Merthyr pub and cultural hub, The Imp
- I 'member when pubs woz pubs, but.....not like this one.
- Aye, proper pubs where yew could smoke.
- But yew never smoked.
- No, but it's a matter o principle see.
- An darts instead of all 'ese bloody screens!
- But yew never played darts.
- I know, I'm jest makin a point.
- Aye, an proper beer not this foreign muck.....Allbright, Guinness an Carlin.
- Allbright?
- Orright, it wuz shite, but at least it woz Welsh shite.
- Yew knew ev'ryone 'en, not all these youngsters playin on theyer screens.
- Aye, an ardly any women......yew could ewse bard language no problem.
- Ave yew yeard my missis mind?
- Anyway it's my round......Wan' another o them cocktails? Sex on-a Beach?
- Not since I wuz a teenager!
*******************
In my teens we lived two houses down from a small village pub (there were more pubs than shops in my village).
As a weekend treat my mother often used to buy a flagon or two of cider and I got to have a glass or two. She was never strict about such things, unlike her own parents who kept to their Methodist upbringing.
I never ventured into that pub. The landlord's son was called Clarkie, a leather-jacketed youth several years older who, legend would have it, had just been released from Borstal.
He occasionally came to the Church youth club we all attended just for something to do on winter nights. Once, he sat the whole evening on a step cutting up a denim jacket with a knife.
A few months later I made the mistake of mocking him and he ran after me, pinning me down on the cow field we used for footie. I recalled that knife and nearly pissed myself!
Further up the road was a pub I used to go to when I got to the 6th form. We were all under-age, including two of the local landowner's daughters, one of whom I really fancied.
However, we never drank much (the rich girls weren't paying) , but the juke-box was magical. We could sit there and listen to singles banned from the radio like 'Je T'Aime' and even a ska number called 'Wet Dream'. It was like being in an alternative world.
At Uni in Aberystwyth the Old Union Bar not far from the castle was my regular watering-hole, with perfectly placed pinball, table footie and even a snooker room close by. We had many a political argument and much banter there. At times it seemed like each person had their own party or grouping, what with IMG, SWP, WRP, Anarchists and old-style Commies.
At that time Aber was 'dry' on Sundays and many friends joined obscure clubs just to get a drink......there were never so many members of the Sailing Club whose experience of that sport was limited to pedalos on a lake.
I was simply glad of a day to recover and sober up in the whipping winds at Tanybwlch beach or spray crashing over the jetty.
There was one particular pub I loved, situated near the town library (it's not there any more).
Here, every Saturday night, there was a singalong session with at least two guitarists ; an old-fashioned communal karoake. We became Leonard Cohen's 'drunken choir' and ,indeed, 'his 'Bird on the Wire' was one of the favourite songs.
This feeling of musical camaraderie has been replicated recently whenever Barry Taylor and Jamie Bevan play their songs alongside the Red Poets.
In Merthyr I experienced many pubs because of my father-in-law.
He would come over from Belfast to visit and , because it was too dangerous to go out at home, he insisted on going to a different one every evening. Ironically, he only ever drink one pint maximum.
The Court of Requests, Three Horseshoes, Pant Cad Ifor and , of course, the Red Lion and Six Bells in Heolgerrig were just a few of them. He never asked to go to the Wyndham, but had he know its reputation he have insisted......he was that kind of fella.
Because the landlords were open and supportive, it was The Crown at the bottom of High Street which became our community centre.
All the meetings were held there, from CND to Anti-Apartheid and numerous evenings of music and poetry ensued , all held in a
room thick with smoke like one of those killer London smogs.
I once did a performance poem which consisted of coughing my guts out and one of Cor Cochion thought I was having an asthma attack and opened the windows rapidly. When I explained it was for show, the smoking lefties weren't impressed.
The Crown had ridiculously late lock-ins, apparently due to the fact they supplied the nearby cop shop with sandwiches. I recall flying home on many occasions on Booze Air International, past the lime tip and under the old railway bridge, both long gone.
Once a meeting-place for Chartists, it was fitting The Crown should become such a focal point for us lefties.
It has never been fully replaced for its sense of community, but The Imp in Pontmorlais is the closest thing to it, with equally supportive landlords.
It has been the venue for many memorable evenings of poetry and music and also for more mundane meetings to plan and plot.
An ideal pub for me would be a place with its own microbrewery, serving up local tasty food and with an extensive menu for veggies. Its walls would be covered with photos and paintings by local artists and it would possess the kind of juke-box they have at The Castle in Tredegar where Tom Waits and Captain Beefheart feature on it.
Above all, it would have a weekly singalong to take me back to those nights in Aber : a musical massage for my memory!
This poem is about a really special bar in the States; in Cazenovia, Upstate New York.
SEVEN STONE STEPS
Seven stone steps down with the sun
to the brown tavern
the honeymoon hotel's nudging
closer to it than ever
and we are leaving the horizon,
the green lake and its layers
we are leaving the light
and water which doesn't turn over
seven steps down to the etchings,
the initials, names, love-longings
the knifed-out wooden
carved letterings surrounding
where the barman's hiding something,
his nose a shining blade
where we meet twilight comrades,
glass greetings of 'Iechyd da!' and 'Slainte!'
seven steps down with the sun
and no room for another name.
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