A Quick Sitrep

In which The Author does some calculations

At long last we've sorted out the money from the sponsored walk in aid of Anthony Nolan, which five of us did at the end of September.

You won't be surprised to learn that there was a slight miscalculation. What will surprise you is that we actually miscounted the number of people who took part. (I'm not counting Betty Boop, the mini whippet, who very sensibly baled out before the assault on Cefnpennar Road.)

How can that have happened? I hear you ask. After all, I've got the photographic evidence. There were definitely five of us at the start of the walk (Penderyn, at just after 9.00), at roughly the halfway point (the Ynyscynon Inn, Cwmbach, just after midday), and at the end (the Navigation Hotel, Abercynon, just after 5.00 p.m.). In case you missed them the first time, here they are again:

At the starting point: me, Rhian, Paul, Liam, Kate and the mini whippet

Lunchtime at the Ynyscynon Inn

At the finish line

The miscalculation only came to light about six weeks ago, when Kate realised that she'd fallen pregnant just before the walk took place. Technically speaking, there were six of us (plus a mini whippet) on the day. Naturally she and Gavin are over the moon, but it means Kate's unlikely to be taking part in next year's event. If you'd like to take her place, we'd be glad to have you on board.

Anyway, nearly all the money is in, so I thought I'd give you a quick update. The total we raised the old-school way, using pen and paper, came to an impressive £433. The total via our Just Giving page was £229.61. The odd figures are down to the exchange rate between sterling and the Canadian dollar, which came from an 'anonymous' donor. (But I know who he is.) That makes our grand total £662.61. Not bad going, is it?

That was the most exhausting part of over four years of fundraising for Anthony Nolan.

The most stressful part, undoubtedly, was organising the gig in Jacs. I was starting to tear my hair out when Cripplecreek announced that half the band were double-booked with outside projects. I need to thank my good friend Mitch for saving the day. He was able to call in some favours from his wide network of musical contacts to make the line-up varied and interesting. Meanwhile, I was able to call in a favour from a couple of well-known authors I virtually while I was working on their manuscript this time last year. Rob Grant and Andrew Marshall very generously donated a signed copy of their crazy SF romp The Quanderhorn Xperimentations as a raffle prize. The total we raised from the raffle and donations on the night came to £142. Mitch and I are going to sit down in January and start putting a line-up together for the 2019 gig. Will my nerves hold up? Watch this space …

That leaves the collection boxes, which are ticking over nicely for the most part. I had to retrieve the one from the Brunel Arms in Pontyclun a few weeks ago. The new landlady has decided she'd rather concentrate on a local charity, so she isn't doing bar collections any more. Still, in the time it's been there it's managed to reap an impressive £210.35. Paul and Gavin kindly let me relocate it to the function room in Jacs, which is increasingly busy with private parties. There's a rave party there on New Year's Day, so that might give it a boost as well. The rest are doing nicely, but the runaway leader is still in the Glosters. In fairness, it's been in place longer than any of the others, but even so it seems to be much more productive than the others. (It's also responsible for a fair number of the foreign coins in my collection.) I paid it in last Friday, as it probably wouldn't have lasted through the Xmas and New Year shutdown without filling to bursting point. After finally getting rid of the odd pennies on the spreadsheet (and the certificate) which had been annoying me for months, I can announce that the regular customers and casual drinkers have raised a fantastic £565 for the charity.

I've just been updating my spreadsheet to take account of these three separate strands of fundraising activity. I've checked the totals twice, and I need to share the grand total with you.

£2,056.56.

I can't quite believe it myself. It means that the good people of South Wales (and a few from further afield) who've got behind our efforts have raised enough money to put a further fifty-one people on the UK Tissue Register. That's fifty-one potential lifesavers.

I know I tend to be on a bit of a downward trajectory at this time of year, but that's really boosted my mood today. So huge thanks to everyone who's chucked some odd change into a collection box, or bought a ticket for the raffle, or came to our gig, or sponsored our mini-marathon in September. I wish I could give you a hug and say thanks in person. I guess this will have to do as an alternative.

Seventeen Miles Later ...

In which The Author and his friends go up a hill and come down a mountain

Saturday morning dawned cold and misty, and for a few moments I wondered whether I'd be taking part in the sponsored walk after all.

The night before I'd slipped at home and stubbed my right big toe hard. Very hard. In fact, it was so painful that I feared I might have broken it. Then I remembered a pub chat with Martyn E. last week. He's currently nursing a broken toe and a cracked rib – the second is the direct result of the first, which he managed to incur in work. The doctor who treated him had told him that if it had been his big toe, he wouldn't have been able to walk as his balance would have been affected. Well, I was able to walk (after a fashion), so that was a decent start.

I made my way (on foot) to Aberdare and bumped into Liam as he was coming out of the newsagent's. We made our way to the cafe near the bus station to wait for the others and had a good chat until Rhian arrived. Kate was next on the scene, with her miniature whippet Betty Boop in tow. Paul rolled up a few minutes later, and the team was complete.

Originally a few more people had expressed an interest in joining us. But Liam's parents had been doubtful from the start, as Jude injured her Achilles tendon a while ago and is recovering slowly. As they had prior commitments on Saturday, they were out anyway. Similarly, Eggy and Geraint were booked (separately) at Cwmfest, a music festival a couple of miles away in Phonicsland Cwmaman. Jason W. has had to spend the last few weekends shopping around for a new car. Alexis had something on which meant that she couldn't make it either. Anne-Marie had apparently twisted James's arm to spend the weekend in Tenby, which seemed a good call given the glorious weather. But five (plus a dog) is a nice manageable number for a first attempt like this. We were the ones who'd started Just Giving pages and collecting sponsors, after all. We boarded the 8.30 bus to Penderyn and the game was afoot.

When we arrived at the Lamb Hotel, the road was full of farm vehicles. I knew there were occasional livestock sales in the village, but I've never been to one. I must find out when the next one is happening and check it out for myself. We waited until the bus had turned around and jumped off on the return leg. It's a short walk from there to the world-renowned Penderyn Distillery, and the start of the Cynon Trail proper. I took the photos with my phone and a miniature tripod, so they aren't great, but they'll give you an idea of the sort of day we had.

Me, Rhian, Paul, Liam, Kate, Betty Boop (being carried)

The path was, until relatively recently, a freight line from the quarry opposite the Lamb to the old Hirwaun Station, and thence to the national rail network. Now it's been converted into a well-made off-road path, popular with dog walkers and horse riders as well as walkers and cyclists. It runs more or less parallel to the road, but it's far enough away that you forget about the village and just lose yourself in your surroundings. My original plan had been to lay a breadcrumb trail with Anthony Nolan stickers every so often. We had hoped for a larger number of people, of course, and I anticipated us breaking up into smaller groups as time wore on. In the event we didn't really need to place the stickers, but each one has the website address and the Walking Together logo. They might encourage casual walkers and cyclists to check out the link for themselves.

About twenty minutes into the walk, Paul commented – not for the first time – that you don't notice the distance when there aren't any landmarks. If we'd on the main road we'd have been constantly saying 'We're only as far as so-and-so', and that can get a bit disheartening.

This part of the Cynon Trail is right on the fault line between the countryside and the industrial landscape. If you look to the right as you approach Hirwaun, you can see the large opencast workings just north of the village centre. Between you and the workings there's farmland. It's an odd juxtaposition, really.

At Hirwaun we took a small detour along Elm Grove and into Station Road. Paul wanted to see the site of the old Hirwaun Football Club and the Bodwigiad Inn, which features in A Pub Crawl to Die For (Part 1). Neither of these watering holes are open for business. We followed Station Road into the centre of the village, and then our cunning plan came unstuck. We had pencilled in breakfast in the cafe, but of course Betty Boop wasn't allowed on the premises. Paul compromised by buying us all bacon rolls, which we ate on the way to the next stage of the off-road walk.

Tramway in Hirwaun is aptly named. The village plan reflects the early development of the rail network which linked the industrial centres of the Cynon Valley. There's a great old photograph showing the tramlines running along what is now a minor road through the village. When we reached the southern end of Tramway, we were off the road network again and on the route of another former tramway. This one runs behind the housing estate at Trenant, skirts the school at Rhydywaun, runs behind the huge Penywaun estate, and emerges in Trecynon. It passes some industrial archaeological sites, including the stone supports of the former Gamlyn Viaduct, the stone tramroad bridge near Gelli Isaf, and the quaint cottages at Arthurs Place. It follows the river Cynon pretty closely, and it's a beautiful sheltered stretch of the Cynon Trail. This photo in particular makes it look like an illustration from a Tolkien novel.

We hit our first problem in Penywaun. A very handsome Staffordshire bull terrier had obviously sniffed out Betty Boop's presence, as he made a beeline for her and wouldn't be dissuaded. The girls were quite shocked when I – an animal lover – suggested kicking him in the bollocks to dampen his ardour. Rhian was even more amused when I clouted him on the nose with a stick. He sprinted off in the direction he'd come from, only to catch us up a few minutes later. Kate was carrying her dog by now, but the little fellow was quite determined to follow his instincts. Eventually Paul managed to send him packing, but we kept our eyes open in case he popped up again.

We arrived at Gelli Isaf, a quaint row of cottages perched on the river's edge, and from there it's a short walk to Trecynon itself. We crossed the road and picked up the tramroad again, stopping for another photo at the historic Iron Bridge.

We continued as far as Tesco, where we took turns to look after Betty Boop while visiting the toilets. Then we were back on track, crossing the railway line into Robertstown, then crossing the Cynon near the Gadlys Arms and picking up the trail on the north side of the river. This is another well-made stretch of off-road path, emerging near the new Aberdare College building. We decided to cut out the stretch through the Ynys, and made our way past Plasdraw to the start of the Aberdare Canal nature reserve.

This isn't as grand as the name suggests, but it's a lovely stretch of the Cynon Trail, following the surviving portion of the Aberdare Canal to its end just north of Cwmbach. The flowers were still in bloom and bees and butterflies were active among the hedgerow. It was the last weekend in September, remember.

We crossed the main road and decided to wet our whistles at the Ynyscynon Inn (formerly the Golden Post). I've only been there twice in the last ten years: the first time was in December 2009, when Jenny and I went on one of our very rare dates (see A Minor Miracle); the second was with some of the Plaid Cymru Cwm Cynon gang when we leafleted the whole of Cwmbach in one day. It's not a pub that regularly features on my radar because it's on the wrong side of Aberdare. But the sun was over the yardarm and it seemed rude to just walk past without calling in.

It was obvious that our little dog was running out of steam, and Kate came up with a good idea. If we took the short cut from the new housing estate to Pant Farm, we could follow the old Vale of Neath line to Blaennantygroes, drop Betty Boop off at Kate's grandmother's house, and then drop down to the village shop. It would cut out the gradual (but very exposed) climb through Cwmbach and give us a nice shady alternative. So that was what we did.

I don't know the new part of Cwmbach very well, but Kate used to have a paper round in the village. That sort of local knowledge can't be beaten when it comes to finding short cuts and alternative routes on the fly. We slipped through a small alleyway between two houses, made our way uphill through Pant Farm, and climbed the embankment leading to the old railway line. There's a stunning old tunnel there, which I need to photograph properly when I get the chance. And then we were on the Vale of Neath path. The footpath leads to the former Merthyr Tunnel, but it also forks and drops down to the top of Blaennantygroes.

Liam was definitely setting the pace, with the girls following on and Paul and I bringing up the rear. We had a good laugh when we encountered another fallen tree, which would have probably rendered the path 'impassable' on health and safety grounds if the little dog hadn't been able to just spring over it.

We branched off into Blaennantygroes, dropped Betty Boop off, and continued downhill to the shop. It's a short walk uphill to the Royal Oak, which had crossed our minds for another stop. But I wasn't sure whether the Cefnpennar Inn would be open, so I'd persuaded the gang to push on as far as that. We made our way up the tarmac part of Cefnpennar Road, where I think Paul was starting to struggle a bit. We made it as far as the entrance to Llettyshenkin House, and then hit the most challenging part of the route so far.

I've already shown you what Cefnpennar Road is like, but here's a photo I took on Friday morning. It's a road in the very loosest sense of the word. Some of my older friends have called it 'the parish road', which suggests that it was a main thoroughfare in bygone days. It certainly isn't one now.

Paul and I made it to the top a few minutes after the others, and we all decided to have a breather in the field. The views from here made the whole ascent worthwhile, but by now my battery was running low. I took one photo of us and we continued on our way.

The descent into Cefnpennar village was fairly uneventful, with Liam continuing to set the pace. As such he reached the pub before the rest of us – and it was closed. I'd had a feeling that that would be the case, so I wasn't all that surprised. But we were a bit disappointed all the same. We continued downhill through the village, with Liam charging ahead of us. We weren't sure if he was setting the pace, or simply being carried forward by the weight of his backpack. By the time we passed the entrance to the golf course he was way in front and picking up speed on the descent into Cwmpennar.

I turned to the others and said, 'Liam's broken into a sprint. Or else he's just broken.'

When we got to Cwmpennar we found out why he'd had that burst of energy. There's a bench at the side of the road. We had a little breather there, then continued to Duffryn Woods and spent a few minutes admiring Prof. James Havard Thomas's magnificent war memorial, which stands in a little clearing surrounded by trees on all sides. You can almost picture yourself in Flanders when you see it from this angle.

We stopped at the indoor bowls centre to use the toilets, then continued past the Aberdare Hotel and Mountain Ash Town Hall to pick up the Cynon Trail beside Nazareth Baptist Church. After following the river for five minutes or so, we arrived opposite our next scheduled stop: the George.

This is a rather odd little pub in Newtown, Mountain Ash. I've been there a few times and the people at the bar have always made it perfectly clear that it's a local pub for local people. But Paul knows everyone, and one of his pals was sitting outside when we arrived. We ordered our drinks and waited while the landlord set up a table and chairs outside for us. There was a diversion in effect on that stretch of the Cynon Trail, so we knew we'd have to continue along Old Cardiff Road and past Usk Villas to pick it up further south. By now the effects of the long slog over Cefnpennar Road were taking their toll. I think a couple of us were tempted to call it a day and catch the first bus back to Aberdare. But Paul, in fairness, was committed to walking the entire distance. I was still raring to go, so we talked about it over our drinks and decided to push on.

There's a new road being built across the valley just south of Mountain Ash, which accounted for the closure of the Cynon Trail. It was one of the main reasons why I abandoned our Arthur Linton Challenge cycling project for this year. It made for an 'interesting' diversion from the route I'd originally drawn up. There's a flight of steps up to the new road from Usk Villas, and Rhian was really starting to struggle during the ascent. Liam, as usual, was powering ahead of the rest of us. Paul and Kate were going to follow the A4059 to begin with until I called them back. It could have all gone wrong at this point. Can you imagine trying to co-ordinate a large number of cyclists around this section? I certainly can't. With any luck it'll be finished by next summer and I can have a second attempt at making the project come to fruition.

There isn't a great deal left of the industrial sites south of Mountain Ash. The pits were pulled down once they closed, and the railway sidings have vanished as well. The Cynon Trail winds along parallel to the river, sheltered by trees for most of its length, and without any real landmarks to tell you how far you've walked. I've walked this part at least four times in the last year while drawing up the Arthur Linton Challenge so I knew where we were, but it didn't really matter. Once we reached the Pontcynon Industrial Estate, my plans to lay a breadcrumb trail fell apart.

Rhian was lagging behind us. Kate was charging ahead to use the toilet at Abercynon Sports Centre. Paul, Liam and I got as far the sports centre, sat down to wait for Kate, and then waited ages for Rhian to come into view. It did cross our minds that she might have stopped at Abercynon Rugby Club, just off the Quarter Mile Bridge. I rang her, only to find that she'd crossed the bridge and was walking along the Old Road. In fact, she'd overtaken us and was passing Abercynon Library at the time. We grabbed our gear and set off along the final section of the route. We came out into River Row, crossed the Cynon and followed the road towards the fire station.

There's a signpost at the end of Greenfield Terrace advising you that it's 14.5 miles to Cardiff.

I pointed at it and said, 'Who's up for pushing on to Pontypridd?'

(That's the furthest point at which our Day Rider tickets would still have been valid.)

Liam gave me a murderous look, so I scrapped that idea and we headed for the Navigation Hotel, our original finishing point. Rhian was emerging with a pint when we arrived, so we grabbed a table outside and settled down to wait for the bus home. The whole adventure had taken us just over eight hours, and by that time we were all ready for a sit down and a nice cold drink.

Kate's expression might be the laughter of hysterical madness. Liam is definitely not amused. The rest of are putting on brave faces.

We caught a bus back to Aberdare at just before 6.00. Paul jumped off at Asda, from where he could cross into Aberaman near his house. Liam crawled off to get a taxi home, which is almost unheard of. Kate had to run home to change for her evening shift in Jacs. Rhian hobbled as far as the Lucky Star with me, and then hobbled up the hill to Jacs with me. For some bizarre reason I was still feeling fine. Maybe it's because I'd walked about half of the route in the previous week, scoping out the extent of the storm damage. Maybe I'm fitter than I thought. Kate seemed to have got her second wind, but I decided to bale out on the 10.30 bus. The walk up to Trecynon could have been the last straw for me.

In spite of the aches, pains, diversions, horny dogs, cock-ups, and assorted niggles en route, we all had a brilliant time. We couldn't have had a better day weather-wise, and of course it's a fantastic way to raise money for Anthony Nolan. We've all decided that Walking Together from Jacs should definitely become an annual event. Every year it'll be a different route, always ending at a convivial pub for a bite to eat. We'll know the potential pitfalls next time, and can plan around them.

For my part, I've hit my £250 fundraising target. Some very generous online donations took my Just Giving total over the halfway point on Thursday. I've got to catch up with a few people who sponsored me the old-fashioned way, but I'm well pleased with the result. I don't how the others have done, as they were mostly collecting sponsors on paper as well. I'll let you the full amount when it's all paid in. In the meantime we're going to leave the Just Giving page open for a couple of weeks, in case anyone wants to chip in retrospectively. All in all it was a great way to round off a summer of friendship and fun in Jacs, and the perfect taster session for the regular event starting next year. Why not join us next time?

You Don't Need a Weatherman ...

In which The Author and his friends are redrawing their plans

I told you a few weeks ago that a gang of us from Jacs were planning a sponsored walk in aid of the excellent Anthony Nolan charity. Well, believe it or not, we still are planning it.

By now, if everything had gone in our favour, we'd be on the way to Penderyn by bus. From there, we were going to strike out on the Cynon Trail to Hirwaun, down the Old Mineral Line. From Hirwaun to Trecynon we were going to follow the tramroad, behind Penywaun and past Gelli Isaf. Passing the Iron Bridge en route, we'd go along the Feeder (an old canal path, hence the name), cross the railway into Robertstown, and arrive at the Gadlys Arms in time for a livener. The Cynon Trail continues across the river, follows the east bank into Aberdare, and emerges just behind the college. We were going to cross the road and head through the Ynys, past the new school and the playing fields, to emerge near the head of the Aberdare Canal. The canal path would take us to the top end of Cwmbach, where we were going to leave the Cynon Trail and walk to the high point of the village. From there, we'd take the 'parish road' over the top into Cefnpennar, drop down through the village into Mountain Ash, and pick up the Cynon Trail near the indoor bowls centre. From there, it's an easy stroll down the Cynon Trail to the Pontcynon Industrial Estate, passing below Penrhiwceiber and Ynysboeth on the way. A slight wiggle takes us to Abercynon Sports Centre, where it's a straight walk through to River Row. From there, it's only a short distance to the Navigation pub. It's about 200 m short of 25 km, and shouldn't present any great challenges (apart from the climb to Cefnpennar, which isn't for the faint-hearted).

Well, that was the plan.

Needless to say, the Goddess of Chaos had her own opinion on matters.

On Thursday the heavens opened as the tail end of the Atlantic weather system battered the western part of the British Isles. Which is where we are, needless to say. I spent Thursday evening in the Cross Inn, drawing up an alternative route to take account of the downpour. The canal path will probably be underwater until at least Easter, so I ruled that out straight away. Meanwhile, Cefnpennar Road (someone in the past generously described it as 'a road' and the name stuck) would be little more than a sloping riverbed. I ruled those out immediately, and sketched a new itinerary taking us down the B4275 ('the old road') from Aberdare to Mountain Ash, passing through Aberaman and Abercwmboi. I also trimmed off the part between Penderyn and Hirwaun. I was reluctant to do that, because it's a beautiful walk through woodland and with farm fields dotted throughout. Unfortunately, there's one part that never seems to dry out properly, no matter how much or how little rain we've had. After Thursday night we'd have been calf-deep in heavy mud, so it was a non-starter. That took us down to 20 km, which is still a fair walk.

I was able to do this without much effort, because in the last decade or so I've walked pretty much every highway, byway, backstreet, country lane, dedicated footpath and blind alley in the Cynon Valley. Initially my explorations gave rise to the first batch of the Vanishing Valleys photographic archive. More recently I was scoping out possible routes for the Arthur Linton commemorative cycling event. I think I've found parts of the valley some people don't even know exist. So my alternative route was easy to sketch out on paper, and then flesh out with Mapometer on Friday.

My boots had left it until then to start shipping water, which is why you'd have found me in Lidl at 10.00, sifting through their walking boots until I found a pair in my size. (They were a real bargain at £16.99, and well worth the money.) Yesterday we had blue sky all day, which gave me an excuse to try out my new boots on part of the Cynon Trail. Eggy had messaged me to say that the Cynon Trail was 'impassable' because a tree had fallen across the path at Penywaun. I decided to investigate it for myself.

The river was still running fast, but it wasn't as high as I'd expected. Even so, you can get an idea of how fierce it had been on Thursday when you see the flattened vegetation in this photo.

A couple of cyclists passed me, heading the other way, so the path obviously wasn't 'impassable' to bicycles. I kept walking, stopping every so often to check out the river some distance below me. The road isn't a through road, but you can drive as far as Riverside, a large detached house which used to be a boarding kennels. It's well made and drains efficiently, so I didn't encounter any large puddles on the way. I passed Gamlyn Farm, and then started walking behind the Penywaun estate. It didn't take me long to find the fallen tree Eggy had told me about.

I was able to duck under the tree quite easily. You could probably wheel your bike underneath it and get through that way. But cars were clearly not going to be able to pass it. (On the approach to Hirwaun I met a middle-aged couple with a disabled young lady in a wheelchair. I asked them how far they were planning to go, as they'd have been up against a serious obstacle.)

In Hirwaun itself I made my way to the old station and walked along the Old Mineral Line as far as the swamp. There was no way anyone was going to get through it on foot. On horseback, maybe. But it seemed as though trimming that part off the walk was a sensible idea.

I returned to Aberdare (by bus) and went to Jacs to report my findings. Paul had seen the weather forecast in the meantime. In brief, we could look forward to a repeat of Thursday, starting earlier in the day. Consider that we'd had blue sky all day yesterday, and you'll see why planning any outdoor activity in Wales is such a fucking gamble. I'm in Aberdare Library at the moment, listening to the rain bouncing off the roof, and reflecting that we did the sensible thing.

Which leaves us with next weekend. Eggy can't make it because he'll be at a wedding. Jude is doubtful because she's injured at the moment. Liam should be up for it whatever happens. It's Rhian's weekend off, so she should be in as well. The rest of the Jacs gang will be available on Saturday. And that brings us to James's brilliant suggestion, which Paul relayed to me last night.

Instead of setting off at lunchtime, James asked, why don't we set off at about 8.00 a.m.? It'll give us a good start in the morning, and by the time the pubs open we'll be ready for a breather and some liquid refreshment. It also means that we'll be finished by mid-afternoon, thus freeing up the rest of the day.

I think it's a great idea.

We can get to Penderyn by 9.00, certainly, as the buses don't run up much earlier than that. Three hours into the walk, we should be well on the way to Aberaman, if not further on. It's anyone's guess whether the quagmire on the Old Mineral Line will have dried out by next weekend. I can always scope it out again on Friday if the weather has improved by then. Judith in the library says the forecast for next week isn't too bad. However, I've checked the weather forecast for our area online every day this week and it's changed pretty much every day. On Wednesday it was for 'sunny intervals and showers'. Yesterday the End of the World was nigh. Again.

The really frustrating part is that an event like this is best done on a Sunday anyway, when most people aren't working and the day is our own. But public transport around the Cynon Valley is more or less non-existent until mid-morning on a Sunday, and it nearly vanishes after about 4.00 p.m. And you can forget all about getting to Penderyn – like most of the outlying settlements, it's completely cut off in the evenings and on Sundays. Ian R., our doorman in Jacs, asked me last week why we weren't doing the route in the opposite direction, from Abercynon to Penderyn. I told him the reason: that if we weren't in Penderyn on the stroke of 6.00 p.m., we wouldn't be getting home again. It's as simple as that.

In the worst case scenario, we postpone the walk until next month. In recent years we've tended to have a decent spell of weather towards the middle of October. I know Blood Cancer Awareness Month will be over by then, but at least we'll have taken part in Walking Together and raised some valuable funding for Anthony Nolan.

Which reminds me – the delay in implementing the plans gives us another week to raise some more sponsorship. If you'd like to support us, here's the link to our Just Giving Team Page. And if you seen us on our travels, why not stop and say hi? You'll know it's us because we'll probably be heading towards the nearest pub.

Notes Towards a Venn Diagram of Music Concert Attendees

In which The Author tries a scientific exercise

I've been going to Jacs Music Venue in Aberdare for about a year now, and to gigs for a lot longer than that. I've been able to spot several types of concert goers, but there are overlaps between the different groups. The idea was to try and draw up a proper classification scheme, but it's turned into more of a Venn diagram. I'll outline the ones I've identified here, and invite you to contribute any other subspecies you might have discovered during your own research.

1. The Hardcore Fan. This doesn't really apply to Jacs, but we all know someone who is completely devoted to a band. He/she has all the LPs, all the singles, every book ever written, scrapbooks full of newspaper interviews and cuttings from the music press (remember them?), framed posters on the living room wall, ticket stubs from every concert he/she has ever attended … If he/she was challenged to karaoke, there's no doubt that the first choice would be something from their back catalogue. I didn't quite go to this extent with Pink Floyd as I never saw them live, but I suppose that's the nearest I'll ever get to hardcore fandom.
   
   
2. I Know What I Like. This is the person whose musical taste was set in stone, probably during his/her early teens, and who never explores anything outside the narrow confines of the genre. And those confines can be extremely narrow indeed.
   For instance, a good friend of mine claims to 'love' Country & Western. But her favourites are restricted to the safe, anodyne C&W records that used to feature on the Radio 2 playlist when we were growing up: Dolly Parton, Kenny Rogers, Dr Hook, Tammy Wynette … Neil Diamond might sometimes get a mention, but that's the furthest Susanne ventures from her comfy trailer. You'll never find her listening to Jimmy Buffett, Alan Jackson, Garth Brooks, or the Country Pop artists who routinely sell out stadiums across the English-speaking world. The Country Rock bands who flourished during the hippy era are off limits as well. Her ideal home is Hicksville, Tennessee, where the local FM station plays this drivel 24/7 and nothing else gets a look in. Not even Taylor Swift. The only time you'll see her in the music room is when she's on her way to the ladies'.
   I've got another pal who loves Heavy Rock/Heavy Metal. And that's it. Dai pops into the music room every Friday, buys a beer, checks out the band, and then buggers off into town. If it's a decent rock band, he'll buy another beer and stay for a bit longer. Like using the Mohs Scale to measure the hardness of minerals, you can use the Dai Scale to measure the heaviness of the music. Three bottles of Bud means the band is pretty much to his taste. Four bottles indicates that he's well and truly impressed. The recent Young Promoters Network showcase hit an unprecedented five on the Dai Scale, which must augur well for the bands in question.
   Dai doesn't even look like a rocker, which is the oddest aspect of the whole thing. In his open-necked shirt, smart jeans, comfy shoes, and with his hair neatly trimmed in the same style for the last twenty years, he looks as though he's just wandered in for a beer and accidentally found himself at a gig. Still waters and all that.
   
3. The Nostalgia Crowd. This largely female subgroup also had their musical tastes imprinted during their schooldays or early teens. It's because of them that the likes of the Bay City Rollers and Showaddywaddy are still able to pull respectable crowds in the Coliseum and elsewhere. Of course, they didn't know during their adolescent crushes that Derek Longmuir, the Rollers' 24-year-old drummer, was pretending to be only 21. Nor were they aware that the band and their manager would later be involved in 'accusations of involvement in murders, child rapes and arson attacks, bankruptcies, corruption, prison sentences, breakdowns, pub fights, drug dealing, addiction and arrests, alcoholism, organised child abuse circles, child pornography …' (the words of music journalist Simon Spence).
   Not all the Nostalgia Crowd are my age or thereabouts, of course. There are plenty of women in their early forties who'll be wetting themselves at the thought of a Take That tour next year.
   Every so often St David's Hall in Cardiff hosts a nostalgia package, with (say) the Four Tops headlining a Motown evening. The only original member of the Four Tops is Abdul Fakir, who's been performing with the band since 1953. My mother was ten years old when they got together, in other words. I missed King Crimson at St David's Hall earlier this year, and 10cc were there last year. It would have great to see either of them, regardless of their numerous personnel changes over the decades. There are undoubtedly people who say that 'it's not the same line-up' and refuse to go on that basis. But has anyone ever turned down a season ticket for Old Trafford because they won't be seeing the original Newton Heath Y&L FC? Time moves on and so do musicians. It's hard to believe that 'Love Me Do' and 'The Long and Winding Road' were even written by the same people. Gary Barlow, of the aforementioned Take That, is one of the UK's leading songwriters on the scene today. But if Take That were still doing their teen pop songs at the age they are now, you'd be straight on the phone to social services.
   The Nostalgia Crowd is, of course, the ideal audience for the growing number of tribute acts. I think the whole industry started in the USA, with a plethora of Elvis tribute acts (or ETAs, as they're known in the business) springing up even before the King was dead. There's an apocryphal story that Mr Presley himself entered an Elvis lookalike contest and came second. They definitely have their place in the nostalgia market. I thoroughly enjoyed Think Floyd in the Coliseum some years ago. I'd have liked to have seen the Bootleg Beatles in Caerphilly, but public transport made it impossible. I'm never going to see the real things, so tribute acts like these are the next best option.
   However, there are tribute acts and tribute acts. A few months ago I went to Caerphilly with my pals the Spectrums, who were supporting an excellent Talking Heads tribute in the town's Workmen's Hall. Their singer really looked the part in his Big Suit and David Byrne haircut. Not long before that we'd had a Jam tribute band in Jacs for the second time. They took to the stage in the same jeans and T-shirts that they'd worn on the drive up from Weston-super-Mare. Hang on a minute, though – wasn't the whole Mod scene as much about the fashion as it was about the music? If Colin and the lads had worn smart blazers and button-down shirts, or even Fred Perry shirts and Staprest trousers, I'd consider them more of a tribute act and less a band that's just learned to play all the best Jam songs.
   Can you imagine an ETA taking to the stage in ordinary street clothes? Or a Bowie tribute act setting up without any thought to the costume changes. Think Floyd didn't need to look like the real Pink Floyd. After 1971 the band's photos didn't appear on their LPs, so nobody knew (or cared) what they looked like. But Inner City looked less at home in Jacs than half of the audience, who had at least dressed for the occasion.
   I admit to having mixed feelings about tribute acts. In the absence of the real thing through retirement or death, they definitely fill a gap in the market. I never saw the Sex Pistols live, so the Sex Pistols Experience were the next best thing for me.
   But when the Coliseum hosts a Little Mix tribute (as they did last year), the situation is verging on farce. Aren't Little Mix (at best) a cut-price version of the Pussycat Dolls, who themselves were America's answer to British acts like the Spice Girls and Sugababes. It's a tribute act to a tribute act. It's a throwback to the ludicrous situation when the British synthpop duo Erasure released an EP of ABBA covers, and the ABBA tribute act Björn Again retaliated with a single of Erasure covers. Pop really is starting to eat itself.
   
   
4. The Gig Whore. While I was drafting this entry I was reading Stuart Maconie's entertaining and incisive social history-cum-travelogue Hope and Glory (Ebury Press, 2011). In his chapter on Band Aid/Live Aid, he hit the nail on the head when he described the throng charging into Wembley Stadium on 13 July 1985. They were well-dressed, well-scrubbed, well-fed teenagers and adults, piling in to see well-dressed, well-scrubbed, well-fed pop stars (drawn from a fairly shallow pool of talent). Mr Maconie rightly points out that they weren't your typical rock festival crowd.
   With the possible exception of Download (formerly the Monsters of Rock all-dayer), your typical rock festival crowd has changed beyond recognition in the past couple of decades. Back in the day, the highlight of the year was a weekend's camping in a muddy field outside Midsomer Norton, Ashby de la Zouch or Reading, watching the Groundhogs and Caravan on Saturday afternoon while stoned off your chops. Now it seems that every weekend from Easter to the end of August – and a bit further on – offers something: the (revived) Isle of Wight Festival, BoomTown, Bestival, RiZE, Beautiful Days, Green Man, Latitude, Boardmasters, Great Escape, TRNSMT, Rebellion, Wilderness, Wireless, Summer's End, Festival No. 6 … I'll freely admit that I've found most of these on a website listing the Top 20 UK Festivals for 2018. With a couple of exceptions, I'm none the wiser. There's even our very own festival in and around Cwmaman. Oddly enough, the biggest band to come out of Cwmaman have yet to grace the stage, over ten years after the inaugural Cwmfest. You could have caught them at TRNSMT, though, so all is not lost.
   Going to one of these weekends has become a rite of passage for today's teenagers. My honorary niece Emma was posting pictures of her adventures at Creamfields on Facebook on Wednesday. The funny thing is that I thought Emma was a rock chick, like her sister Rebecca. Creamfields is a dance event. I wasn't surprised to learn that my honorary nephew Dylan was going to celebrate his A level results at Reading. That's more where I'd have imagined Emma, to be honest. As I pointed out in Pick 'n' (Re)mix, you can't tell what style of music most youngsters are into these days. I don't think they themselves really know.
   I've only ever been to two festivals: Cropredy, the Fairport Convention get-together a few miles from Banbury, in 1997; and Ashton Court in Bristol, in about 1990. But I know people who seem to notch up festivals in the way that pilots recorded 'kills' on the fuselages of their Spitfires. It seems that simply being at a festival is more important than who's actually playing. They've literally been there, done that, and got the T-shirt.
   And there are some people I know who turn up regularly at the Tramshed or the Globe in Cardiff for much the same reason: they can't miss a gig, because it'll mean a gap in their collection. It's become the 21st Century equivalent of trainspotting, or going to every league match in a football season. We get a few people like that in Jacs, but when we start charging for every gig that'll sort the sheep from the goats.
   
   
5. Ffrindiau'r Band. Back in 1986 the Rex Cinema in Aberdare was the focal point of a Welsh-language comedy film called Rhosyn a Rhith (Coming Up Roses). It's a rather charming piece of nonsense set in a disused Valleys cinema, and we had the perfect location. As a matter of fact, most Valleys towns had a location that would have worked okay. However, Stephen Bayly, the director, must have decided that the Rex (complete with the poster for an Indiana Jones film) was ideal. And if you're wondering where the Rex is, well, that's easy. Stand in front of Thereisnospoon and look directly at the car park. You've got it …
   I mention this because two friends of mine featured in the film. Debbie and Mandy were the punkiest of all the punkettes in Aberdare at the time. And there's at least one scene where they are hanging around with a bad rock band. I can't remember if either of them had to deliver a line, but that's by the by. The point is that they were credited in the closing titles as Ffrindiau'r band. (I'm not going to translate that for non-Welsh speakers. It isn't too hard to work it out for yourselves, is it?)
   The friends of the band are the worst sort of punters, in my opinion. They really really love live music – but only if their mates are involved. Otherwise you won't see them. I know one person who's a perfect example of this. She thinks Jacs is the best thing that's happened to Aberdare in two decades. (So do I, as it happens.) To hear her raving about the place, you'd think she'd be there every weekend. But no – she only turns up when Skacasm are playing, because she and Gavin (the singer) are friends.
   There's nothing wrong with that, of course. Every band starts out playing to their mates. It might be in the church hall, or the scout hut, or the youth club, or in the local pub (until the regulars complain). And most bands don't progress much further than that. But relying purely on your mates for support isn't a great career path. On a typically wet and windy winter Friday night over twenty years ago, I cadged a lift to Ebbw Vale – in the back of the drummer's van, along with his kit and half a PA – to see three mates who were playing over there. If I hadn't gone, I don't think the crowd would have made it into double figures. The lads played a great set to a virtually empty pub. Not long after that they signed to Richard Branson's new record label and the rest, as they say, is history.
   Where would Stereophonics be now if they'd relied solely on their mates for support? (Answer: in the beer garden of the Globe on Bank Holiday Sunday – just like they were nearly three decades ago.) Conversely, what is my friend missing because she only comes to Jacs when Skacasm are playing? (Answer: John Otway, Space, Electric Six …)
   
   
6. The Chicken Tikka Masala Eater. A Bangladeshi Facebook friend of mine named Shah Lalon Amin is about to open a new 'Indian' restaurant in South Shields. A couple of weeks ago he posted the Delhi 6 menu. I'm not a connoisseur of South Asian food, so there are many dishes I've never heard of: Shahi Lamb Handi; Bhel Puri; Chandni Chowk; Aloo Tuk Tuk … I don't doubt that Shanara the Dippy Bint would be able to guide me through the mysteries. I'm fairly sure that we could have a good evening out if we were to find ourselves on Tyneside for some unexplained reason. Similarly, there are many restaurants in London (especially around Brick Lane) where curry addicts would find themselves more than adequately catered for.
   But I bet you I could take a decent gang of friends from Aberdare – all of whom profess to 'love' Indian food – to Delhi 6, or Preem, or Eastern Eye, or Shampan, and at least one of them would order chicken tikka masala. Even if I told them that I'd pay for anything they fancied off the menu, and that they were missing out on some fantastic taste experiences, they'd choose to play it safe.
   I knew a bloke named Paul, a couple of years older than me, who used to call into the Glosters every Sunday lunchtime, to have a pint and put money in the jukebox. And this is where the story gets weird. He'd put a quid in the slot, select the same two songs every time, and leave the remaining credit(s) for someone who knew music (usually me or Rebecca).
   It's not as though the Glosters' jukebox is the old unpredictable singles-only machine that we used to play fuck with when we started drinking there thirty-odd years ago. It's a digital job, with a couple of hundred thousand songs available on request. I don't know if it's connected to the internet, like the ones in the Cambrian and the Prince of Wales. If it is, then we can increase the menu by an order of magnitude. If you gave me £50 in readies this afternoon, I could go to Jacs and spend the lot in their jukebox without duplicating anything. And still Paul would only know two songs.
   But if you asked him, he'd tell you that he really loves music.
   The aforementioned female friend arguably fits into this category as well. I've lost count of the times I've seen her stand at a jukebox with (apparently) two million songs available, and play the same pound's worth of music every time. Some jukeboxes offer five songs for a pound, others four, and some a measly three, but as long as my friend gets her quid's worth she's happy: 'The Sound of the Suburbs' by the Members; 'My Way' by Sid Vicious; 'Pretty Vacant' and/or 'God Save the Queen' by You Know Who. So, I hear you say, surely she loved the Sex Pistols Experience when they played in Jacs. Yeah, she almost certainly would have. If only Gavin from Skacasm had been their lead singer, eh?
   
   
7. The Casual Observer. This is an odd sort of gig goer, because (like Dai) he/she gives the impression of just having wandered in off the street. There's no discernible subculture, so you can't tell whether you're dealing with an ageing rocker, an ex-punk, a superannuated Mod revivalist (or a retired first-time Mod), a dance kid, or someone who just sticks Heart FM from habit and happily drifts through their limited playlist all day. There'll be little or no interaction with the band, the other punters, or the bar staff. He/she might stick around for the whole gig, or wander off halfway through. In fact, if music venues had Mystery Customers, this sort of person would be the perfect candidate.
    
8. The Show Lover. This is the worst sort of person to have in a music venue. They don't really care about music at all, in fact. The fact that there's a band on is simply an excuse for them to get pissed. They don't even know the correct terminology. It isn't a gig – it's a show. That gives the game away. They'd be equally happy with an Elvis tribute act or a Vic Damone impersonator at the end of the 'function room' in the local workmen's institute, with a game of bingo during the interval.
   And this, of course, is the ideal audience for the host of cover bands who churn endlessly around the pubs and clubs of South Wales, working their way slavishly through the current edition of The Great Valleys Songbook. One such band messaged Jacs last week, asking if we had any dates available. Then they added their set list. Here it is, in all its manifold versatility:
   
   'Brown Sugar' by the Rolling Stones; 'Superstition' by Stevie Wonder; 'Livin' on a Prayer' by Bon Jovi; 'Town Called Malice' by the Jam; 'Free Falling' by Tom Petty; 'She Sells Sanctuary' by the Cult; 'Plug in Baby' by Muse; 'Come Up And See Me' by Steve Harley; 'Have a Nice Day' by Stereophonics; 'Don't You Forget About Me' by Simple Minds; 'Sex On Fire' by Kings Of Leon; 'Shake Your Tailfeather' by Blues Bros [sic]; 'Hard to Handle' by Black Crowes [sic]; 'With or Without You' by U2; 'Stir it up' by Bob Marley; 'Crossroads' by Cream; 'Rock and Roll' by Led Zeppelin; 'Wishing Well' by Free; 'Summer of 69' by Bryan Adams; 'Dakota' by Stereophonics; 'Mr Brightside' by the Killers; 'Too Much, Too Young' by the Specials; 'Mustang Sally' by Wilson Pickett; 'You're All I Have' by Snow Patrol; 'Creep' by Radiohead; 'Rebel Rebel' by David Bowie; 'Sweet Home Alabama' by Lynyrd Skynyrd; 'Gangsters' by the Specials; 'Valerie' by the Zutons; 'Delilah' by Tom Jones; 'Further on up the Road' by Gary Moore; 'Heroes' by David Bowie; 'Feels Like Heaven' by Fiction Factory; 'Roadhouse Blues' by the Doors; 'Moondance' by Van Morrison; 'Tush' by ZZ Top; 'Johnny B Goode' by Chuck Berry; 'I Saw Her Standing There' by the Beatles; 'Brown Eyed Girl' by Van Morrison; 'I'm A Believer' by the Monkees; 'Gimme Some Lovin'' by the Spencer Davis Group'; 'Rockin' in the Free World' by Neil Young; 'Hollywood Nights' by Bob Seger; 'Get Ready' by Slade; 'Stuck in the Middle' by Stealers Wheel; 'Can't Get Enough' by Bad Company; '20th Century Boy' by T Rex; 'River Deep' by Ike & Tina Turner.
   
   So, in short, with the exception of a couple of wildcards (Fiction Factory, ZZ Top), they're not playing anything that we wouldn't have heard on a Sunday afternoon in the White Lion about ten years ago. To adapt a great line from The Prestige: they're complacent, they're predictable, they're boring!
   Which is fine, because the sort of people who go to see bands in the White Lion don't really give a fuck about who's playing, or what they're playing. What they're getting is simply background noise to their conversations. If we were to borrow some mannequins from Burton, dress them in scruffy jeans and band logo T-shirts, sling toy guitars around their necks, and stand them on the stage while we played the above songs on the jukebox, nobody would notice the difference. Let me explain:
   A few weeks ago Dave Riley and Route 66 played a storming set of old-school rock'n'roll on a Sunday afternoon. There were about a dozen people in the music room. I posted a live video on Facebook, concentrating entirely on Darren's incredible guitar playing during one song. A dozen or so people watched my feed, including three whom I know for a fact would have been in the White Lion at the time. I was expecting the whole gang to up sticks and charge down to town to catch the rest of the set. No such luck.
   On the bus home from town, I saw one of the gang. The ensuing conversation went like this:
   'All right, Steve? Where've you been?'
   'In Jacs – you missed a great band this evening.'
   'I was in the White, mun.'
   'Oh, right. Who was up there then?'
   'No one.'
   * faceplant *
   I'm not making this up! Even when there's nothing happening in the other pub, making their way to town to see real musicians doing their stuff is too much effort. Maybe if Dave and the lads had stopped for bingo halfway through the gig they'd have been on a winner.

I think that's a fairly comprehensive list, but you might know some other types I've forgotten. Please feel free to add them.

Out of Tunes

In which The Author puts his thumb to his nose

I'm sitting in the bar in Jacs at the time of writing. It's Thursday, and a decent gang of younger lads are in to take advantage of the free pool table. Amanda and I have been using the small table near the electric sockets to work on promo material for the venue, and thereby hangs a tale.

Ordinarily we'd have had to put our gear away tonight to make way for the small-scale karaoke set-up. Alternatively, I'd be in the music room helping Barrie to rig up the kit in there instead.

But it ain't happening!

The last time we did karaoke in the music room was over a month ago. It was a Thursday night, of course, a couple of weeks after Lindsey's birthday. I'd called into the Glosters for a mid-afternoon pint. I hadn't been in there very long when a gang of lads in their early twenties came in. I recognised Chazza's brother – not the sort of person you'd normally expect to see in the bar. Hot on their heels was Chazza herself. She spotted me sitting at the bar, said hello, and looked really pleased to see me. I got the impression that she'd been trying to give her brother and his mates the slip all day. I decided to rescue her, so I got her a drink and invited her to join me in the evening.

When we walked into the bar, Philvis was horrified. He'd thought (as I had) that we'd never speak to each other again. But the three of us sat down and had a chat before we went through to the music room. Chazza had never seen the stage before, and it blew her away. When she got up to sing, I knew straight away that this was why she'd spent all her time pissing about in the Lighthouse, the Bush and the Cambrian. After all that practice on crappy little systems in awful places, she was totally ready for Barrie's system.

I actually thought that she'd spread the word around, and that we'd be able to establish a nice Thursday night scene in here.

It didn't happen.

On Maundy Thursday, Barrie wasn't even going to bother setting up the gear. But a few people messaged us to ask if karaoke was on. So we went small-scale in the bar. And in fairness, we had a decent gang here through the evening. People were still coming in after our usual time to shut down, as well. For a moment, it looked as though we'd finally found the winning formula.

That was three weeks ago.

Not even Philvis has been here since. He's delusional enough to think he's in with a shout for the hundred quid prize in the Bush. Or the Lighthouse. Or whichever pub is hosting the professionals tonight. Yeah, as I told Barrie and Amanda the following weekend, they're all a bunch of fucking breadheads.

Three weeks ago Barrie set up the gear in the bar. He and I messed about for a couple of hours trying out songs we've always wanted to do. Adrian drifted in as part of his circuit around town, sang a couple of songs, and buggered off again. Barrie and I soldiered on and tore the gear down at about 10 p.m.

A fortnight ago, it was the same story.

Last Thursday, when only the three of us (and Amanda, obviously) were in the bar anyway, we decided it just wasn't worth fucking bothering.

On Saturday, when Barrie and the rest of the gang were at the races, Amanda and I took Thursday Night Karaoke off our Facebook listings. Amanda's just taken it off the website as well. I put a status on Facebook earlier, telling everyone that Karaoke isn't happening tonight. Lindsey responded with an unhappy emoji – a bit cheeky, I thought, since she baled out on her own birthday and hasn't been seen since. I know she works, and she's got her own singing career at weekends, but we got it going again purely because it was Lindsey's birthday and she asked Barrie if we could set it up again.

The Incredible Vanishing Girl has lived up to her bill matter, and hasn't been in her since. In fact, she was supposed to have joined me for the John Otway gig here. No show. At least Chazza could conceivably win the ton on a good night.

Barrie and I are of the same mind when it comes to the professional game. As I've said before, I think it's rather like going down the Ynys on Sunday for a five-a-side kickabout and Gareth Bale turning out for the opposition. Barrie's been a professional singer for a long time, but he treats karaoke in the same spirit as I do. Last week, we suggested going for a walk to the Lighthouse, Barrie entering the competition, and walking away with a ton in his arse pocket. I wonder how long it would take the rest of the crowd to cry foul.

Ironically, Steff and Wendy have just walked in, wanting to do karaoke. I know them both, but neither of them are on my Friends List. If they didn't see the various posts on the Jacs Facebook page either, that ain't our fucking problem, is it?

Remember, boys and girls, karaoke is for life, not just for birthdays and bank holidays

Black Ops

In which The Author reads someone into the programme

It's my friend Lindsey's birthday on 15 February, which is an easy date to remember, of course. It's a milestone birthday, too, so we've decided to make it an occasion to remember.

I was in Jac's a fortnight or so when Lindsey rang Barrie, asking if he could put the karaoke gear up for the night. We've been trying to relaunch the karaoke there since Xmas anyway. The War Against the Machines escalated over the holidays. Since the gang has been busy redecorating the place as well, we haven't really tried to pick up where we left off.

Lindsey's birthday could be the incentive we all need to make Jac's the place to be on a Thursday night. Not only have we got a proper stage, professional gear, and a sound system to die for, but the beer is reasonably priced and Barrie and Amanda don't allow idiots to spoil everyone's fun.

The karaoke scene in Aberdare has been dwindling for ages. The Lighthouse still staggers on (somehow), but everyone agrees that it's been pretty feeble since Tara decided to call it a day. Some of the regulars have started going to the Bush, but the more mature among us won't be seen dead in there. Those of us who have been into Jac's have agreed that, if we start it up again, they'll make it their regular haunt.

Lindsey invited me to her birthday party about a fortnight ago, and mentioned that she'd spoken to Barrie. I told her I'd been in the bar when she rang, and suggested that we make it into a proper relaunch party. I've mentioned it to Philvis and Clare, Huntley, Martin, Adrian, Tina and Bethan, and Lindsey's invited some of her gang from her semi-regular karaoke nights as well.

You'll have noticed that there's one name missing from the list: Chazza.

The Incredible Vanishing Girl has reappeared during the last week. She was in town early on Thursday evening; I saw her as I was heading towards Iceland. As usual, we blanked each other. But I did feel a bit guilty about not inviting her to Jac's. We had a nice little gang in the Lighthouse until just over a year ago – and there's no doubt that Chazza would make the most of Barrrie's gear.

She came into the Cambrian on Friday night for Jocelyn's karaoke, but the day before the first international, most people's minds were on rugby. She sang one song, but I caught the 9.30 bus home so I don't know if she stuck around afterwards.

She was there last night, too. Philvis and I were waiting for the singer to arrive, chatting at the end of the bar. Chazza was sitting on her own, just scrolling through her phone. I felt rather sorry for her, in fact. I asked Jenny for a piece of paper, and scribbled a quick note. I wrote down the date of Lindsey's birthday, the venue, the time, and added 'Getting the old gang back together'.

Then I asked Philvis if he'd go across and slip her the note. She was putting her coat on when he gave her the message. She looked a bit confused, then spotted me at the end of the bar. She raised her eyebrows, pointed to herself, and mouthed 'From you?'

I just nodded slowly. I didn't speak, or acknowledge her in any other way. Then I returned to the conversation and didn't look up when she left by the side door.

It occurred to me afterwards where I'd borrowed that particular slow nod from. If you're a fan of NCIS, you'd recognise it as well. It's the look that Leon Vance gives to Leroy Jethro Gibbs every so often. It sends a particular message: 'I know what you're up to behind my back, Gibbs. Just get on with it. If this black op you're planning all goes to shit, don't you bring your mess back to my office.'

Will it all go to shit a week on Thursday? Stay tuned for the next episode, boys and girls …

The Inevitable Pinhole Burns

In which The Author is unwell

To kick January firmly into touch, Jac's Music Venue in Aberdare hosted possibly their best gig to date last night: three bands playing entirely original material. The headline act were an unknown quantity to me, in fairness. While we were chatting about the gig, ages ago, Barrie described them as ‘Folk Rock’. They certainly sounded intriguing enough – quirky songs about life in Wales and their experiences of travelling. (At the risk of public execution, dare I say it’s the sort of thing Kelly Jones used to write about before his creative juices dried up, around the third LP?)

Discount Columbo were on the poster, but when I got inside there was no sign of Connor and the others. Most bands won’t get far without a bass player. Mind you, it was his birthday on Friday. I’ll throw a nice word your way: crapulous. The Chambers Dictionary defines it as ‘sick through intemperance’. (Hung-over to buggery, in plain English.) There was still no sign of them when Heavy Flames took to the stage. I wondered if they were going to throw a collective sickie.

A six-piece band, Heavy Flames have been gigging steadily around South Wales for quite a few years. In spite of the fact that Dai Hill, their singer, and Lee Harvey, one of the guitarists, are old pals of mine, I hadn’t managed to catch them at all until last October. At the time I described them as having ‘a hard bluesy sound and great presence’. Last night they’d changed their approach entirely. With not one but two sit-down acoustic guitarists, a rock-solid rhythm section, a fine harp player (no, not the traditional Celtic instrument), and Dai doing his stuff in front of the stage, their sound was much easier on the ears than last time. It made a welcome change from the sledgehammer approach of too many bands these days. A couple of songs in, Dai assured the audience that they only play original material. That’s a good sign as well.

I spoke to Dai earlier on, and he was very pleased with their change of direction. I hope Heavy Flames decide to continue along those lines. It’s a classic sound without being derivative or cliched. (I know comparisons are lazy journalism, but early Nine Below Zero would be a decent benchmark.) I’ll definitely be popping into Red House Music in Aberdare Market this week to pick up their CD.

Heavy Flames had finished their set before Connor and the rest of Discount Columbo strolled in. He didn’t look especially crapulous, but he did decline my offer of a birthday pint so I think he was slightly unwell. The band are based in Bristol – they met at university – so we can probably ascribe their late arrival to the legendary Brynglas Tunnel Effect.

I’ve only seen Discount Columbo once before, too. That was a packed ‘end of the pub’ gig, and the nature of the venue didn’t do them any great favours. I was looking forward to seeing them on a proper stage and hearing them through a decent PA.

They describe themselves as a Britpop band, but (as with Folk Rock) that label covers a multitude of sins. I wasn’t a fan of the whole Britpop thing (apart from Pulp), but Discount Columbo bring something new to the table. They’ve got some great melodies and cool harmonies, and the acoustic guitars just accentuated this more laid-back aspect of their music. Matt, the drummer, had probably the most minimal set-up since Crass recorded their first demo tape. I had a bit of shock when Jake, their front man, introduced a song from their first EP which ‘came out two years ago’. It seems like only yesterday that Connor introduced himself to me on the train to Cardiff. He’ll be finishing university this summer. Doesn’t time fly?

Discount Columbo are constantly gigging around the country, and over Xmas they posted this summary of their 2017 activity on Facebook: 11 released songs, 2 EP launches, 14 cities, 42 gigs, 33 venues,1 new member, 6045 streams, 3 live videos, 25 new songs, 2 music degrees,1 new manager, 3 live sessions, 3 music videos,7 trips over severn bridge [sic], 10 radio stations,1 bow tie, 1 vehicle breakdown,1 new car, 3348 miles. And not a TV ‘talent’ show in sight. These lads (and lass) are certainly paying their dues, as we say in the biz.

A lot of student bands can be rather unimaginative and samey, in my opinion. Discount Columbo definitely manage to do something worthy of repeated listening. I bought the EP at the earlier gig, and it’s strong enough to merit closer examination.

I sometimes envy today’s youngsters, who get to study pop/rock/whatever music to degree level, learn about the mechanics of the business, and build a network of contacts that will set them in good stead for years to come. It’s a great way to develop your skills, and it’s little wonder that so many bands have come out of the university circuit in recent years. It used to be a sideline for arts students back in the day. Studying ‘Music’ was all about playing an instrument at Grade 8 and joining an orchestra. Not any more. If only I were thirty-five years younger … (And talented? – Ed.)

Which brings us to the headline band – the Blims. A quick note to readers outside the South Wales Valleys: you won’t find the word ‘blim’ in any of the dictionaries I use in my day job. I’m reliably informed that a blim is a small piece of burning cannabis resin which falls out of a joint and burns a little hole in your T-shirt, or whatever you’re wearing at the time. (My drug of choice has only ever come in a glass. It was about twenty years before I realised what Pink Floyd meant in the line ‘I’ve got the inevitable pinhole burns all down the front of my favourite satin shirt.’) But I digress …

The Blims are from Bridgend. There’s always been a lively scene over there, and it’s surprising that more people don’t make the journey between our respective towns. But I will admit to having misgivings from the outset. It was their name that put me off. It’s been many years since I last watched EastEnders (Phil Mitchell was still sober), but I can only remember two Welsh characters. One was a gobby, self-righteous and obnoxious Trotskyite. The other was a permanently stoned layabout, who could have been modelled on one of my friends. (In fact, my mate would have been ideal for the part.) As far as the good folk across Offa’s Dyke know, we’re all either plotting the overthrow of global capitalism, or zonked off our chops the whole time. Or playing rugby. Or dropping the F-bomb during a live broadcast of a music industry awards ceremony. Or doing unspeakable things with sheep.

I had an uneasy feeling that the Blims would basically reinforce this stereotype. But after my extended riff on the theme in ‘Cover Stories’, I had to put my money where my mouth is. And I am partial to a bit of Folk Rock, although I’m more Fairport Convention than the Saw Doctors, and IMHO the Levellers just ripped off the best bits from Blyth Power. (Who they? – Ed.) I was prepared to have my preconceptions challenged.

‘Demolished’ would be a better word. The Blims are older than I expected. You can reflect on your life experiences when you’ve lived a bit. Two songs in, I knew that Barrie’s enthusiastic plugging hadn’t been in vain. They have nice hooks, strong tunes and clever lyrics, with acoustic guitars at the forefront. They also have the sort of witty observations that characterised Billy Bragg’s early career. Naturally, there was a song about rugby, but ‘Sideburns and Sidesteps’ – written to celebrate the Welsh Grand Slam in 2012 – is a far cry from Max Boyce’s turgid stuff. And it’s a great title, too. Maybe EastEnders could portray the Queen Vic being plunged into misery after we beat the English. Just a thought.

The Blims demonstrated great songwriting abilities, and they were never in danger of being derivative or cliched. Even when they pastiched reggae and C&W styles, they did it with their tongues firmly in their cheeks. In fact, all three bands proved that you don’t need to turn everything up to 11 to get your point across. It’s nice to dial it back from time to time. The Blims very kindly endorsed the venue, too. We had a good chat afterwards, I bought their CDs, and I’m pretty sure they’ll be back in due course.

And finally …

If you didn’t come to our pre-rugby warm-up gig because ‘I haven’t heard of them’ – get with the bloody programme! Or even better, get with the program. That’s why Soundcloud and Bandcamp and Spotify and YouTube exist in the first place. They give you a chance to try before you buy, so to speak. If you weren’t here, you missed a real treat. Just over two decades ago you hadn’t heard of Stereophonics, Catatonia or the Manic Street Preachers. As Councillor Duxbury says in Billy Liar: ‘Think on, lad! Think on.’

Do you Know Who I Am?

In which The Author (and his friends) are the victims of mistaken identity

Yesterday afternoon, to mark the successful completion of another book by Christian Cameron (the third historical novel of his which I've copy-edited), I popped into the Glosters for a pint. Wayne L., the guvnor, was behind the bar, and we were chatting when a young woman walked in. She said hello to us both, and I said hello back – even though I had no idea who the hell she was. I recognised her, certainly, but placing her was a different matter entirely.

Anyway, she and Wayne were talking just out of sight when I heard her mention 'Sensodyne' and 'bleach' and 'teeth', and the penny dropped. She's one of the nurses in the dental surgery next door to the pub.

The dental surgery I attend regularly.

As a rule I only see her when she's wearing her work uniform. Seeing her in jeans and a jacket over a black top meant that she was completely out of context.

After she'd gone, Wayne said, 'I felt a bit embarrassed then, because I couldn't remember her bloody name.'

I said, 'You're one up on me, mate. I didn't even recognise her with her clothes on.'

We went on to talk about similar experiences we've had over the years. I told Wayne about the time I was walking through Queen's Arcade in Cardiff, on a Saturday lunchtime a couple of weeks before Xmas. A chap in his fifties (probably), walking through the arcade with his family, said hello as we passed each other. I said hello back, and spent the rest of my day racking my brains to try and remember where I knew him from. Was he someone who called into the bookshop regularly? Or someone I knew from the pub? Or even a former teacher whom I hadn't seen since my A levels? Maybe he'd been in the Cynon Valley Quiz League, or some other social group I'd been involved with in my younger days.

The mystery was solved on the Monday morning, when I boarded the X7 to Cardiff and he was sitting behind the wheel. Trevor had taken us to Cardiff every weekday (barring holidays) for at least the previous year. Out of his Shamrock uniform and outside his cab, his face just didn't register in my mind. Odd, isn't it?

I was thinking about similar episodes last night. A couple of weeks ago, I was in Jac's Music Venue in Aberdare, chatting to Barrie and Amanda (the managers) over a pint. My phone beeped to signal the arrival of a text message. Since only about half a dozen people have my current number, I was a bit surprised to see only a number instead of a name in the 'Sender' field.

I was even more surprised when I opened the message. It said something like 'Hi Hayley, sorry but Josh won't be able to come to Molly's party tomorrow, he's a bit under the weather.'

I read it out to Barrie and Amanda, and then said, 'There literally is no answer to that.'

I expect this accidental mis-delivery has caused poor Josh to be friendzoned by an angry Molly. (Get used to it, mate. Bitches be crazy!)

I was having a pint in Kitty Flynn's in Cardiff, on a Saturday afternoon about halfway through my second first year at university. A chap I'd never seen before came over to me, told me how much he liked my guitar playing, and offered to buy the next drink. I thanked him and told him I was only killing time between trains (which was true). I couldn't accept a drink on false pretences, could I?

I don't know who this mysterious guitarist actually is, but I was walking through Aberdare a few months ago and someone came up to me out of the blue. He'd obviously had a few (or maybe something stronger and less legally available), but he started ranting on at me about a gig I'd played in Swansea where I'd apparently pissed him off. I told him I hadn't picked up a guitar in public for well over twenty years, but he wouldn't have it. Eventually, I think I said, 'Fuck off, you stupid wanker!' (or words to that effect) and walked away rather quickly.

One of the reps who used to call into the bookshop was a very nice guy called Julian Cooper. He and his partner Glynis lived in South Devon (Newton Abbot, if memory serves), and would come to Cardiff a couple of times a year. Between them they carried an eclectic set of lists, both books and stationery. Julian would visit the bookshops, Glynis would do the stationers', and between them they could do a city centre in a day's visit. We became great friends, and we'd always have a good chat before getting down to the serious business of buying books.

Julian was born in the very early 1950s, and was a bit of a hippy in his younger days. (I think he still was, at heart.) He'd always be very smartly dressed in a suit, but with an open-necked shirt. His wavy hair was greying, but still long enough to identify him as slightly bohemian. He's also about my height and build.

One of his visits was a couple of days after our annual stocktake. We'd always take on a large group of students to help out on the day (and night), and some would stay on for a few days afterwards. Two such were named Ruth and Rebecca, and they were helping to make the shop shipshape (try saying that after a few pints) when Julian walked up the stairs. I was behind the counter, so he strolled over, shook my hand, and we started chatting as usual. As we went to find a quiet corner, we noticed that the girls were whispering to each other and glancing over at us. We didn't think anything of it at the time.

After Julian had gone, Rebecca walked over to me and said, 'Was that your father you were talking to?'

I don't think the possible resemblance had ever crossed my mind (or Julian's) before, but now that she'd mentioned it, it wouldn't have been too hard to imagine.

That night, I rang Julian at home and told him what the girls had thought. He found it hilarious, and it became a running joke of ours ever after.

He'd walk into the shop and say, 'How are you, son?'

I'd reply, 'Hello, Dad, good to see you. How's stepmother?'

I'm sure at least one of the younger members of staff thought we were on the level, too.

This next case of mistaken identity also involves my father. (My real father, not the one from South Devon). As Dad got older, his eyesight started to seriously deteriorate, and he didn't make things any easier for himself by not wearing his glasses.

Phil (my brother) has worn glasses since school. He used to have fairly long hair, a bit of a beard, and wore faded denims in an old-school rock style. But at the time I'm talking about, that was quite a common look around the Valleys.

Dad called into the Cambrian for an afternoon pint one day. He knew most of our gang, and they knew him. Nobody was especially surprised when Dad approached Leighton L., who was reading the paper by the bar. Leighton was wearing faded denims, had long hair, and a bit of a beard. He was also wearing his reading glasses.

The way Leighton recounted the story, Dad apparently offered to stand him a pint (which Leighton declined). Dad then asked him about his work situation (hit and miss, the odd 'hobble' here and there), his love life (disastrous), his baby daughter (estranged because of the disastrous love life), and various other topics.

After five minutes or so, the penny dropped. Phil's life and Leighton's were running on exactly parallel lines, so every time Dad asked 'my brother' a question, Leighton was able to give an entirely appropriate answer. I don't know if Leighton ever told Dad that he wasn't actually talking to his younger son, or just decided to keep it until he'd seen us.

Years ago, I was in a pub – possibly the Cambrian, but it might have been the Glandover or the Mount Pleasant, when they still had a live music scene – when a chap I knew by sight came over to me. We chatted for a few minutes about the bands, work, girlfriends, people we both knew, life in general, blah blah blah …

'How's your brother doing these days?' he asked.

I told him Phil was doing OK, and then he completely flummoxed me.

'I like your brother. He's one of the best bass players I've ever seen around here. Tell him I was asking about him.'

And he said goodbye and walked away.

Now, I doubt if Phil knows one end of a bass guitar from the other, let alone how to play the damned thing. To this day, I have no idea who this guy thought I was, or who this very talented sibling is. Maybe Leighton is a closet bass player. Who knows? Maybe we should get him together with my guitarist lookalike and form an O'Gorman Brothers tribute act. Answers on a postcard, please …