No Timewasters

In which The Author does exactly what it says on the tin

Those of us who remember the old days of newspaper classified advertisements will be familiar with this little phrase. (Like the news stories these printed artefacts contained, they seem to have fallen into disuse at around the turn of the century.)

The words 'no timewasters' were usually appended to a 'For Sale' ad – for a car, say, or a musical instrument. The idea was to make sure that only people who were genuinely interested (and, more important, who had the money) turned up to check out the item in question. Otherwise, the seller's house could quite conceivably have looked like the scene in The Commitments, when half of Dublin turns up to audition for the band.

Anyway, the next stage of Project No More Nice Guy does just what it says on the tin: No Timewasters.

It seems that my pal Clint has made the same decision independently of me, to judge from his recent decision to stop offering his photography services gratis to 'worthy causes' – who, we all know, have a contingency fund for things like that anyway.

Like me, Clint is (was?) an easygoing guy who gets ripped off because he's too polite to say 'no' when anyone asks for his help. He's a student, so he needs every penny he can get. Every time someone takes him away from his university work, he has to devote time and energy to a project which counts for nothing professionally, and which might – if he's very lucky – earn him a cup of coffee. Last week, he announced on Facebook that he's no longer willing to lug his gear off to some far-flung place (he doesn't drive) in return for fresh air and goodwill.

Relatable post, as the young people say these days. My proofreading and editing skills are also no longer available out of the goodness of my heart. Just because I once met you in the pub twenty-odd years ago, and you now think you're capable of writing a book, don't think I live on Scotch mist and kind thoughts. If you can't at least match the below-NUJ hourly rates paid by Orion Books, then by all means have a search online and find someone cheaper. If you can.

The same goes for my social media skills. I don't claim to have the expertise of my friends Richard J., Chris D., Andrew C. or Siân S., but I can find my way around Facebook, Wordpress, Twitter and Instagram fairly easily. (I've still no idea what Whatsapp or Snapchat are, and since I'm fifty years old I'll probably never bother to find out.) But I know how to use the main channels, and I can use ifttt with only a few hiccups, so I was a lot cheaper than using a web hosting company and trying to tweak all the settings later on.

In fact, just about a year ago I set up a Twitter feed and a Wordpress site for Plaid Cymru Cwm Cynon, our constituency branch of the Welsh political party. I knew that Richard was a member of the Labour Party, and would more than likely be offering his hosting and design services to them when the council elections were on the horizon. A few months later, Andrew (who runs a full-scale multimedia production company) announced that he and a friend were setting up the Cynon Valley Party in order to contest council seats this spring.

Although we'd had the online drop on them both, trying to get any information about the key players in our group was almost as difficult as getting a tax refund. In fairness, Cerith Griffith's 2016 Welsh Assembly election campaign was fairly switched on electronically. He used Facebook, Twitter and Instagram while we were out and about leafletting, and we both contributed to the Facebook page. The rest of them, though, seemed perfectly happy to use the same tired toolkit that Dad and the late Dafydd Roberts had used when they were standing for election in the early 1970s.

At the March 2016 branch meeting I raised (for, I think, the third time) the subject of magic sufficiently advanced technology as a valuable campaigning tool for the next round of elections. After all, how many young people do you know who read (never mind buy) a newspaper these days? Most of them don't even watch the TV news any more. If they're anything like the ones I know, they get virtually all their information about the world through their laptops, tablets or smartphones.

It was a section of the electorate that we urgently needed to reach out to. The media (even the electronic media) are dominated by a small clique of neo-liberal or neo-fascist entrepreneurs. Plaid Cymru's message is being swamped by a rising tide of racist, anti-European, anti-Corbyn, anti-worker, anti-NHS rhetoric. The only way to reach out to younger voters, I told them, is via the Internet.

Well, I tried to put the message out there, but it fell mainly on deaf ears.

Undeterred, I set up a hosted (i.e. free) Wordpress blog. I made Twitter and Instagram accounts for us as well. Cerith made me an admin on the Facebook page, so that I could link everything together via ifttt. Once I was sure everything was running properly, I emailed the login details for the Twitter and Instagram accounts to the people whose email addresses I already had. I thought if we all had access, we could use them as and when the mood took us. I encouraged them to post photos or information about local issues whenever they found something to talk about.

When I told them that all this wonderful magic wouldn't cost a penny (that's the single most powerful spell I know, taught only to Hogwarts sixth-formers), and that I'd do it in my own time, they were sold.

Or so I thought.

I decided to keep the Wordpress login to myself. Any decent first-year wizard can retweet stuff, or make a Tweet up themselves. Anyone with a reasonable smartphone can use Instagram. But using Wordpress calls for a knowledge of HTML, widgets, CSS, and other Dark Arts which would have left the others standing.

I started retweeting stuff (even my own stuff) immediately. A few of the others would retweet things I'd published, but hardly ever came up with anything of their own. I think I'm the only person ever to have used the Instagram channel. But the Wordpress site was almost dormant from the start. It wasn't as though it called for any technical involvement from any of the Muggles. I was going to look after the whole thing. Famous last words in the Land Where the Apathetic Rule.

I wanted to set up a page giving a bit of background about the key players in the local group: the chairman, treasurer, secretary, our councillors, and so forth. All I needed was about 250 words about themselves and a decent photo. Dai W., the branch secretary, is a fluent Welsh speaker; Gwyn M., my old pal from Trecynon, is also fluent. Translation wasn't a problem. Neither were photos – in theory. Nearly everyone's got a digital camera these days, or at least a smartphone.

The exception, needless to say, was Brian A., the branch chairman (or Chief Muggle). I knew we'd have an uphill struggle putting his piece together. In the event, Pauline J. ghosted a little biography and took a photo when they were out campaigning together. Gwyn translated it, and I added it to the drafts page.

And that was as far as it got.

Pauline eventually sent me something which I thought needed fleshing out, given her considerable experience in local and national politics, and a stock photo.

Peter F., the branch treasurer, sent me a rather underexposed and blurry photo of himself in his office at home. It was OK, but not great. No text, though. Two and half down, several to go.

Meanwhile, Dai and Karen M. (our councillor in Hirwaun) failed to come up with anything at all. I reminded them frequently that they were writing about the subject they know more about than anyone else alive – themselves – and it shouldn't be too difficult to put 250 words together.

I was wrong, apparently.

Anyway, the council elections are on 4 May. We started selecting candidates back before Xmas. As soon as people came forward, I started pointing out at every single meeting (and about once a week by email) that Richard and Andrew were throwing loads of material out via social media, at least once a day, and occasionally more often than that. We'd gone from being Achilles to being the tortoise in a very short space of time.

Nicola B. (whose father Terry had been a councillor back in the day, and whose brother Geraint ran for Westminster in 2005) sent me a rather elongated photo, which I was loth to use on the page. She also sent me a biog which I thought needed a bit of explanation at one point. I sent back my comments, and I'm still waiting for the revised version.

Between Xmas and New Year, I worked on a draft 'Meet the Candidates' page for a whole afternoon, to give everyone an idea of what the finished design would look like. I sent a couple of page previews out and asked for their feedback, so I could tweak it before it finally went live. The response was exactly what you'd expect. Only Danny A. from Mountain Ash West – a bit of a techie himself – told me he liked the general layout. Nobody else even deigned to reply.

I was keeping the Wordpress site ticking over with a motley assortment of community announcements (blood donation clinics, that sort of thing). They were already bilingual, so I didn't have to fuck about getting them translated, which usually took a couple of days.

In the meantime, I was posting stuff on Twitter and Instagram (see Mind the Gap in my public transport blog) as well; I was mostly retweeting news items and press releases from Tŷ Gwynfor, which nobody else seemed able to do – although Nicola claimed to have used the account a couple of times as well.

Danny sent me a very good biog and a decent picture, which I was able to use without too much intervention. Julie W. from Aberaman South was similarly co-operative, and I had their information ready to go live within a few days of its arriving in my inbox. It never did get published, though, as I had too many outstanding queries from the others to make the page public.

Just after Xmas, totally out of the blue, Danny sent me a scan of a two-page newsletter focusing on the plight of Mountain Ash town centre, and asked me if I could publish it on the blog. It featured bilingual text, a black and white photo of Danny, Nicola and Pauline on Mountain Ash Bridge, and contact details for the three candidates. In spite of my frequent suggestions, it didn't mention our Facebook page, our social media feeds, or the blog.

I published the scans as he'd suggested, but at the next branch meeting I'm afraid to say I lost my temper with everyone. I pointed out that by the time the information got to me, the newsletter was through most of the doors in Mountain Ash, and probably went from there straight into the recycling bag.

I reminded everyone that George Michael had died late on Xmas Day – after the Boxing Day papers had gone to press – and so people who rely on seventeenth-century technology for their information wouldn't have known about it until they read the headlines on 27 December. By way of contrast, within ten minutes of breaking on the BBC website, the news of Mr Michael's death was all over social media.

'We're not in the area of reactive news management any more,' I told them. 'It's all about being proactive these days. If I'd had that information at the outset, it would have been on the blog and all over social media even while Danny was still sorting out the DTP document.'

Dai objected, saying that older people don't use social media (which is true, for the most part), but I told him I wasn't suggesting replacing one means of communication with the other.

I added that we needed to use both channels to complement each other. We had to reach the biggest number of people possible, to convince them that Plaid Cymru is a viable alternative to another five years of Labour domination in the Valleys. Older people are going to be the most difficult to shift from their established voting habits anyway (see No Future); they'll turn out and return the same tired faces to Clydach Vale as they have ever since Clement Attlee was prime minister. On the other hand, younger voters aren't going to look at something printed, no matter how exciting it might be. We needed a two-pronged approach.

That was my argument, anyway.

As it turned out, it was also the argument of one of the other parties. They'd accidentally left behind a briefing document after a recent meeting, and it had fallen into enemy hands. It stressed the importance of social media, and laid out a strategy for pumping material out across all channels every single day between then and the elections.

Pretty much what I'd been telling Plaid Cymru Cwm Cynon we needed to do for over a year, in fact.

Anyway, the slow trickle of information continued. Ann J., who's fighting the Cwmbach ward, was fastest off the blocks. I had her information and photo within a couple of days.

Paul J., from Penywaun, is another first-rate Muggle. I bumped into him after a funeral, so I gave him my number and said I'd sit down with him and work on his biog together. So far, not a sausage.

Nor have I heard anything from Dan B. (Ynysybwl), Karen (Hirwaun), Dai (Aberdare East), Dai's wife Liz, or her father John D. (both Aberdare West). I don't even know who's been selected to fight the other seats throughout the Cynon Valley, because I haven't been to a constituency meeting or event since that night. I realised soon after leaving Mountain Ash RFC that evening that I was talking to the fucking wall, and decided to leave them to it.

I last posted something on the group's Facebook page on 10 February; the Instagram feed hasn't been updated since 29 January (me); nobody has used the Twitter account since 5 February (again, me). As for the Wordpress site … Well, I regret to inform you that it went out on the piss for St David's Day, and choked on its own vomit during the night. It seems that nobody else in the group has noticed, because I haven't had any emails asking me what's happened to it.

I've since withdrawn my long-standing offer to the Colstars to look after their Internet presence, as well. It's obvious that Derek would rather rely on an obsolete website, Facebook shares, and a few posters in key locations, to publicise their forthcoming events, than have a full-blown website with links to social media and a rolling blog with news items and features on the group.

It's obvious, too, that he doesn't want me to get involved in any way. I don't know why. We don't have any history between us; I was briefly a member of the Little Theatre group in the late 1980s, but that fell by the wayside when I started working in Treforest. I certainly wasn't party to the Great Cynon Valley Performing Arts Earthquake three decades ago, which gave birth to the Colstars in the first place, and the aftershocks of which continued to ripple down through YES, TUSC and even Showcase, none of whom were even born at the time.

Considering that every amateur dramatics group I've ever known has been crying out for older men to take to the boards, it seems nothing less than fucking rude that Derek has spurned all my attempts to get involved. My old pal Adrian T. told me a few months ago that it's a very cliquey organisation, though; if your face doesn't fit you'll never be welcome, no matter how enthusiastic you are.

(By sheer coincidence, the Colstars have just announced a fund-raising quiz this Sunday night, a couple of minutes' walk from my house. I think I'll have to have a subsequent engagement.)

My own involvement with other people's websites and social media will be limited to Alwyn's artwork site when that's up and running. At least he's going to give me a cut of his online sales, so I'll get some reward for my time and effort. Everyone else, though, is going to be rebuffed with the words NO TIMEWASTERS. Alternatively, in the words of the film, show me the money!

A Hair-Raising Experience

In which The Author goes to the theatre yet again

In keeping with my promise to support our local performing arts scene to the best of my ability, I took Clare E. to the Coliseum on Saturday night. The Colstars were doing a show called Hairspray, which was completely new to me.

Clare is about half my age, and far more in touch with contemporary shows than I am. We met about a year ago, (naturally) through our shared interest in music; she's another of the Aberdare karaoke regulars. She'd already warned me that it was along the lines of High School Musical. I'd replied that it couldn't possibly be any worse than Grease, which I suffered in the cinema when I was twelve years old. It was that summer's 'blockbuster hit', apparently, so we went to see it purely out of a sense of 'everyone else has seen it'.

[A digression: I should have known better, really, having endured 1977's 'summer blockbuster hit' Star Wars during our previous holiday. It was only a Close Encounter with Steven Spielberg's mystifying masterpiece, a few weeks after Grease, that assured my lifelong fascination with Science Fiction – which, after nearly four decades, very neatly landed me the job I'm doing now.

I think it's fair to say that Grease almost entirely – and perhaps unfairly – coloured my vision of US teen musicals. I found the 'story' impenetrable, maybe because I was a boy from the Valleys and not especially interested in chasing girls at the age of twelve. How the hell I was supposed to relate to a US high school setting is a mystery I've never quite solved. It's only over the past few years that I've been able to listen to some of the songs without wincing. I certainly couldn't sit through the film again, never mind experience the whole show.

Hannah W. gave me a little more background to Hairpsray at her mother's birthday party a couple of months ago. In particular, she was wondering how the Colstars would be able to cast the black characters. After all, Aberdare isn't the most culturally diverse of communities, in spite of the chunterings of the Debating Society et al. Showcase and Colstars have a young lad of Indian heritage in their line-up (he's the chap with a flair for visual comedy I mentioned when I wrote up Hello, Dolly recently), but otherwise Hannah and I were baffled.

'Surely they wouldn't "black up" for a show,' I said, rather aghast at the idea. I vaguely remember the horrible spectacle of The Black and White Minstrel Show on TV when I was a kid. The whole thing seemed unlikely at best, and very uncomfortable at worst.

A couple of weeks ago Liam J. came into the library on a Monday afternoon, and rescued me from the merciless droning of the Local History Dalek. We repaired to Thereisnospoon and had one of our enjoyable free jazz conversations over a couple of drinks. Liam told me that Hairpsray was inspired by the John Waters film, which is a cult classic among some of my friends. He gave me a bit more background, but I was still none the wiser (I've never seen any of Mr Waters' films, except Serial Mom).

While I was browsing the DVDs in a charity shop last week, I came across a copy of the film of the show of the film (if you know what I mean). I could have bought it there and then, but I decided I was going to go into the show completely fresh, and without any preconceptions of how it 'should' be done.

On Saturday I met Clare in town, and we had a pint before heading to the Coliseum. We were first through the doors, because I had to collect our reserved tickets from Julie G. (and that's a story in itself!) We had a Coke each in the bar while we waited for the start of the show. Chris D. came in while I was waiting to be served, and told me that his wife Cath and his daughter Mali were both in the cast. Soon after that, I spotted Iwan joining Chris and the rest of his family. He was the talk of the town this weekend, because his picture had appeared in Saturday's edition of The Times. They'd done a feature on the incredibly competitive RADA application process, and Iwan had been photographed with some of his fellow first-years. (Afterwards, in the foyer, I teased him that his brief stint in London had put years on him. According to the photo caption, he's twenty-five years old.) He'd come back for a flying visit to check out his friends' latest show.

Clare and I were sitting three rows from the front, right in the middle, which gave us great views of the stage. The musicians were tuning up as we took our seats, and a gauze curtain with the show logo was obscuring the set. The lights went down, Clare gave my arm a squeeze, and we were off.

And I can honestly say that I enjoyed every minute of it. I love that doo-wop style of pre-Beatles bubblegum teen pop anyway, and the music set my feet tapping from the word 'go'. Once again, the energy and enthusiasm of the youngsters blew me away. The acting and singing were on a par with anything you'd see in a professional production; the costumes were vivid and authentic for the period; the lighting was atmospheric and exciting; the minimal set design proved once again that it's possible to do more with less.

The only slightly uncomfortable parts (for me, anyway) were the scenes where white people were playing black people, with obvious Afro wigs and a bit too much fake tan, but not really carrying it off. It was a slight improvement on the old am-dram standby of cocoa powder, but it made for awkward watching all the same. I couldn't help wondering whether a quick shout-out at the University of South Wales mightn't have turned up some talented performers who'd have been more suited to the roles. Still, when you've got a man playing the protagonist's mother, you can put it all down to the high camp nature of the Waters original.

In fact, my Tweet sent at the end summed up the whole evening: 'High camp, high energy, high hair.' I should have added 'hi-jinx' to the proceedings, as I mentioned on the Colstars Facebook page later on. You could tell that it was the last night, because things were going wrong and everyone was trying desperately not to 'corpse' – with varying degrees of success. The audience were really in the spirit of the show as well, doing their best to make the actors laugh during the brief cock-ups. When the whole thing is as daft as Hairspray is, you can't help getting into the party spirit.

Clare and I repaired to the Harlequins Bowls Club for the afterparty, and I introduced her to a couple of the regulars, including Iwan, Dan T., who'd played Link Larkin, and James D., who'd played Corny Collins. It turned out that she already knew Zoe S. who'd taken the lead role of Tracy Turnblad, and Damon M. (who'd played Wilbur, Tracy's father). If she ever fancies getting involved with the Colstars, she wouldn't be going into a room full of complete strangers.

And once again, a couple of the youngsters asked me when I was going to come on board. Well, I've left it too late to try out for the panto, but their next full show will be Carousel, early next summer. Deb J. is going to lend me the film, as I haven't seen it since I was about twelve. Who knows what'll happen once the audition dates are announced?

An Musical Evening in Two Parts

In which The Author goes to the theatre again

On Saturday, having made surprisingly good progress with my latest proofreading job – which had spent four days in the capable (?) hands of Royal Mail during the week – I decided to have a couple of hours away from my desk. The youth section of the Colstars were giving their annual charity fund-raiser at the Coliseum in Trecynon. As I was so impressed with the whole company when they did Jesus Christ Superstar a few weeks ago, I figured I could spend the evening there and contribute to a worthy cause as well. It was a win-win situation.

I got there about ten minutes before curtain-up, in time to hear the band tuning up in the orchestra pit. (I don't know anything about the musicians, as they're not named in either of the recent programmes, but they all play to a very high standard.) I was sitting downstairs, so I don't know how many people were in the circle. By the time the show started, the stalls were only about half full. It was a fairly decent evening weather-wise, though. I expect a lot of the potential audience would have headed for the coast to take advantage of the break in the cloud.

The compere for the evening was a young man named Jordan Smart, a founder member of the youth section. Since graduating from the Arden School of Theatre, Manchester, Jordan's gone on to carve out a successful musical career, singing with Only Boys Aloud and performing in some of the UK's biggest venues. Two other Colstars alumni had come back for the evening. Richard Lee Thomas is a singing teacher from Resolven. Lee played Pilate in their recent production, so I already knew he could deliver the goods. The third guest singer was Rebecca Southmore, who's toured the country since leaving the Liverpool Institute of Performing Arts. That gives you some idea of the sort of talent the youth wing has nurtured over the years.

I'd expected a full-on show, but what I was treated to was a non-stop turnover of songs from the shows, and some (reasonably) modern pop numbers, delivered mainly by the kids dressed in plain t-shirts and jeans. The Coliseum stage doesn't really allow for elaborate dance routines with a large company, but the youngsters did their best with the available space. The guest slots were interspersed throughout, and two energetic sets covered the whole range of shows from Porgy and Bess to The Book of Mormon. Derek Williams, the company's mainstay since the early days, director, and a fine singer in his own right, also appeared to add his rich bass voice to the proceedings.

There was a nice little comic touch in the first half, too, when two little girls charged the stage and asked Jordan how they could join the Colstars. Jordan said he wasn't sure, so he'd ask one of the cast. After one young lad demonstrated the range of skills they'd be expected to develop, the girls decided he was 'bonkers' and walked off in disgust, to a huge round of applause.

I must admit that I'm not au fait with the current crop of musicals, and I felt that the printed programme could have benefited from a running order. I only worked out that one song is from The Book of Mormon from the context; for a lot of the others, unfortunately, I was in the dark.

My pal Iwan Davies came on in the second half, wearing a cagoule and looking very nervous. It was only after a minute or so that I realised he was doing a short piece from The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, based on Mark Haddon's extraordinary book about a young lad with Asperger syndrome.

After Iwan's monologue, Derek appeared from the wings and made the announcement that I trailed here a few weeks ago: Iwan will be leaving the Colstars before long to take up a place at RADA. As a result, they've awarded him their annual bursary. (It also means I've got someone else to go for a pint with when I'm in London.)

I said it was an evening in two parts, didn't I? Well, Part Two got underway immediately after the show finished, in the Harlequins Bowls Club directly behind the theatre.

I wanted to have a chat with Derek, following up on an email I'd sent him after Jesus Christ Superstar. I'd had a look at their website, and it didn't seem to have been updated for about two years. While I was at the bar my friend Deb J. came in, so I explained that I was interested in helping them out with the cyber side of things. As we both said, if you look at a website and it hasn't been touched for a good while, you tend to assume the business (or whatever) has called it a day. I know that I'm nowhere near good enough to be chorus material, but I can certainly offer them Tech Support with their internet presence. Deb also suggested that I could help them with their publicity materials, as we'd both picked up a number of typos in the programme. Getting involved without getting in front of an audience works for me at this stage (no pun intended).

Iwan came in while we were chatting at the bar, so I congratulated him on his good fortune and his unexpected windfall.

'That should cover your first week's rent, anyway,' I told him.

Deb invited me to join the rest of the table, and the night degenerated into a fairly decadent session, which only ended quite some time after the bar closed at 1.00 a.m. One of the girls was celebrating her birthday, and everybody got progressively smaller slices of cake as the numbers kept increasing.

By now the bizarre afterparty had split into two distinct camps – the older drinkers at one end of the room, and the youngsters at the other. I went to chat to Iwan and his pals while we decided on what music to stack up on the jukebox. One of the other lads introduced himself as Damon, and it turns out I've known his father for many years. Small world, isn't it?

It didn't take long for the conversation at our table to veer firmly into adult territory. At one point, my friend Dai and his wife decided to tell us about a very embarrassing and painful condition he developed a couple of years ago. Having described it in graphic detail, Dai had come up with some unintentional comedy gold.

I shouted down to the youngsters, 'Here's a name for a Thrash Metal band – Massive Bollock Disease!'

Watch this space, as Damon thought it was a brilliant suggestion.

After introducing the kids to the joys of 'Paperback Writer' (dedicated to the authors I've worked with recently, of course), I just said, 'This is the weirdest fucking afterparty I've ever been to.' Cue laughter all round.

Sitting down in a convivial post-show atmosphere, with some old friends and some new friends, was just the ticket after a hard day immersed in the cyberspace world of William Gibson. It was also miles better than just sitting at home on a Saturday night, and arguably a vast improvement on Thereisnospoon, the only guaranteed late night alternative.

In between the beer and shenanigans, I managed to grab five minutes with Derek and offer him my Tech Support and Content Management services. I gave him my phone number, and he's promised to ring me after everyone comes back from their holidays.

I think I've also persuaded some of the older youngsters (if you know what I mean) to come to Thursday karaoke and show everyone how it's really done. It's Deb's birthday next week, so I told her to rope some people in and strut their stuff in the Lighthouse. I already know one song which Lee and my karaoke pal Chazza could absolutely smash. In fact, I think Chazza would enjoy the Colstars. She's certainly got the voice for it, and it might do her good to get out and meet some new people. I'll suggest it when I see her next.

I might never pluck up the courage to join the Colstars for real. Maybe five years from now they'll decide to do a show I know and love (My Fair Lady, for example), in which case I might throw my hat into the audition ring. But I'll certainly be supporting them in any way I can, even if it starts with just putting a poster in my window and grows from there. Having seen such a wealth of local talent on stage in the past couple of months, it would be rude not to, really.

Jesus Christ Almighty!

In which The Author accepts a dare

A couple of months ago, one of my friends threw down a metaphorical gauntlet in my general direction. Deb J. (for it was she) was on Facebook, and said something like, ‘Tickets are now on sale for the Colstars’ production of Jesus Christ Superstar. Book now. You won’t be disappointed.'

Well, I know a comedy feed line when I see it, so I replied, ‘I bet I will be – I’m usually disappointed by Lloyd Webber’s stuff.’

Deb responded a few minutes later and dared me to go to the show. She was so confident I’d enjoy it that she even offered to pay for my ticket if I decided to bale out halfway through.

Now, I do like many of the classic musicals, and some of the more offbeat ones too – Oliver!, My Fair Lady, The Wizard of Oz, Scrooge, and Paint Your Wagon are definitely among my favourites. A fairly late addition to the list is Chicago (and thereby hangs a karaoke tale not suitable for family viewing). However, I’ve always fought shy of the Rice/Lloyd Webber oeuvre for some reason.

It’s absolutely nothing to do with Sir Tim’s way with words – indeed, he’s one of the wittiest and most entertaining semi-regulars on Just a Minute. It’s nothing to do with his lordship’s compositions, either. It’s just that I’ve only heard the ‘greatest hits’ when they’ve been in the UK charts, and thus taken totally out of context. Think of ‘Memories’ performed by Elaine Paige, or ‘Oh, What a Circus’ performed by David Essex, and you’ll see what I mean. They’re great pop songs, but I’ve never taken the time to listen to the entire show and see where they fit in.

Jesus Christ Superstar is slightly different. I remember watching the film on TV when I was probably in my early teens, and I simply didn’t get it. I couldn’t remember any of the songs (apart from the title song, of course), and I recall being utterly baffled by the film.

There was a single of ‘I Don’t Know How to Love Him’ released quite a few years ago, and I remember thinking then that I probably needed to revisit the show. When I was involved with YES (the Youth Entertainment Society, not the legendary prog rock combo) we seriously talked about staging it. Then circumstances kinda got in the way, so our production never got further than the discussion stage.

I also haven’t been to see the Colstars for ages, in spite of knowing several people involved with the group. As the name suggests, they strut their stuff a couple of times a year at the Coliseum in Trecynon. I think the last production I saw them do was a brilliant Fiddler on the Roof (another of my favourites). I think they fell off my radar when it became virtually impossible to get home from work in time for the show, and never really made it back on screen for some reason.

Anyway, I decided to accept Deb’s challenge when I found out who would be appearing in the show. My old friend Chris Davies, the former keyboard player with Cripplecreek and a phenomenal musician in his own right, had been cast as Simon Zealotes. Chris had also persuaded our eccentric pal Geraint Benney to audition for the part of Herod. Geraint is probably best known for his comedy creation Elvis Preseli (the world’s only bald, Welsh-speaking, burger-frying Elvis tribute act who doesn’t actually sing any Elvis songs). Having played Herod himself in an amateur production a little while back, Chris had a crazy idea that Geraint would fit the part to a T. Best of all, Chris’s teenage son Iwan, whom I’d only met briefly a few years earlier, was playing the title role.

Geraint, Chris, Iwan, Jonathan E. and I ended up sharing a table in Thereisnospoon on a Sunday afternoon a couple of months ago. I started chatting to Iwan about his ongoing applications for drama school. After notching up a couple of background artist appearances in Doctor Who and Torchwood, he’d tried for the last intake for RADA, but had failed to get a place. Since then he’d been accepted for LAMDA, and was giving RADA another shot. (I found out on Saturday that he’s got in. Kudos!) A few weeks later we were in the pub again, and Geraint was so enthusiastic about the show that I decided to accept Deb’s challenge and check it out for myself.

Over time the posters went up, too – including one in my neighbour Eirlys’s window. Eirlys is Hannah W.’s mother, and a long-standing member of the society. Hannah asked me if I was planning to go, and I said I’d try and make it if I could.

By an odd coincidence, Elaine Paige played one of the songs from the show on her Radio 2 programme last Sunday. I’d honestly forgotten what a great groove it had. If I hadn’t already had my arm twisted enough, that was the final persuasion I needed.

On the very sensible grounds that quite a few of my friends were going to be in the show, I went along on Friday night. The place was heaving when I arrived, and I was lucky to get a seat downstairs, seven rows from the front. The curtains were closed, and I could hear the band tuning up in the orchestra pit. There was a real buzz in the auditorium, and I spotted a fair number of my friends dotted around the stalls.

The overture struck up and the curtains opened to reveal probably the most minimal set I’ve ever seen: a flat painted to resemble a stone wall, with a gateway in the middle; two flats at either side of the stage, again resembling a wall, and a slightly raised platform centre stage. Two Roman soldiers came on, leading a man carrying a cross (which looked really heavy, too), and exited on the opposite side.

Enter Judas, played by a young man named Daniel Thomas. I haven’t met him before, but I’m sure I know his face from somewhere. (He’s either been on TV, or he’s got a lookalike.) Judas is obviously trying to give the soldiers and the Pharisees the slip. At first I wondered whether it was going to be a modern dress production – maroon jeans probably weren’t the rage in first century Judea – but when the disciples and the chorus came on, it was obvious that they’d gone for a Biblical setting.

The men were wearing loose trousers, tunics, and the sort of scarves which are still worn in the Middle East today, while the women wore plain dresses and headscarves. In addition, every one of them wore sandals (did the charity shops in Aberdare do a roaring trade in the run-up to the dress rehearsals?), which must have made the dance routines quite a challenge.

And then the singing started. Straight away I was blown away by the power and passion in Dan’s voice, and by the precision with which the chorus wove their patterns around the front line. The band were tighter than a gnat’s chuff (as they used to say in Viz), and the young men and women in the main roles were simply astonishing. Since I’ve already namechecked Iwan and Daniel, I’ll credit the rest of them as well: Bethan Karen Jones as Mary Magdalene, Richard Lee Thomas as Pilate, Kieran Griffiths as Peter, and Daniel James as one of the priests; alongside them were the ‘old hands’ Derek Williams as Caiaphas and James Dyer as Annas. The purity of Bethan’s voice, the power of Lee's, and the richness of Derek’s, made me wonder if I actually was watching an amateur production.

The chorus, a fine blend of younger and more experienced players, were just as strong as the front line. Nobody put a foot wrong, nobody dropped a note, nobody missed a cue; it was an emotional rollercoaster of pure pleasure and a joy to witness. The moment when Chris and Iwan got to perform together will doubtless be a memory they’ll treasure for ever.

With no set changes, bar the addition of some colourful banners during Geraint’s turn as the campest Herod ever (think Sir Elton John doing Elvis Presley), a table for the Last Supper, and (of course) Christ’s cross for the heart-stopping climax, the Colstars delivered a fine lesson in doing more with less.

There were some great costumes on display, too: the sinister black garb of the Pharisees; the rather Pharaonic styling for Herod and his backing singers; Pilate’s magnificent outfit; the rags worn by Jesus’ supplicants … I can only imagine the chaos backstage as people changed their clothes in record time.

Judas’ post-suicide reappearance in black trousers and a black shirt topped with a sparkly red waistcoat, delivering the title song to a shattered Jesus, huddled sobbing in the corner, backed by Deb and two other women in Supremes-style outfits, accompanied by the whole chorus in shiny blue and silver, was the perfect random touch to bring the story to its inevitable and heart-stopping climax. The crucifixion itself wasn’t played down, either – Iwan’s remarkable performance as the suffering man was alone worth the price of admission.

Dispensing with the usual curtain calls, the show ended on a suitably downbeat note, with the main players taking the stage once more for a solemn single bow before the curtains closed. I sat for a couple of minutes before making my way outside, reflecting on what an absolute treat I’d just experienced, a few minutes’ walk from my house on a Friday evening.

I know I've referred to this previously (in my old Wordpress blog), but I never had the chance to get involved in a show like that. An all-boys school in the late 1970s and early 1980s was focused almost entirely on sport, or on choral singing. The chance to do something a bit different only came about when the culture of the place changed, a couple of years after I'd finished my A levels. Outside school, the only shows that people put on were Gilbert and Sullivan operettas or things like The Student Prince – all very well, but still stuck well and truly in the past.

Now, young people have a chance to study Performing Arts in school, as well as take part in exciting contemporary productions like last week's. Or, at least, at the moment they do. Moves are afoot by the government to shove Performing Arts out of the curriculum, or to make it so inaccessible that many people won't even bother trying to study it. In addition, small theatres are facing closure, and the sort of companies which give youngsters a chance to see what it's like to be on stage are winding down.

And yet I was in London on Sunday and Monday. The West End is are full of musicals and plays which are impossible to get tickets for, and which between them must pull in a colossal amount of money from tourists, British and foreign alike. The performing arts in general account for a sizable chunk of the country's GDP. It's the young people – the likes of Iwan and his amazingly talented friends – who are going to keep British theatre alive in years to come.

It's not just a question of the class system preventing youngsters from trying out for audition places (although that plays an enormous part in the equation, as has been pointed out by some critics recently.) J. K. Rowling pointed out just last week that kids from poorer families stand little or no chance of even seeing a play in a major theatre, never mind getting the opportunity to get involved at a deeper level.

If ordinary kids from places like this are going to play their part (no pun intended) in the cultural life of our country, then groups like the Colstars and venues like the Coliseum are vitally important. They're the breeding ground for the next generation of real stars, after all, not the queues of people waiting to parade themselves in front of Simon Cowell.

After the show, I asked on Facebook if anyone had photos from the dress rehearsals that I could publish on here. Derek, the director of the show and one of the mainstays of the group, very kindly emailed me some pictures yesterday, so I'll share them with you now.

So, you won’t be surprised to learn that Deb’s money is safe.

In fact, I enjoyed it so much I went again on Saturday night. You can’t say fairer than that, can you?