Cardiff Alms

The Monico 

We are gathered here today in remembrance of a lady dear to all our hearts, who has now been demolished and turned into luxury flats.  

I remember when it happened. After years of darkness she sat blinking in the sun, her back wall ripped out exposing row upon row of faded red seats. Through the lesion I could see her sleepy projector window clouded with glaucoma, and her set of centre steps which now just led to nothing.  

Unfortunately, it wasn’t done with any kind of decorum. It was as if someone had bent her over, lifted up her brown and yellow skirt and showed her big granny knickers to the world.  

And that was that, the heavy velvet curtains drawn on the days of Saturday cinema, the screechy Wurlitzer organ and the parade of birthday children. The credits had rolled on the excitement of seeing the stern-faced, Mr Monico in the foyer and the nomination of who was going to ring up the answer machine to get the timetable. 

Her carpets were sticky with generations of ‘not to be sold separately’ cans of coke, kernel-heavy popcorn and overpriced Revels. “Keep the floor neat beneath your feet”, she’d say, “Refreshments are available in the lobby,” and then serenade us with the ‘Pearl and Dean’ theme tune. 

She was a place of playdates, first dates and Beauty and the Beast. Not to mention burgeoning romances and first-time teenage fumblings. I distinctly remember a man smoking in there once, big puffs billowing up through the projector beam. My mum was too polite to say anything. 

Mr Monico came through my brother’s till in Tesco a few years after, and he was surprised to learn that his name wasn’t Mr Monico at all, it was in fact, Mr Bull. He looked genuinely upset when he later informed me of this.  

And so, with a heavy heart, we say goodbye to this Disney sympathiser, Titanic trader and Star Wars supplier. 

We’ll miss you. 

 

The Cabin

Roald Dahl referred to the sweet shop in Boy as ‘the very centre of our lives.  To us, it was what a bar is to a drunk or a church is to a Bishop.’ And I would hasten to agree.  

What The Cabin brought us, with her little round windows and moss-green roof tiles, was a haven. She was the communal grandmother, the saccharine reward to keep me still in church that became a Sunday ritual. 

With my pocket money burning a hole through my ladybird purse, I would count out penny sweets into the paper bag, pondering over my selection. Kola Kubes, Millions, Sherbet Lemons, Milk Bottles, Flying Saucers, Lemon Bonbons; all were scrutinised and mulled over. Not just anyone got in.

Once, the man behind the counter informed me, to my horror, that I was one penny short. He winked at me and told me not to tell anyone, handing over the corrupted bag with its nefarious stash. I reached up and took it, awe-struck. I couldn’t believe he’d put his neck on the line just for me. There and then I made a solemn oath that to my dying day, I would not reveal this treacherous debt. As soon as I got home, I hid the incriminating sweet bag in the back of Noel, my zip up monkey, and took from it furtively.  

She’s a chiropractic clinic now, the Cabin. They tore out her wooden shelves, shelves which used to hold jar upon jar of tooth-rotting bribes and sticky enticers, to make room for treatment couches. They lino’d over the wood and white-washed her walls. Now people go there to get their backs cracked and joints adjusted.  

It just doesn’t seem as fun.

May she rest in peace.

 

The Bandstand

A friend to the people of Cardiff and to Bon Jovi, the Bandstand was a man to be trusted and depended upon. He the meeting place for countless people over numerous generations. I myself used to wait for friends with him, in the days before mobile phones, when we just made solid plans. I also spent most of an afternoon with him once, queueing to meet the Super Furry Animals in Virgin Megastore. There was an awkward picture of me in the Echo the next day, clutching my newly signed copy of ‘Rings Around the World’ and looking like, as I did for about a year, the oldest one from Hanson.  

“I’ll see you there at eleven”, we’d say, carefully timing our phone call to try to avoid the embarrassment of having to speak to one of our friends’ parents. I’d only had the five minute window of when my mum chucked my brother off the dial-up so I could use the phone. “You should get outside more”, she’d tell him, brushing back her perm and adjusting her massive glasses. So, bang on eleven we’d turn up in our hippy skirts and Gwen Stefani bindis, skirting the Goths which congregated on him to smoke.  

He supplied a familiar facade, a destination to aim for. He was reliable and stalwart, a permanent fixture. And then one day, he was gone. It happened so fast it was over before I’d even acknowledged it.  

They paved over his uprooted foundations and twisted his ribs up through the concrete to make bike racks.  

 People walk over his grave every day and have no idea he was ever there.  

 

Rhiwbeina Infants

I am happy to see so many of her friends here today, and I’m sure many of you will remember her with the same fondness and affection as I do.  

She had been my first teacher. She had stuck star stickers on my recorder and taught me how to write my name. She was there the time I forgot my vest and had to do PE with my dress tucked into my knickers, and when Sophie peed herself during assembly and I had to keep shuffling further and further back to escape the spread.  

She had sympathised with me when I was sick all over her parquet floor (in my black and white stripy jumper) and the time I was caught drawing pencil stars on the desk (wearing the cursed flowery dress which I refused to wear ever again). I was made to wipe them off with the entire class standing around the table watching, my face hot and red.  

“You missed a bit,” said Chloe, which was ludicrous, as she had drawn just as many stars as me. In fact, she had drawn the first.

It was that moment that I realised that there was no justice in the world.  

It was a sad time, the night she burnt down. I was there myself, watching her impromptu pyre from the fence, bundled up in my snowflake dressing gown and wellies. I remember feeling the heat on my face and the cold autumn air on my back, like ice cream and warm chocolate sauce.  

We stood in silence, the whole street, the dead air punctured by a steady crackle and the occasional muffled crunch. Her immolation was hard to watch. I thought of all the ‘mummy and daddy’ crayon drawings and the painted hand prints that were now reduced to just spiralling embers.  

But she lives on through us. I have many fond memories of her, which I’m sure you all do too. She was a teacher to us all.  

 

Zeus

It is with great sadness that I stand in front of you to remember the life of Zeus. He was a brother, a father and a friend, not to mention a matchmaker and a pretty damn good dancer. 

For me, he bridged the gap between childhood and adolescence, a neon lantern in the dark no-man’s land of the first few years of high school. Through his under-sixteen nights he taught me about boys, about wearing heels and the importance of keeping your head up during a foam party.  

We’d queue round the block for an hour or so, girls on one side, boys on the other. The doormen would check our pockets for cigarettes and our bags for booze. I never tried to sneak anything in, I was far too much of a goody two shoes. One time, the woman on the door gave me an odd look when she reached into the pockets of my denim jacket and found them packed to the brim with sanitary towels. My mum said I only needed to take one, two at the most, but I always was paranoid about stuff like that.  

Once inside, we’d totter up the stairs in our super cool wedged sandals and pedal pushers and immediately cluster in a corner. We couldn’t believe what some of the girls were wearing.  

After scoping it out a bit, and getting the obligatory group photo taken (that’s three pounds each, you can pick it up on the way out), we’d make our way over to the dance floor. He’d always play the 90s favourite, ‘Livin’ la Vida Loca’, which was always, always followed up with ‘Mambo Number Five’. We’d always dance in a circle, not daring to put our handbags down after our parent’s stern warnings: there could be kids from Cantonian here.  

Although someone now stands where he once stood, he’ll always be special to us. He was the platform for our first foray into adulthood, showed us what it was going to be like from there on in, taught us what it was to be big.

And for that, I thank him.

Sleeper Bus

So, here was the writing exercise:
'Write about an everyday experience from the point of view of a ‘community’ that you are a member off (national, physical, religious, class, political, industrial).'

And here's my take! 

The Laos / Vietnam Border

 
Sleeper Bus


We’re all pushed into a corner of course, the foreigners. The one nearest to the toilet and furthest away from the fire exits. I was woken up last night by a mouse crawling in my hair, no doubt trying to get at my curry-crab flavoured crisps. As I tried to get back to sleep I watched a large cockroach sauntering across the head rest in front, it paused to pose, silhouetted heroically in the moonlight.

At dawn the next morning, after the bureaucratic hoop jumps, I climbed back into my bed, tucking my newly stamped passport into my money belt. I couldn’t stretch out of course, anyone over 5’8 is viewed as a giant round here. We all had our crosses to bear. Mine was an energetic local woman who kept flicking my face with her hair when she leant over me to adjust the curtain with her umbrella. Something she liked to do a lot. We’d been on this bus for sixteen hours already, imodium-ed up the eyeballs and rapidly losing patience.

Suddenly, from the front of the bus came a commotion. The driver was heading straight for us, the white corner, gesticulating insanely and pointing at each of us in turn. We looked blankly at each other, and then at him. He got louder. Other passengers around us began pointing at us, then the border, then at us. It made no sense.

He started pulling us from our seats. We climbed down, filed out of the bus and stood there in the dust. Then, with no warning, the door closed and he drove off. All of about twenty metres over the border. After screeching to a halt, he opened the door and started screaming back at us, motioning for us to get back on, cursing us in Vietnamese for jogging too slow. We got back on the bus and squeezed back into our seats. The bus drove on.

The Only Way is Essex or Some Shit Like That

So, our writing exercise over reading week was this:

'Write about something you have a very strong opinion on from a neutral point of view.'

 

So, it turns out I'm not very good at being un-opinionated...

 

 

The Only Way is Essex

 

I suppose they do contribute something to society, even if it is just how to get the perfect scouse brow or championing completely unnecessary breast implants. They show that just about anyone can become famous, proving you don’t really need to go to school, or work to better yourself. It's all lying there waiting for you, if you'll sufficiently compromise your dignity. So, they become living beacons of glitter for all the kids who doubted it was possible to become successful by achieving barely anything.

 

“Look at me,” they say, “I can just about string a sentence together and, at 25, I’ve just released my autobiography. It’s called ‘Dreams’ or ‘Dreaming’ or something”. Or “I achieved fame by getting really fat and then thin again and then fat and then thin. I hope to reach the dizzying heights of getting my tits out for Nuts magazine, and then one day fulfilling my life-long dream of getting drunk and then pissing the bed on celebrity Big Brother.”

 

They are the pied pipers of the entitled generation, working hard to stamp the notion of ‘It’s ok to be yourself’ and ‘It’s what on the inside that counts’. I can hear them now, clattering all over the feminist movement in their debilitating stilettos, flashing the highest bidder.

The Monico

After years of darkness is seemed to sit blinking in the light, its back wall ripped out, exposing row up row of faded seats and the sleepy projector window.  It wasn’t done with any kind of decorum, it was as if someone had bent it over, lifted it up its brown and yellow skirt and showed its big granny knickers to the world.

And that was that, the heavy red curtains drawn on the days of Saturday cinema, with the screechy Wurlitzer organ and the parade of birthday children, and the excitement of seeing the stern-faced Mr Monico in the foyer. It was a place of playdates, first dates and Beauty and the Beast.

I used to think that the words ‘Monico’ and ‘Cinema’ were synonymous with each other, and that the giant pot holes in the car park added to the charm. Its carpets were sticky with generations of ‘not to be sold separately’ cans of coke and overpriced Revels. I distinctly remember a man smoking in there once, big puffs billowing up through the projector beam.

When my brother served Mr Monico in Tesco a few years later, he was surprised to learn that his name wasn’t Mr Monico at all, it was in fact Mr Bull. He looked genuinely upset when he later informed me of this.

We had both been duped.

It's Term Time Again! (Cocktales part 1)

Ahh guys, here we go again - me bombarding you with my creative writing. Feel free to peruse, or not, whatever takes your fancy:

'Pick a type of non-fiction book (atlas, recipe book, guidebook, textbook, dictionary). Use this form to structure a piece of writing about something you have experienced.'

This was inspired by Rebecca West's Excerpts from a Family Medical Dictionary in which the author uses dictionary definitions to frame the story of her mother dying from cancer. Such a powerful book, I would totally recommended.

Here's my (slightly more light-hearted) take on the idea:

 

The Cocktail List

The Bangkok Sling

1 part Jet Lag

1 part Faltering Self Confidence

½ serving of Alleged Experience

A dash of Age Related Social Anxiety

Ok, you’re in. You’ve ordered, it’s fine. Everyone else is sitting with someone but whatever, don’t let that bother you. And you’ve got a book. Get your book out. No wait, no one will chat to someone reading a book – you know that, it’s Backpacker 101. Just sit back and take in the sights, look approachable, friendly. Not too friendly.

Serve over ice in a highball, best garnished with a Malboro Light.

 

The Kuta Vortex

2 parts Necessity

1 part Unsure Approach Tactic

1 part juice of Ill-Advised Hareem Trousers

The chopstick part is over. Right, there’s two there. They look nice, and they’re laughing. They must be funny too. Funny and nice. And they look English, a bit Essex in fact - one of them is wearing those weird fabric shoes that are so popular nowadays. You know they at least speak English, you confirmed that on your recon fly by during your last trip to the bar.

For a more mellow version, serve with a side of Over The Counter By a False Name Tramadol.

 

The Lombok Iced Tea

3 parts Dutch Courage

1 part Desperation

A dash of Time is Ticking

If one of them smoked then I could ask for a light, the text book, perfect ice breaker. But no, healthy bastards. Just think, if you don’t do it now then you’ll have to do it all again tomorrow. You don’t want to spend another night on your own reading in your room do you? Well then. Here we go, one, two three...

Lightly dust brim of glass with some Fraudulently Obtained Pseudoephedrine. Serve on ice.

 

The JP SX - Board Review

Four years in the making, the SX has proven to be one of Swansea-based John ‘JP’ Purton’s most popular models. The boards range from 5’0” to 6’6” and are available in a swallow, square or round tail, depending on personal preference and ability. The board was originally designed for surfers who are competent with performance surfing but are looking for a board which will handle mushy summer waves. It is a board design with versatility in mind, supposedly being able to handle waist high beach breaks up to head and a half high reefs.

 JP is a well-known name not just around the South Wales area, but across the UK and abroad, and John has been making boards for a long time, a very long time, in fact since he was 13. His two sons, Tom and Louis, are now part of his shaping business and since 2002 they have owned and operated their own DSD shaping machine from their Penclawdd workshop.  

They’re known for high performance, good quality boards and honed through years of experience and expertise. JP has some impressive sponsored riders, such as Llantwit local Nathan Phillips, Tom Lowe, Fergal Smith, the Gower’s Gwen Spurlock and Porthcawl’s Chris Seage.  

The true shortboard is experiencing a decline in popularity at the moment, especially in Britain, with many surfers favouring the old school, retro vibes of a fish or the combined qualities of a hybrid shortie. People with full time jobs who don’t live near the sea don’t have the option of surfing every day and want a board that they can just jump on and get waves, that still maintains the responsive snappiness of a shortboard but with the added buoyancy and volume of a larger board.  

So, with this in mind I borrowed a test JP SX (a 6’2” x 19 ½ x 2 ½ squaretail to be exact) from the guys in City Surf in Cardiff city centre and gave it a couple of tries. I surfed it twice at Rest Bay in Porthcawl and once at Ogmore in the Vale, and also once at a secret reef somewhere on the Glamorgan coast.  I tested it in a variety of conditions as well, between hip and shoulder high on the beachies and head high on the reef. 

The SX performed well, its super fun to ride, easily manoeuvrable, responsive and rides well. Contrary to the fuller plan shape, it’s easy to get a good lip smack out of it and works well on the rail to rail. The relaxed rocker contrasts well with the single to double concave towards the tail, meaning that the board is easy to catch waves on yet snappy and sharp. 

However, on the smallest day when the waves were around hip high, I found it incredibly hard to maintain any speed and found myself sinking wave after wave. Despite the 6’2” length and elevated volume, I still found it hard to surf in the conditions and would have been better off with a retro fish style board, of course this would mean compromising the manoeuvrability. The SX is said to work in waist high beach breaks and above, but I’d say that this was the absolute limit for this board.

In the reef break it went really well – easy to keep the speed up and was really easy to catch waves on. The board definitely benefited from the added punch of the reef and I had a super fun surf, it feels a lot thinner than it actually is and even I got some good spray off my top turns.

Me surfing a different board, on a different day...

I would buy this board to add to my quiver as a good all-rounder, volume for the smaller days and concave for the bigger days yet maintaining responsiveness throughout. Although I wouldn’t go throwing away my retro fish or high performance shortboard just yet, as where this board seems to work well in the middle of the spectrum, it isn’t prepared for the extremes on either end. Saying that, the SX’s fat older brother the SX5, with its 5 fin set up and wider deck, would be perfect for the smaller, weaker waves. Or even the RX5, which is in the same family and yet again has a wider plan shape, and is more akin to an original 80s thruster.  

In a nutshell, I would buy this board. I want this board. It’s a good addition to any quiver.

Are Kindles killing books?

Does the Kindle Spell the End for Books in Print?

In a nutshell, no. I don't that the Kindle and Kindle-like products will render books obsolete, but I do believe that there is a market for each. While many use both, normally books at home and a Kindle for travelling, I, on the other hand, stand firmly with the rest of the bibliophiles.

"Books are no more threatened by Kindle than stairs by elevators," says Stephen Fry, and I am inclined to agree. What works for one person does not for another. Many favour the compact, lightweight, technologically adept Kindle, but others feels that you can't ever replace the smell and feel of a proper book.

I also feel that Kindles take some of the fun out of reading. Just the other day I was getting to the end of Joseph Heller's amazing book Catch 22 on the train to Bath, when the man next to me turned and asked if I had ever read it before. I replied in the negative. "You should" he said, "it's completely different the second time around, it changed my life." The revelation and the ensuing conversation would not have been possible if I had been reading it on a Kindle.

And for those who loving reading, surely being able to recognise and remark on the book of a fellow commuter is special. Plus, you get to internally judge them on their choice of tome, which is also fun. In cases such as these, the Kindle is denying us the feeling of camaraderie when you see someone a quarter of the way into a book you love, wondering if they'll adore it as much as you do. Who knows what these Kindle folk are reading? No wonder Fifty Shades of Grey became a bestseller when no one can see the cover.

"But it's so light and easy to travel with," they cry, and I of all people should see the benefit in this. I've spent years backpacking, often weighed down with three or more novels and a guidebook. When asked why I don't get a Kindle to make life easier, I can come up with numerous reasons. The first is that I like to pass books on or swap them with other travellers, the knowledge that it's been passed through countless pairs of hands all over the world is a warming one indeed. Plus, when you're on your own, it can be a great way to meet people. See/offer a book, start a conversation and hey presto, you may have just found yourself a new travel buddy. All through a book.


The second reason is that I like the fact that I'm pushed out of my comfort zone when faced with a hostel bookshelf full of completely bizarre titles. Because of this I've read some amazing books which I would never have picked up otherwise, such as Jose Saramango's Blindness, and some others which I wouldn't pick up again, like the book adaptation of Total Recall and some questionable romance novels.

Of course Kindles have their plus points. Many of the classics are free, you can store a load of books for a lazy holiday and have a novel in your hand within seconds, and it sure would make my university reading lists a lot cheaper.

But at the end of the day call me old fashioned, technophobic, stubborn, I can never, ever see myself buying a Kindle. And there are many like me - those whose houses are stacked with row upon row of books but wouldn't have it any other way.

Where do you stand?