Night in Tref

Treforest is one of those towns; you wouldn’t think had a lot going on to look at. But take a closer look, more importantly live there for what seems like an eternity, and you’ll know.

This is a teaser, a blurry image of life in Treforest. It’s got to be lived to know exactly what I mean. We could start with the university life – that being the core reason we were all there.

Some still are. Five years on!

It’d start with lectures in the morning. Well I say morning, it was about lunchtime by human standards. You yawn through them, taking in partially comprehended extracts of expertise from decorated lecturers.

Immediately after, it was time for food/refreshment/smoke. That’s when everyone would be properly woken up (stopped yawning for a start) and the attention would shift to what was happening in the evening.

“There’s football on today – Liverpool playing”, I chip in.

My extra tall friend from the north would have a thing or two to say about that. “I like them as much as you do, but 6 Nations on tonight. Wales v England. Decided.”

Just like that. No debate, no weighing of pros and cons, no asking everyone else. Whatever happened to university opening up our minds to more rationale? Oh, we were half asleep through it. Gotcha.

Come evening (3 in the afternoon by human standards) we’re already past our first 4 pints at Otley Arms – or what we called, starters. Kick off is still a couple of hours away but it takes nerve to be in a Welsh pub, during 6 Nations, when Wales are playing, and sit there in an England shirt. I don’t have that. Nerves I meant.

Add common sense to that as well, because as soon as pre kick off ceremonies begin I’m too intoxicated to NOT sing God save our queen. Everyone else – too confused to say anything. They won’t be in a minute but they haven’t yet drunk as much as us.

After a tirade of abuses and screams at the television during the first half, we switch pubs. Our friend from Birmingham has joined us by now, slightly older. Okay maybe that’s a bit harsh. Strike off ‘slightly’.

Quite a looker though. Some folks come up to her and try a line or two. She belts out in that subtle ‘Brummy accent’ of hers that they’re speaking too fast for her. All potential suitors did indeed have strong Welsh accents. Phonetically speaking, she was right.

But that remark made them even more determined to prove she was wrong. Fast forward to last orders, the attempted serenade is still at its first stage. My tall friend is now going around playing pool with huge rugby boys (he was celebrating a Welsh victory in the 6 Nations. I was consequently sulking, as you do.) He is in fact so happy, he wants to cheer me up with a kiss.

Yeah he does that. Few ciders in, all his MALE friends appear to him as his girlfriend – wonder why he’d want to kiss them then. I apologise .

Anyway, I negotiate a hug and a handshake instead, then we spend the last half hour debating which takeaway to get food from. It’s hard making a point when you can’t count the fingers on your hand – or remember from previous memory.

Next time (probably tomorrow) I’ll write it down somewhere so I don’t forget.

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Golden Globes, Hollywood, and Gervais

That’s what my latest published article on The Sprout is all about.

Regarding Ricky Gervais’ jokes while hosting the 2011 Annual Golden Globe awards. The speculation about how offended Hollywood A-listers were.

Was he right? Was he justified?

Read on….