Lucky for Some

In which Friday the thirteenth passes without any major incident

Pretty much before I recovered from my last trip to London, I found myself planning the next one. I bumped into Becky S. in Thereisnospoon on the Friday afternoon. While we chatted by the bar she mentioned that she'd never been to London. I asked her when she was free to join me. She suggested that a Friday might be best for her. I looked at the calendar for October, and suggested Friday the thirteenth, always assuming she wasn't superstitious. It turned out that she isn't, so I booked two coach tickets straight away. However, the weekend before she told me that she couldn't make it after all. I told her not to worry, and gave Rhian first option on the spare ticket. Luckily she had the day off, so we were good to go.

We set off early from Aberdare and arrived in Cardiff before 8.00. It gave us time to get some odds and ends in Sainsbury's before walking up to the coach stop opposite Cathays station. It was a bit of a damp morning, but the BBC had given a better forecast for the other side of the country. We sheltered in a doorway until the coach arrived, and were just about the last two to board. Once again, unfortunately, we found the basic flaw in National Express's online system. Even though I'd booked two tickets in one transaction, it appears that Britain's biggest coach operator can't yet arrange to reserve two individual seats to correspond with the booking. About a quarter of the 'empty' seats were occupied by luggage (which theoretically should have gone in the overhead racks), so Rhian ended up sitting behind me. We made good time to Chepstow, and passengers boarding there had more difficulty finding adjacent seats. We hadn't even crossed the Severn Bridge before I Tweeted National Express. I pointed out how unfair this was, and asked if, in the year 2017, they really couldn't find a viable solution to the problem. So far, no reply.

We got to the Earls Court set-down point just after 1130. The weather was a lot more pleasant, and although it was quite windy at times there was no sign of rain moving across in our tracks. We called into Tesco and spotted a couple of new books we fancied. I suggested that they'd probably be on offer in Waterstones, and as we were heading to Trafalgar Square anyway we could have a look when we got there. We walked to West Kensington station, Rhian topped up her Oyster card, and we caught the Tube into the centre. At Victoria, I pointed out the time and reminded Rhian that if we'd stayed on the coach, we'd still have been the best part of ten minutes away from the platform.

We jumped off at Embankment station and walked up Villiers Street towards Charing Cross. Angela and I had a very strange experience in the Princess of Wales some years ago, but that's a story in itself. We decided not to call in for a pint, but headed to Trafalgar Square to have a look in Waterstones. We hummed and haahed over the new Dan Brown novel, but as it's only in hardback we decided to wait a while. We did the same with Ben Aaronovitch's new book, as a hardback would break the nice sequence of books on my shelf at home. Rhian picked up a couple of thrillers (both of which I'm going to borrow when she's finished them). I found the second volume of Prof. David Kynaston's social history of Britain since 1945, which I've been looking forward to reading for ages.

We could have spent a lot more between us, but we didn't want to carry heavy bags of books with us all afternoon. We both commented on how great it is to browse in a well-stocked bookshop, and on the irony of having to travel two hundred miles just to have that pleasure.

Back in Trafalgar Square, Rhian was a bit disappointed to see that the main features – Nelson's Column, Landseer's Lions, and the fountains – were cordoned off for some sort of special occasion. With nothing particular in mind except a late lunch in Ye Old London Tavern (our semi-local pub, just downhill from St Paul's Cathedral), we decided to go exploring. We walked towards Admiralty Arch, and saw the first sign of the new security precautions which have been installed after the recent wave of terrorist attacks. Large steel barriers will stop vehicles veering off the approach road to Trafalgar Square – or the approach road to Buckingham Palace, depending on your point of view. We walked into The Mall, and stopped to admire some of the many statues which line this historic route through the heart of the British establishment. Through an opening to our right, Rhian spotted a very tall column bearing a statue. I didn't recognise it, so we decided to investigate it.

It turned out to be a monument to Prince Frederick, Duke of York, the second son of George III. Quite by chance, Rhian had found her way into a fascinating corner of Westminster called Waterloo Place. I had to concede defeat and pull out my trusty A-Z to check exactly where we were. I must have found my way there by accident when I was new to London, because the name sounded familiar, but I hadn't set foot in it for over thirty years. The whole square is lined with statues of military figures, and flanked by some quite beautiful buildings. (I'm not an expert on architecture, but I think they must be Georgian.) My eyes were drawn to the decorative friezes on both of them. I tried taking a couple of photos, but without a tripod it's tricky to get in close.

We were both intrigued by this grand building. There's nothing on the front to identify it, but I had a feeling that it might have been a gentlemen's club. (Pall Mall and St James's probably aren't what most people think of when they hear the word 'clubland' these days.) There were a few people coming and going, and Rhian suggested asking at the little enquiry desk just inside the door. I didn't need to get that far, though. A brass plate next to the door announced that it was the Athenaeum Club, founded in 1824. Not bad for a random guess, is it?

We took a few more photos, and I suggested walking down Pall Mall to St James's Park. There are some fantastic buildings along this road, including a very tall, narrow brick building sandwiched between the fine stone buildings on either side. I wondered what it had originally been, and made a mental note to do some research when I got the chance. A little bit further along, I think Rhian was quite surprised to find that the Royal Automobile Club really is a club when we passed their ornate headquarters.

Mother's next-door neighbour kindly gave me three books on London a while ago, and one of them includes a number of walks around the West End and the City of Westminster. There are some intriguing little alleyways throughout St James's, and they are (or were – the books are about twenty years old) lined with quaint shops and businesses that have been there for generations. I'm definitely going to explore this area in more detail when I get the chance.

We cut down between St James's Palace and the Queen's Chapel. I remarked that there's a slice of history waiting around every corner, if only you take the time to look. We spotted a large open space enclosed on three sides, and wondered what it was. Rhian had her next target in mind, so we came out on the Mall and walked down to Buckingham Palace. I know everyone's seen it on TV, but as usual the photos don't do it justice. Even before we reached the palace itself, we were blown away by the sheer size of the Queen Victoria Memorial.

We photographed each other standing in front of the memorial, just to give ourselves a laugh when we saw how small we looked. It's hard to imagine the craftsmanship that went into executing this extraordinary piece of marble.

Needless to say, even in the middle of October, the palace and the memorial are magnets for tourists. I had a brief chat with a young Chinese couple who were taking photographs, and I heard no end of unfamiliar and vaguely familiar accents while we were walking around. (Rhian got quite frustrated trying to take photos. She's so short than people kept blocking her sight lines when she was lining up a shot.)

We took a few more photos of the palace itself, and Rhian spotted a lady in a very smart hat walking towards a limo parked just inside the gates. I expect if we'd bought a copy of The Times, the Court and Social column would have told us exactly who was visiting that day.

We strolled over to St James's Park, one of the most pleasant London parks, and walked along the lake towards the Houses of Parliament. As we were approaching, we could hear church bells in the distance. Yet again, I'd managed to plan a trip without knowing that there was something exciting going on. The following day, pilgrims from across Britain were going to visit the shrine of St Edward 'the Confessor', the founder of Westminster Abbey. His feast day is 13 October, and the abbey was making the occasion with a full peal of bells. Rhian used to be a campanologist, so to hear the bells of London's most historic church in full voice was a real treat for her.

We walked around to the west side to take some photos, but how do you even start trying to fit it all into the frame? The detail on the stone carvings is incredible, and it's hard to imagine the whole thing being executed with just hand tools, nearly a thousand years ago.

We walked across Parliament Square, pausing to look at the statues of David Lloyd George and Sir Winston Churchill on the way, and arrived at the entrance to the Palace of Westminster. There was a heavy police presence, and the Old Bill weren't afraid of showing off their weaponry to the public. It was quite strange to see the clock tower covered in scaffolding, too. It didn't deter hundreds of people from trying to take photos, though.

We walked past the Foreign Office and up into Whitehall. Rhian has always wanted to see the Cenotaph, so we made that our next port of call. Like the Queen Victoria Memorial, it's much bigger in real life than it looks on TV.

It also doesn't look much like the war memorial in Aberdare (see For the Fallen). The basic shape is similar, but the details are quite different. So much for Rhondda Cynon Taf CBC's claim (on the tourist information board near Aberdare station, for instance) that ours is 'an exact replica' of the one in Whitehall. Ours wasn't designed by Sir Edwin Lutyens, either.

We walked past the entrance to Downing Street, and Rhian was surprised to find how close it is to the Cenotaph. We were also a bit puzzled when we couldn't see a convenient balcony from which the Royal Family can watch the proceedings on Remembrance Sunday. I'm sure one of my many books on London will contain the answer, though.

We walked up towards the Old Admiralty Buildings and found a couple of Household Cavalry soldiers on guard duty. These are another iconic London sight, of course, and tourists were eagerly taking photos while the soldiers remained impassive and their horses tried not to look interested. It used to be a sign that you were getting older when policemen looked younger than you, but these lads looked barely old enough to shave.

We cut through the courtyard and emerged on Horseguards Parade, facing the Old Admiralty Building. This, is turned out, was the open space we'd spotted earlier on. Rhian has always wanted to see the Changing of the Guard, but it's so early in the day that we'd never get there in time. We've pencilled in an overnight stay for next year, so with any luck we'll be able to take that in. There's a museum devoted to the regiment here as well, so we can visit that afterwards and make a real day of it.

We walked back into Whitehall and returned to Trafalgar Square. Just opposite Charing Cross station, we were able to catch a bus along the Strand and Fleet Street. We went straight to the upper deck to take in the many historic buildings which line the route. We jumped off at Ludgate Circus and made our way to Ye Olde London Tavern for a late-ish lunch. We've eaten there three times now, and I've never been disappointed. It's a bit pricey by Aberdare standards, but London is a treat and we treated ourselves again.

We walked back to Ludgate Circus, and then headed along St Bride's Street, Shoe Lane and St Andrew's Lane to Holborn Circus. I wanted to see if Rhian could rise to the 'Find the Pub' challenge in Hatton Garden. She failed miserably, so I took her through Bleeding Heart Yard and into Ely Place by the concealed entrance. The Leaky Cauldron (from the 'Harry Potter' books) might not exist in real life – although I'm a Muggle, so how can I be sure – but Ye Olde Mitre Tavern is the next best thing.

The first time I tried to find it, it took me about a quarter of an hour of wandering up and down Ely Place (see Life in the Slow Lane). It was midweek, and the place was fairly quiet. This was a Friday afternoon, though, and the hubbub of voices from Ely Court gave the game away as soon as we approached it. The outdoor smoking area was packed, and the pub was almost full as well. We ordered our drinks and found a small table in the corner of the lounge. Rhian liked the place straight away, and decided it was definitely worth making a detour for.

We stayed until about five o'clock, and then headed out to make our way back to Victoria. I'm starting to know my way around the City at long last, and the twin domes of Smithfield Market make a convenient beacon pointing towards Farringdon station. The ongoing Crossrail work makes it a bit tricky to walk to, but we got there in good time to catch the Tube to Kings Cross. We let one train go, in fact. It was the Friday rush hour, and the semi-fast Metropolitan train to Amersham isn't one you'd catch if you had a choice. A few minutes later an Uxbridge train pulled in, which wasn't quite as packed. We changed to the Victoria Line at Kings Cross and shot through to our destination in no time. I know the best route to the coach station as well now, and we were in the queue in good time to get seats together.

I don't know if I'll be able to squeeze in another visit this year, but the more I learn about the world's greatest city, the more I want to explore it. Now that Rhian is single again, we're free to discover its secrets at our own pace. I'm sure we'll be lunching in Ye Olde London Tavern again before too long.

Zero Degrees Proof

In which The Author doesn't sponsor an acquaintance

About three weeks ago on a Tuesday afternoon, Clare and I were walking to Penderyn. We were bored, it was a sunny day, and she'd never walked up the old Mineral Railway Line from Hirwaun. I met her in the village and we went exploring. As we were strolling through the narrow tree-lined lane, with rolling farmland on either side, she told me about the time she and her older brothers were drinking '100% alcohol'.

I told her that they almost certainly hadn't been drinking 100% alcohol. I remembered our old Biology teacher, the late Terry Smith, correcting one of the lads in our class when he made a similar claim. According to Terry, drinking pure alcohol wouldn't do you any good (to put it mildly). If they had been able to get access to pure ethanol, Clare probably wouldn't have been there to tell the tale.

They'd probably been drinking something which was 100 proof – a rather different proposition. In the UK, measures of proof haven't been used for ages. Instead, we talk about the percentage of alcohol by volume (ABV). Historically the UK and the US used different standards to define alcohol proof anyway, which makes things even more complicated. And in the US they don't use the term 'degrees proof', as we did over here. Stating the ABV avoids this confusion and makes much more sense, doesn't it?

Something like Jack Daniel's (around 80 proof) contains 40% ABV. Absinthe, the infamous tipple formerly enjoyed by the avant-garde set of Paris, can reach an ABV of 74%, or around 148 proof. There is a brand of rectified corn spirit called Everclear available (here and there) in the US, which reaches a staggering 75.5% ABV. At the time of writing, it's banned in Alaska, California, Florida, Maine, Massachusetts, Hawaii, Iowa, Michigan, Nevada, Ohio, Washington, North Carolina, New Hampshire, and Minnesota. I bet there'll be a few people in Aberdare making a beeline for the states not on this list once they read this.

But I digress …

As anyone with regular access to social media will know, the calendar is quickly being filled up with special 'Years', 'Months', 'Days', and even 'Hours'. The United Nations seems to have partly been responsible for this, when it declared 1959–60 as 'International Refugee Year'. Quite what this was supposed to achieve in practice is anyone's guess. At the end of 2015, there were an estimated 65.3 million people displaced by conflict throughout the world. So, yeah, they did a bang-up job of resolving that particular issue six decades ago.

There's a full list on the UN website, and they make for interesting reading. Taken collectively, they sound rather like a six-year-old girl's letter to Father Christmas, or the pipe dreams of a Miss World finalist. Since the beginning, we've had (to name a few):

• International Co-operation Year (1965) was another rip-snorting success at the height of the Cold War and in the midst of decolonisation.
• the International Year for Action to Combat Racism and Racial Prejudice (1971) proves my theory that half the people I meet in Aberdare still think they're living in the 1960s.
• World Communications Year (1983) was devoted to 'Development of Communication Infrastructures' – have you tried getting a mobile phone signal in Cwmaman or Penderyn recently?
• the International Year of Peace (1986) – yeah, right!
• most laughably of all, 2001 was the United Nations Year of Dialogue among Civilizations – when it wasn't busy being the Year of the Twin Towers Attacks and the Start of the Last Crusade.

As if these aren't far-fetched enough, 2008 was the International Year of the Potato, and 2013 was the International Year of Quinoa. (I'm not making this stuff up; follow the link and see for yourself.)

Anyway, logging into Facebook or Twitter will produce a welter of similar annual or one-off special days. According to the trending hashtags on the latter site, today is simultaneously the Day of the Girl, National Coming Out Day, and World Obesity Day. That's an obvious (if rather unkind) triple celebration for one of my recent romantic near-misses. It's also Ada Lovelace Day, marking the often overlooked role of women in the development of science and technology.

Yesterday was something else; so was Monday. I can't really remember what the special occasions were. It doesn't matter anyway, because they will have had as much impact on the world as did the International Year of Idealistic Pie-in-the-Sky Hippy Bollocks (1968, in case you're wondering).

It used to be only the Roman Catholic Church that made up a feast day for every occasion, simply to relieve the boredom of poverty, drudgery, near-starvation, plague and premature death. Whenever they wanted a small celebration, an obscure saint could usually be found somewhere to provide an excuse to use red ink on the calendar. (This gave rise to the phrase 'red-letter day'; according to Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 'In almanacs, and more commonly in ecclesiastical calendars, important feast-days and saints' days were printed in red, with other days in black'.)

And, by Goddess, there were some really obscure saints. Try these for size, whom I've found by randomly flicking through The Book of Saints (7th edn, ed. Dom Basil Watkins. London: A & C Black.):

• St Cointha (feast day 8 February)
• Blessed Dominic-of-the-Holy-Rosary of Nagasaki (10 September)
• St Eusebius of Cremona (5 March)
• St Phaebedius (25 April)
• St Mageldisil (30 May)
• Blessed Otto of Heidelberg (28 December)
• St Raphael-of-St-Joseph Kalinowski (19 November)
• St Theophilus de Signori of Corte (19 May)
• St Wulstan (19 January)

See – every day's a potential holiday if you're a good Catholic. It reminds me of a great stand-up routine from early in Woody Allen's career:

I was thrown out of college, and when I was thrown out of college I got a job on Madison Avenue in New York. A real dyed-in-the-wool advertising agency on Madison Avenue wanted a man to come in, and they'd pay him ninety-five dollars a week to sit in their office, and to look Jewish. They wanted to prove to the outside world that they would hire minority groups, y'know. So I was the one they hired, y'know. I was the show Jew at the agency. I tried to look Jewish desperately, y'know. I used to read my memos from right to left all the time. They fired me finally, 'cause I took off too many Jewish holidays.

But back on topic (for a moment): T.S. Eliot was wrong; October is the cruellest month. The autumn in Wales gets going in earnest; it pisses down with rain most days, and when it's not pissing down you're just dodging the showers. You have to put the lights on at five o'clock (if not earlier), and the clocks go back an hour at the end just to make matters worse. You can't even go to the pub for a quiet pint without bumping into a load of bloody students pissing away their first loan instalments. Over the last couple of years, this horrible month has been made even less bearable by hordes of born-again clean-living individuals trumpeting their achievements via social media.

Because October isn't just thirty-one days of misery any more. Oh, no – these days you have to get healthy as well. If you do venture out for a pint, you're bound to be up against someone self-righteously sipping a soft drink and announcing to anyone who'll listen that they're doing 'Sober October'. If you smoke as well, your visits to the outdoor shelter will be greeted by cries of derision by people who are quitting the demon weed.

If you don't already know about these things, Stopober encourages people to quit smoking. Sober October does exactly what it says on the tin (of diet Pepsi, naturally) and encourages you to take a month on the wagon. Stoptober is supported by pharmacies and the primary health care sector, with advice and support available to anyone wanting to take up the challenge. Sober October goes a step further, and encourages you to get sponsored for not drinking for 31 days. The money raised goes towards Macmillan Cancer Support, which is a very worthwhile charity.

A couple of years ago, I asked Rhian if she fancied doing Sober October with me. She laughed in my face. When I asked her about doing Stoptober instead (I've never smoked, and have never been interested in starting) she thought it was an even more ridiculous suggestion.

I thought it was a ridiculous suggestion as well, to be honest. I once – many years ago – decided to spend a year off the booze, apart from my birthday (when it's daft not to go to the pub) and rugby internationals (when it's simply rude not to). I stuck to my word until about this time of year, which surprised everyone I knew, as well as me. But it was the academic season in work, and we were besieged by new students who (Goddess knows how) were even more condescending and less well-educated than the ones from the year before. The brave face was starting to wear a bit thin.

It was coming up to lunchtime one particularly stressful Wednesday when Laurie looked at me and said, 'I think you need a pint, mate.'

I said, 'I think you're right!'

And that was the end of that. Still, ten months and a bit was pretty good going, especially when you consider that bookselling was always a fairly boozy gig anyway. But they only had my word for the fact that I wasn't going home and sinking half a bottle of vodka every night.

You see, these special fund-raising months have one major flaw: they rely on a degree of honesty and trust that's often lacking in society.

Let's take one example of a really good sponsored event – the London Marathon.

You register way ahead of time; you train every evening and every weekend to get in shape for it; you set up a JustGiving page and ask all your family and friends to sponsor you. Everyone knows it's happening, because it's on the TV. You turn up on the day, run 26 miles and a bit, collapse into a foil blanket, get your medal for completing the course, and ker-ching! Anthony Nolan, or MIND, or Macmillan, or Shelter, or the RSPCA, or whatever your chosen worthy cause is, gets a nice cash injection from your efforts.

And that's exactly why it works so well. You might get to be on TV, if you're lucky. Even if you don't appear in close-up, you're somewhere in the mass of thousands of runners, walkers, wheelchair athletes and pantomime horses making their way through Docklands and back into the City, then onto Westminster and the finish line. You've got your medal to show that you've done it. When you get back home, you can go to everyone who sponsored you with a clear conscience.

In preparing the ground for a sponsored event I'm hoping to organise next year, I've taken the difficulty of charting one's progress into account. If all goes well, there'll be a large number of people undertaking a challenge which will take them the length and breadth of the Cynon Valley over the course of a few hours. I'm expecting that a fair number of people will bale out before the end. (I know I certainly would.) With this in mind, I've split the course into ten stages. Entrants will receive a 'token' on completing each stage. It makes the accounting easier all round.

Suppose, for example, that Tom, Dick and Harry sign up to take part. I sponsor Tom 10p a stage, Dick 10p a stage, and Harry 10p a stage. Tom finishes the entire course, so I pay him £1.00. Dick crashes out after Stage 7, so he raises 70p. Harry gets injured after two stages, so he gets 20p. If anyone decides halfway through that they'd rather spend the afternoon in the pub, they simply hand in their five tokens and collect half the sponsor money.

I'd rather do it that way than pay someone in advance to do a challenge that they might not complete (or take it on trust that they've done it). When my good friend Neil R. climbed Pen y Fan (the highest mountain in southern Britain) ten times in one day to raise money for charity, I was happy to pay up. He posted regular updates of his progress on Facebook, and you don't make that sort of thing up anyway. You've got to be pretty damn serious about the endeavour before you sign up for it. On the other hand, I sponsored another friend to do a tandem sky-dive back about this time last year. As far as any of us know, she's yet to leave the ground.

Next month is the even more bizarre Movember, where guys grow ridiculous facial hair (Moustache-November – geddit?) to raise awareness of prostate cancer (and presumably to raise money as well). That's going to be a non-starter in Aberdare, where half the males under forty are already sporting ridiculous facial hair. Maybe we could sponsor girls under the age of 25 to sort their fucking eyebrows out instead.

Which brings us back to Sober October. When one of my friends asked me to sponsor him a couple of years ago, I agreed because I knew he was serious about it. A mate of his had succumbed to a particularly aggressive cancer, and his sudden death had hit all the boys hard. A couple of the others have done sponsored walks or swimming events to raise money in his memory. That's fair enough. But now it seems that everyone is trying to grab everyone they can for sponsorship.

Last week, one of the barbints in Thereisnospoon asked me if I'd sponsor her for Sober October. I said I'd have to think about it – partly because about half a dozen other people had already asked me, and I can't afford to sign up for every appeal that comes my way. If she'd been a good friend, I might not have thought twice about it, but she isn't. We know each other to say hello to, but that's about it. I wonder how many other regular punters she's approached to sponsor her – and, more importantly, how many have said yes. I shouldn't think there are very many names on her form.

The other reason, of course, is that I'd have only Mandy's word that she'd managed to stay off the booze for the entire thirty-one days. Obviously she can't drink when she's in work, but what's to stop her from sneaking to the off-licence on her way home, or catching a sneaky glass of wine over Sunday lunch? It isn't like any of the challenges I've outlined above, where there's some sort of control mechanism in place to make sure people can't cheat. You might as well ring up the Guinness people and tell them you've just broken such-and-such a record. Without any outside agency to measure your progress, it's going to be your word against theirs.

And that, I fear, is where Sober October falls down (no pun intended). Stoptober could yield a definite result, in that someone successfully gives up the habit and makes a positive impact on their health and wealth. If, on the other hand, they head straight to the shop for twenty Lambert & Butler on 1 November, then the experiment was a failure.

The only fair way to determine whether someone has completed Sober October is for him or her to have a full battery of blood tests (including a liver function test) on 30 September. Then they go back on 1 November, have the same blood tests, and you can compare the results. In the meantime, they have to agree to the sort of random testing that people working on the railways have to go through.

And if you're a serious drinker, is just one month off the sauce going to make that difference anyway? The damage has already been done. I knew a man who'd spent four whole weeks 'drying out' at Whitchurch Hospital (see Rehab), only to return to Aberdare and head straight to the pub for a pint. Trebles all round! Another triumph for the NHS! No, not really. The poor bugger was dead a few months later. It seems that all Sober October really gives you is another opportunity for one-upmanship.

With my fund-raising idea, at least you get the tokens to show you've completed at some of the course. If it does come off, it's going to be properly organised and scrutinised to ensure nobody can cheat on the day.

To this cynical mind, however, Sober October is very much like an alcohol-free drink. There's absolutely no proof.

I can't explain, This is not how I am

In which The Author buys himself an early Xmas present

My regular readers already know that, of all the many rock bands I've listened to in my life, Pink Floyd's impact has been the deepest and most enduring. (I've gone into detail previously, especially in On the Up and Making One's Own Luck.)

I've loved them since I was doing my O levels and I've never outgrown them, because their music is timeless and wonderful. Also, the older you get, the more meaning you discover in their lyrics. In fact, for a non-musician (although watch this space), I've got far more pleasure from Pink Floyd's music than you'd imagine. I'm fairly sure I'm the only person ever to have sung 'See Emily Play', 'Time', 'Money', 'Us and Them', 'Wish You Were Here', and 'Comfortably Numb' (both vocal parts) at Thursday night karaoke. I used to joke that, if I were ever to enter Mastermind, I'd like to take Pink Floyd as my specialist subject – simply to have an excuse to listen to their entire back catalogue for weeks on end.

Last year the V&A announced a major retrospective of the band's career to mark their fiftieth anniversary, entitled 'Their Mortal Remains'. Naturally, I added it to my list of things to do this summer. Then it went on the back burner because I was busy with other projects. Two months or so ago I was talking to Huw F. He'd just come back from spending a few days in London, and he was very enthusiastic about the exhibition. A couple of weeks later, I was chatting to Barbara in her bookshop in Aberdare. It turned out that she and Adrian, her husband, had been to see it as well. In fact, Adrian was so impressed by the whole thing that he was planning a return visit.

Then I saw some amazing reviews online, and decided I'd try and squeeze it in before it closed. I mentioned it to Clare, whose musical taste is fairly varied. Since we've been planning a trip to London anyway, it seemed like the ideal excuse. I booked the tickets last week, and took advantage of National Express's latest offer to get us cheap coach seats.

As with some other London attractions, we had to choose a time slot for admission. I went for 1.30, giving us plenty of time to get across town in case the coach was delayed. Last week I was chatting to Laura, who keeps the record stall in Aberdare Market. She told me she knew someone who'd spent the entire day walking around 'These Mortal Remains'. This was obviously going to be something special.

We got to the V&A just after 1.00, and had to hunt around for a while until we found the entrance to the gallery. There was already a long queue, and people were arriving for the next slots while we were waiting to go in. We presented our tickets and made our way to a desk where two people were handing out the audio gear. Each of us got a pair of Sennheiser headphones and a wireless receiver to wear while we were making our way around.

When Martin H. and I went to the Sir Peter Blake exhibition at the National Museum of Wales (see Starless and Bible Black), there was a chance to listen to the definitive Under Milk Wood recording in the afternoon. 'Their Mortal Remains' is the next step in audiovisual presentations. With state-of-the-art audio equipment, you can walk around at your own pace, and the soundtrack changes according to where you are in the gallery. Virtually the first thing you hear is the familiar 'found sound' montage of heartbeats, random snatches of conversation, screams, birdsong, and those early 'samples' which feature throughout their records. Then you're into the exhibition proper.

It's a labyrinth of rooms, each one devoted to a particular period of the band's evolution. (Quick disclaimer: A lot of the spaces are fairly dark and I didn't want to use the flash, so a lot of my photos aren't great.)

The exhibition is arranged chronologically, so you follow the band's progress right from their early days as architecture students, travelling to gigs in a van painted with a white stripe. But that's only where the fun starts – because the exhibits are inside a mocked-up van with a white stripe. There's even a letter from young Roger Barrett (later known as 'Syd', of course) explaining how the van came to be decorated in that way.

I've always had a fascination with the psychedelic era, and I was amazed to see how much documentation has survived five decades. There were posters, flyers, cuttings from underground newspapers, and even letters from the BBC, including one complaining that a member of the band had 'freaked out' during a recording session. (No prizes for guessing which one.)

Every so often there's a red telephone box decorated with newspapers, magazines and news clippings from that era. (Here's the one to accompany A Momentary Lapse of Reason, for example.)

I had to chuckle at the one from the mid-1960s, which included the Radio Times commemorative supplement to accompany coverage of Sir Winston Churchill's funeral. Auntie Maggie had kept the same booklet. When we were clearing out her house, we decided to keep that and some other historic papers she'd stashed away. It's in a drawer in my house.

It was while I was in this first space that I realised just why we had the headsets. There are mini TV screens showing early 'promotional films', interviews with the musicians and their many collaborators (including the cartoonist Gerald Scarfe and the Hipgnosis design team of Storm Thorgerson and Aubrey Powell), and rare footage from the band's live shows. As you move around, the radios and switch to the appropriate audio track. It means that you can explore the exhibition at your own pace, backtracking if you want to, and you're not interfering with anyone else's enjoyment. I went to look at the Atom Heart Mother piece in more detail and lost Clare entirely. (I didn't see her again until I was almost at the end of the sequence. She had to be briefly allowed back in to find me.)

It was quite wonderful to get up close and personal to the instruments that had produced some of the most important music of my life. There were David Gilmour's beautiful guitars, Rick Wright's array of keyboards and vintage synths, Nick Mason's painted drum heads, Roger Waters' bass guitars … I took plenty of photos of these, but they're a bit blurred. I'm blaming that on the low light, but I must admit that my hands were shaking a bit as well. It was a fairly emotional experience for me.

We'd gone in just after 1.30, and with my phone switched off I had no idea of the time. I wandered through the spaces without feeling any need to hurry. I found myself marvelling at the complexity of the LP covers. You can only really appreciate them when you see them on a large scale. A twelve-inch square is very nice to look at, but when you see the same images nearly two metres across, your jaw just drops.

If you looked up, from time to time you'd see things like the model aircraft which used to fly over the audience. There were props, models, animations, film clips and beautiful photographs, all accompanied by the highest 'fi' I've ever heard. I think I watched most of the interviews at least twice, and stood for ages while the story of the infamous flying pig (from the Animals cover) unfolded. One of the most remarkable exhibits was a letter from the NASA Space Centre in Goddard, Maryland. It accompanies a photograph of the British astronaut Dr Piers Sellers holding a CD of Dark Side of the Moon on board the International Space Station. It's a fitting piece in the story of the band whose live improv piece accompanied the BBC's coverage of the first moon landing.

There's even a room where you can watch the legendary prism design rotating slowly against a backdrop of the night sky, while 'The Great Gig in the Sky' plays through the sound system. Simply as an art installation, it was the most immersive and well-designed set-up I could have possibly hoped for.

There were plenty of people taking photos, but nobody jostled anyone or complained that their view was being obstructed. Everyone took their time and seemed to be having a thoroughly civilised afternoon. It was pleasing to see how many young people were there, too. I'd worried that Clare might be the only person under fifty, but there really is something for everyone to enjoy. Since the kids are back in school, we can't even attribute this to the 'family trip to the museum' effect. The youngsters were obviously there because they wanted to see it for themselves.

All course, all good things must come to an end, and Pink Floyd were no exception. People had written them off after The Final Cut, of course, when Roger Waters left to pursue his solo career. Instead, Messrs Gilmour, Wright and Mason continued as a trio, augmented by some of the finest session men and women in the business. As I've mentioned elsewhere, The Division bell is the only LP I've ever bought on the day of its release. And, of course, I wept when Bob Geldof pulled off a miracle and got the definitive line-up to play at the Live 8 concert in 2005.

When Rick Wright died, seven years ago last week, it meant the end of Pink Floyd. Without Mr Wright's unmistakable keyboards to underpin the melodies, it could never be the same. At the end of the chronological tour, there was some footage of them recording together. It was beautiful to watch these three old friends doing what they did they best. Knowing that it effectively marked the end of their time as a band made it especially poignant. I had a few tears in my eyes when I was watching that clip, I don't mind telling you.

And just when I thought it was all over, there was an surprise treat right at the end. Everyone took off their headsets and we sat down in a large empty room to watch that Live 8 performance of 'Comfortably Numb'. When I left the 'performance area', I was definitely crying. I'm still a bit emotional just typing this, to be honest.

I bought the exhibition catalogue in the gift shop. There was loads of merchandise on sale, but I didn't want to buy something like a keyring or a badge, which would be easy to lose. I thought an tenner for half a dozen postcards in a box was a bit pricey, too. But the exhibition catalogue will sit nicely alongside my several other books on what is, for my money, simply the greatest rock band of all time.

I found Clare outside the gift shop, and was amazed to find that I'd spent nearly three hours in the exhibition. We decided we both needed a pint (me more than her, I think), so we repaired to the Zetland Arms to look at my photos. As I've explained, they weren't great. Clint very kindly gave me his Canon compact automatic when he upgraded his gear, but I prefer my Olympus. (I know my way around that one.)

In fact, there might be only one thing for it. The exhibition has been extended to the middle of next month. I think that, like Adrian, I might have to pay it a return visit before it closes.

And Clare and I have made a pact to totally own 'Comfortably Numb' in karaoke before Xmas. It's not only my favourite rock song of all time – it was also the song that TV cook Paul Hollywood chose to save from the waves when he was a guest on Desert Island Discs. Kudos to him.

It's the song I want played at my funeral. And if any of you buggers get up to leave before the second guitar solo fades away, I swear I'll come back and haunt you.

Project No More Nice Guy: An Update

In which The Author's plan starts to bear fruit

Some six months after its inception, I'm pleased to report that Project No More Nice Guy is really showing some positive results. It's been a long time since anyone conned a drink or a meal out of me, and even longer since I went on a wild goose chase after an unsuitable female.

In fact, I've managed to pretty much avoid one unsuitable female since embarking on this research project. I don't bother going to the karaoke in the Lighthouse any more, which means that the Incredible Vanishing Girl 2 and I are very rarely in the same room. It's happened a couple of times. Both times, she seemed to think I was going to say hello to her. It didn't happen. Even when she asked me if anyone was sitting in Tony Abbott's regular chair, I just shook my head and turned away.

To be honest, I've almost quit the karaoke scene entirely, because it's just bloody boring these days. There are so few of us (and I was one, remember) who ever venture away from the Great Valleys Songbook that you might as well stay at home and listen to Heart FM.

Monday afternoon karaoke is dying on its arse. Gareth had the push a couple of months ago, and Phil the bar manager/chef/DJ/singer/whatever now hosts Performance and Cock-ups himself. His PA is far more suitable for a rock band, and his mixing desk settings reflect that as well. There's always way too much reverb on the vocals, and his backing tracks seem cheap and amateurish in comparison to Gareth's. He also doesn't have the range of music that Gareth and Jocelyn have on their systems.

The biggest problem is that he has his own little clique of favourites (Clare, Adrian, the Incredible Vanishing Girl 2), and hardly anyone else gets called to sing. The exception is Danelle, who (by some weird act of Goddess) actually gets measurably worse over time. She'd be lucky to carry a tune in a bucket anyway, but every week she gets more and more tuneless. It could be a good comedy act, like Les Dawson's piano playing, if only she had the imagination to market it as such.

So I find myself between the two camps – not nearly as good as Clare or Adrian, but nowhere near as entertaining as Danelle.

As a result, I've been dropped from the squad. In fact, I was in there a few weeks ago, toying with the idea of another pint. It was early in the school holidays, and I assume most people were on holiday. After about an hour, when it seemed that Clare and Philvis had made other plans – and nobody else had grasped the nettle – Phil came over to where I was sitting.

'Where are the singers today?' he asked.

'Well, there was one here,' I said.

And I made my excuses and left.

As for Thursdays …

I had a pint with my brother earlier, and he mentioned something he'd heard on the radio this morning. A Sunderland FC fan had phoned in to Danny Baker's programme, saying how much she was looking forward to the new season. They're no longer in the Premiership, so they're not up against the likes of Manchester Utd, Arsenal, Chelsea, and so forth. There are no multi-million pound deals, and no players sitting on their hands (despite the expectations and media hype) because it's all about the money. They can get back to doing what they do best – playing football.

The Lighthouse decided a few weeks ago that Thursday karaoke was going to go the same way. It's all about the money. A series of 'heats' would decide who went through to the 'final', with £100 up for grabs at the end. After it was announced, I had a chat with Adrian, who is on the circuit anyway. He and I agreed that it would spoil the whole karaoke experience.

As I've pointed out before, plenty of people think they're singing in front of Simon Cowell et al. on an average Thursday night. With that sort of bait dangling, it's going to attract semi-pro singers from across the whole area. On that other hand, people like me, who just get up on stage because we enjoy it and have no illusions that we're ever going to hit the big time, aren't even going to bother.

Friday night karaoke in the Bonki seems to have finished very abruptly. In fact, the Bonki itself seems to have finished very abruptly. A few weeks ago Gareth told us that it had closed. I went past on the bus yesterday to double-check this rumour for myself. There was no sign of life, and no obvious reason for its sudden closure. It seems a bit strange, because it's one of the key venues for the Cwmfest music festival next month. More importantly for me, it's home to one of the Anthony Nolan Trust collection boxes. I'll need to get in touch with Simon and Kylie to find out what's going on, simply so I can retrieve the box and find it a new home if necessary.

So, in a few short months we've gone from five decent karaoke events (Lighthouse twice a week, Bonki, Cambrian, and Lindsey's fortnightly damp squib in the Glandover) to just the two.

By a strange coincidence, about six weeks ago the ChavMackworth announced a similar competition to the Lighthouse's. Clare entered them both, of course. She qualified for the Mackworth final straight away. I didn't stay for the results of that 'heat' – I hate the pub, and won't be going for the Grand Final tomorrow night. Clare asked me last night to go along and support her, but I think I might have to decline. I don't have that much cocaine to inhale in between the performers.

Adrian didn't enter a similar contest in the Bush a couple of years ago. He's in a no-win situation (literally): if he trousers the first prize, everyone will say it's fixed because he does this for a living. If he doesn't, people will turn around and say 'Well, we all knew you were crap anyway.' It's easier to sit on the sidelines.

As I've done.

Although my sidelines are strictly metaphorical, consisting of my armchair and a decent book. That Sunday night aside, I haven't bothered going along to either of the competitions. I've heard all the competitors before and (with one or two exceptions) there's nothing to get especially excited about. I can't imagine Tina blasting some Katy Perry our way, or Martin suddenly deciding to add 'Light My Fire' to his repertoire.

However, I've noticed that Clare has started trying some more songs since we first chatted about taking up the guitar again and going to the Open Mic nights in Aberdare. It could just be a coincidence, but they're all from the Great Valleys Songbook (a John Legend song, that bloody Adele song, some modern crap which I wouldn't be able to identify in a quiz). I blame the Incredible Vanishing Girl 2, who really does pepper her set with modern crap. She's sort-of working the circuit with Phil and his band, and we all know you can't venture off the straight and narrow when you're a semi-pro musician.

Clare obviously thinks she can compete on that basis. With no transport, no equipment, no proper experience, no contacts (apart from the precious few I've given her) and no real stage presence (in spite of my encouragement), I think she's going to be strictly a Session Musician. There's nothing wrong with that, of course. You can earn decent wedge from session work. But you still need transport, equipment, contacts … See what I mean?

Anyway, last night the three of us got back together for possibly the last time.

Philvis, who at best gets the sympathy vote because of his disability, and who really can't take constructive criticism or follow helpful advice, was still sulking because Clare had got into the final of the Mackworth competition and Tina (deservedly) had won the Lighthouse competition. He's still convinced he should have won both prizes outright. He's convinced he'll clean up at the Porthcawl Elvis Festival next month. A short, short-haired, bearded, glasses-wearing bloke, with a decent voice but only a vague knowledge of the words (even wearing a white jumpsuit that cost his parents a fair few quid) isn't going to stand a snowball's chance against professional tribute acts from across the UK and further afield.

But we can't tell him that.

To do so risks unleashing the Incredible Sulk for hours (or even days) on end.

So, last night, Philvis and I sang a couple of Elvis songs together to mark the fortieth anniversary of the King taking up his job flipping burgers in a Midwest diner (please see the hilarious and totally warped Good Omens by Sir Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman for full details). Philvis won't admit it, but he had to admit defeat during 'Jailhouse Rock', when I left him standing with only my sketchy knowledge of the song.

And there's a story behind that, too.

Clare's most recent Fuck Buddy is in prison at the moment. I won't go into the details, but it seems she only decided she really wanted him when he wasn't there. Since then, her sole topic of conversation has been her Fuck Buddy. Apparently she's going to move in with him as soon as he's released, and this time she knows it's for real, as the song has it. I got bored to tears of her talking about 'their' flat when we were in Pontypridd a fortnight ago. Considering that his rented flat won't even be there when he gets out, that could be a bit of a problem.

Her brother is more fed up of this single-minded obsession than I am – hence our choice of song last night. About two hours of ignoring her hyperactive babbling about the journey to visit Fuck Buddy on Monday, we decided that taking the piss might help the message to sink in. It fell on deaf ears, though.

And talking of people who've got themselves into trouble: the Incredible Vanishing Girl 2 might end up on Pubwatch after kicking a bloke in the head. I wasn't in the pub when it happened, of course. It was a Thursday karaoke night, so I was at home watching a film. I found out about it the following day. Lucky escape, or what? It meant that I was fairly safe to go to the Cambrian with the others last night.

Only fairly safe, though. We'd been there for half an hour or so when one of the occasionals (shaved head, tattoos, muscles, no real brain functions) embarked on an argument with some of his friends. Needless to say, because I once appeared on a TV quiz show over a quarter of a century ago, I was the obvious person to adjudicate in this particular case.

Or so he thought.

My Facebook status from last night pretty much encapsulates what I told him:

Project No More Mr Nice Guy (v 5.0) now live. No, pissed steroid head, I am not under police caution, in a job interview, or taking part in a quiz. You can't ask me a fucking question. You have a smartphone and access to the Cloud. Fucking use them.

And at about 10.30 we all made our excuses and left.

I was having a pint in the Glosters this afternoon when Clare messaged me. It's always a sign that she's at a loose end. She asked me to join her for a pint in Merthyr. I don't know why she was in Merthyr. I can probably guess. It was about 3.30 at the time. I told her that I wasn't going to spend eight quid and half an hour on a bus, only to have to head back to Aberdare in less than three hours' time. For just over double that price, I could spend a whole day in London, for fuck's sake.

She messaged back to say she was on her own.

But she never is, of course.

As long as she can log on to the Cloud or pick up mobile data, she spends most of her time messaging random people she's met on Facebook. It doesn't matter that the Fuck Buddy is in prison – in spite of how much she professes to love him – as long as he's out of sight and out of mind. She told me a little while ago that she was determined to stay 'single' until he got out. Considering that she was to all intents and purposes 'single' all the time they were together, it seems to me that she wants to have her cake and eat it.

Like the Incredible Vanishing Girl 2, and many other young girls I've met in the past couple of years in fact, it seems that Clare is perfectly happy as long as her vagina is occupied. It doesn't really matter who the current occupant is, either, just as long as he's muscular, tattooed, trendily dressed, and has his hair cut in one of the town's dozen or so Turkish barber's shops who churn out clones by the hundred. Once the vagina is unoccupied, Good Old Steve gets the inevitable phone call for company and free drinks.

Which, if I'm not very much mistaken, was the inspiration for Project No More Mr Nice Guy in the first place.

Anyway, there's much more to report in detail from my Facebook statuses and Tweets over the past six months or so, but that's a very brief summary of the research so far. The full analysis will have to wait until the experiment is complete, of course.

But at this rate it could continue for the rest of my natural life.

And, on Guest Vocals ...

In which The Author doesn't join a rock band

I was round at my brother's house this morning when Radio 2 played 'Walking on Sunshine' by Katrina and the Waves. Instant flashback to the summer of 1985, when three of my mates from school, and a young lad they'd found en route, formed one of Aberdare's legendary bands – Trevor and the Sprouts.

There's a story behind the name, which I won't bore you with. Suffice to say that Takka Tim (bass and vocals), his younger brother Deke (guitar and vocals), Doctor Paul (guitar and vocals), and Gerwyn (drums), occasionally augmented by Kinky Steve (I know – there's another one) spent much of the summer holidays in the Scout Hut in Trecynon, rehearsing and refining their set for their first big gig.

When I say 'their first big gig', I'm not talking about Reading, or Donington, or even Brecon Jazz. I mean an all-day piss-up outside the Michael Sobell Sports Centre in Aberdare. Our pal Stuart Turville had organised the whole thing, which was a fair achievement for a guy in his late teens. He and our mate Darren Broome had been in a band, and Stuart had networked most of the Aberdare music scene to pull together a fairly impressive line-up. Trevor and the Sprouts were pretty much guaranteed to draw a crowd, if only because by the time all their friends and relatives turned up there'd be about a hundred people there.

Every weekday, from mid-morning to late afternoon, the boys lugged their gear to the Scout Hut and worked through their set list. I was there most days, too. My job was to man the stopwatch, to make sure that if Paul shaved a few seconds off the solo in 'Lady Eleanor' we'd get to the end without Stuart pulling the plugs.

Anyway, one day we convened to find ourselves a man down. Paul was on holiday. Even though Kinky Steve was able to fill in on lead guitar, it still meant that 'Walking on Sunshine' was a non-runner. Paul took the lead vocal on that song, so the boys dropped it for the afternoon. It buggered up the timing. Steps needed to be taken.

But I was already networking, even at that early stage.

The following morning I rang Darren to ask if he could pop up to Trecynon and fill in while the rest of the boys refined the set. Fair play to him, he came up as soon as he could.

Paul was (and is) a very fine guitarist, whose biggest influence at the time was Steve Howe of Yes. Darren was (and is) also a very fine guitarist.

Unfortunately for a band whose major influences were the Beatles, the Kinks, Lindisfarne, Man, Fairport Convention, Bill Oddie, and the Rutles, his biggest influences were Lou Reed, Robert Fripp, Steve McGeogh and Bill Nelson.

And I'd never sung at all, apart from doing the usual teenage girl singing into a hairbrush in the bedroom mirror nonsense.

But I knew the words.

Thus it was, for one afternoon only, that three quarters of Trevor and the Sprouts played 'Walking on Sunshine'. I sang the lead vocal in Mark E. Smith fashion. Darren played the most bizarre snatch-and-grab chorused and flanged lead solo since Mr Fripp himself guested on Brian Eno's first solo LP. With no malice aforethought, we murdered one of the best British pop songs of the year.

The only people we knew at the time who could have afforded a video camera were Paul's parents. Luckily for us, they were on holiday as well. These days, such a debacle would have been live on Facebook within seconds. Like many of the key moments in rock history, if you weren't there, you won't be able to experience it ever again.

This afternoon, after telling my brother about the whole shambolic session, I logged onto Facebook. My pal Louis M. (who's been playing guitar since his very early teens) was raving about King Crimson. I shared a couple of YouTube clips which only die hard fans would know about. And then I heard 'Walking on Sunshine' again. It's funny how memories interconnect at times, isn't it?

Operation Motorcycle Silencer (Phases 1 & 2)

In which The Author rewrites his July plans

For the second year in a row, I decided a couple of months ago to put Operation Motorcycle Silencer into action.

Living where I do is a bit of a two-edged sword. The good part is that you're a few minutes' walk from one of the loveliest Victorian municipal parks in South Wales. On the other hand, at the end of July everyone in Trecynon, Glandare, most of the Gadlys and – probably – a fair chunk of Cwmdare and Llwydcoed, is subjected to the noise of the Aberdare Park Road Races. These take place on the circuit around the park, and attract professional riders, bikers and motor sport fans from across the world. (I once met a very pleasant couple from Finland in the Carpenters one Saturday night many years ago.)

It's a great boost to the local economy, of course. When Dad was a councillor he was an advocate of reinstating the races. When the bikes finally returned in 1978, it was just for the Saturday. Now, however, it's a weekend event. After moving to Trecynon last year, Rhian and Steff realised that they'd be right on top of the uproar for two whole days – as, of course, am I.

As an alternative, I suggested spending the Saturday in London. We'd leave long before the first of the bikes arrived, and get home hours after the event had finished for the day. They don't start as early on the Sunday (the local chapels objected), so we'd have a break from the usual routine and get away from the noise as well.

Last year's trip wasn't especially successful, because I think it might have been Steff's first time in London. (Actually, I think it might have been her first time outside the Cynon Valley.) Rhian and I had a great time, as always, as I decided to show her some of the parts we'd yet to explore together.

I've been wandering around the City of London during my recent trips, discovering strange buildings and obscure aspects of history that aren't on the tourist maps. We decided to take advantage of the day to explore in more detail, taking in most of the key buildings (with no intention of going into any of them) so Rhian could see how the whole place hangs together. We'd already done the whistle-stop tour of Westminster the first time we were there. She wants to see the Changing of the Guard, though. As that takes place after the first available coach from Cardiff arrives in town, we've pencilled that in for an overnight stay.

After our first visit I suggested that we tackle the place in stages, just so that I can show her where everything is and how easy it is to get from one part to another. The Bike Races weekend was the perfect excuse.

Needless to say, Steff invited herself as soon as she found out about the trip. I presume she was afraid Rhian would meet an amazing girl halfway down Regent Street, fall immediately in love, and kick Steff firmly into touch. (I wouldn't have blamed her if she had, quite frankly.)

I equipped the girls with Oyster cards (after explaining the advantages to Steff about ten times), an Eyewitness pocket guide – courtesy of The Works in Aberdare – and a small A-Z, hopelessly out of date but covering the centre in enough detail to be useful. I roughed out an itinerary on paper, all of which could be covered on foot and by bus, and we agreed to return to the West End before heading back to Victoria Coach Station.

Earlier this week, the Facebook Memories thing popped up my status from 2016:

London on Saturday to avoid a whole day of bike races. Taking two friends, one of whom is really excited about it, and the other of whom is determined to hate the whole thing before we even leave Aberdare. Wondering if I can convince Person B to install a Pokémon thing on her phone and then send her on a wild goose chase – possibly for ever.

Person B was Steff, of course, and nothing we could show her stood a chance of competing with what was happening on her phone.

We caught the Tube straight to Tower Hill, from where we were heading back through the City towards the West End. Steff didn't like the Tube. It's too far underground, apparently. Rhian was freaked out by it the first time we went there together. Once she'd studied the map and realised how it all works, she was quite happy to follow our route. I even suggested that she could navigate for us. (Easy journeys to begin with ‒ just the one line, with no interchanges. Baby steps.)

We emerged above ground and Steff pronounced herself well and truly underwhelmed. I explained that when it was completed, at the end of the eleventh century, the Tower of London would have been the tallest building in Britain. In Steff's eyes it was too small. And that set the tone for the rest of the day, pretty much.

I don't know quite what she was expecting, but Tower Bridge was 'boring'; the sight of the Shard failed to ignite her imagination; the skyline from the middle of Tower Bridge – the magnificent Wren churches defiantly poking their Baroque towers and spires between the plate glass skyscrapers – was lost on her. I lost count of how many times I had to explain why the City of London was so quiet at weekends, and why the one pub I'd have liked to have taken them to – Ye Olde Mitre Tavern (see Life in the Slow Lane) – wasn't open at all.

In fact, the City of London was even quieter than usual. In a masterpiece of bad planning (on the basis of which I'm retained as a freelance consultant to the Welsh Government), we'd managed to go on the day of the Prudential Ride London cycling event. Okay, so they aren't motorised, but there are still bloody bikes everywhere. When I logged into Facebook at lunchtime, I was amused to find that Cerith and Alyson (both keen cyclists) were also in town. A little bit of forethought would have put us in the same place at the same time, so we could have had a pint together.

With major road closures throughout the West End and the City, our plan to see the sights from the top of a bus (why pay £25 when you've got an Oyster card and the TfL bus map?) went out of the window. I was in Unofficial Tourist Guide mode, pointing out interesting buildings and filling in bits of history – which Rhian always enjoys. If Steff could have used her phone to play games throughout, I think she would have.

We headed along boring Watling Street, down to the boring Monument (Steff didn't want to climb it, naturally; Rhian and I did, and that’s a story in itself), past the boring Bank of England and the boring Mansion House, making for the most boring sight in the entire City of London. Unsurprisingly, Steff wasn't at all impressed by 'the big church' (St Paul's Cathedral), and instead found herself irresistibly drawn to the tacky souvenir shop nearby.

These are an interesting phenomenon in themselves. They've been there for ever, of course – I remember them being dotted all along Oxford Street and Regent Street when I was a student. They're full of model Routemaster buses and red K6 phone boxes, keyrings with tiny Big Bens attached to them, Union flag mugs, T-shirts and biscuit tins, jigsaws of Buckingham Palace and the Palace of Westminster, notebooks with the Tube map printed on the cover, postcards of the obvious sights, and all manner of assorted crap (pencil sharpeners, stickers, mobile phone cases …) to prove you've been to the greatest city in the world.

Nowadays it's almost impossible to turn around in one of these places without bumping into Chinese tourists stocking up on the 'authentic London experience'. It must be quite disheartening for them to take a bag full of crap back to their home city, only to discover that it was all made by their cousins working in a factory down the road.

But Steff had promised to take something back for the kids.

She'd already spent half an hour browsing through overpriced tat (and much more besides) at the 'official' Tower of London tourist information centre trap. But this was the 'official' St Paul's Cathedral tourist information centre trap. Same shit, different location. Literally the same shit. Meanwhile, Rhian and I repaired to the nearest pub: Ye Olde London, on Ludgate Hill, with a fine view of the west front of St Paul's from the entrance. We had a very nice lunch, a pint, and a light-hearted chat with the Spanish barmaid before Little Miss Happy rejoined us and put the mockers on the occasion. We walked around the corner to the boring Central Criminal Court, then on to boring Holborn Viaduct.

We were heading towards Holborn Circus when the rain started. As if the day could have got any worse.
The cycling event meant that a bus into the West End was out of the question. We only wanted to get as far as Piccadilly Circus. I let Rhian work out the route again.

I've already told you that Steff hates the Tube. And escalators? Yeah, those too.

We picked up a couple of books in Waterstones in Piccadilly. Steff wanted to go to Soho – which these days really is boring – because someone had told her that there were gay bars there. (It seems to be fine for her to go to a gay bar and eye up the talent, but if Rhian does the same all hell breaks loose.) Fortunately, we were running short of time. We walked to Leicester Square and down Charing Cross Road to boring Trafalgar Square. The bike race had closed most of the roads around there, too, so we had no choice but to get the Tube back to Victoria. Did I mention that Steff hates the Tube?

All of which brings us to July 2017.

As soon as the dates of the Road Races were announced, I hit the National Express website and found out the fares to London. I got in touch with Rhian (she and Steff were still an item at this point) and asked if they fancied a rematch. They did. I booked the tickets weeks ago; Rhian booked time off work; we were ready to rock and roll.

Over a drink on Tuesday evening, we drew up our plans for the day. Steff shocked us both by expressing an interest in something – namely, 'the Cutting Shark' [sic]. I'd last visited Greenwich in December 2014 (see Going Deeper Underground), when I decided to have an adventure I hadn't had since my student days. I grabbed a bit of paper and started drawing out an itinerary. How does this sound to you?

Victoria Station to Blackfriars, so Rhian could see the Millennium Bridge; Ye Olde London (a five minute walk away) for lunch; walk to Bank station and join the Docklands Light Railway. Go past Canary Wharf and through the Isle of Dogs to Island Gardens. Walk through the tunnel under the Thames. Steff could visit the Cutty Sark, I could call to Waterstones, and together we could check out the Old Naval College. After that (time permitting), we could go across to Woolwich, cross the river on the ferry, take the DLR to Stratford (passing the Olympic Stadium), and head to Waterloo via the Jubilee Line. Cross over to Trafalgar Square and catch the number 11 bus to Victoria Coach Station, taking in Whitehall and Parliament Square en route.

Please note that I did all this without any artificial aids, boys and girls – no A-Z, no Google Maps, and no TfL website. It's nowhere near enough 'Knowledge' to get me a London taxi licence, but it’s good enough for jazz and always impresses the ladies. (It's just a shame that they're usually gay.)

On Thursday I checked out the area beyond Greenwich, to make sure we wouldn't stray into Zone 3 and end up paying extra on our Oyster cards. I topped mine up at the same time, knowing I could activate it as soon as we got to Victoria. (Rhian had suggested topping theirs up on Friday evening, but Steff apparently decided it wasn't worth 'wasting' two minutes online.)

Then the Facebook Memories thing popped up with last year's status. I shared it along with the following comment:

The plan for the weekend is exactly the same. Remember, folks, on the Tube you're never more than a judicious elbow nudge from a live rail.

Now for Today's Topical Tip: When you see a taxi firm advertising a '24 Hour Service', remember to ask them how many hours are in a day.

It was absolutely barrelling down on Friday afternoon, so we decided a taxi for the morning would be a good idea. The girls rang half a dozen numbers to try and book ahead. Not a sausage. One guy even told them that they’d be lucky to find anyone to do a run at 6.00 a.m. Thus it was that we walked through Robertstown to the station on Saturday morning.

We were so early that the train driver was able to chat to us for a while. He was a bit shaken, because coming non-stop through Cwmbach on the first run from Cardiff, he'd nearly hit someone. The guy in question was walking along the railway track, and wearing camouflage gear to boot. It's that sort of idiocy alone that makes you wish they’d hurry up with electrification.

We got to Cardiff without any further incident, and called into Sainsbury's to pick up newspapers and a snack for the journey. We walked up to Park Place, where there was already a large queue at the stop. Our seats were bought and paid for, but we knew that we probably wouldn't be able to sit together. As it turned out, a fair number of people were catching the Megabus, which now leaves from Park Place as well. About half of the others were catching the Birmingham coach. Even so, we ended up in separate seats, but not too far apart.

Note to National Express: It's not sufficient to simply sell tickets – you really need to sell the bookings for individual seats, as train companies do.

The selfishness of one family meant that two young boys had single seats. (The seat next to one of them was occupied by a large rucksack, which should have gone into the luggage compartment anyway.) I ended up next to a sulky teenage girl, who'd seemed quite content to stretch out across two seats until I told her she’d have to shift her legs.

Anyway, we made good time out of Cardiff and got to Newport slightly ahead of schedule. While we were waiting for passengers to board, I heard a familiar demanding whine from behind me:

'Why have we stopped?'

Oh yes, Steff was in her accustomed sunny and life-enhancing mood.

She'd had to wear a jacket because it was raining when we left the house. She'd also put a jumper on, because we were out early and would be getting home late. She'd been too hot walking to Aberdare, then too cold on the train when she took her jacket off.
With the scene set for the rest of the day, I buried myself in my book, Rhian read the paper, and together we more or less ignored her.

Something in the paper had caught my eye while I was flicking through it, so I logged onto the TfL website to confirm it. For the second year in a row we'd managed to get to London during the Prudential Ride London event. It wouldn't bugger up the first part of the plan – the Tube to Blackfriars – but it buggered the last part totally. Never mind.

We disembarked at Victoria Coach Station and walked to the mainline station, about five minutes away. It was at this point that Rhian told me they hadn't topped up their Oyster cards. The queue to use the machines was three deep, and snaked around to halfway up the steps from the concourse. To make matters worse, last time we were there Steff had failed to 'touch out'. Instead of going online (as I'd told her to at the time) and completing the journey, she'd incurred a penalty charge. I was in London with the only person I've ever met who's managed to go overdrawn on a fucking smartcard! Instead of spending two minutes online, she'd managed to cost us nearly twenty minutes in the Real World.

Still, she wasn't the only useless person on the Tube yesterday. A guy with a massive suitcase and a paper ticket (Do they still make those? — Ed.) was making very heavy weather of the barrier to the Circle Line platforms. After he got through on his fourth attempt, I just glanced at the guy in the next queue and said, 'Bloody Muggles.' He nodded and smiled knowingly. Sufficiently advanced technology and all that jazz.

At Blackfriars we met a pleasant young guy, who I think was Italian. He approached us to see if we could change a pound for the station toilets. Steff was already in there, and Rhian and I were wondering if we could give her the slip before she got back through the turnstile.

'First time in London,' he said when he emerged.

I pointed at Steff and said, 'Second time.' We laughed and wished him a pleasant stay before moving on.

We headed into Queen Victoria Street and immediately encountered a stream of cyclists. We found some interesting nooks and crannies, including the College of Arms, on our way to the Millennium Bridge. (I've shown you photos of this in Life in the Slow Lane already. It's boring.) Then we walked back to 'the big church', where – just as last year – there was an exhibition of stunt cycling in St Paul's Churchyard. History was definitely repeating itself.

We found Ye Olde London without any problems, and managed to sit at the same table as we did last year. While the girls were deciding what to eat, I logged into their WiFi, checked into their location, and updated my status:

Waiting for lunch. According to Facebook I'm 'within 20 metres' of the pub. Good thing about London is you're never more than 20 metres from the pub.

I sent a quick Tweet while we were waiting for our lunch to arrive:

Time for lunch in Ye Olde London. Hope fish and chips is as good as last time. Haven't even lost Chief Muggle on the Tube yet. Still time.

I'm pleased to report that the fish and chips was every bit as good as last time. The staff were very friendly and welcoming, and we had a good laugh while we were ordering. I had no qualms whatsoever about commending the place on Facebook earlier today, when a feedback box popped up. I also started a mini-thread on Twitter, which I'll update as and when the chance arises.

London Advantages (pt 1): Sitting in a pub and nobody putting bloody Stereophonics on the jukebox.

London Advantages (pt 2): Taxi firms that claim to offer a '24 Hour Service' realise that there really are 24 hours in an average day.

London Advantages (pt 3): the Docklands Light Railway. That's it – nothing more needs to be said. #properpublictransport

We finished our lunch rather later than we'd planned, so I knew the extended East London plan was looking rather doubtful. We headed for St Paul's again, because I'd spotted an interesting little street sign as we were passing the first time. Fans of 1960s rock music should recognise this name:

I'd seen it on the street map, of course, but I'd never bothered to walk past this unassuming little spot. Slightly further north we found this remarkable building.

This is the headquarters of one of the many craft guilds which form part of the quasi-medieval structure of the City of London's governance. Some of the larger halls are marked on my A-Z, but this one took me by surprise. There's a great carved frieze running the length of the building, too, but without a tripod (I know, I still haven't replaced mine) it's difficult to get a decent shot. Here's a small section of it to go on with.

I think I've accidentally found a new project – photographing all the halls. I think I've managed to persuade Rhian to join me for the Lord Mayor's Show one year, as well.

We walked around to Cheapside, but the road closures were making it rather tricky to get around. Rather than take ages to get to Bank station, we decided to cut our losses and go one stop on the Central Line.

Did I mention that Steff hates the Tube?

As I reached the platform the train doors closed. Rhian was just a few paces behind me, but Little Miss Happy was still about halfway down the escalator. Pretending to be really pissed off with her, we told her we'd have to wait half an hour for the next one. She was really apologetic, and suggested reverting to the original plan instead. Needless to say, the next train was only three minutes behind – and then the fun really started.

I've only ever used Bank station as an interchange once. It was difficult enough to navigate the place then. Yesterday one of the escalators was out of commission, which really fucked things up. We found our way to the concourse without any problem, but then all the signs seemed deliberately placed to send people in circles.

Even I – a veteran explorer of subterranean London – had to concede defeat and ask the guy at the barrier how to get to the DLR platform. Steff was decidedly unimpressed when we had to go down the escalator, back along the platform we'd just left, up another flight of steps, and Goddess knows where else. We eventually got to the DLR platform in time for the Lewisham train, and set off for the next stage of our adventure.

Rhian was completely blown away by Canary Wharf and the whole Docklands development. I'd already told her it looked more like Tokyo or Shanghai than London, and it didn't disappoint her at all. Fortunately for Steff, she was able to play games on her phone for the entire 'boring' journey. When we got off at Island Gardens, I knew she'd complain about being expected to do the foot tunnel as well.

I told her, 'Get back to the station, catch the first train south, and we'll meet you there.'

I knew she'd be too scared to go off unaccompanied, so she reluctantly joined us for our little stroll under the Thames and up the other side. She cheered up when she saw the Cutting Shark, though. By now it had started to rain, so we took refuge in the Old Naval College for a while.

I hadn't been in there for a good look around last time, and it's worth the visit. I was very impressed by the exhibit showing the locations of all the Wren and Hawksmoor churches. It's pinpointed the last two Hawksmoor churches I need to complete my collection, so I've pencilled them in for my next visit. I hadn't realised that Thomas Tallis is buried at St Alfege's, which I accidentally found at my last visit to Greenwich. Another excuse for a return visit, I think.

I left the girls to explore the ship at thirteen quid a pop. (I don't like sailing ships that much.) I walked around to Waterstones, where I had two books to collect. I'd ordered them via the website on Thursday: the new Ben Aaronovitch paperback, The Hanging Tree, and the paperback of Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. The plan had been to collect the final stamp on my loyalty card, and then use the resulting ten quid towards The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, which I'd already reserved at Trafalgar Square. Unfortunately, both books were discounted, which meant that they didn't come to a tenner.

Thinking about it afterwards, I should have asked the guy to hang on for a minute while I grabbed something else. Instead, I paid for them and then spotted something else I fancied while I was on the way out. I got my final stamp, but not in the way I'd intended.

It didn't matter, as things turned out. By the time the girls left the ship we'd left it far too late to do the Woolwich – Stratford – Waterloo stretch of the journey anyway. It was pissing down, too, so we decided to cut our losses and head back into town.

I took the girls to the station (once again amazing them by heading straight there). While we were passing Waterstones, I reminded Rhian that she wanted to get a Roald Dahl book for her niece. Needless to say, like nearly other bloody girl in this story (in fact, nearly every bloody girl in this blog), Carys hadn't made her mind up what she wanted. We made our excuses without even entering.

We made our way down about a dozen flights of steps to get to the DLR platform at the snappily named Cutty Sark (for Maritime Greenwich) station. We only had to go one stop to reach Greenwich station – the one which existed when I first explored the area – and pick up the main line back to town. At which point something else happened which improved my day slightly. I'd never used Cannon Street mainline station until yesterday afternoon. Now I can colour in another small section of my Baker's Rail Atlas.

At Cannon Street, we decided to have a pint in Thereisnospoon on the station concourse. We had to leave before 5.30, though. Steff had somehow managed to convince herself that it would take the best part of an hour to get to Victoria from there. Maybe if we'd caught a bus during the rush hour, she'd have been fairly close. But the roads were still closed, so we headed for the Tube. Out of interest, I asked Rhian to time the interval between leaving the platform at Cannon Street and arriving at Victoria (six intervening stops). In the event, it took less than quarter of an hour. We could have had another pint at Cannon Street. Come to that, we could have had a pint in Victoria itself. Maybe two.

We walked to the coach station in the pissing rain. Actually, it's more accurate to say that I walked down Buckingham Palace Road, and Rhian and Steff tagged along quite some distance behind. We had well over half an hour before the coach left. After I found out our departure point, Steff wandered off to find a 'programme' (in other words, a paper timetable) for the coach services. Obviously she's planning another trip. Not on my watch, as the saying goes.

I don't know where she and Rhian went in search of this non-existent leaflet, but I eventually found them smoking outside ten minutes before the coach left. By this time the coach had started boarding, and I told them we'd be lucky to sit together. Once aboard, I found a window seat about six rows behind the driver. The girls grabbed a double seat a few rows in front of me. Rhian looked at me and indicated the seat opposite. I just shrugged. From where I was sitting, I couldn't hear that voice complaining about every fucking thing. It suited me just fine.

We got to Cardiff in good time for the 2141 train to Aberdare. By the time we boarded at Cathays it was standing room only with pissheads. We had toyed with the idea of a last pint in town, but we realised that everyone pouring off the train would have the same idea. The rain was still biblical. We decided to get a taxi home instead.

After quarter of an hour trying vainly to flag down a car at the rank, I decided that I'd get just as wet walking home as I would standing around. I'm too old to fuck around at the taxi rank on a wet Saturday night. Been there, done that. I walked up, toying with the idea of a takeaway. The girls must have got lucky, because their lights were on when I got home.

So, in summary, that's two trips to London under my belt, with one great friend who really enjoys herself every time and one acquaintance who hates the whole thing. You can probably guess what I'll be doing next July – and whom I won't be doing it with.