Conversations – ones I’ve had or overheard – have always been a major source of inspiration.
At times these two overlap and I momentarily join in with people at the bus-stop or, alternatively, I’m involved in a conversation yet feel an outsider.
More and more I sense myself avoiding direct conflict with views and observations I find totally wrong and that can leave me ashamed.
Why didn’t I intervene? Why hadn’t I expressed myself forcefully with candour?
This was the case not long ago on the Cardiff-Merthyr train when a man got on ( in his early thirties) wearing a FREE TOMMY ROBINSON sweat-shirt.
He was not your typical alt-right character at all, with long hippy-style hair and swotty specs; he looked thin and under-nourished.
He began an animated conversation with a black fella sitting opposite me ( the neo-fascist was standing by the exit door).
They appeared to know each other and the black bloke was totally supportive – ‘Yeah, you’re right! Free the man!’ and with no indication of fear.
I was ‘on pins’, wanting to shout out how wrong, how misguided, how appalling! But remained silent.
Then the Robinson supporter disappeared from view ( must’ve been squatting on the floor) and I noticed a woman along the carriage staring at him curiously.
We soon arrived at Ponty and the black guy got off with a ‘See ya!’ as Robinson-man took deliberate steps to the opposite exit and paced emphatically towards the open door, only for it to shut automatically.
He pressed the OPEN button like a panic one. The Guard was alerted and soon appeared on the platform.
Robinson-man returned to the closed door opposite, braced himself and counted out purposeful steps, halting at the open door. He took a long, deep breath as if ready to sky-dive, and made it onto the waiting platform and the concerns of the Guard.
It reminded me of ‘The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time’, when the protagonist was on the London underground.
I wondered if anything I could have said would’ve mattered.
Occasionally I overhear things so bizarre I’m unsure if I’ve actually heard them.
Only the other day a woman was talking about the Holocaust on the bus up the road ( not an everyday topic, but she’d just attended her regular History class). She mentioned Holocaust denial , when a man who I’d spoken to several times and seemed reasonable simply said – ‘ Yeah, just like that Corbyn!’
I was incredulous, but couldn’t join in because I was afraid I hadn’t heard it right. Looking back, I believe I did.
There’s no denying I’m afraid of losing my bap in a social setting, as when I recently talked to the epitome of a ‘plastic’.
Any football fan will know that term : someone who attends games just for the glory or, even worse, to follow the various, glamorous opposition teams.
With my beloved Bluebirds back in the Prem the number of such fans has rocketed. I don’t begrudge those who really are City fans, but this…..
I had known him for years as an avid egg-chaser who’d rarely expressed any interest in the round ball game and last time I’d seen him at our ground was four years back when, you guessed it, we happened to be in the Premiership!
Now he was explaining – ‘I’ve got a season ticket just for the one season, because next year you’ll be back down. The manager will be sacked by Christmas…..that’s what always happens. You go there whatever, don’t you?’
I swallowed my tongue, bit my lips, breathed very deeply.
As someone who has always followed teams passionately and truly believe we should embrace Welsh football at all levels, here was my nemesis.
If I’d had a few pints though, I doubt I’d been so restrained!
Talking to blatant racists I can’t keep quiet, as I try to be calm and point out how ludicrous their arguments are.
One man I meet often on our daily newspaper routes ( a senior citizens' ritual, if ever there was one) started a diatribe against the Nigerian team during the World Cup, calling them ‘lazy’ and implying it was an African characteristic. I simply mentioned Cardiff City's two Africans Bamba and Manga and their prevailing work ethic.
The following poem’s based on an overheard conversation at the bus-station, yet is fictionalised.
One aspect I didn’t include was amusing, but didn’t fit in.
During this incident two paramedic vans were parked along the Avenue de Clichy in Merthyr ( see the photo), near the bridge in question.
Their Cymraeg side faced us with ‘GIG Cymru’.
‘Wha’s goin on b’there?’
‘Them vans…..must be water or summin.’
As we passed in the bus later, the woman changed her mind –
‘ Nah, it’s not water, it’s Welsh, innit?’
MERTHYR BRIDGE INCIDENT
‘Seen all tha kerfuffle down by-a bridge?’
‘Aye, somebuddy ‘ve sprained theyer ankle
tryin t commit suicide.’
‘I yeard a car ad driven off of-a road,
there’s fire-engines an cops galore
an loadsa stewdents watchin
an videoin it all live.’
‘ Ey, yers Dave, bet ee knows…
Wha’s appnin on-a bridge?’
‘Washed up body mun!
Thought it woz a film set,
tv camras ev’rywhere,
I wuz lookin f Richard Bloody Arrington.
Road cordoned off, could be a murder scene.’
‘Well yer's-a bus….
Ey drive, wha’s goin on?’
‘Fisherman broke is leg,
takin im up Prince Charles.’
‘Truth is always borin Dave.’
‘ Aye, but I bet
ee wuz ewsin an arpoon.’
At times these two overlap and I momentarily join in with people at the bus-stop or, alternatively, I’m involved in a conversation yet feel an outsider.
More and more I sense myself avoiding direct conflict with views and observations I find totally wrong and that can leave me ashamed.
Why didn’t I intervene? Why hadn’t I expressed myself forcefully with candour?
This was the case not long ago on the Cardiff-Merthyr train when a man got on ( in his early thirties) wearing a FREE TOMMY ROBINSON sweat-shirt.
He was not your typical alt-right character at all, with long hippy-style hair and swotty specs; he looked thin and under-nourished.
He began an animated conversation with a black fella sitting opposite me ( the neo-fascist was standing by the exit door).
They appeared to know each other and the black bloke was totally supportive – ‘Yeah, you’re right! Free the man!’ and with no indication of fear.
I was ‘on pins’, wanting to shout out how wrong, how misguided, how appalling! But remained silent.
Then the Robinson supporter disappeared from view ( must’ve been squatting on the floor) and I noticed a woman along the carriage staring at him curiously.
We soon arrived at Ponty and the black guy got off with a ‘See ya!’ as Robinson-man took deliberate steps to the opposite exit and paced emphatically towards the open door, only for it to shut automatically.
He pressed the OPEN button like a panic one. The Guard was alerted and soon appeared on the platform.
Robinson-man returned to the closed door opposite, braced himself and counted out purposeful steps, halting at the open door. He took a long, deep breath as if ready to sky-dive, and made it onto the waiting platform and the concerns of the Guard.
It reminded me of ‘The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time’, when the protagonist was on the London underground.
I wondered if anything I could have said would’ve mattered.
Occasionally I overhear things so bizarre I’m unsure if I’ve actually heard them.
Only the other day a woman was talking about the Holocaust on the bus up the road ( not an everyday topic, but she’d just attended her regular History class). She mentioned Holocaust denial , when a man who I’d spoken to several times and seemed reasonable simply said – ‘ Yeah, just like that Corbyn!’
I was incredulous, but couldn’t join in because I was afraid I hadn’t heard it right. Looking back, I believe I did.
There’s no denying I’m afraid of losing my bap in a social setting, as when I recently talked to the epitome of a ‘plastic’.
Any football fan will know that term : someone who attends games just for the glory or, even worse, to follow the various, glamorous opposition teams.
With my beloved Bluebirds back in the Prem the number of such fans has rocketed. I don’t begrudge those who really are City fans, but this…..
I had known him for years as an avid egg-chaser who’d rarely expressed any interest in the round ball game and last time I’d seen him at our ground was four years back when, you guessed it, we happened to be in the Premiership!
Now he was explaining – ‘I’ve got a season ticket just for the one season, because next year you’ll be back down. The manager will be sacked by Christmas…..that’s what always happens. You go there whatever, don’t you?’
I swallowed my tongue, bit my lips, breathed very deeply.
As someone who has always followed teams passionately and truly believe we should embrace Welsh football at all levels, here was my nemesis.
If I’d had a few pints though, I doubt I’d been so restrained!
Talking to blatant racists I can’t keep quiet, as I try to be calm and point out how ludicrous their arguments are.
One man I meet often on our daily newspaper routes ( a senior citizens' ritual, if ever there was one) started a diatribe against the Nigerian team during the World Cup, calling them ‘lazy’ and implying it was an African characteristic. I simply mentioned Cardiff City's two Africans Bamba and Manga and their prevailing work ethic.
The following poem’s based on an overheard conversation at the bus-station, yet is fictionalised.
One aspect I didn’t include was amusing, but didn’t fit in.
During this incident two paramedic vans were parked along the Avenue de Clichy in Merthyr ( see the photo), near the bridge in question.
Their Cymraeg side faced us with ‘GIG Cymru’.
‘Wha’s goin on b’there?’
‘Them vans…..must be water or summin.’
As we passed in the bus later, the woman changed her mind –
‘ Nah, it’s not water, it’s Welsh, innit?’
MERTHYR BRIDGE INCIDENT
‘Seen all tha kerfuffle down by-a bridge?’
‘Aye, somebuddy ‘ve sprained theyer ankle
tryin t commit suicide.’
‘I yeard a car ad driven off of-a road,
there’s fire-engines an cops galore
an loadsa stewdents watchin
an videoin it all live.’
‘ Ey, yers Dave, bet ee knows…
Wha’s appnin on-a bridge?’
‘Washed up body mun!
Thought it woz a film set,
tv camras ev’rywhere,
I wuz lookin f Richard Bloody Arrington.
Road cordoned off, could be a murder scene.’
‘Well yer's-a bus….
Ey drive, wha’s goin on?’
‘Fisherman broke is leg,
takin im up Prince Charles.’
‘Truth is always borin Dave.’
‘ Aye, but I bet
ee wuz ewsin an arpoon.’
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