An Autobiography in Random Chapters: history

Friday, 9 September 2016

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?)

Arthur Linton is in good company in this tranquil old part of Aberdare Cemetery. Further along the road, on the right hand side, there's a large rectangular memorial of white marble. That's the grave of Griffith Rhys Jones, also known as 'Caradog', the legendary choral conductor whose statue stands in Victoria Square.

Anyway, I'm meeting some friends in a couple of weeks to discuss an idea I've had. It might come to nothing, or it might actually become a thing. There are a lot of aspects to explore and ideas to chuck around before I even go public with it, but if it comes off I'll be a very happy man. As always, watch this space …

Thursday, 23 June 2016

I'll Have a Large Retcon, Please

In which The Author has a sensible conversation on election day

At about 1.30 this afternoon, having been driven from Aberdare Library by the xenophobic drivel churned out by the Debating Society, I decided I needed a pint.

I can't entirely blame the fuckwits who come in every day 'to read the papers' for swallowing the neo-Nazi bullshit peddled by the Desmond and Northcliffe press. Most of them don't listen to the BBC Radio 4 news, or read a quality paper, or have the 21st-Century skill set necessary to access something like the BBC's 'Reality Check' website. Following the latest round of financial cutbacks within Rhondda Cynon Taf, the only national 'news'paper available to the public is the Daily Express.

As the unofficial house journal of the British National Party, this rag (along with its cut-down comic digest for knuckle-draggers the Daily Star, and its rivals the Sun and the Daily Mail) has been responsible for many of the myths, half-truths and downright fucking lies spewed out during the nastiest, most hateful and most deceitful election campaign I have the misfortune to remember. For some unknown reason, this 'socialist' council has decided that the only print media available in our central library will be this poisonous chalice. I'm sorely tempted to fork out £2.50 a week of my own money and sneak a copy of i into the rack every day. (Needless to say, I'll then be withholding a tenner a month from my council tax. I'm willing to pay for one or the other, but not both.)

Anyway, I repaired to Thereisnospoon, which seems to have had a bit of a reinvention furniture-wise. The tables have been completely rearranged: the small tables are now dotted around the place, rather than being lined up at one end; the high tables are all near the bar; the average height tables have been turned through 90°, and the high circular tables have been moved to the middle of the room. (I'm sitting at one of them at the moment, feeling very conspicuous.) Meanwhile, a small round table, big enough for two, with two comfy wing chairs, has been positioned beside the patio doors.

I decided to grab that small table, and was enjoying my first pint of the day when a shadow fell across me and a voice said, 'Hello, how are you?' I looked up into the vaguely familiar face of a chap in his twenties, with wavy mid-brown hair, casually dressed in 'student' style. I knew I knew him from somewhere, but I couldn't think where.

I invited him to join me, and we started chatting about the election in general. Both of us had voted on the way into town, so we were able to avoid the pros and cons and discuss it at a sensible level. I mentioned my Plaid Cymru membership, and he talked about his instinctive anarchist tendencies (which I could sympathise with to a great extent). Then we started talking about politics generally – Jeremy Corbyn's track record, our shared admiration for Dennis Skinner MP, the prospects for the Tories in the event of a 'Remain' result tomorrow – and the historic internecine feuding on the left of British politics which kept Labour out of power for eighteen whole years.

Before long the conversation turned into one of those free-jazz conversations over beer which I always enjoy: veering from topic to topic with no obvious connection; exploring a theme in depth before changing direction abruptly; pulling in information from elsewhere and incorporating it into the development; harking back to something which was mentioned earlier; looping and spiralling into an overall work the structure of which neither of could have predicted, and which would have been impenetrable to anyone arriving late on the scene.

I do know that we chatted about film-making, the Spanish Civil War, the Vote Nobody campaign in South Wales a decade ago, the Battle of Verdun, family history in Cwmaman, Geoff E.'s book The Men Who Marched Away, my last copy-editing job, my forthcoming proofreading job(s), Throbbing Gristle, Industrial music in general, gigs I went to in London in the mid-1980s, the German sense of humour, a Czech film (which I've never seen), BBC radio comedies, psychology, ancient history, abortive ideas for Situationist happenings, anarchism in general, police spies, obscure neo-folk bands, interesting books and documentaries, Doctor Who and Blake's 7 …

I also remember that my pal was heading off to Bristol by train, and couldn't stick around any longer. In fact, considering that in the course of an hour and a half we'd covered a range of subjects worthy of a full day of blogging, I remember a fair amount of what we talked about.

But do you think I can remember his fucking name?

I know that we've met before, because he mentioned this very blog. However, I've got no idea of his name, or where it was that we first started chatting, or how long ago it was. It was a very refreshing change to have an afternoon drink with such an intelligent, interesting, well-informed and stimulating young chap, all the same. I just wish I could remember his fucking name!

The only reason I'm writing this now is because after a few more pints I won't even remember the broad outline of this afternoon, never mind the fine details. I blame the Retcon, personally.

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