Bi Bi, Baby

In which The Author gets his fingers burned yet again

Where to even start with this one?

Let's begin at the beginning, which seems logical enough in the circumstances.

About a year ago my good friend Vickie B. got in touch with me. She was running a very pleasant cafe in Mountain Ash, a few miles away from where we live, and was brainstorming ideas to make it into a real creative space. One of her suggestions was a writing group. Knowing that I'd done a couple of creative writing modules at university, Vickie thought I might be a good person to help get it off the ground. I called down for a hot chocolate one day and things didn't really go from there.

There is a flourishing creative writing group in the Cynon Valley already, you see. They're based in Aberdare Library, where they make a hell of a lot of noise in the 'meeting room' (which nobody thought to soundproof while they were partitioning off at least ten square metres of usable shelf space). As far as I can tell from my involuntary eavesdropping before I invested in some decent cans, it's a bunch of retired people churning out tired Valleys cliches about coal mines and fucking daffodils week in and week out. Not the sort of thing any real creative writer of my acquaintance would want to be involved with. So it seemed as though Vickie might have hit on a plan.

Unfortunately, Mountain Ash isn't exactly accessible by public transport after 6.00 p.m. It's a slight improvement on the rest of the area, but only insofar as they have buses at all. The idea ran into the sand and we didn't take it any further.

But I did meet one of Vickie's friends, who was interested in the idea as well. Her name is Hannah. Or, quite possibly, depending on what mood she's in, Katie.

That's a hint, boys and girls, that what follows is going to be a tale of yet another fucked-up bint. Skip to the next chapter if you like.

Anyway, Hannah (for convenience) was short, pretty, not far off twenty years younger than me, very talkative, obviously extremely enthusiastic about books and music, and not especially my type. She was studying with the Open University while working part-time as a carer and looking after her young son around his time in school. But we got on well, and we agreed that our subversive little group would be a good excuse to meet up again. And, like most creative ideas I get involved with, it crashed and burned before take-off. It could be that South Wales isn't ready for anything truly innovative and original. Or it could be that I'm the kiss of death. You decide.

Fast forward to the first weekend of December, when Jacs hosted one of its family-friendly Sunday afternoon gigs. They were all local performers – including someone billed simply as 'Hannah' – and I didn't recognise any of them from the photos on the poster. I couldn't have recognised the one girl anyway, as she was playing guitar while wearing a hat which effectively hid her face. Anyway, I was in the lounge when a short, pretty girl wearing a hat strolled in, said hello, and asked me where Gavin was. I asked her if he was expecting her, and she said 'I'm Hannah.'

The penny dropped. Her hairstyle had changed and she was wearing a hat, but it was the same young woman I'd met in Vickie's cafe. She bought a drink and we went into the music room, where she was first on stage. Her young son was there to watch the show as well, and I got roped into the family gathering.

Hannah's appearance in Jacs was the reason Gavin and I had to drive to Leeds and back twice in a week back in February. (And that's another story entirely.) Halfway through her set, the mixing desk died. Hannah clearly has the ability to channel the Ghost of Dr David Davies, who seems determined to put the mockers on us at every opportunity. She stood awkwardly on the stage for twenty minutes or so while we took the piss out of her. Eventually we managed to rig up a replacement desk for the rest of the gig. After her set, we had a couple of drinks together and added each other on Facebook.

We messaged each other a couple of times subsequently, but she isn't a Jacs regular so I didn't see her for ages. She would 'like' things I posted, and she'd occasionally post something for me to 'like', but we certainly weren't best cyberfriends. I didn't even know if she lived in Aberdare, as she didn't come out to pubs or gigs.

Things changed abruptly on the Friday evening after my birthday.

I was in the lounge with Gavin, competing with him head-to-head on artistic inability while we put the April posters together. About five o'clock I had a message on my phone. It was Hannah, asking if I was going to be in Jacs for the gig that night. I replied that I was already in the building, and she said she fancied an early evening pint. It wasn't long before she strolled in, accidentally crashing an EGM of the Media Team. She lurked at the bar with her pint until we wound things up, and then joined me and Ros (one of our resident photographers) for a chat in the lounge.

We made our way into the music room, bought another drink and settled in to watch the gig. Soon after that Hannah's sister joined us, and we had a good chat between the bands. A large amount of beer was consumed (with Hannah matching me pint for pint), and at the end of the gig we went back into the lounge for a last one while Gavin prepared to close up for the night.

Hannah went to the toilet and Gavin and Ian (our door supervisor and resident jack-of-all-trades) immediately pointed out something which – in retrospect – I probably wouldn't have spotted anyway. She was making a play for me.

I told them that I wasn't interested. Not only was Hannah not my usual type; it had been so long since there'd been a bint in my bed I really didn't know if I'd be up to the task. But the lads said that I might not get another chance, so I played my hand when she came back into the room.

To cut a long story short, I was doing the walk of shame through Aberdare Park at 7.00 on Saturday morning. Hannah had to drive to see her first client of the day, and dropped me off at the entrance to the park.

Needless to say, it had been a slow news week in Jacs, because on Saturday and Sunday my accidental hook-up was the talk of the place. Apparently Gavin had rushed home and woken Kate up to tell her the exciting scandal. Kate, in turn, couldn't wait to tell Rhian what had happened when she called in for a pint on the Sunday evening.

Ah yes … Rhian.

This is where things started to go wrong.

After she'd nagged me for ages, I showed her Hannah's profile photos on Facebook.

'Oh, I know her,' Rhian said. 'She used to work in the Black Lion.'

An alarm bell started to ring in my mind. You see, the Black Lion was Aberdare's semi-official lesbian bar back in the day. Not only were a fair proportion of the punters of the Sapphic persuasion, but pretty much everyone behind the bar (Rhian included, of course) was as well. Hannah would have been very young, so we wouldn't have remembered each other anyway. Even so, it wasn't the sort of thing I wanted to hear.

Hannah and I met up in the week for a late afternoon pint and pizza in Thereisnospoon, and we were joined by Dylan, her son. He's six years old and on the autistic spectrum. I did my best to engage his attention, but he's understandably reticent around new people. Hannah had signed up with an agency to work as a Learning Support Assistant in schools around the area, and had done her first shift that day. I think she wanted someone to chat to as much as anything. We had a nice time, and among other things we talked about the possibility of a mini-break in London during the Whitsun half term. For the first time since the summer of 2001 it seemed as if I'd met someone who was as keen on me as I was on her. Even though she'd said initially that she wasn't looking for a proper relationship (and neither was I), it looked as though we were heading in that direction.

We messaged each other several times every day (and often into the evenings), and met up for the gig in Jacs on the Saturday night. I bought her a T-shirt during my trip to London on 1 April (booked before we got together), which I forgot to bring into town when we took Dylan into Servini's on the Wednesday afternoon. We sang some very drunk karaoke in the Bush the following night (and Hannah changed her T-shirt in full view of everyone), after which I ended up at her place again. This was turning into the wildest involvement I'd had with a woman since Gema.

It all went to shit the following week.

Hannah messaged me on the Wednesday morning to see what I was up to. She'd had to request a deferral of her OU course because she was finding it difficult to do the assignments around her work and family responsibilities. She was off work and feeling a bit down. I could relate to that after what happened to my own university career in 2011. To cheer herself up, she'd had her hair cut. She sent me a selfie, and what I saw frightened me a bit – it was short, spiky, bleached, and definitely dykey. In fact, I teased her about it when she called into the library soon afterwards. We ended up having a cheeky pint in Thereisnospoon before she picked Dylan up from school. She dropped him into her parents' house in Aberaman before making her way back to town.

As soon as she'd gone, I got the proof of the new Wilbur Smith novel out, thinking that I might as well do some work on that in the meantime. I'd picked it up from the sorting office in Aberaman as soon as it opened on Wednesday morning, because I was out when the postman tried to deliver it on Tuesday. No sooner had I spread it out on the table than Rhian texted me her familiar message: Fancy a pint?

I told her I'd literally just got one in, so she made her way to Thereisnospoon and we chatted until Hannah returned. Almost the first thing she said was 'it wasn't fair' that I was having sex and she wasn't. (This from a girl who's not long come out of a fairly unstable relationship exacerbated by her ex's delinquent son.) I laughed it off, saying I'd waited long enough. Anyway, when Hannah returned Rhian immediately told her that she remembered her from the Black Lion. My mental alarm bell started to clang more loudly when they compared notes on people they'd known, and recounted pissed adventures they'd had after closing time. I did notice that Hannah was smoking a lot more than usual, and seemed to grab every opportunity to go outside with Rhian. I'm a non-smoker, so I was left in charge of the phones and their paraphernalia while they gossiped in the beer garden. Hannah's new hairstyle really wasn't doing anything to quieten my misgivings.

On the Thursday Hannah and I met up for a quick lunchtime pint in the Conway with Rhian and her grandfather. We'd told her tales about John, the living legend, and she wanted to see if he was as eccentric as we'd painted him. Once again, Hannah and Rhian seemed to spend almost as much time outside the pub as they did inside. We had a couple of drinks there before Hannah went to pick Dylan up, then she and I met in Thereisnospoon for a bite to eat before heading to Jacs. In the meantime, Rhian stayed in the Conway and got involved in the usual Thursday Club shenanigans.

By the time we got to Jacs, we'd had a decent drink all round. It wasn't enough to make us rowdy or disruptive – in fact, it got us nicely warmed up for the inaugural comedy night. It was lovely to catch up with my old friend Lorna, who's now on the stand-up circuit and who had put the event together. Phil came down and thoroughly enjoyed himself. We had a good crowd of friends, a superb atmosphere, and everyone had a great time.

But the constant visits to the smoking area continued unabated. Caitlan told me afterwards that she'd had her suspicions about the situation as well. Gavin, Ian and Nathan had also started to smell a rat.

Anyway, we repaired to the lounge for a last drink after the show ended, and then drifted away along Wind Street towards (ironically) the shell of the Black Lion. Nathan and Caitlan were heading to the Bush for a last one, so they were a little way away from us. Rhian told us she was going for chips, so she went on ahead. When Hannah and I got to the collapsed chapel, she asked me where I was going next.

I just said, 'Home.' I showed her my bag with the half-completed Wilbur Smith proof still in it.

Hannah looked a bit crestfallen and said she'd assumed I'd be going back to her place (at the top of Monk Street, about five minutes' walk from the town centre).

I said, 'I've got an early start in the morning. Anyway, I think the person you'd really like to go home with has gone to the kebab shop.'

We argued for a couple of minutes. I told Hannah that she hadn't been able to shake my hand off fast enough during the gig. She objected, but I knew what I'd experienced. At the end of the argument, she said possibly the strangest thing she could have said in the circumstances: 'I don't know if I'm gay.'

Please note: she didn't say 'I'm not gay' or 'I'm just bi-curious' or even 'It's you I want tonight.' She just said, 'I don't know if I'm gay.'

I looked her in the eyes and said 'I do.'

Then I walked away. As I was passing Thereisnospoon I spotted my friend Adrian's taxi parked up by the library. He knows my regular routine, so he tends to wait around in case I need a lift home. That night I certainly did.

When I got home, Hannah had messaged me on Facebook – something about me 'showing my true colours'. I replied that, on the contrary, she was the one who'd revealed her true colours. A minute later she messaged me back, saying that she never wanted to have anything more to do with me.

I replied 'Deal'.

Within thirty seconds she was unfriended and blocked on all fronts. It took me the same amount of time to do the same with Rhian.

On the Friday evening I told the gang in Jacs what had happened after we left the comedy night. That was when Caitlan and the others told me they'd had their suspicions about the whole situation. I obviously wasn't making it up, then.

Naturally, nothing happened the following week. It was the build-up to the Easter weekend, and I needed to get Wilbur Smith in the post before the bank holiday shutdown. That went in the post on the Wednesday lunchtime. Some time during the morning, I missed a call from an unlisted mobile number. (I keep my phone on Do Not Disturb mode when I'm in the library in a vain attempt to set a good example to everyone else who comes in.) The caller had rung off without leaving a voicemail. It could have been anyone, so I didn't bother ringing it back. If it had been important, they would have rung again.

I relaxed for the rest of the day, as I had an early start on the Thursday. My friends Liam and Lamby were in a new play in Maesteg, and I'd promised them I'd go along and support them. I didn't get back to Aberdare until early evening, so I went to the Glosters for a few well-deserved pints with Rebecca. I told her about the events of the previous week. She told me Rhian has earned something of a reputation for getting pissed and trying to get off with other people's girlfriends (even with her own cousins, on occasions).

I told Rebecca that, if that's the way they wanted to play it, they were welcome to each other.

Liam came down for a drink once he'd dropped his stuff off, and we stayed in Thereisnospoon until closing time before walking home together. It was a good way to forget about what had happened the previous week.

On Good Friday I went for a very long walk around Waterfall Country, just to try and get the whole situation into perspective. The more I thought about what had happened, and the feedback I'd had from my friends who also thought something didn't ring true, the more convinced I was that I hadn't misread the signs.

I got drunk watching a superb Led Zeppelin tribute in the night, woke up late, and came into town in time for a couple of pints before my friends the Spectrums started setting up for the Saturday night gig.

Phil and Susan (his girlfriend) came down for the gig, so I met them in the music room and we had a chat before the support band started. I went to get another pint and when I looked along the bar, Hannah was standing at the other end. I stood in my usual spot near the glass collection point, watching the support band. Hannah didn't make any attempt to catch my eye, and I certainly wasn't going to make any moves in that direction. After all, 'never' means never – it describes an event with a probability so vanishingly small as to be virtually impossible.

I was just giving her exactly what she'd wanted after the comedy night.

When I fancied another pint, the bar was thronged with people who'd had the same idea. I decided it would be quicker to go into the lounge and catch someone's eye from that side. As it happened, Lamby and some of the lads from Showcase were having a pint in there, and they invited me to join them.

I'd only been in there for a minute or so when Hannah came in and made a beeline for me. I just glared and her and said, 'Fuck off.' And, in fairness to her, off she fucked.

I was glad of an excuse to stay in the lounge, so I chatted to the lads for a while until Gavin popped his head in and asked me if he could have a word. I was expecting him to ask me if I could go glass collecting, which I usually do on busy nights.

Instead, he said, 'Hannah really wants to talk to you.'

I replied, 'I really don't want to talk to her.'

And I went back to chat to the lads.

After the gig wound up, Phil and Susan joined me and the regulars (Nathan, Caitlan and the rest of the pool team) in the lounge. And Hannah came in as well. She did her best to infiltrate our conversation while playing pool, but we studiously ignored her. After a while she got bored and gave up trying.

Gavin told me over the weekend that she'd called in on Easter Sunday, primarily to pick up her coat, but also to find out why everyone had been so 'funny' towards her the previous night. Well, if she can't work that out for herself, maybe she isn't as intelligent as I'd thought.

And as for Rhian …

I had a text from her one evening last week – her standard Fancy a pint?. Even though her number is no longer in my phone, her style is unmistakable. As it happened, I was on my way to the Welsh Harp at that very moment. But there was no reason to tell her that, was there? I didn't reply and deleted it immediately, in case I was tempted to tell her exactly what I thought of her after a few beers.

She did the same at the weekend. Same answer.

Yesterday afternoon I was coming out of Wilko in Aberdare and Rhian was in the Conway. She must have spotted me through the window, because when I crossed the road she shouted across at me. I just said, 'All right, Rhi?' and kept walking towards the Glosters. In fact, I changed course and went to Thereisnospoon, because I had a copy-edit to finish off and I thought I might as well do it when there wasn't an afternoon gig. She texted me a few minutes later, 'Are you ok?', but I deleted it immediately.

I emailed the book back to the publishers, and called into Jacs for a pint when the professional wrestling bout upstairs (I'm not making this up) was in full swing. That was when Gavin told me about Hannah's bemusement at getting the cold shoulder. I hadn't been in there long when Rhian tried messaging me on Facebook. I'd forgotten that you have to block people on both apps. Still, that's sorted out now.

So, what have we learned from this, boys and girls?

I've learned that any young woman who gets a job in a lesbian bar probably isn't just there for the cash-in-hand pay.

I've learned that a sexually frustrated lesbian can't be trusted around other people's girlfriends – even if the other person has been one of her best friends for over twenty years.

I've learned to keep away from bi-curious bints (as most women under the age of about forty seem to be these days) because they don't care who they sleep with as long as they're sleeping with someone.

And I've learned that when that alarm bell starts ringing in my head, I shouldn't do what we do with the fire alarm in Jacs every time it goes off for no apparent reason. One day we're going to reset it, thinking it's malfunctioning as usual, and the Fire and Rescue Service will have to disinter our charred remains from the smoking ashes of Bryngolwg.

And I hope at least one young lady has learned to be careful what she wishes for. She might just get it.

All is not lost, however. This recent escapade has given me an excellent idea for a business. It's a cafe-cum-meeting space aimed at sexually confused teenagers, who can discuss their feelings in a safe, non-threatening and non-judgemental environment. It's going to be called Try Before You Bi.

The Lazarus Experiment

In which The Author gets a new lease of life

This blog is sad to report the untimely death of Good Old Steve O'Gorman.

Steve, an eccentric 50-year-old copy-editor, former bookseller, music lover, amateur writer and photographer, lifelong science fiction fan, Doctor Who wannabe, cinema-goer, pub regular and political animal, passed away at Cwmbach Railway Station, a few miles from his home in Aberdare, South Wales, just before 11 a.m. on 25 January 2017.

In recent weeks, Steve's blog had detailed how his mood was being adversely affected by his friendship with two fucked-up young girls. It appears that recent developments had disturbed the balance of his mind. Armed UNIT soldiers confronted him on the station approach and emptied several clips into his defenceless body.

However, eyewitnesses reported that within moments of his death, Steve got to his feet in true Time Lord style. He caught a bus to Aberdare and carried on if as nothing had happened.

Almost nothing …

Let's put this into some sort of context here.

On Friday evening, Clare asked me if I fancied going to the Bonki for Karaoke and Shots. I was in the mood for trying something new. I'd seen the terrific 'jukebox musical' Sunny Afternoon last Wednesday in Cardiff, so I agreed to join her. After all, when you've got so many of Sir Ray Davies's fine songs uppermost in your internal playlist, it would be rude not to attempt at least one of them yourself.

After being fucked around by Gareth for well over two months, Clare had decided to kick him into touch a few days before. She still wanted to go, though, purely so that she could give him the cold shoulder. When we arrived, we started chatting to Kylie by the bar. Clare announced that the reason she'd been missing for most of the week was because she'd been in Ebbw Vale, having 'got back together' with her ex-boyfriend.

That was news to me. I hadn't even had the chance to play my (admittedly weak) hand again. But fear not – it's nothing serious, apparently. It's obviously still more serious than it was with Gareth, because this bloke has been promoted from mere fuck buddy to friend with benefits. Because her phone had died, she spent most of the night using my free texts to chat to him while I sat around like a spare prick at an orgy. Again.

When we returned to town, I decided to return to the Cambrian, where the karaoke was winding down. I made a second attempt at 'Waterloo Sunset', following its debut at the Golden Cross last week. It needs work, but it was something I hadn't done in Aberdare before. Then I headed to Thereisnospoon for a last one, with a nagging feeling that I'd have been better off staying at home on Friday night – rather like the guy in the song, in fact.

On Sunday evening, the Incredible Vanishing Girl 2 made the transition from a disappointing remake of the 2009 original to an ill-judged weekly series.

I was in the house in the afternoon when Chazza texted me, asking me if I fancied going for a pint. I texted her back, saying that I had to go to Trecynon Hall at 4.30. I'd arranged to pick up some posters for the Colstars' forthcoming panto Aladdin, which I was planning to distribute around local businesses owned by friends of mine. It wouldn't take me long to get to the Welsh Harp, so I said I'd meet her there. I warned her to pace herself, because we'd be going on to the Cambrian, and said I'd see her whenever she was ready.

Remember, we're talking about a young girl here. 'Whenever she was ready' could involve anything from simply putting her shoes on right through to a full-blown makeover and shopping expedition in Oxford Street. I was prepared for the long haul.

Anyway, I got to the pub to find Gaz in conversation with Spike. He's an old pal of ours (his grandparents lived a few doors away when we were kids), and he still pays occasional visits to see his family. We had a good chat about our childhood memories of Aberdare, local history (Spike had come across my entry A Pub Crawl to Die For (Part 1)), public transport, the assorted frustrations of modern life, and various other topics. I popped back to the house and brought up the two volumes of Aberdare: Pictures From the Past, which the boys hadn't seen before.

In return, Spike showed me photos of bottles from the former local breweries and soft drinks manufacturers. He's been collecting them since he was very young, and had even unearthed a couple that afternoon while walking around the Country Park. Elfed has lent some of his own stash to Aberdare Library, but Spike's collection dwarfs Elfed's. Look at these lovely old artefacts of Elfed's and you'll see why they're so interesting.

Spike is extremely knowledgeable about the subject, so I tried to convince him to write an article for Old Cynon Valley (first volume in preparation). That led us to an idea Gaz had a few years earlier, about writing an article about the local football scene. (In an area known best for rugby, football seems to have had the lion's share of success in the Cynon and Merthyr Valleys.) I mentioned my two abortive projects for the Cynon Valley History Society as well. Will any of these ideas come to fruition? Watch this space …

'Watch this space' is also good advice when it comes to Chazza, it seems. At about 6.30 Clare rang me, because Chazza had messaged her to ask if anyone knew where I was. Needless to say, I was in the Welsh Harp. Spike had gone home to make tea for his mother, so Gaz and I were still chatting. There's no WiFi in the pub, so I was off-grid to all intents and purposes. According to Clare, Chazza had gone straight to the Cambrian. I said that seemed a bit daft, because she'd have had to pass the Welsh Harp on the way into town. Just after 7.00 Chazza herself rang me. She was walking through Trecynon and wondering where I was.

'Exactly where I said I'd be,' I told her.

She came in a minute later, so I bought her a drink and introduced her to Gaz. The three of us chatted for a while before moving on. I dropped my books and the posters into the house, and Chazza and I walked into Aberdare. When we got to the Cambrian it was fairly quiet, so we grabbed a decent table and waited for the guest musician to arrive.

Dai C. Thomas (for it was he) is a very talented, charming and eccentric young fellow from Llandeilo, who's played here a few times as a solo artist and as one half of Nomadic Ways. After he'd set up his gear, he joined us for a pint and we chatted about his occasional extra background artist work in TV. He was going to a costume fitting in Bristol on Monday, before appearing as a Frenchman in Poldark. No disrespect to Chazza, who seems to have settled into her job after a shaky start, but doesn't that sound more fun than serving up fast food for minimum wage on a zero hours contract?

Dai played the first half of his set to a fairly small audience, and Chazza went for a smoke (she said). You'll be amazed, I'm sure, when I tell you that she didn't return. I texted her after a little while, to see if she was coming back, and she told me she was in the Prince. I thought maybe she'd gone to look for her uncle Ross, but when she didn't reappear I realised she'd conned me out of another couple of beers again.

Dai finished his second set, we had a brief chat as he was packing his stuff away, and I decided to head for the Prince myself. More than anything, I wanted to try and catch Chazza in mid-lie. When I got there, I asked around but nobody had seen her. I texted her and told her she could take her invisibility cloak off.

I had a last pint there, texted her to say I was giving up on her slowly, and went home.

Clare didn't show up for Manic Monday. She and her friend with benefits had been to the cinema in Merthyr. As I told you in Strange Little Girl, Clare tends to throw herself in at the deep end when it comes to boys, so I wasn't surprised when she told me she was thinking of moving to Ebbw Vale. (Remember last autumn's week-long engagement to the chav from Blackwood? Yeah – so do I!)

It would be the end of our singing partnership, and would also totally put the mockers on everyone who thinks we're an item. There suddenly doesn't seem to be a lot of point in going to look at second-hand guitars this Saturday, as we'd arranged over the weekend. I'd managed to rope in my mate Wayne B. ‒ who's in at least three bands at last count – to come and give them the once-over with us. I messaged him about an hour ago to tell him not to bother. Six-string instruments won't be able to compete with no-strings sex.

Even so, she managed to find time out from her precious bedtime schedule to meet me for lunch yesterday, before we went to Merthyr College for the open evening. (We were supposed to have met for breakfast, but she was running very late. As I said on Facebook, when you come in for breakfast and end up ordering from the lunch menu, you've either walked into a remake of Joel Schumacher's film Falling Down or you're meeting a girl. I didn't see any cameras.) I agreed to stand her lunch in return for her footing the bill today, when she gets her money. That's one offer Chazza has never made, in fairness to Clare.

We caught the train to Merthyr, had a glass of Coke in the Crown, and then walked over to the college. The open evening was getting under way, and one of student ambassadors directed us to one of the tutors. He took us upstairs, introduced us to his colleague, and they told us about the music options they've got on offer. There's the traditional A level, of course, very much focused on classical music and requiring a fair bit of theory, as well as at least Grade 3 proficiency on an instrument. (That rules both of us out. Clare used to play guitar, but I don't know what standard she reached. It was almost certainly higher than mine.)

Alternatively, there's the BTEC. It's far more hands-on and contemporary. The old town hall in Merthyr is now the Red House, a music venue with a growing reputation, and the college uses the basement for their practical tuition. They've got state-of-the-art equipment, more computers than the whole of RCTCBC Libraries, visiting tutors with huge amounts of experience, and a talent base that enables students to network across all aspects of the business. The course covers all aspects of popular music, from playing and singing through to songwriting, production, marketing … It's got to be way more constructive than singing 'Proud Mary' every Friday night to an audience of half a dozen Valleys pissheads, hasn't it? It sounded ideal for Clare, and the more the four of us talked, the more I could see the excitement growing in her eyes.

Clare and the tutor started filling in the application form while we chatted about the scene in general. I explained how we'd met, and how I was slowly weaning her off the backing tapes and onto solid instruments. The whole thing was going very well.

Then we hit the inevitable snag.

Clare doesn't have her certificates from school. She couldn't even remember exactly what exams she'd sat during her rather unpleasant time in the system. Without the paperwork, her application would fall at the first fence.

But (naturally) I know a man who works for the exam board. In fact, I'd had a couple of pints with him on Sunday afternoon. I said I'd ring Gaz in the evening and see how we'd go about getting copies. He'd done the same for me back in September 2009, when I fell back into university, so I knew it could be done.

We shook hands with the guys and went downstairs to the atrium. A young lad with a practice drumkit was demonstrating his skills, and another young lad was setting up a guitar. We chatted and listened to them for a while, then headed for The Works to see if they had any music tuition books. There was nothing at all on learning the guitar (although they had one on stripping down an electric guitar and rebuilding it from scratch). It seemed a bit odd, considering how many young people are into playing music these days. On the other hand, I did find a book of piano chords, so I treated myself to that. I've always fancied playing both instruments, and one of my New Year's Resolutions was to start some serious work on them both.

[A digression: This lunchtime, in their Aberdare branch, I found the companion book for guitar. While I was at the counter, I mentioned to Stacey that I'd found the piano book in Merthyr yesterday, but nothing for guitar. She agreed that the stock distribution across neighbouring shops seems to be haphazard at best. I jokingly commented on Facebook that the next Bill Evans could be in junior school in Aberdare right now, and the next John McLaughlin in junior school in Merthyr, but on the strength of the self-teaching materials on offer, we'll never know.]

Clare and I caught the 1708 train from Merthyr and arrived at Abercynon just in time to find that the Aberdare train had been cancelled. Southbound trains were falling off the board as well. According to Arriva Trains Fails, a passenger had been taken ill and had to be to taken off at Llandaff North. We parked ourselves in the shelter and I texted Gaz to explain Clare's situation, adding 'BTW trains are fucked up big time!' He replied a few minutes later to say he already knew – he'd been on his way home when the disruption started.

I sent a couple of sarcastic Tweets about the trains from the Plaid Cymru Cwm Cynon account to pass the time, and then started chatting to a bloke I know by sight. Clare, meanwhile, spent the hour happily texting her friend with benefits (from her new thickphone) until an Aberdare train finally pulled in. It was packed – unsurprisingly – and we got to Aberdare only about an hour and seven minutes late. On the way, I noticed on Facebook that Chazza had also fallen foul of the trains in Cardiff. It gave me a warm feeling inside, and Clare laughed when I showed it to her.

I commented, 'I told you the novelty of commuting would soon wear off, didn't I?'

As we were getting off I spotted Gaz, so we captured him and invited him to join us for a pint. He didn't take much persuading. On the way into town, he spotted a piece of paper lying at the roadside. It was a tenner.

'Might as well spend this in the pub,' he said, which seemed like a decent plan.

We hadn't even got to the pub before Chazza texted to ask if I fancied a pint. Luckily for me, I had a Plaid Cymru meeting in Mountain Ash last night.

In the Cambrian, we sat down and looked at the exam board website. It seemed as though Clare was going to have to jump through hoops again. She wasn't even sure if she'd sat WJEC papers or those set by one of the other boards. Gaz said he could check in the system today, so she wrote down her details and we carried on chatting.

Gaz left at about 8.00; Clare stuck around until about 8.45; I went home on the 9.30 bus. Before she left, I asked her what time she wanted to meet for breakfast today. She suggested Thereisnospoon at about 9.30. It seemed like a plan.

Just after 8.00 this morning, I texted her to say I'd be leaving the house in about an hour. She just replied, 'OK', so I assumed everything was on track. I had a bath, got some stuff together for her, and was on my way into Aberdare when she texted me again. Apparently she was feeling too ill to go out. She'd been complaining of earache yesterday, but it hadn't occurred to her to mention it an hour earlier. It must have been one of those very rapid escalations that get the doctors so worried in Holby City.

I had a flashback to our non-trip to Pontyclun before Xmas (see Just Another Weird Wednesday). That was also a day when she got her money and when she'd woken up feeling like shit. (She'd been all right to go to the Bonki in the evening, strangely enough.) I remembered our last trip to Cardiff a fortnight ago, when she'd baled out early because she'd been feeling like shit. That was a Wednesday, too.

I didn't say anything about that, but told her I hoped she felt better soon, and went for breakfast as planned. My food hadn't even arrived when she rang me to ask if I wanted to go to Cardiff with her and her parents. (Now you know why I've called this entry 'The Lazarus Experiment.' Not even Lazarus made that rapid a recovery.)

I said I was going to the Coliseum tonight – which is true – so Karaoke and Shots in the Golden Cross was out. However, Clare said they'd be coming back at about 5.00. I didn't get where I am today by catching rush hour trains home from Cardiff. (Actually, I kinda did, because I decided I just couldn't fucking do it any more.) It wasn't a nice idea from the start.

I asked her what time they were planning on going. She said they'd meet me in time for the 1052 train. I said OK, finished my breakfast, and headed to the library to chase up Plaid Cymru stuff yet again.

I was by the cashpoint at about 1040 when I spotted Clare heading into Whitcombe Street, away from the station. I called across the road, she shouted something and pointed vaguely along the street, and then I lost sight of her behind a lorry. Because of the traffic noise I didn't know if she was heading to the post office or the pharmacy. There's fuck all else in Whitcombe Street except a dental surgery, a tattoo studio and a plethora of hair salons. None of those are 'in and out in two minutes' jobs. It was too early for fish and chips, even by Clare's standards; neither of the pubs would have been open. I grabbed my money and headed for the other side to wait for her.

After a few minutes I decided she might have gone around the block and towards the station that way. There was no sign of her in the pharmacy or the post office when I looked through the windows. I headed to the station to see if I could spot them on the train. Unfortunately, the hanging around meant that I had only a few seconds to dive through the open doors. Within nanoseconds of the train leaving the platform, Clare texted to ask where I was.

Do you remember when the Tenth Doctor regenerated in 'The End of Time'? Even before he could say his goodbyes to everyone, the energy was already forming a halo around his hand. He turned to Wilf and said, 'It's started.'

Well, I think my recent unexpected regeneration must have started in a similar low-key fashion. I sat in the seat nearest the driver's cab (in other words, furthest from the guard) and sent this reply:

On the fucking train as agreed earlier. Getting off at Cwmbach without buying a ticket and coming back to town.

Which was exactly what I did. Having been shot down by the combined forces of UNIT and Torchwood, I underwent full regeneration in time to reach the bus top at Tre Telynog.

The new Steve looks exactly the same as the old one, I'm sad to say, but (rather like the Master's successive incarnations) his personality has become much darker and far less predictable. And, as usually happens when Time Lords regenerate, his companions are often shocked or even frightened by the sudden transformation.

Clare texted back to ask why I was swearing, and to tell me they'd be on the 1122 from Aberdare instead. The ensuing exchange went like this (bear in mind that she's using a thickphone):

Not in the mood for fucking around today, so I'll see you when I see you.

As in be on 11,22 train

I spent enough time freezing on Goddessforsaken stations yesterday. Nice and warm in library.

Wel [sic] my dad said 11 train but waiting on my step mum x

Yeah, well I'm waiting on the bus back to town.

OK

Good thing I went looking for you in Whitcombe St. At least I didn't have time to buy my train ticket before it left. Never arrange to do anything with me on a Wednesday morning again, because you always cry off sick.

Before I had time to send that last one, my phone rang in my hand. It was Clare. I killed the call, finished composing the text, and sent it before catching the bus into Aberdare. Good Old Steve could quite easily have walked back to the station and met them on the next train.

But Good Old Steve isn't around any more.

This new regeneration is calculated to piss off young people who like the trendy, ironic, eccentric but lovable character, while appealing to hardcore older fans who recognise elements of themselves in his irascibility, cynicism, and unwillingness to suffer fools gladly.

I killed at least three more calls from Clare between getting on the bus and finishing this entry off using proper WiFi. Normally the Doctor carries a companion over into a new regeneration, to give old and new viewers a sense of continuity. The Tenth Doctor didn't, though. Funny how I keep referring back to that one, isn't it, boys and girls?

I'm kinda wondering how the Plaid Cymru Muggles (to mix cult SF/fantasy sagas slightly) will respond to Evil New Steve at the next (actual) branch meeting. After all, it'll have been a month since I asked them all to give me some content for our election campaign website. My inbox remains barren. At least one of the candidates knows what happened to the online presence I established for the Cynon Valley Quiz League back in the autumn. Project No More Nice Guy hadn't even got as far as the drawing board. Good Old Steve was alive and well.

But, as the Doctor's pal Captain Jack Harkness famously said, 'The twenty-first century is when everything changes, and you gotta be ready.'

Are you ready?

A Flashback to 2012

In which The Author finds history repeating itself again

Now that I've relocated my base of operations from Wordpress to here, I'm taking the opportunity to retrofit the disused blog to a consistent 'house style'. Every so I often I go through the original posts, tweaking the text and the HTML to a standard format. I usually call this 'extreme proofreading for geeks', incidentally.

Anyway, this afternoon I've been revising an entry from the summer of 2012, called Courting Controversy. If nothing else, it goes to prove that there's nothing new under the sun …

The Incredible Vanishing Girl 2

In which the critic and broadcaster Barry Normal sees
the worst film of the century so far

Back in 2009, at just about this time of year, my so-called 'relationship' with a girl named Jenny was on very thin ice.

We'd met on my birthday, which I share with my good friend Hannah W. I'd been in Cardiff to see a film, and didn't get back to Aberdare until fairly late in the evening. Jenny was in the pub with Hannah when I got there; we started chatting, and found that we had a fair amount in common. She was tall, red-haired, very attractive, intelligent, well-read, a bit kinky (apparently), and totally my type.

She also turned out to be a pathological liar, as I found out over the next nine months or so. After a grand total of four dates and countless lame excuses for standing me up without any warning, I decided right at the start of 2010 that she was history. I was in the pub with an old friend (female) who was also being given the runaround by a guy she was keen on. Jenny texted me while we were discussing our respective situations, asking if I was around. I didn't even waste 10p on texting her back. Instead, I stayed out with my friend, had a few more beers, then went home and wrote New Year, New Start.

I knew Jenny read my blog, because she'd left a couple of comments on previous entries, so I thought I'd extend Paul Simon's idea into the new millennium. As we techies know, there are now at least 55 Ways to Leave Your Lover; the full list includes texting, Facebook, Twitter, WhatsApp and Snapchat. Some of the rhymes are a bit forced, but my rewritten version is taking shape slowly.

Amazingly, seven years on from the disastrous original, Discordian Productions have released a sequel – or possibly a reboot, as the studios call them these days. My good friend Barry Normal went to an exclusive preview screening yesterday, and I asked him to write a guest review for this very blog. Here it is:

The Incredible Vanishing Girl 2 is a surreal postmodern rom-com with elements of science fiction, and – like the first outing – somehow manages to deliver much less than the sum of its parts.

It's a strange, complicated, baffling and bizarre rehash of the original story, taking some of the unresolved plot points to new heights of absurdity. The setting remains the same: a small town in the South Wales Valleys, populated by many of the characters who feature in the original. The basic premise is unchanged, too: a single guy in his forties meets a much younger bisexual girl in a pub, and ‒ despite the age difference – they strike up a friendship which could potentially turn into something more serious. The heroine's family background is one of the comic elements on which the story pivots: a broken marriage, adoption, an extended network of stepbrothers and stepsisters – all the standard features of the nuclear family meltdown.

From this straightforward beginning, the 'story' (which seems to have been scribbled on the back of a beermat after a particularly taxing all-day session) degenerates into an unnecessarily complicated knockabout farce.

The heroine meets another girl, and they shack up together. Soon after that, she discovers her girlfriend in bed with a man, and moves out. The hero becomes her sounding board and shoulder to cry on, and everyone expects things to develop between them. They spend a fair bit of time together in the ensuing weeks. He buys her drinks and treats her to a meal now and again, wondering how he's ever going to make his move.

However, just as in the original, disaster strikes. One evening, in the pub for karaoke, she drinks a mysterious cocktail which has an unexpected side-effect: at random intervals, she vanishes from the face of the earth without any prior warning and takes several days to reappear. These inexplicable disappearances are accompanied by a short-range electromagnetic pulse, which fries her phone and renders her totally incommunicado until she can sort out a replacement.

In the meantime, the hero meets another young girl, and they start spending a lot of time together. Many people in the town assume that they are an item, even though she tells him they'll only ever be friends.

By now the heroine has met a guy, and spends all her time on Facebook posting about how loved up she is, and how she can't wait to see him, and all that romantic crap that girls put online to make their 'friends' feel jealous.

But under the surface, all is not well. Her sudden disappearances have added to her mental instability, as nothing in her life is ever straightforward from this point on. She can't decide whether she wants to stay with him, or leave him for someone else. She wants to have a baby with him, but she also wants a new girlfriend. Her friends are starting to lose patience with her, and everyone tells the hero that he's wasting his time with her.

One night, after several beers have lowered her inhibitions, she tells the hero that if she wasn't already involved with someone she'd 'totally fuck him'.

That unexpected revelation comes as a shock to the hero, who has begun to despair of her by now. When he alludes to it a couple of days later, she tells him she was serious, and that she's thinking of leaving her boyfriend. He makes light of it, but secretly wonders if he'll finally get the chance to make a play for her.

After her next disappearance, things have changed again. The heroine tells the hero that they're 'just mates', and that things are back on track with her boyfriend. At the same time, the other girl warns him that the heroine is just using him. (Ironically, the heroine gives him the same warning about the other girl the next time she reappears.)

At this point, I was as confused as the rest of the audience. A fair number of people had already walked out, totally baffled by the haphazard plot, inconsistent and sloppy script, and the huge number of walk-on characters who play no part in the narrative, but merely serve to distract the heroine from her own storyline.

The film ends on a tragi-comic note. Shortly before Christmas, the hero gets a text from the heroine, asking if he'll help her with present shopping. They meet for coffee, plan out the day, and she tells him that it might soon be over with her boyfriend. Apparently she can see the warning signs, and fears that she's going to be dumped over the holidays. Almost in the next breath, she tells him she might be pregnant.

By now, the remaining audience were hooting with derision. This latest twist in an already unbelievable storyline was simply too much to bear.

The two of them go shopping, retreat to the pub to wrap the presents, and then decide to have something to eat. She catches the bus home to drop all her stuff off, and promises to meet him as soon as she's changed and sorted her hair out.

At which point she vanishes for the final time. He texts her in vain for the next couple of hours, realises she's gone for good this time, and goes home.

The closing credits are accompanied by the Beatles' hit 'Hello Goodbye', which seems a strange choice in the circumstances. Personally, I think the producers missed a trick by not using Soft Cell's 'Say Hello Wave Goodbye'.

There's a teasing tag sequence at the very end of the movie, too. About a week into the new year, he receives a text from an unknown number asking if he fancies going to the pub. I really hope that this potential sequel isn't given the green light, for everyone's sake.

If there's been a bigger Xmas turkey released in the last decade, it's passed me by. I'll give it 1 out of 10 for sheer audacity, simply because I can't award it a zero rating.

Faintheart

In which The Author experiences another mere coincidence

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another Quid in the Bank

In which The Author plays his hand

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

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

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