Where I Go in My Dreams (part 22)

In which The Author is nocturnally trainspotting

For once, these recurring dream locations have a basis in reality. It's very unusual for me to dream about Trecynon, despite the fact that I lived there until I was eighteen, and have lived there for the last twenty years. However, just because I'm dreaming about Trecynon, that doesn't mean my dreams are anything like the real world.

The railway line between Aberdare and Hirwaun hasn't seen a passenger train since June 1964. There were, until fairly recently, freight services from the coal washery close to Tower Colliery. Tower (near the railhead), the Phurnacite plant, and the pits further south were the reason the line wasn't torn up when passenger services ended. Our valley, in common with others, could have gone into the current millennium with only shitty bus services to get people to Pontypridd and Cardiff.

I was walking home after a late Saturday night in Aberdare about thirty years ago when I chanced upon an odd train at the level crossing at the northern end of Robertstown. Topped and tailed by a Class 20 locomotive, it consisted of a couple of tanker-style wagons and what seemed to be a converted passenger carriage. Intrigued, I bought a copy of Rail magazine a couple of days later, to help me solve the mystery. It was one of a pair, which used to travel the length and breadth of the network spraying weedkiller on the tracks and into the undergrowth on either side.

Now there's no traffic on the line at all. I won't hold my breath for the reintroduction of passenger services when the South Wales Metro finally sees the light of day.

But in my dreams it's a different story entirely.

On several occasions I've dreamed of unexplained freight services – often only one or two wagons, with small diesel locos on motive power duty – which make their way from the level crossing and past the cables factory (Prysmain) at a fair speed. I'm usually in a good position to see them shoot past; I tend to be standing on the edge of the waste ground where Prospect Place used to be, tucked away at the end of Gadlys Uchaf. They always seem to be heading away from Aberdare, but no matter how long I stay there I never see anything come the other way.

The other old railway line which features in some recurring dreams vanished long before I was born. There used to be a complex layout of lines in the Cwm and the Dare Valley (the present-day Dare Valley Country Park). After crossing the river Dare on a viaduct, the stone pillars of which are still extant, one branch ran along the western edge of Aberdare Park. It's now a footpath running from Landare, outside the park railings, to the west end of Park Lane. It continued behind Cemetery Road – more or less through the present Cledwyn Gardens – before crossing Hirwaun Road near Station Place. There's a remnant of the level crossing gates near the main entrance to Aberdare Cemetery. This branch line joined the main line at Gelli Tarw Junction, near Penywaun. It's still possible to walk along the old trackbed as far as the A4059 just below Dawkins Place, but it's not a great short cut in wet weather.

Anyway, in my dreams this branch line is still in use, but not by steam trains. A few times I've dreamed of being in Aberdare Park and seeing a Class 37 diesel locomotive in the old blue livery making its way south behind the railways. I'm never sure what it's transporting, as the wagons are hidden behind the shrubs which line the perimeter of the park. But when it gets to the top of Glan Road, it somehow veers left and continues along the street. Once I tried following it, and it headed down Tudor Terrace towards the real railway line.

I haven't had this second dream for a while, but the mysterious freight services on the Hirwaun line still pop up now and then.

Operation Motorcycle Silencer (Phases 1 & 2)

In which The Author rewrites his July plans

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All of which brings us to July 2017.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Why have we stopped?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did I mention that Steff hates the Tube?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

I Want to Ride My Bicycle

In which The Author sees some world class athletes and jots down some ideas

This is going to be another one of those entries that starts somewhere, loops in and around on itself, and ends up somewhere else. Just so you know …

Last weekend I wished I'd actually completed my degree in Applied Biology back in the 1980s, because I could have done with cloning myself. It was karaoke in the Cambrian and Iwan's going away party on Friday night. I impressed everybody by managing to go to both and catch up with some other pals. In between singing and chatting to Iwan, I met Alan Everett, one of the stalwarts of the old Cynon Valley Quiz League. He's trying to re-establish the Sunday night competitions, and we're arranging a meeting to put things in place on 10 October. Watch this space …

On Saturday morning the Cynon Valley Museum and Gallery reopened, so I went along to check it out. It's been taken over by a trust, and is now run by a group of volunteers. Needless to say, after a week of fairly decent weather, it was absolutely pissing down on the day. The planned outdoor activities for youngsters were washed out, which is about par for the course in Wales. My pal Clint was there as the official photographer; David Leslie Davies, the respected local historian and author, was there as one of the organisers; as well as chatting to them, I bumped into some other friends while I was looking around.

It meant that by the time I got to St Elvan's Church, where Geoff was giving a talk on the Valleys connection in the Great War, he'd left by the other door. I caught up with him in the car park, and apologised for getting the time wrong. I'll definitely get around to seeing his presentation at some point, I promise.

I stayed in town for the rest of the day, because in the evening I had my third double-booking of the weekend. My friend Eirlys was having a birthday party in the Con Club, while my friend Shannon was having a going-away party in the Glosters. I stayed in the club until about 10.00, then made my way to the pub. I eventually crawled away from there some time after 2.00, leaving the youngsters to crack on into the small hours.

On Sunday evening I went to the Cambrian, where my old friend Mel Crew and another fine musician named Hugh Chidgey were hosting their monthly open mic session. Before they got going, Mel and I had a chat about the Tour of Britain. Stage 5 was set to begin at Aberdare Park, a puncture repair kit's throw from my house, on Thursday morning. Mel grew up in Nottinghamshire, and one of their local sporting heroes was a champion cyclist named Tommy Simpson. I knew his name, because his biography had been published shortly before I finished working in the book trade.

And that's where everything sort of ties in. Because here in the Cynon Valley, back in the late Victorian era, we had our own cycling hero, a chap named Arthur Linton.

I already knew there was a blue plaque on Arthur Linton's old house in Cardiff Street, Aberaman, because I photographed it a few years ago.

I didn't know much about the life of this chap until I read an essay about the Aberaman cyclists (Arthur, his brother Tom, and Jimmy Michael) in Old Aberdare Volume 5 a while ago. It's a fascinating and tragic story, which formed the basis of a play called Gladiator last year. (It came to the Coliseum, but I missed it for some reason.) Anyway, the current centrepiece of the reopened museum is an exhibition about the Aberaman cyclists. Another friend of mine, Callie Healey, has painted a marvellous portrait of Arthur Linton, working from old photographs. Some of Clint's photos are in the exhibition as well. The pieces were falling into place nicely.

Yesterday morning, dodging the showers, Rhian and I went to the park early to watch the cyclists depart on the latest stage of this gruelling tournament. Stage 5 took them from Aberdare to Bath, via the Eastern Valleys, the Forest of Dean and the Stroud Valleys. Local schooolkids had had the morning off to enjoy this remarkable occasion, and we were lucky to get a decent vantage point to watch the teams arrive.

We caught sight of Sir Bradley Wiggins, Mark Cavendish (who is much shorter than we imagined) and a host of world-class athletes as they came up to the stand to sign in and have their photos taken with the Mayor of Rhondda Cynon Taf CBC (who is much younger than anyone imagines). I got some fairly decent photos, a few half-decent ones, and some good video footage of the competitors making their way past the statue of Industry on their way out of the park.

Then Rhian and I went for breakfast (second breakfast, in my case), decided that we really couldn't have a Silly Day, and parted company about lunchtime.

And this morning, again dodging the showers, I took a stroll up to Aberdare Cemetery and took a few photos of Arthur Linton's last resting place. The memorial was erected by public subscription after his tragic death at the age of just 27. (There was some dispute about his birthdate, apparently, and his name is mis-spelled on the memorial. Nothing much changes, does it?)