in LibreOffice Writer (the cheapskate’s Open Source equivalent of MS Word) to insert my Notes and Queries directly into the margin of the document.

Most of them are pretty short – 'Please see my Names Checklist', that sort of thing. A few point out homophones which have crept into the text. It happens to everyone, after all (see The Death of Rhydwen Williams in my other blog). A few of them – concerning points of historical accuracy or linguistic variations – are almost as long as the page they're pinned to.

Needless to say, I've been taking advantage of Aberdare Library's half-decent Reference section to deal with most of the obstacles I've come up against. On Thursday afternoon I took a photo of the collection of books I'd accumulated through the day, and sent it to Christian on Twitter.

(Incidentally, The Chambers Dictionary is the one I donated myself, as I told you in The Gift of Words. The Oxford Spelling Dictionary was also from my own personal stash, but when I upgraded to the latest edition I didn't need them both at home. I figured that Aberdare Library might take it off my hands, simply so they could say they had two dictionaries published after 1992.)

Anyway, I stayed there until closing time on Thursday, and didn’t bother reshelving them. Instead, I left a note on top of the pile, saying I’d be back in the morning, so they might as well stay there overnight. And on Friday morning I returned, along with five books from my own collection. I had the three Oxford University Press ‘Black Books’ -- essential parts of every proofreader’s and copy-editor’s toolkit. I also had John Julius Norwich’s book on the Popes, and a book on the Knights Templar, both of which I’d picked up in The Works in recent weeks.

I checked my emails and Christian had replied to my Tweet. Since he lives in Toronto, it came in overnight: Are all those for TGC? I replied, They're just the ones I was using yesterday. In the afternoon, I took another photo and Tweeted it to Christian, with the caption We're gonna need a bigger table.

As a matter of fact, we're gonna need a bigger library.

I had a quick look in the history section of the Lending department on Thursday afternoon. This might sound shocking, but as far as the reading public of Aberdare are aware, absolutely nothing happened in the world between the fall of the Roman Empire and the rise of Napoleon. That extends the so-called 'Dark Ages' to nearly fourteen centuries: there's nothing on the Carolingian Renaissance, the Norman Conquest, the Crusades, the Hundred Years War, the Renaissance, the Wars of the Roses, the Age of Exploration, the Reformation, the Counter-Reformation, the English Civil War, the Restoration, the American War of Independence, the Industrial Revolution, the French Revolution …

Even the one book which Rhondda Cynon Taf CBC Libraries do have in stock – a historical account by Judith Barker – covers the second half of the Hundred Years War. I only found that out after I'd requested a transfer. Christian's book is set during the first half. Go figure …

Anyway, the coincidence came about last night, in the Prince of Wales, of all places. Karen and I were chatting about our latest romantic disappointments: mine with Clare; hers with a chap she's keen on, but who – yeah, you've got it in one – 'just likes her as a friend'.

Karen said, 'Your trouble is that you're too much of a gentleman. Girls take advantage of you, because you're kind and good. You've got …' She hesitated for a few moments, searching for the right word. '… chivalry.'

Well, what do you make of that? Karen knew I was working on a book, but she had no idea of the content, or even the historical setting. Why on earth would she have chosen that particular word at this point in my life?

But I thought about it afterwards. As I said in The Return of the King?, I've always been a fan of King Arthur, going back to when I first encountered some of the stories in junior school. In particular, the Grail cycle is a long-standing fascination of mine. And I'm sure everybody knows the bare bones of the Grail myth, even if they haven't read the stories in much detail.

We all know that Lancelot let the side down because he couldn't keep it in his britches. Gawain was a worthy knight and a brave soul, but he failed to find the Grail. Only Galahad – pure of heart and mind and body – was vouchsafed the sight of the Grail, but even he was defeated by his own self-doubt, and the vision faded.

It's still an odd thing for Karen to say, isn't it? I certainly don't fit the description of 'chivalrous' as lived by Sir William Gold in Christian's novels, or as defined by Ramón Llull, who literally wrote the book on the subject. For one thing, with my back and shoulders, I'd be absolutely no bloody use in a fight. I'm hardly a staunch servant of our lord Jesus Christ, either. (We never did heal the schism between the early Church and the Discordian Heresy, after all.) Roistering and wenching aren't really my thing – chance would be a fine thing, as I found out last week.

But, like Sir William, I do like to meet people from different places and cultures, who've had different experiences and hold differing beliefs. My life is certainly richer as a result. In fact, just this morning I was chatting to Jamila on Facebook. I wanted to pick her brains about an aspect of Islam which crops up in the book, and which I wanted to double-check before I finalise the edit. I teased her that, throughout all her time studying Forensic Science, she probably never expected she'd be asked to act as an expert witness in a historical novel.

Anyway, that's this week's mere coincidence. Just thought you'd like to know.

A Nation of Hairdressers

In which The Author gives his friend some careers advice

When Rhian and I were in Aberdare Park to see the cyclists depart on the Tour of Britain, we bumped into our friend Jodie B. We've known her since she was a barbint in the Conway, so we were surprised to see her lurking outside the little cafe by the lake. It turned out that Jodie was doing a couple of shifts there during the college vacation. Naturally, we asked her what she was studying.

Neither of us were particularly surprised when she replied, 'Hair and Beauty.'

Considering that Aberdare College has a pretty limited range of vocational courses anyway – and pitifully few academic courses – there's not a great deal if you want to proceed into further education. To make matters worse, there's virtually bugger all for anyone looking to return to college later in life.

I found this out for myself when I visited their open day just after the A level results came out. Apart from the ever-present Access to Humanities course (see Results Day), they weren't able to offer me anything interesting. They gave me a couple of brochures, but they just confirmed my suspicions that in thirty years' time, Wales is going to be a nation of builders, motor mechanics, care workers and hairdressers. I don't know what they'll be offering in the shiny new premises near Aberdare Station when it opens next year, but I think I can guess. Never mind all the guff you read about the 'knowledge economy' – in Wales, the future is going to be the precarious contracts economy for most people, and self-employment for the lucky few. It's what people like me are already calling 'the gig economy'. Naturally, some Tory MPs are seeing this as a positive step. Well, of course they would, wouldn't they? They can return to being the Landed Gentry, and the rest of us can tug our forelocks when we pass them on the way to our next day's casual work.

Anyway, this came back to mind when Clare and I were in Merthyr a fortnight ago. A few days before, she'd mentioned that she was thinking of going to college next autumn. I asked her what she fancied studying, and guess what she told me …

We were passing Thereisnospoon (and that's another story entirely) when I spotted a big banner advertising Merthyr College's renowned Performing Arts courses. As I've mentioned before, Clare loves singing (which is how we met, of course), she did some acting when she was in school, and she's written a few songs. This is partly the reason why I'm drawing her – and Chazza, to a lesser extent – into the live music scene in Aberdare. It'll be a chance for them to meet guys and gals who've been writing and playing for years. Considering that I can play about three and a half chords on the guitar and even fewer on the piano, I've been on the periphery of the Aberdare scene for most of my adult life. (I know more musicians than the average drummer.)

I pointed out the banner and said, 'That's what you want to be studying.'

Her eyes lit up straight away, so I suggested we stroll over to the campus and pick up a brochure. But she was focused on food, so I shelved the idea while we failed to get fish and chips on Fish Friday. (I know – you couldn't make it up, could you?)

On Monday we met for lunch and I mentioned Merthyr College again. I looked up their number and gave them a quick call. The lady I spoke to was very helpful and enthusiastic, and told that they were having an open evening that very same day.

'Why not come over and talk to the tutors?' she suggested.

I explained that Clare lives in Hirwaun, and I'm just outside Aberdare. After 6.30 p.m., you can forget any prospect of getting home unless you travel via Abercynon (by train) or Pontypridd (by bus). The lady from the college understood where I was coming from – literally and metaphorically – and I said we'd come over for an open day instead. In the meantime, I asked her to send Clare a brochure and we could read a bit more about it.

The job's a good 'un. Clare had the prospectus on Tuesday morning. We're going to sit down with it and see what catches her eye. If she goes down that route, she'll find it far more challenging and fulfilling than making coffee and sweeping up clippings for a year or so in the guise of a 'modern apprenticeship'.

After all, the very last thing Aberdare needs is another bloody hairdresser. I took the camera for a stroll this morning, to check the situation out on the ground. I already knew that there are three salons in Trecynon alone: one on the square, one opposite the top of the park, and one behind the Mount Pleasant (although one is closed for holidays at the moment, and I don't know the situation with the one on the square).

I proceeded in an orderly manner in a southerly direction, as the police officer said to the actress. There are two more in the little row of shops on the Gadlys – literally a few doors apart, as you can can see from the photos – a third in the old Park Bakery, and a fourth just below the Mackworth.

We haven't reached the town centre yet. I started off in Canon Street. There was, until fairly recently, a salon at the end of High Street, but that's gone. Still, there are plenty of others, so I shouldn't think it was a vital cog in the Valleys economic powerhouse. Incidentally, the first one, Walters, is in the upstairs premises which was formerly Lloyd's, back in the day, and where we always used to go for haircuts.

This second photo is interesting, showing two salons side by side. However, you only get the whole picture when I widen the angle:

Yes, you are reading this properly. We have an entire Makeover Mews coming together – a beauty salon and tanning parlour, two hair salons and a new nail bar, all side by side.

I got to the Palladium block of flats where the Palladium used to be, and remembered that there's a place in Dean Street as well. One small detour sorted that one out.

Back in Canon Street, I came across another two barbers' shops in fairly short order. The first has been open for literally less than a month. Between them there's another nail bar. (I decided not to include nail bars, beauty salons and tanning parlours in the photographic survey, because I've only got a 4 Gb memory card.)

My next port of call was Whitcombe Street. There was a barber's shop here in 1975, according to the Goad's map of the town which I've been working on for some time. Unfortunately, it cuts off slightly short, so it wouldn't have included any of these, even if they'd been in existence at the time. Once again, we have two for the price of one: next to Route 66 is the long-established Lynx. (Lyn, the owner, worked with Lloyd before he went out on his own a number of years ago.)

I doubled back into Commercial Street, where there's just one salon, amazingly.

An inspired hunch took me along Duke Street, into Market Street and through the market itself. There, at the far end, my vague memory of the new part paid off.

There's another 'two for one' offer on the corner of Merchant Street, as well, and then I made my way back into Duke Street.

I looped around into Cardiff Street, where my friend Shaun M. has a tattoo studio next to yet another barber's shop.

I knew there was nothing in Cardiff Street itself, but an inspired guess led me into the little courtyard of the former National School. I found a salon here, but there was no sign of life. Maybe hairdressers go on holiday mob-handed at this time of year. Who knows?

At the end of Bute Street, there's this real oddity which has been there since Goddess was a little girl. You get the impression that only ladies' stylists have trendy and/or punning names, don't you?

Back on Victoria Square, I knew I was in the right place at the right time. The first salon literally opened this morning. On the other side of the Lighthouse, Emma's been there for some years. Needless to say, there's a nail bar next to Emma's place. Right at the end of the row, once you've been transformed into the film star/ pop singer/ supermodel/ whatever of your choice, Victoria Studios can photograph the evidence for you before you go for a drink to celebrate.

I was about to call it a day when I remembered that there's a salon on Monk Street. It didn't take me long to walk up there and back into town.

I was heading for the library when I passed this place next to Thereisnospoon. I crossed the road to photograph it, and then remembered that there's yet another one behind the solicitors' offices, on the approach to St Elvan's Church.

I think that's a pretty comprehensive survey of the Aberdare scene at the time of writing. Of course, it's quite possible that I missed one, tucked away in a first floor premises. If you'd like some free advertising courtesy of The Author, please feel free to get in touch.

I think it's fair to say that every Cynon Valley community, except Penderyn and Rhigos, has a hair salon of some size. This doesn't take into account the plethora of mobile stylists, like my friends Ian L. and Jenny J. (No, not that Jenny, don't worry!) Most of their business comes from working people who would be hard pushed to fit a salon visit around their busy schedules. They also serve the growing population of elderly people, whether in their own homes, or by regular visits to residential homes.

Now, you'd think that with this wealth of cutting-edge skill (sorry about that), Aberdare people would be striding around like the proudest peacocks, showing off their individual 'dos in an attempt to outsmart (sorry again) their rivals in the sexual athletics. Not a chance! The post-Fordist bubble I described in And Now For Something Completely Identical burst a long time ago. It takes a brave person to buck the fashion trends.

Clare wore a dog collar on Monday (as had I, quite by chance) and said that she got several strange looks as she came into the library. Then we went for lunch, and she became aware that people were staring at us. We were both dressed in black sporting unusual accessories. I took an elsie (a photo taken on a mobile phone which contains another person) and posted her picture on Facebook, with the words 'We're sure the guys on the next table think we're on our way to a fetish night'.

Meanwhile, we were surrounded by young lads with One Direction haircuts, or slightly older lads with great big bushy beards, and women of all ages who think it's cool to dye their hair white. We were definitely something completely different.

I'm sure Clare would be a sad loss to the world of hairdressing, but I'd much rather encourage her to do something she's guaranteed to enjoy. After all, enough kids drop out of further education as things stand. They find out the course isn't what it's cracked up to be, and decide to do something else. It's a waste of everyone's time, and it doesn't do any great things for the country's prosperity. Aberdare really doesn't need another hairdresser, but we can never have too many creative young people reaching their full potential, can we?

Another Quid in the Bank

In which The Author plays his hand

Well, this morning, after chatting to Clare for a while on Facebook, I decided to grasp the nettle and send her the link to Strange Little Girl. I'd already told her that she was in my blog, but she thought this one, that gets linked to Facebook. I told her it was in my Secret Blog – the one people only come across if they're looking for something pretty specific. (This was before I imported this entry and the preceding two, obviously.)

And, about ten minutes later, I got the reply I'd been expecting all along. She just likes me as a friend, nothing more, and nothing will ever happen between us.

It just goes to prove that I should keep my feelings to yourself, doesn't it? It also proves that my friends are full of shit, and I should never listen to their advice either. Still, it saved me the embarrassment of being turned down in the pub when I asked her out this evening, as I was planning to. Swings and roundabouts …

You Don't Know What You've Got Till it's Gone

In which The Author wonders what to do next

In an unexpected sequel to the previous post, I can bring you an exclusive update to the Clare Situation.

In spite of Charlie the barbint's encouragement to me on Sunday night, in spite of Karen's well-intended advice to Clare on Monday night, in spite of all the time Clare and I have spent together over the past couple of months, in spite of all our ideas to have at least one fucking day away from Aberdare, in spite of my spending pretty much the whole day with her yesterday, and in spite of my chatting to her online every day since we first became Facebook friends, I have concluded – on the basis of overwhelming evidence – that we've got about as much chance of getting involved romantically and/or sexually as I have of being the first human to set foot on Mars.

There are three main obstacles in our way, so I'll deal with them in turn.

I haven't mentioned until now that Clare's brother Phillip has a learning disability. It's never bothered me. Twenty years ago, when Sam and I were engaged, she was working in that field. As a result, I met her clients a number of times. She was always impressed by the casual way I interacted with them (see Learning Disabilities in my main blog). Friends of mine who have children with 'special needs' have often remarked on the fact that I don't patronise them, or ignore them, or sideline them. It's possible that the job I do now demands a certain level of 'autistic spectrum disorder', after all, so perhaps I recognise a kindred spirit when I meet one.

On the other hand, a lot of the fuckwits in town don't know how to deal with people in that position. They either take the piss out of Phillip, bully him, or become downright aggressive. While he's perfectly happy to come to Aberdare and have a few pints, Clare's (understandably) very protective of him. This makes her pretty much his unpaid carer whenever they're out together.

However, after a little while, you can tell she'd love to break free and do her own thing. It generally isn't worth the hassle though, because it'll either lead to a temper tantrum, an argument, or the Incredible Sulk which lasts for hours on end.

Furthermore, Phillip becomes very jealous if Clare does something which he's not involved in – like (for example) going for lunch with a friend.

As a result, he's something of a third wheel whenever Clare and I discuss plans. The only reason we were able to go to Cardiff without him tagging along was because we arranged it late at night, and she sneaked out when he was on his way to do his voluntary work.

The trouble is, he knows about the Bristol trip, so he's already invited himself along. I'm happy for him to come, because the three of us get on well and we always have a laugh. But we'll need to be back in Aberdare before the karaoke evening gets under way. If we aren't, and they start without his getting the chance to do 'American Trilogy' for the nine hundredth time, Clare and I will never hear the last of it. That's fucked any possibility of our having a couple of extra pints in Cardiff before the last train.

When I whispered to Clare earlier that any little 'weekend break' in London – something we've talked about a couple of times – would be strictly for the two of us, Phillip's superhero hearing picked it up. I think that was why he dragged her up to the karaoke evening at least two hours before it all got started. How very dare I suggest taking his little sister out of the country for more than a couple of hours?

The second obstacle in our way is the very thing which allows you to read this: the fucking Internet.

Like most young people I know these days, Clare spends almost her entire time in a WiFi-enabled pub chatting to random people she's met online. The other night she asked me if she could log into Facebook on the Netbook, so that she could untag herself in a couple of photos she'd rather forget about. When she went to the ladies', I had a glance at her Timeline. I wasn't spying on her – she wanted to me to look at a picture she'd shared and which she said I'd enjoy.

As I'd suspected, it was full of posts by ropey-looking chavs from all over South Wales, ranging from their mid-teens to their mid-thirties. To a 'man' (and I use the word advisedly) they were boasting about their prison records, drug deals, fucks and/or fights, and trying to get Clare to meet them. Most of them were swearing their undying love for her, because they'd seen her profile picture and thought she was the best thing since sliced bread.

I'm not being nasty to Clare (she's a very pretty girl, remember), but she wasn't even the most attractive female in the bloody pub at the time – never mind in the whole of South Wales. Either these fuckwits have spent so much time in chokey that they've forgotten what women look like, or they need to learn to access decent online porn.

[A digresion: Actually, given Clare's especially unflattering profile picture at present, if that young lad from Pengam thought she actually was the best thing since sliced bread, he's given me a business idea. I'm going to open a little supermarket in the village, selling Vesta curries, Angel Delight, Goblin tinned hamburgers in gravy, Norscä shampoo, Slimcea diet bread, Texan chocolate bars, Tweed perfume, Brut aftershave, and all the other 1970s must-haves that were advertised on the TV when I was a kid. The natives have obviously missed out on so much of modern life that it'll be a roaring success from the moment Bernie Winters cuts the ribbon and the Dagenham Girl Pipers march down the central aisle.]

At any given time when her phone is connected, Clare'll be simultaneously sexting at least half a dozen kids called Kyle, or Josh, or Chet, or something else that sounds like it was made up out of left-over Scrabble letters. Nine times out of ten, if I try to engage her attention, I have to join the back of the queue. (And I'm the guy sitting opposite her and buying her drinks, remember.)

The biggest joke is that she's signed up for all manner of dating apps, in spite of protesting at length that she wants to concentrate on herself and isn't interested in men. This very afternoon, in fact, she wore a ring to town because it's karaoke in the Lighthouse tonight.

'If anyone asks, I'll say I'm engaged,' she laughed. 'Engaged to myself!'

That was at five o'clock, when the three of us (inevitably) were in Thereisnospoon. I'm willing to lay odds that by 10.00 p.m. the ring will be in her back pocket, and she'll be stuck to the face of her next ex-boyfriend.

On Monday night, in fact, literally within minutes of Karen telling Clare that she could do a lot worse than going out with me, she'd left with Gareth, the DJ from the Lighthouse. Even though nothing happened between them (she says), she thought that maybe she'd met someone who liked her. (Remember, she'd only just baled out on me.) Then she spent half an hour yesterday telling me how much she loved the single life. Go figure …

The third obstacle is Clare's personal history. From what she's told me, her parents' marriage was fairly violent. Her father currently has a partner whom Clare gets on with quite well; her mother has remarried, and Clare hates her stepfather. She's had a long string of boyfriends, widely spread in age, but mostly wasters, as far as I can tell – although at least one of them was man enough to give her a child. Finally, she got a result. A baby could give her unconditional love; exactly what she'd been looking for – until Social Services got involved, anyway.

Like many young girls I know from similar backgrounds, she seems to be on a relentless quest for 'love' with people who are equally dysfunctional. Needless to say, it's doomed to fail, because they're locked into the same cycle of self-destructive behaviour, abuse, violence, and ultimately kids in care, that their parents were.

Yes, sure, it's nice when you meet someone with whom you've got something in common. If it's a shared taste in films, or a band you both like, or a particular restaurant you can revisit many times, that's a good thing. If it's simply the fact that you could both be minor characters in an Irvine Welsh novel, that's not a good thing.

So, how do we reconcile all that with Clare's endless protestations that she's 'happy on her own', 'doesn't need a man', 'wants to focus on herself', 'stronger by being alone', and all the other life-affirming crap she posts on Facebook every day?

Well, that's obvious, of course. She's fallen back on the classic attention-seeking technique of 'Don't take any notice of me, I'm fine!' – to which everyone responds, 'Oh, what's up, babe? Mail me now', and so forth.

In fact, I'm becoming convinced that the lady doth protest too much. I suspect that all this 'single forever' crap is entirely for my benefit, because she knows I like her.

She doesn't want to take the risk of accepting my offer, because if she sees that it's possible to go out with someone who genuinely cares about her, it'll send her fucked-up little world spinning entirely off its axis.

As I said in a text to Karen earlier, I can't possibly compete with all these external factors. I dare say that I'll be a shoulder for Clare to cry on when her next little relationship goes tits-up, just as I was last time.

I hope I remain enough of a gentleman to say, 'Well, that's too bad, babe – fancy a pint?' instead of, 'We all told you so, didn't we, you silly bint? You need to learn how to recognise a good thing when it's under your nose. Now fuck off and leave me alone!'

Perhaps then she'll finally wake up and smell the coffee. After all, in the words of the song, you don't know what you've got till it's gone.

Strange Little Girl

In which The Author imports some content from his secret blog

About a year or so I was in a pub in Aberdare, chatting to Phillip, a mate of mine who's a regular at every karaoke bash. He's an Elvis tribute act, a fine singer and a very good bloke. Then a young girl named Clare came in, whom I also knew from the scene. She's short, a little bit chunky, rather attractive in a punky/goth sort of way, and about half my age. She was dressed from head to foot in black and sported a nice new spiky hairstyle, as well. The omens were propitious. She joined our little gang and we all chatted for a few minutes before she got the call to the mic. She was tearing a song from Grease 2 a new one when I leaned over to Phillip.

'Your friend's bloody good, mate.'

'My sister,' he replied.

'Your sister?' I said in amazement. I didn't even know he had a sister.

Anyway, when Clare came back over I complimented her on her performance, and we started chatting.

And that was where the whole thing started.

Since then we've sung together fairly regularly; we've been on a few drinking sessions (most recently on Monday); we've been to Cardiff to see a film; we've been to Pontypridd, Treorchy and Merthyr; we're planning a day in Bristol before Xmas, and a little excursion to London in the spring. We've also had a bloody nightmare trying to sort out ID for her, so that she can come to the pubs when we do go further afield. We've spent a fair bit of time together, and chat regularly on Facebook.

And I've found out quite a bit about her. Clare's family is fairly unconventional, to say the least. She's a bright kid, but she didn't have a good time in school. As a result, she suffers with anxiety and depression. Relateable statement, as we say on Facebook. She had children when she was quite young (as did a few friends of mine), but they're in foster care. She still lives with her father and Phillip, but she's got a string of ex-boyfriends – and, being a young person, a couple of ex-girlfriends – all over the Valleys.

[A digression: The most recent romance was less than a month ago. She met this young lad from Blackwood on a chat site, announced their engagement on Facebook a few days later, brought him to Aberdare for karaoke to meet her friends the following Friday, and kicked him into touch on the Sunday afternoon. On the Friday, her brother and I were joking that it would all be over by Xmas. In the event, it was over by Halloween. I mean, come on! Even Britney Spears has had longer relationships than that.]

A couple of months ago, we were chatting on karaoke night when Clare announced that she was moving 'back' to Ebbw Vale. (The home of another ex-boyfriend, naturally.) I said I thought it was a good plan. I know it's on its arse as a town, but my pals maintain a strong music scene. Clare would be right at home there.

When Jocelyn asked me what I wanted to sing, I had the perfect song straight away: 'We Gotta Get Out of This Place' by the Animals. Not only did the subject matter dovetail with our conversation; it also includes the words 'Now, girl, you're so young and pretty' ‐ the most subtle way of throwing her a compliment I could think of.

Anyway, the Ebbw Vale plan seems to have run into the sand for the time being, so she's still on the local scene.

But there's more …

When we were in Cardiff, I took her over to Rebel Rebel. It's a modern head shop run by two gay pals of mine named Rick and Tim. Clare was fancying the studded leather accessories while I chatted to Rick and topped up my phone. I told her that I had a nice collar she could have, which was cheaper than buying one. She bought a little wristband in the meantime. She'll love Camden Market when we get there in the spring.

But there's more …

I've met Clare's father in the past couple of weeks. I'd made an appointment to give blood, and advertised the session on Facebook. Clare persuaded her father to go down as well, and the three of us chatted over squash and biscuits afterwards. You can see why I thought maybe she was just making an excuse to be in the same building as me at the same time.

On Sunday morning, I rang Clare and asked her if she was going to the Remembrance service in Hirwaun. We'd talked about it the day before, but I said I'd check out the weather before I committed myself to walking up. In the event it was dry and bright. I met Clare on the edge of the village, and walked with her to the church and thence to the war memorial, where Phillip's St John Ambulance group were laying a wreath. Then we repaired to the Glancynon for soft drinks before the buses started running, and ended up in the pub.

In the evening we had a singer and guitarist in the pub. We were sitting at the opposite end, and our ex-army mates were in the middle, extremely pissed and rowdy. Before our guest started his set, I went over to chat to him, leaving Clare in the half-pissed hands of the Two Helens. In the meantime, Phillip parked himself at the end of the bar so he could take photos. When I looked back, Clare was talking to Charlie (Charlotte), one of the part-time barbints.

Their father picked them up towards the end of the evening, and Charlie and I ended up chatting by the bar. Charlie knows Clare, and she dropped a very heavy hint that I might have a chance of taking things to the next level. I didn't press her on it, but Charlie seemed to think that Clare was keen on me, too.

Anyway, this was going through my mind when Clare strolled into the library on Monday and asked me if I fancied some lunch.

As I told you last time, chokers are back in fashion in Aberdare, but Clare definitely pushed the envelope by wearing her wide studded collar into town. I was wearing a collar, too, just by coincidence. We were both dressed in black when we went to the pub. She mentioned that we were getting some attention from the other customers. I took a photo of her and posted it on Facebook, adding something like, 'We're sure the guys on the next table think we're on our way to a fetish night.' She thought that was hilarious.

(Talking of Facebook, I posted this lovely meme on her Timeline a couple of weeks ago. It's often quite difficult to get a smile from Clare unless there's food involved. I just wanted to give her another little compliment. I had no idea at the time that her nickname in school was 'Wednesday' – but luckily she saw the funny side. )

From there, we headed over the road for afternoon karaoke (or Performance and Cock-ups, as I call it). Phillip came in after work and the three of us had a good laugh, as always. Karen came in later on, and a splendid time was had by all. When the karaoke wound down, Phillip went to meet his father as arranged.

However, Clare decided that she'd rather join Karen and me for a late drink. We strolled down to the Prince and found a nice spot by the fireplace. While Clare was phoning to arrange a lift for the end of the night, Karen came to the same conclusion that Charlie had the previous evening.

In fact, she went a stage further and told Clare outright that she'd be far better off dating me than she would be hooking up with yet another very young and good-looking no-hoper.

Interesting suggestion, isn't it? Let's look at it in detail.

It certainly wouldn't be the first time I've had a significantly younger significant other. It wouldn't be the first time Clare has had a boyfriend who's years older than her, either. It wouldn't be the first time I've gone out with a girl who isn't conventionally attractive; it's the personalities that do it for me, not the looks. We get on well, we make each other laugh, we enjoy each other's company, and people are used to seeing us together. And I think she'd be sexually adventurous enough to tick my boxes.

But how do I go about broaching the subject directly? After all, if I had a quid for every time a girl 'just liked me as a friend', I'd be a very wealthy man by now.

Answers on a postcard, please …

The Doctor Won't See You Now

In which The Author has a surprise tour

If you've read Trains and Boats and Planes, you'll remember my last excursion in search of the Last of the Time Lords. That impromptu day trip to Barry came about because a friend gave me a tip-off ('on very good authority') that the BBC would be filming Doctor Who that morning. In the event, I failed to find Peter Capaldi or Jenna Coleman, but I made the most of a sunny day and went exploring instead.

This morning I had an email from Geoff E. – oddly enough, the father of my previous 'snout'. He'd heard on the grapevine that the BBC had set up a temporary base at Penderyn, and that the little car park and lay-by were full of location crew. Unfortunately I only picked the email about thirty seconds before the (hourly) bus to the village left Aberdare. I emailed him back, wondering if it was worth making a special trip for what might conceivably be nothing.

He emailed me back, suggesting that they might be filming at St Cynog's Church. After all, they filmed a story ('The Hungry Earth' / 'Cold Blood') at St Gwynno's Church in Llanwynno a few years ago (see Frustrations of a Solitary Walker). The medieval limestone church at Penderyn, high on a hillside above the village and with superb views across the dramatic Brecon Beacons, would indeed be an exciting location. If nothing else, there's a memorial in the graveyard that you definitely don't want to blink near.

I did some work on yet another project to kill time, and jumped on the 1330 bus. I got to Penderyn just after 2.00, jumped off outside the Lamb Hotel, and made a beeline for the church. On the way through the village, I'd seen a host of trucks and vans near the community centre. Since Church Road is quite narrow (single track, pretty much) and there's nowhere else to park up, it seemed likely that they'd had to haul their gear up from there.

It didn't take me long to walk up the hill from the pub. I was expecting to see the entire area taped off, and security people patrolling the perimeter. (Maybe even my old pal Jimmy N., who does some security contracts for BBC Wales.) Instead, the whole place looked like the buffet at the Dippy Bint's wedding reception: not a sausage. I can't say I was particularly surprised, but I was a bit disappointed.

I was, however, pleasantly surprised to find the door of the Red Lion wide open. It's one of those country pubs that keeps odd hours; I can't remember the last time they coincided with a visit to the village. I went in and was greeted by a very pleasant young barbint. I told her I was quite surprised to find the place open, and she told me that they closed at 3.00. I also told why I was there. It was news to her, so I guessed then that the BBC hadn't been anywhere near the top of the hill. I had time for a can of Pepsi, so I warmed myself by the wood-burning stove and admired the work that's been done on the interior.

As well as retaining its traditional layout and cosy atmospheres, the extension to the side and back now contains sizeable dining areas. I didn't look at the menu, but I'm sure that the prospect of a good meal will make the pub even more of a magnet for tourists exploring the southern edge of the national park. If it wasn't so far off the beaten track – and totally inaccessible by public transport in the Twilight Zone – I'd suggest it to friends for a pre-Xmas treat. Never mind, that's South Wales in 2016 for you.

It had started to drizzle when I left the pub, so I headed down Church Road and emerged just above the community centre. There were more trucks in the packed car park, one of which bore the logo of a location catering company. Further along were at least three from a film & tv rigging company, two from a special effects company, and one specialist scaffolding rigging firm. Say what you like about the BBC, but they certainly don't travel light.

I wondered if by any chance they were filming on the old mineral line, so I crossed the road and had a little peek down there. Nothing. I made my way back to the community centre, and spotted my friends Gwyn and Joyce converging on the line of vehicles. It turned out that we had the same idea. They'd decided to go in search of the action, in the hope of including something in Clochdar, our local Welsh language newsletter. We spotted a crew member leaving one of the vehicles, so Joyce buttonholed him and explained why were we lurking around with a camera (in my case) and a tablet (in Gwyn's). He was very cagey about the exact site where they were working, understandably. If word had got out, the valley's schools would have been empty within minutes and the next bus to Penderyn would have looked like an Indian railway carriage. All he said was that were 'on the mountain up on the right' – which didn't give us a lot to go on. Apparently, they'd had use 4 × 4s to get their gear up. That didn't sound very promising.

Gwyn and Joyce decided to stroll back down the mineral line. I offered to send them some photos if I did come across the film crew, and headed towards Cwm Cadlan. I think I've only ever been across Cwm Cadlan at night (see Night Terrors), but I knew it was a bloody long way from the upper Cynon Valley to the reservoir on the Taff. I decided to walk for a mile or so, and if I didn't spot any sign of activity I'd turn back and grab a pint in the Lamb. I set off along the single track road between the fields, aware that I was heading towards grey clouds. A few minutes later it started to rain. I was debating whether or not to press on when I heard a car approaching from behind. I stepped onto the narrow verge to let it pass, and then heard a familiar voice.

'Where are you off, then?'

I looked in through the open window and laughed. It was none other than Huw F.

We'd had a similar idea, to make the most of the weather before winter really sets in. Like me, Huw has exhausted pretty much all the local walks, but he's started exploring further afield. He was just out for a drive; he knew nothing of the BBC presence in the village. When I told him why I was there, he offered to drive around so we could search for the elusive Time Lord. It seemed like a half-decent plan, so I jumped in and we carried on eastwards.

Cwm Cadlan winds through farmland and then climbs towards open moorland, where pylons, flocks of sheep and thick stands of pine trees provide the only signs of contemporary human activity. In spite of this, Huw told me that he'd recently found the remains of some prehistoric roundhouses. I knew they were marked on the OS map, but I'd never been far enough along the road to search for them. You need a car to go exploring off the beaten track, unfortunately, or else you're in for the long haul.

We drove the length of Cwm Cadlan without spotting any sign of extraterrestrial activity, though. Huw suggested that they might be filming on the dam on the reservoir, so we decided to check it out. There was no sign of life there either, so we headed north on to the A470 and then took the A4059 back towards Penderyn. It was still fairly cloudy and grey, but the sun was breaking through to the west and the south. I'd forgotten just what spectacular views you get when you're on that road, so it was a very pleasant change to go across the top for once.

Huw suggested that the BBC might have packed up early because of the weather, which seemed quite plausible. However, when we reached the minor road leading to Ystradfellte, there were a number of vehicles in the lay-by and parked up on the verge. Huw decided to explore that option, in case they were around the village. It was just possible that the heavy presence in Penderyn was just a red herring, after all. He swung the car around in the entrance to a farm, and we hit the minor road.

We hadn't gone far when a car coming uphill blocked our progress along the single track. Huw had to reverse for a couple of hundred metres to a small passing place; meanwhile, another car had come along, so we had to sit tight while they both passed us. A few minutes later, we had to pull in to allow a tractor to pass us. It's actually no wonder Ystradfellte doesn't have a bus service, when you consider what the access roads are like. (See Further Up the River.)

We swung past the church and the New Inn (which took about ten seconds) and took the road towards Pontneddfechan. On the way, I told Huw about Helen from Servini's, and her attempt to set up a dating agency a couple of weeks ago (see A Quick Single). He could fully understand why I never go to the New Inn; if you don't have a car, it makes the Red Lion look like it's in the middle of Piccadilly Circus.

From there we drove to Pontneddfechan. It's only now I've done that journey in a car that I can appreciate the distance I walked on my previous couple of explorations. If nothing else, our outdoor hiking trips keep us fit. We drove through Glynneath to get some petrol, and looped back to Aberdare.

I may have drawn another blank on my quest to find the TARDIS and its crew, but I had some welcome fresh air before the weather breaks, caught up with some old friends, found some possible walks for the spring, and established a new watering hole for a future date. It was much more fun than sitting in the library and listening to the Debating Society, that's for sure.

Do Not Go 'Pass'

In which The Author tries to resolve an identity crisis

Last week I mentioned that my friend Clare and I had spent two days trying to sort out her application for a so-called 'CitizenCard'. She's going to need some form of ID when we go to London, otherwise she might have trouble getting served when we inevitably hit the pub. Since she doesn't have any photo ID which also shows her date of birth, the CitizenCard seemed like the obvious solution, as it contains the official PASS hologram.In the words of Prof. Jim al-Khalili, let me explain …

PASS allegedly stands for (National) Proof of Age Standards Scheme. Their own website states:

The PASS Scheme was launched in 2000 to combat fake proof-of-age cards which were becoming a widespread national problem. Providing a reliable, robust and recognisable ‘proof of age’ supported by enforcers, to help those who sell age-restricted products avoid selling illegally to under-age customers.

Carrying a card bearing the PASS hologram means young people can gain access to the goods and services to which they are legally entitled without having to risk carrying more costly documents such as passports or driving licences.

When a young person produces any card bearing the PASS hologram, the retailer only needs to check the photo and the date of birth, and the sale can proceed. This saves a massive amount of time for the retailer along with giving them peace of mind.

Sounds like just the ticket, doesn't it?

Wrong! You're just so fucking wrong!

According to the leaflet I obtained from Gareth Rees's newsagent / corner shop / off licence in Aberdare, the card includes a 'Home Office and Police endorsed PASS hologram'. This ties in perfectly with the 'Challenge 21' scheme operated in most pubs in the South Wales Valleys. Other places, notably in the bigger towns and cities, operate 'Challenge 25'. In fact, this is the poster displayed in the Cambrian, just around the corner from Gareth's, at the time of writing.

Well, that all sounds fairly straightforward, doesn't it?

My favourite word, remember …

In reality, it's been anything but fucking straightforward.

The first stage of the operation involved picking up the application form. Now, you'd probably think that the obvious place to look is in the corner shop operating Challenge 21. Well, I asked for a leaflet in Trecyon Spar, Lifestyle in Trecynon, Premier on the Gadlys, Premier, Best-in, Londis and Nisa in Aberdare, and eventually found one in Gareth's place. Then the fun really started.

Clare filled in all her details, I stashed the application form in my Netbook case, and we went in search of passport photos. Since the photo booth in Aberdare Post Office is a pile of shit, we ended up spending a very pleasant couple of hours in Treorchy. It may be four miles from Aberdare as the crow flies, but (as the old joke has it) if Wales were flattened out it would be bigger than England. We had to catch a train to Pontypridd and then travel up the Rhondda line from there. It takes about an hour, and covers somewhere in the region of twenty miles. It's not an ideal situation, but it made a nice change on a sunny Thursday morning.

Our first stop was Treorchy Library, to photocopy Clare's birth certificate. It had to be A3, as they're an odd size, so that cost us 24p. Then the cost started mounting up.

The fee for CitizenCard is £7.50. Since I was lending her the cash, we had to get a postal order. This quaint means of sending money was completely new to her – I assume The Winslow Boy is no longer a set text for National Curriculum English. While she was in the photo booth (which cost another fiver), I sorted out the money. There's a one pound surcharge on a PO of that amount. I also needed an envelope and a stamp. In the space of ten minutes, we'd spent nearly fifteen quid. So far, so good.

On the way back, we stopped into the library to borrow scissors and glue. We had to trim the photos to the exact dimensions stipulated in the leaflet.

Here's where the fun ended.

According to the information leaflet, applicants have to

Take this form to a person aged 25 or older, in work, contactable at their workplace and must not be a relative, guardian or carer.

They cannot be retired, self-employed or work from home or live with you. They must be a professionally qualified person, for example:

• Accountant
• Bank / Building Society official
• Barrister / Solicitor / Legal Secretary
• Chemist / Pharmacist / Optician
• Civil Servant (permanent)
• Connexions Adviser
• Doctor / Dentist / Surgery administrator
• Local Government Officer
• Local or County Councillor
• Police / Prison /Probation Officer
• Politician (MP / MSP / MWA / MNIA / MEP)
• Publican /Licensee (DPS or PLH)
• Social Worker
• Teacher /Lecturer

Full descriptions of acceptable verifiers at www.citizencard.com

1. The verifier must complete the VERIFIER DECLARATION and countersign one photo.
2. You must show the verifier one of the following original ID:
• passport
• national identity card
• Home Office ID
• photo driving licence
• card containing PASS hologram
• UKBA Biometric Residence Permit
If the verifier knows you personally you can show them one of the following forms of ID instead:
• original or certified copy of a birth certificate
• NHS Medical Card
3. Take this form, together with one of the above original ID plus a photocopy of that ID, to the verifier who will need to countersign this form, one photo and the photocopy of the ID.
4. If you have changed your name you will need to get a copy of the legal documentation (e.g. marriage certificate/deed pool) signed and dated by the verifier.

Not even the Goddess Eris herself, whose fourth stage of Chaos – Bureaucracy – seems to be the current situation of human civilisation, could have devised such a byzantine system.

By now I was honestly starting to wish the UK government had introduced the compulsory microchipping of newborn children. If your parents are fairly well connected (as Dad was, being a councillor and a well-known figure in Aberdare's commercial life), you will probably know someone in most of those categories. At the age of fifty, being a fairly sociable sort of guy with lots of friends in a whole variety of professions, I can probably tick every single box on the list – except one (neither Clare nor I know what a Connexions Adviser is).

But what about the rest of the country's young people?

I mean, when you were fifteen or sixteen, how many barristers, MPs and publicans did you know personally? A teacher could have 'verified' your form, but many kids (Clare included) don't have a great experience in school. Approaching someone whom you hate the sight of is a non-starter. And why the actual fuck is someone who's just left school going to be dealing with an accountant, a local government officer, or a building society official? Meanwhile, it's hard enough to get an appointment to see your GP when you're feeling poorly. Goddess only knows how he/she would react if you rocked up to the consulting room and asked him/her to sign the back of a fucking photo.

In addition, if you're calling on the services of anyone on the 'acceptable verifiers' list, you have to show them photographic ID. For fuck's sake, we're going through this fucking palaver precisely because Clare doesn't have photographic ID! Think about it for a few moments. No, wait – you're all intelligent people. You'd have spotted this fundamental flaw in the argument within nanoseconds. That's why you don't work for the fucking Home Office, the geniuses behind PASS, or the people who issue the CitizenCard.

So we were almost back to Square One. But Clare's been coming to the pub for a few years. It's fair to say that Ian, the guvnor, knows her personally. I know he's never been to her house for tea and biscuits, but as a licensee, he was the only person we could think of. I'd asked him about it the previous evening, and he'd kindly agreed to endorse the photocopy of Clare's birth certificate and verify the photo.

'I've done it for a few people,' he said, 'but something always seems to go wrong.'

Well, he fucked our luck just by saying that.

After we'd quadruple-checked everything, Clare ran down to the postbox before last collection, on the way to karaoke.

Needless to say, on the Tuesday afternoon she messaged me on Facebook. She'd had a text telling her that there was a problem with the verification, and to await further details by email. I picked up another form, bought a second postal order – because the Citizencard fee is non-refundable if the application is rejected – and started racking my brains for someone else who could countersign the paperwork. Clare and I chatted for a while, then she decided that, even if she could submit a fresh application, there was no guarantee it would get to her in time for London.

By this point the whole trip was looking increasingly less likely anyway. She said she'd rather save her money and apply for a provisional driving licence in the new year. In the meantime, she'd spoken to some of her friends. They'd been turned away from a nightclub in Merthyr even though they were carrying 'acceptable ID' as listed on the poster reproduced above. So much for the PASS hologram, then!

It was time to institute Emergency Protocol One (Fuck it!). I went to the post office on Friday morning and picked up the DVLA form for her. I also exchanged my postal order for one to the value of the driving licence (£34.00 – plus the inevitable surcharge). I read through the form and the accompanying booklet over coffee in Servini's. I was astonished to learn that the eligibility criteria to verify the application seemed much less stringent than those for the ID required to buy twenty fucking Silk Cut.

As well as the usual suspects listed above, local shopkeepers can countersign the photo, as can librarians and engineers. The only snag is that the applicant has to have known the verifier for five years (as I discovered when I asked my friend in the library about it).

And, needless to say, you have to have two forms of ID. Would you believe me if I told that one of the acceptable documents is a fucking card bearing the PASS hologram? Yes, of course you would – this is human civilisation in end-stage Bureaucracy, after all.

I messaged Clare and asked her to meet me in town. I told her to dig out something with her National Insurance number on it, as well as her birth certificate, as the two forms of ID. Needless to say, she couldn't find anything bearing her NI number, so we called to the Jokecentre. A very helpful adviser listened in some amusement while I explained what we needed, and then generated a letter on headed notepaper giving Clare's details. She signed it, we thanked her profusely, and then headed to Lloyds Bank, where Clare's account is based.

Here's another thing. According to the DVLA, you can only have the photo signed by a member of bank staff at your local branch. Considering that HSBC recently pulled out of Aberdare, that Barclays and Natwest have cut their opening hours, and there are no longer any banks in Hirwaun, Mountain Ash or Abercynon, that's going to be a task in itself. In addition, young people are more likely to use online banking services, where there's no physical presence at all. It's another aspect of modern life that the Powers That Be clearly haven't fucking thought through.

Anyway, the chap we spoke to in Lloyds was very helpful. He took us into his office, pulled up Clare's account details, looked at all the documentation we'd provided, and filled in the necessary information while we chatted about the nightmare we'd had for the last week and a bit. We shook his hand when we were leaving, and headed straight to Servini's to fill in the form. Just after midday we put the fucking thing in the postbox with a great sigh of relief, and went to Merthyr for lunch.

After I'd posted an angry status on Facebook about the entire rigmarole, my friend Claire L. responded. She'd had to jump through a similar series of hoops when her twin boys were in their early teens. It had cost her a small fortune to get their passports sorted out just so they could go to the bloody corner shop for her.

Surely there's an argument here for schools to take the initiative. Regardless of the relationship between them and their pupils, in my opinion all qualified secondary teachers should be legally obliged to endorse applications for the CitizenCard on request.

More to the point, all bar staff, and certainly all members of the BII and the SIA, should be legally obliged to undergo thorough training in the issue and use of the PASS hologram. If young people carrying government-approved ID are still being turned away at the doors of nightclubs by knuckle-draggers with fluorescent armbands, the CitizenCard and similar forms of ID clearly aren't fit for purpose.

In fact, they aren't worth the plastic they're printed on.

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 …