Tag Archives: PM

A Leap in the Dark

In which The Author looks for the hidden cameras again

It’s 29 February. (Apologies to my readers in the USA, but that’s the way we write the date here, and that’s the way it’s gonna stay!) That means that we get an additional day on the calendar to try and do something to shout about.
Radio 4’s evening news programme PM has been leading up to the occasion by inviting its listeners to try something new. They did the same thing in 2012, apparently, and had some unexpected results. One couple got married; another chap started his own business – you can imagine the sort of thing. Last time out they also spoke to a listener named Jeff (or maybe Geoff), from Neath. It’s a former industrial town in South Wales, not too far from where I live (unless you’re making the journey by public transport, of course).
Jeff is a middle-aged chap who’d suffered a stroke, and had been too nervous to travel anywhere since. To mark the last Leap Day he’d taken the bull by the horns and caught the bus into Swansea. He’d literally got off one bus, bought a cup of coffee, and headed straight home again. For someone who’d been pretty much housebound for a few years, that’s quite a brave step.
PM‘s presenter Eddie Mair caught up with Jeff for a chat on the phone last week. He seems like a nice old boy, with a wry and quite self-deprecating sense of humour. To mark this Leap Day, he was planning to make the train journey into Cardiff. He seemed to be looking forward to it, but he did say that he was worried about getting lost.
I don’t blame him. I was in Cardiff a fortnight ago, for the Plaid Cymru election manifesto launch, and nearly got lost myself. I worked in the city for the best part of two decades, but finished in the book trade before work really got underway on the St David’s 2 retail development. I only needed to get from Queen Street station to the bus stop beside John Lewis, but it was hard work.
I found out afterwards that I could have got off the train at Cardiff Central and caught the bus from Wood Street. Even though the bus station has been demolished, the services haven’t been substantially altered. (Alternatively, I could have bought a through ticket to Ninian Park and walked straight to the venue from there. But I wanted to travel out to Cathays in the afternoon, so it made sense to buy a day ticket on the bus and make the most of it. The weather in the morning wasn’t really conducive to wandering far, either.)
Anyway, Jeff’s quest came to mind this morning, when I was on a bus heading out of Aberdare. I’d missed the postman on Saturday, and I didn’t want to wait for a scheduled redelivery, so I had to pay one of my occasional visits to the sorting office at Aberaman Industrial Estate.
It’s a pain in the arse to get to, because some buses going south serve it and others don’t. If you’re feeling energetic and/or brave, you can get off a Cwmbach bus at Asda and walk the rest of the way. There’s only about half a mile and one very busy traffic roundabout (with no provision for pedestrians) between you and your destination.
The other bus route(s) either skirt the top of the estate, which also means a bit of a walk (but with no potential death traps), or run straight past the entrance. The timetables in Aberdare Bus Station don’t really make it clear which route goes where, though. Is it the 60, the 60A, the 95, or the 95A which will drop you you off two minutes’ walk from the sorting office? (I found out this morning that it’s the 60.)
[A digression: The whole thing reminds me of a classic courtroom exchange some years ago.
The scene is Llwynypia Magistrates’ Court; the occasion is a three-day Traffic Commissioner’s hearing into the operation of the late unlamented Shamrock Coaches.
In the chair is David Dixon, the Traffic Commissioner for Wales. In the witness box is Clayton Jones, the managing director of the bus company. In the public gallery are representatives of all the other local operators (who’d have had to fill the gaps if Shamrock had lost routes), a lady who covers these affairs for the trade press, and your humble reporter.
Under discussion are two routes in the Pontypridd area, both of which served the University of Glamorgan.
DIXON: I’ve been looking at the timetables for the 8 and 8A services. Now, bear in mind that I’m not familiar with the area – and many students catching these buses will also be new to South Wales. Don’t you think some people might find your timetable confusing?
JONES: Mr Commissioner, I’ve been running buses in Pontypridd for twenty years. If you can show me one person who finds my timetables confusing, I’ll give you a thousand pounds.
DIXON: It’s probably not a good idea to offer me money, Mr Jones.]
Anyway, back to this morning.
Even though I’d been slightly baffled by the timetables, I was nowhere near as confused as two brain-dead bints in their late teens or early twenties, sitting a few seats behind me. One of them, I gathered, had an appointment at Ysbyty Cwm Cynon – the new hospital a short distance north of Mountain Ash, alongside the A4059. Now, I believe that one of Stagecoach’s southbound services does run to YCC. You can bet a thousand pounds that it isn’t the 60, though.
Having realised that she was on the wrong bus, Brain-Dead Bint 1 started to panic. However, Brain-Dead Bint 2 was able to reassure her (slightly) by telling her she could walk across from Fernhill. This, however, wasn’t an ideal solution.
‘I might get lost,’ BDB 1 replied.
By some miracle, I managed not to laugh out loud.
Let me paint a picture for you. There’s a two-lane road at the bottom of a shallow hill, with a bus stop on either side. To the west side of the road are some large houses; behind them is a very large council estate (Fernhill); behind that is the Forestry Commission land on the mountain dividing our valley from the Rhondda.
To the east of the road there’s a line of trees; behind this, the railway line runs alongside a shallow brook. A signpost a few metres from the bus stop indicates a footpath to the east. This short path (twenty metres or so) runs through the trees and leads to Fernhill Station. There’s also a continuation of the path, over the single (non-electrified) track, into Peace Park.
Peace Park is a small, roughly triangular area of land enclosed by the brook and a loop of the river Cynon. It’s not so much a park, more a tennis court with delusions of grandeur. Less than a minute’s walk from there, you cross a small footbridge over the Cynon and emerge at the entrance to the hospital.
To be on the safe side, the hospital is also mentioned on the sign at the path’s origin, and on a second sign near the rail crossing.
In short, you couldn’t fail to get from the bus stop at Fernhill to YCC, even if you had never set foot in the Northern Hemisphere before and were only relying on the stars as navigational aids. It’s an expedition on a quite different scale from Rhian’s first trip to London, when I reminded her of the first rule of being the Doctor’s companion: ‘Don’t wander off!’ Getting lost in London is one thing; getting lost in Glenboi is quite literally impossible.
When BDB 2 had to explain this short cut to BDB 1, I started looking around the vehicle for hidden cameras. I was obviously on the sidelines of some sort of TV prank show, with these two fuckwits as stooges and the other passengers (and possibly the driver) as the intended victims.
I assumed from their accents that these two bints were local to the area. Unlike the hapless students aboard the 8/8A services back in the day, they don’t really have a valid excuse for not knowing their way around. Even if they’d grown up in a remote backwater like Rhigos or Penderyn, surely to Goddess they must have ventured into the big wide world at some point in their lives.
Perhaps, though, they’re an early warning of widespread future ignorance. Raised in an age when Dad’s Taxi takes them everywhere, when satnavs have supplanted maps, and when they aren’t allowed to explore because of tabloid-induced hysteria, it’s quite possible that in ten years’ time almost all young adults will be equally fucking clueless when they’re allowed outside the front gate for the first time.
I say ‘almost all’, because I’m pretty sure there are kids who’ll be confident enough to roam around unaccompanied and discover places for themselves. My honorary nephews Thomas and Evan will probably fall into that category. I’ve yet to introduce them to the joys of detailed Ordnance Survey maps, but I can guarantee they’ll love them. I’m going to try and catch up with them over the Easter holidays, so that’ll be a good opportunity to switch them on.
I’m really looking forward to PM tonight, to see how Jeff’s excursion to Cardiff panned out. I do hope he enjoys himself, and I also hope he has the bottle to venture a bit further afield than he did on his trip to Swansea.
I wouldn’t blame him for being apprehensive, mind. When I was working in Waterstones, we once met a rugby widow who’d been shopping while her husband was at the Millennium Stadium. She’d called in to buy a street map, because she’d got lost after leaving Queen Street – not the station, but the main shopping thoroughfare.
Her excuse was that she was born in Bristol, lived in Gloucestershire, and hadn’t been to Cardiff for years.
I said, ‘You can hear the stadium from here, never mind seeing it!’
In fact, if Jeff himself (or any of his family or friends) happens to come across this entry, I’d like to extend him an offer. If he fancies a trip to Glynneath on the bus one day, I’ll come down and meet him for a coffee. Glynneath lies directly on the fault line between bus operators, so it would be an ideal rendezvous.
And let’s be honest – at least neither of us would run the risk of getting lost.

Here Is Your New Word For Today

In which The Author passes on a challenge

During Friday evening’s edition of PM on Radio 4, regular presenter Eddie Mair played a small clip of an earlier interview with the British style guru Peter York. During the piece, Mr York had used the word ‘intertwangled’. It seems perfectly obvious (to me, anyway) what he meant. If it was just a slip of the tongue, it was an amusing one. If Mr York was trying to coin a new portmanteau word, a combination of ‘intertwined’ and ‘entangled’, he succeeded admirably. Even so, several listeners had contacted the programme to ask if ‘intertwangled’ really was a word.
To try and solve the problem, Mr Mair spoke to a lady who works on the Oxford English Dictionary. She seemed quite happy to entertain the possibility of ‘intertwangled’. After all, she said, someone’s already used it as a word, so logically speaking it must exist. She’d looked into the archives too, and found that it was first used in print in 1960. Unfortunately, it didn’t catch on at the time. Mr York’s on-air use of the word has probably brought it to a wider audience.
It has to be said that Mr York has form in this regard. It was he who coined the phrase ‘Sloane Ranger’ to describe those frightfully well-brought-up gels who frequented the wine bars and boutiques of Chelsea in the late 1970s and early 1980s. If he wants to lay claim to a new word, then I say ‘all the best’ to him.
Eddie Mair then set his listeners a challenge: To get ‘intertwangled’ into the dictionary. If a sufficiently large number of people use a word in print, on air, or online, after a while it enters common currency and earns its place in the dictionary. On Friday evening, he said he’d like to get ‘intertwangled’ trending on Twitter over the weekend. He used the word himself in last night’s programme, to keep it in circulation.
I for one think Mr Mair’s on to something. After all, two years ago hardly anybody knew the meaning of the word ‘twerk’ – apart from Barry Cryer, who suggested (on I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue) that it was the place where Yorkshire people went to earn a living. Suddenly, for no good reason (apart from some silly bint’s dancing on MTV) it became the buzzword of the year.
So, your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to try and infiltrate the word ‘intertwangled’ into conversation, print, social media, or anywhere else the opportunity arises. Let’s all support Eddie Mair’s campaign to get ‘intertwangled’ into the dictionary where it belongs. Ladies and gentlemen, it’s over to you.