The Seven Waterfalls Walk

In which The Author goes exploring again

It's only the first week of April, but I'm already planning this September's Walking Together event in aid of Anthony Nolan. After the success of the 2018 walk (see Seventeen Miles Later), in which the team from Jacs Music Venue (Paul, Rhian, Liam, Kate, Betty Boop the mini whippet – who sensibly baled out halfway through – and I) raised a staggering £660.61, I thought we'd try and keep the momentum going.

With this in mind I set out on the mid-morning bus to Penderyn on Wednesday. It's the furthest north you can get from Aberdare by bus, just inside the southern boundary of the Brecon Beacons National Park. The Lamb Hotel in the village was the starting point for last year's walk along the Cynon Trail. It's also a good location to set out for Waterfall Country.

I've blogged a few times about the spectacular and sometimes challenging scenery of the upper Vale of Neath, and in particular the river system that converges a little way east of Glynneath. (For instance, see Further Up the River.)

I say 'river system' because, hydrologically speaking, it's a complicated little area. The river Nedd (or 'Neath', for English speakers) rises in the foothills of the Brecon Beacons, about five kilometres north-west of Ystradfellte, and flows pretty much southwards to the pretty tourist village of Pontneddfechan. A couple of kilometres north of the village, it's augmented by the river Pyrddin, which flows in from the north-west. Meanwhile, the rivers Llia and Mellte flow more or less parallel to the Nedd before converging a short distance north of Ystradfellte. (Ignore the screaming in the background – it's just the Firefox spell checker begging for mercy.) Further east again, the river Hepste flows south-west to meet the enlarged Mellte a few kilometres south of Ystradfellte. The ever-growing Mellte hits the river Nedd at Pontneddfechan, as does the river Sychryd, which flows in from the south. From here the Nedd flows south-west towards the town of Neath (or Castell Nedd). You can trace many of these rivers on the satellite image, and it gives you an idea of the topography.

What the satellite image doesn't show you is the plethora of waterfalls in the area. Probably the most famous of these is Sgwd yr Eira, a couple of kilometres north-west of Penderyn and a fairly easy walk from the Lamb Hotel. Follow the side roads through the village, go through a metal gate and follow the gravel path around to the right until you see two wooden posts pointing you towards the waterfalls. The path leads uphill across farmland, then over open moors before dropping to the gorge of the Hepste. There's a flight of steps built into the side of the gorge, so follow them down to a rocky path just above the river.

Sgwd yr Eira is famous because the only way to get from one bank of the river to the other (unless you wade across) is to walk behind the curtain of water. I've done this numerous times, including once with a mad Labrador in tow, and I managed to kill a camera by trying to photograph the fall from within the spray. But I took a chance on Wednesday and got a couple of decent photos.

Sgwd yr Eira from the southern approach

Sgwd yr Eira

This wasn't my first visit to the waterfall this year. I was there on Saturday morning as well, along with about twenty or thirty people taking advantage of blue skies and warm weather. But on Wednesday I had the place to myself for once. I always feel as if I've joined Faramir and the Rangers of Gondor when I'm behind the waterfall, as I was on Saturday morning.

The view from behind Sgwd yr Eira

The Hepste joins the Mellte about half a kilometre west of the waterfall, but there's no riverbank or footpath to take you to the confluence. Instead, there's another flight of steps which zig-zags up the slope to more open moorland. From here, I went west on well-made paths until I reached a downhill slope to Swgd y Pannwr, on the Mellte. I missed this out on Saturday as there were simply too many people enjoying the weather and the path was very crowded. But on Wednesday I had the place more or less to myself.

Sgwd y Pannwr

From here I followed the river upstream to Sgwd Clun Gwyn Isaf. (Or Sgwd Isaf Clun Gwyn, depending on which source you're looking at.) It's not easy to get to, and I didn't venture right up to the fall as the rocks were quite slippery. But it's an impressive multi-layered fall, as you can see.

Sgwd Clun Gwyn Isaf

Unfortunately, there isn't a direct route uphill from here, so I had to retrace my steps and climb back to the main path. It's a fairly convoluted trek along the course of the river to the final noteworthy waterfall on the Mellte, Sgwd Clun Gwyn.

As with all the falls in this area, what you'll see will depend on how much rain there's been in the previous couple of days. It's been a fairly dry March, so on Saturday the lip of the fall wasn't as wide as I've seen it on other occasions. But there were some people on the top of the drop, so you'll get an idea of the scale of the place.

Sgwd Clun Gwyn from the west

If you continue along the river path for another kilometre or so, you'll arrive at the 'Blue Pool' and the celebrated cave at Porth yr Ogof. But if you cross the Mellte at the footbridge, you can follow it downstream on the other bank and arrive at the other side of Sgwd Clun Gwyn.

Sgwd Clun Gwyn from the east

The path curves to the right and climbs to a gate near a farm lane. It's a short walk from here to the road from Ystradfellte to Pontneddfechan. I've walked this stretch of road several times (most recently on Saturday), but on Wednesday I tried something new. My friend Jonathan E. spends a lot of time in this area, and the last time I blogged about it he asked me if I'd ever been to Pont Melin-fach. I'd seen it signposted from various points in the Waterfall Country, but I don't think I'd ever been there before. So on Wednesday I decided to take the road less travelled. Or hardly travelled, to be more exact.

In fact, the only vehicles I saw while walking along the narrow road from Comin y Rhos were a quad bike driven by a farmer, and a Post Office van presumably delivering to the isolated farms scattered across this part of the national park. I didn't meet any other walkers either, which was a change from Saturday's hordes of visitors. After five minutes or so I passed the entrance to a farm. A short while later the winding lane crosses the bridge which gives Pont Melin-fach its name. (Pont is 'bridge' in Welsh.)

I'd arrived at the river Nedd, from where I had a rough idea where to go next. I can't be sure, but I think Mother and I have probably walked some of this stretch before. (We've explored Pontneddfechan and its surrounding area pretty thoroughly over the years.) Even so, I couldn't remember much of what I came across as I followed the Eilidr Trail downstream.

There are numerous small waterfalls on the Nedd, but the first impressive 'named' fall you come to is Swgd Ddwli Uchaf. I wasn't able to get very close to the falls on this stretch as the ground was quite treacherous in places, so I had to make the camera do the donkey work for once.

Sgwd Ddwli Isaf

I continued to follow the river until I came to Sgwd Ddwli Isaf, a short distance downstream.

Sgwd Ddwli Isaf

There were a few people about by now (it was early afternoon), and the Welsh weather had lived up to the old Crowded House song: Four Seasons in One Day. You might remember that we were forced to postpone last year's sponsored walk because we'd been hit by a named storm a couple of days earlier. Well, that's par for the course in this country. When I'd set off from Penderyn it was drizzling steadily. By the time I'd reached Sgwd y Pannwr we'd had a flurry of sleet; by Swgd Clun Gwyn the sun was out; when I was on the minor road the sky had definitely looked ominous, and now it was starting to rain again.

Just an average Welsh day in April

I had no alternative but to push on to the village, but luckily it was just a heavy shower. Naturally enough, within a couple of minutes the sun was out again. I continued downstream to Sgwd y Bedol, which is in fact a rather dramatic series of waterfalls in quick succession. I'm fairly sure Mother and I had been this far, at least, as it did look very familiar.

Sgwd y Bedol

The Nedd meets the Pyrddin soon after you pass Sgwd y Bedol (or shortly before it, depending on which direction you're walking). I crossed the Pyrddin using the footbridge and turned right, heading north-west to the final waterfall of the day: Sgwd Gwladus.

I have seen the curtain of water extending almost the full width of the shelf. But it's been oddly dry for a Welsh spring, so it was a bit of an anticlimax.

Sgwd Gwladus

From here, you just follow the river downstream on well-made paths to arrive at Pontneddfechan. On most of my previous visits to the village I've had lunch in the Angel Inn, adjacent to the gate leading to the waterfalls. But on Saturday the place was packed, and I know their last orders for food are at 2.30. I had a couple of minutes to spare, and a board inside the door announced an hour and a half wait for meals. Instead I headed to the Old White Horse Inn, just across the river. I must say that it's going to be my regular port of call from now on. I found the staff friendlier and more welcoming than the other pub's, and the menu was about on a par. I had lunch there on Saturday, and again on Wednesday. If our sponsored walk does take us to Pontneddfechan, I'm going to suggest to the others that we make the Old White Horse our penultimate destination.

I say penultimate, because I still had to walk the kilometre or so to Pont Walby, at the bottom of the Glynneath Bank, to catch the bus back to Aberdare. But that's a small price to pay for a fourteen-kilometre walk through stunning scenery. If we can raise some cash for Anthony Nolan by retracing my journey in September, then it's definitely worth making the effort. It's an excellent walk through interesting, varied and challenging terrain and with photo opportunities galore. As John Major used to say, I commend it to the house!

A Quick Sitrep

In which The Author does some calculations

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

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

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

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

Lunchtime at the Ynyscynon Inn

At the finish line

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

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

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

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

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

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

£2,056.56.

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

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

Notes Towards a Venn Diagram of Music Concert Attendees

In which The Author tries a scientific exercise

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

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

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

Black Ops

In which The Author reads someone into the programme

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Inevitable Pinhole Burns

In which The Author is unwell

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And finally …

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

Project No More Nice Guy: An Update

In which The Author's plan starts to bear fruit

Some six months after its inception, I'm pleased to report that Project No More Nice Guy is really showing some positive results. It's been a long time since anyone conned a drink or a meal out of me, and even longer since I went on a wild goose chase after an unsuitable female.

In fact, I've managed to pretty much avoid one unsuitable female since embarking on this research project. I don't bother going to the karaoke in the Lighthouse any more, which means that the Incredible Vanishing Girl 2 and I are very rarely in the same room. It's happened a couple of times. Both times, she seemed to think I was going to say hello to her. It didn't happen. Even when she asked me if anyone was sitting in Tony Abbott's regular chair, I just shook my head and turned away.

To be honest, I've almost quit the karaoke scene entirely, because it's just bloody boring these days. There are so few of us (and I was one, remember) who ever venture away from the Great Valleys Songbook that you might as well stay at home and listen to Heart FM.

Monday afternoon karaoke is dying on its arse. Gareth had the push a couple of months ago, and Phil the bar manager/chef/DJ/singer/whatever now hosts Performance and Cock-ups himself. His PA is far more suitable for a rock band, and his mixing desk settings reflect that as well. There's always way too much reverb on the vocals, and his backing tracks seem cheap and amateurish in comparison to Gareth's. He also doesn't have the range of music that Gareth and Jocelyn have on their systems.

The biggest problem is that he has his own little clique of favourites (Clare, Adrian, the Incredible Vanishing Girl 2), and hardly anyone else gets called to sing. The exception is Danelle, who (by some weird act of Goddess) actually gets measurably worse over time. She'd be lucky to carry a tune in a bucket anyway, but every week she gets more and more tuneless. It could be a good comedy act, like Les Dawson's piano playing, if only she had the imagination to market it as such.

So I find myself between the two camps – not nearly as good as Clare or Adrian, but nowhere near as entertaining as Danelle.

As a result, I've been dropped from the squad. In fact, I was in there a few weeks ago, toying with the idea of another pint. It was early in the school holidays, and I assume most people were on holiday. After about an hour, when it seemed that Clare and Philvis had made other plans – and nobody else had grasped the nettle – Phil came over to where I was sitting.

'Where are the singers today?' he asked.

'Well, there was one here,' I said.

And I made my excuses and left.

As for Thursdays …

I had a pint with my brother earlier, and he mentioned something he'd heard on the radio this morning. A Sunderland FC fan had phoned in to Danny Baker's programme, saying how much she was looking forward to the new season. They're no longer in the Premiership, so they're not up against the likes of Manchester Utd, Arsenal, Chelsea, and so forth. There are no multi-million pound deals, and no players sitting on their hands (despite the expectations and media hype) because it's all about the money. They can get back to doing what they do best – playing football.

The Lighthouse decided a few weeks ago that Thursday karaoke was going to go the same way. It's all about the money. A series of 'heats' would decide who went through to the 'final', with £100 up for grabs at the end. After it was announced, I had a chat with Adrian, who is on the circuit anyway. He and I agreed that it would spoil the whole karaoke experience.

As I've pointed out before, plenty of people think they're singing in front of Simon Cowell et al. on an average Thursday night. With that sort of bait dangling, it's going to attract semi-pro singers from across the whole area. On that other hand, people like me, who just get up on stage because we enjoy it and have no illusions that we're ever going to hit the big time, aren't even going to bother.

Friday night karaoke in the Bonki seems to have finished very abruptly. In fact, the Bonki itself seems to have finished very abruptly. A few weeks ago Gareth told us that it had closed. I went past on the bus yesterday to double-check this rumour for myself. There was no sign of life, and no obvious reason for its sudden closure. It seems a bit strange, because it's one of the key venues for the Cwmfest music festival next month. More importantly for me, it's home to one of the Anthony Nolan Trust collection boxes. I'll need to get in touch with Simon and Kylie to find out what's going on, simply so I can retrieve the box and find it a new home if necessary.

So, in a few short months we've gone from five decent karaoke events (Lighthouse twice a week, Bonki, Cambrian, and Lindsey's fortnightly damp squib in the Glandover) to just the two.

By a strange coincidence, about six weeks ago the ChavMackworth announced a similar competition to the Lighthouse's. Clare entered them both, of course. She qualified for the Mackworth final straight away. I didn't stay for the results of that 'heat' – I hate the pub, and won't be going for the Grand Final tomorrow night. Clare asked me last night to go along and support her, but I think I might have to decline. I don't have that much cocaine to inhale in between the performers.

Adrian didn't enter a similar contest in the Bush a couple of years ago. He's in a no-win situation (literally): if he trousers the first prize, everyone will say it's fixed because he does this for a living. If he doesn't, people will turn around and say 'Well, we all knew you were crap anyway.' It's easier to sit on the sidelines.

As I've done.

Although my sidelines are strictly metaphorical, consisting of my armchair and a decent book. That Sunday night aside, I haven't bothered going along to either of the competitions. I've heard all the competitors before and (with one or two exceptions) there's nothing to get especially excited about. I can't imagine Tina blasting some Katy Perry our way, or Martin suddenly deciding to add 'Light My Fire' to his repertoire.

However, I've noticed that Clare has started trying some more songs since we first chatted about taking up the guitar again and going to the Open Mic nights in Aberdare. It could just be a coincidence, but they're all from the Great Valleys Songbook (a John Legend song, that bloody Adele song, some modern crap which I wouldn't be able to identify in a quiz). I blame the Incredible Vanishing Girl 2, who really does pepper her set with modern crap. She's sort-of working the circuit with Phil and his band, and we all know you can't venture off the straight and narrow when you're a semi-pro musician.

Clare obviously thinks she can compete on that basis. With no transport, no equipment, no proper experience, no contacts (apart from the precious few I've given her) and no real stage presence (in spite of my encouragement), I think she's going to be strictly a Session Musician. There's nothing wrong with that, of course. You can earn decent wedge from session work. But you still need transport, equipment, contacts … See what I mean?

Anyway, last night the three of us got back together for possibly the last time.

Philvis, who at best gets the sympathy vote because of his disability, and who really can't take constructive criticism or follow helpful advice, was still sulking because Clare had got into the final of the Mackworth competition and Tina (deservedly) had won the Lighthouse competition. He's still convinced he should have won both prizes outright. He's convinced he'll clean up at the Porthcawl Elvis Festival next month. A short, short-haired, bearded, glasses-wearing bloke, with a decent voice but only a vague knowledge of the words (even wearing a white jumpsuit that cost his parents a fair few quid) isn't going to stand a snowball's chance against professional tribute acts from across the UK and further afield.

But we can't tell him that.

To do so risks unleashing the Incredible Sulk for hours (or even days) on end.

So, last night, Philvis and I sang a couple of Elvis songs together to mark the fortieth anniversary of the King taking up his job flipping burgers in a Midwest diner (please see the hilarious and totally warped Good Omens by Sir Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman for full details). Philvis won't admit it, but he had to admit defeat during 'Jailhouse Rock', when I left him standing with only my sketchy knowledge of the song.

And there's a story behind that, too.

Clare's most recent Fuck Buddy is in prison at the moment. I won't go into the details, but it seems she only decided she really wanted him when he wasn't there. Since then, her sole topic of conversation has been her Fuck Buddy. Apparently she's going to move in with him as soon as he's released, and this time she knows it's for real, as the song has it. I got bored to tears of her talking about 'their' flat when we were in Pontypridd a fortnight ago. Considering that his rented flat won't even be there when he gets out, that could be a bit of a problem.

Her brother is more fed up of this single-minded obsession than I am – hence our choice of song last night. About two hours of ignoring her hyperactive babbling about the journey to visit Fuck Buddy on Monday, we decided that taking the piss might help the message to sink in. It fell on deaf ears, though.

And talking of people who've got themselves into trouble: the Incredible Vanishing Girl 2 might end up on Pubwatch after kicking a bloke in the head. I wasn't in the pub when it happened, of course. It was a Thursday karaoke night, so I was at home watching a film. I found out about it the following day. Lucky escape, or what? It meant that I was fairly safe to go to the Cambrian with the others last night.

Only fairly safe, though. We'd been there for half an hour or so when one of the occasionals (shaved head, tattoos, muscles, no real brain functions) embarked on an argument with some of his friends. Needless to say, because I once appeared on a TV quiz show over a quarter of a century ago, I was the obvious person to adjudicate in this particular case.

Or so he thought.

My Facebook status from last night pretty much encapsulates what I told him:

Project No More Mr Nice Guy (v 5.0) now live. No, pissed steroid head, I am not under police caution, in a job interview, or taking part in a quiz. You can't ask me a fucking question. You have a smartphone and access to the Cloud. Fucking use them.

And at about 10.30 we all made our excuses and left.

I was having a pint in the Glosters this afternoon when Clare messaged me. It's always a sign that she's at a loose end. She asked me to join her for a pint in Merthyr. I don't know why she was in Merthyr. I can probably guess. It was about 3.30 at the time. I told her that I wasn't going to spend eight quid and half an hour on a bus, only to have to head back to Aberdare in less than three hours' time. For just over double that price, I could spend a whole day in London, for fuck's sake.

She messaged back to say she was on her own.

But she never is, of course.

As long as she can log on to the Cloud or pick up mobile data, she spends most of her time messaging random people she's met on Facebook. It doesn't matter that the Fuck Buddy is in prison – in spite of how much she professes to love him – as long as he's out of sight and out of mind. She told me a little while ago that she was determined to stay 'single' until he got out. Considering that she was to all intents and purposes 'single' all the time they were together, it seems to me that she wants to have her cake and eat it.

Like the Incredible Vanishing Girl 2, and many other young girls I've met in the past couple of years in fact, it seems that Clare is perfectly happy as long as her vagina is occupied. It doesn't really matter who the current occupant is, either, just as long as he's muscular, tattooed, trendily dressed, and has his hair cut in one of the town's dozen or so Turkish barber's shops who churn out clones by the hundred. Once the vagina is unoccupied, Good Old Steve gets the inevitable phone call for company and free drinks.

Which, if I'm not very much mistaken, was the inspiration for Project No More Mr Nice Guy in the first place.

Anyway, there's much more to report in detail from my Facebook statuses and Tweets over the past six months or so, but that's a very brief summary of the research so far. The full analysis will have to wait until the experiment is complete, of course.

But at this rate it could continue for the rest of my natural life.

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.