widg‧et /ˈwɪdʒɪt/ [wij-it] -noun: Pointless ramblings from the New Forest. Obviously complete & utter Rubbish. Why must I contibute to all this endless talk about me? My self-indulgent knees, spilling themselves all over the internet. Obviously i am Jon and his hair, I AM HIM!

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

Kroy So Igum Ree

After a week of quarrelling with the sock faeries, the prospect of a fortuitous offer of a trip to South Wales from a friendly victim of an unfortuitous set of circumstances reared its shiny head. A thigh numbing three hour journey later and we were in windy Cardiff, with only a pint of Brains and a bobble hat to comfort our cracked knees.

Your hapless adventurers journeyed from one dog food named, endangered record shop to another overpriced market stall in search of new sounds and pretty sleeves. There was just time for a short cheese-based pit stop before the slow dawning realisation that this great capital city seems to completely shut down at around 6pm, at least on a Monday. So there was nothing for it but to set off for the bay for a spot of shivery sightseeing.

Darkness and an unwillingness to delve into the unforgivably touristy A to Z meant a long, meandering, foot-shredding route to the bus stop, via the gorsaf Caerdydd Canolog where Pow Bang Bang was spotted dragging his belongings behind him. A grumpy driver and a bout of slight panicked indecision led to an early exit from the bus and a short walk to Roald Dahl Plass, untouched by fibre glass effigies of giant peaches or life size twits. The buildings of the Millennium Centre and Sennedd were most generous & willing to pose for photos, but much less generous & willing to give up hot, milky treats, but then it was gone six o'clock on a Monday after all.

A bendy-bus returned us to our main destination, Neuadd Dewi Sant, in the middle of the building site that is The Hayes, for John Martyn's Solid Air tour. My slightly more talented namesake took the stage as support act (but only after a manic dash to the misleadingly signed bogs) and impressed with virtuoso guitar-as-bongos slapping. Then the main attraction was literally wheeled on, and it's safe to say, judging by the photos I was familiar with on his record sleeves, he has not aged well. An interminable few tunes followed, when I felt like I was trapped in an exceedingly large lift with very good acoustics and a few hundred fellow captives. I resisted the urge to shoot the saxophonist and the keyboardy knob twiddler, as the hideous musak drained my eyes of the will to stay open. It wasn't until they buggered off and left the main bloke to get on with his speedy fingered acoustic fret work that my spirits perked up a bit. "This is more like it", said my pins & needles wracked arse to the rest of my body. A few entertaining, but unintelligible murmurings and a lot of intelligible swearing left his lips between songs. The elevator music stylings waxed and waned, but were mostly kept in check, until the last couple of numbers that would have shamed Whitney Houston in the 80s.

Anyway, it was all worth seeing, and the Welsh bitter made the bad bits bearable. All too soon we were back on our way, making the free trip over the Severn Bridge, out of civilisation, via Ram Alley, and back into the numbing womb of the New Forest.

Currently listening: I Am Not Afraid Of You And I Will Beat Your Ass by Yo La Tengo


Blogger AlphIANo said...

Ker-azee times in Wales! And a Pow-Pow sighting to boot! I hear rumours he's an endangered species these days - quick, get Bill Oddie on the phone! xxx

3:03 pm


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