Fishing for Success

Johnny Wride, the Peter Pan of Cilfynydd Rugby Club, is selling his mountain bike. “So what?” you say.

Well it seems that while Rugby World Cup fever grips a nation evil developers are plotting, or should that be planning, to move Ponty RFC from their “House of Pain” to Ynysangharad Park. Sardis Road has of course been the home of our brave warriors since 1974 when they moved from the Park to the new stadium. The phrase “a good week to hide bad news” springs to mind but hang on a minute…

What has this got to do with Johnny’s bike? Well, he often cycles to Sardis to watch Ponty of course. He can’t be done for drink driving, just drunk in charge of a GT4000, full Shimano kit etc. But if Ponty move he’ll have to walk and sell his beloved machine.

Anyway back to the rugby. Wales have done well haven’t they!? Well, no actually they haven’t. They seem forever caught in two minds. One wants to frantically throw the ball around like its a game of pass the parcel in the former Yugoslavia and the other seems to want to select Stephen Jones, have his babies and live happily ever after down in Dingly Dell under the dumber and dumber tree waiting for Scarlet apples to drop on their heads. And while we’re at it why play James Hook out of position? Is it to make him look silly and undermine his confidence? He’s an outside half or nothing for Tasker’s sake!

So as Cardiff Blues look to have a nice new super-duper stadium we have to avoid molehills in the Park? There’s enough apathy regarding the Welsh rugby team in this abandoned, over-populated and talent-rich part of Wales but now it seems our only solace – our fantastic Premiership team - is to be relocated to make way for approximately 100 flats, 54 houses and a small swimming pool.

I suppose an Ospreys-type stadium could be built on the Brown Lennox site and we could keep our Park full of trees instead of cars, coaches, ambulances etc. but unless a suitable alternative is found for the rugby club it’s the end of Ponty as we know it. They’ll want a road through the Park next – mark my words!

So while the real international rugby fever is mainly garlic or kiwi-fruit flavour and our Sardis Road clubhouse has finally been painted peach to match Johnny’s bike I’m thinking of taking up cycling and heading off round the world to Auckland. At least they don’t want to down-size their rugby ambitions there.

How much do you want for that bike John?

Date: 11 Oct 2007
 

Wales, Wales, Wales (from Pontypridd Observer, 22/11/06)

Whatever ever happened to the singing in the Old Arcade, the smell of sweat and stale beer, the sheepskin coated crowds that packed the bar, and the signed photo of Barry John hanging on the wall like a Greek god surveying his proud army? Whatever happened to a Valley-man's dreams?

The customary gallon of Dark and three pasties before kick off has now become three Bitter's, a tonic water for the missus, and a healthy tuna salad sandwich. Once, there were swaying men in camel-skin overcoats, standing nine foot two in their beards, who would wave their "Children's Enclosure" tickets at the little man on the turn-style, or offer him a fiver and a wry smile. Now, the pubs are packed with "youth players", all bulked with muscle from a supplement tin, fake tan faces, and more gel on their hair than Charlotte Church.

In Cardiff there are so many bars to choose from that you'd need a mobile phone to find a mate. The once great Albert is turned into some sort of metal and plastic cesspool of haircuts and fashion accessories, probably as a tax dodge for the new sponsors of our National team. There's even a Hard Rock Café in Cardiff where the drinks are the same price as the t-shirts. And we call this progress.

And the once heavily over-populated East and South enclosures have made way for stands where English company executives sit with wives or mistresses, blanket at the ready. The singing now is gone too - no matter what they say on the TV! We know they, the media, and the money-men, those men in suits, have killed our soul - our money diverted to pay for tickets for various celebrities no-one has heard of.

I remember days like when me, Gas and Noel were youngsters. We were in town with Tom Sawyer, who'd ripped the lining of his jacket, just so he could smuggle us in some Barley Wine. And to make sure he wasn't spotted he draped a big Welsh dragon flag over his back - very Notre Dame. Served at fifteen in The Cambrian (anyone remember it?) we were, or "we woz" as they say in Kai-diff.

And after the match, Brains Dark sloshing our virgin bellies, warm, with the result in our favour, we'd get off the train, and face the biting cold awaiting us on Ponty's train platform of pain. There'd be bodies lying everywhere - some huddled, some shivering alone, most dazed and confused. Then, with the day's work done, we'd cure our hoarse voices with a night-cap, a few whisky's in the Half Moon, before staggering across the road to The Greyhound for a few more. Whatever happened to those old men that used to sing in the corner of The Greyhound? I used to get served because I always ordered a pickled egg as well as my pint. "Good value this youngster see! Look after 'em now and they'll be back when they're older" I used to hear them say. We do go back... but things have changed now.

Finally we'd make our way through Taff Street. Dodging staggering men in bobble hats, two steps forward, one step back, one step into the road. We carefully negotiated the chip wrappers laid out before us along the worn out pavements. Leading us to sanctuary like some modern day yellow brick road, back to the Llanover Arms, a quick shout at Winnie in the bar before bedtime.

Whatever happened to the real rugby supporters? Can they even afford to buy a ticket now? Do they even go to the match anymore?

14th Oct 2006
 

Last night I had a dream (or maybe, our Turkish cousins down West would say a nightmare!). Llanelli RFC goes bust and Stradey Park is turned into a roller disco with a looping Sospan Fach. Their best players are sold off like meat on Ponty market, most of them to Cardiff and the rest farmed out to Wrexham or Istanbul. Ahh, such a vivid dream, deja-vu in fact... yes, it's almost like we've seen this kind of thing before!?!

And then of course there is Newport (I would call them Gwent, but they don’t like that!). I hear from a blazered dickie bird that they are also in deep doo-doo, financially speaking. So does that same fate await them!? And what about the Ospreys? Those fearless fish eaters that they are now that Brent Cockbain’s allotment has shut down, lagging behind expectations for yet another season. It’s all down to the coach I say.

Anyway, you may be past caring about what fate might await these other "regions", but what does this all mean to us?

I know, you all shout in unison – our beloved Cardiff Blues, or should that be Cardiff Who’s? I mean, lets be fair, what sane man, woman, child, mangy dog or ginger-wigged icon could support a region, sorry I mean club, whose main aim is world domination with an ex-Aberdare prop at the helm and a large cheque book as their plan to grab success. Some might call it ambition, some might call it blasphemy, the rest of the rugby speaking world call it unfair.

Yes, I want the Scarlets to go bust… and Newport too… just so they know how we feel here in the Valleys! The significant other, i.e. the majority of the population of our proud nation, the now silenced majority, the real rugby fans, the passionate, rugby loving communities in the Valleys that the BBC abandoned as quickly as an Antipodean Muppet might leave a re-floated ship with record profits.

So with the WRU in profit again, what do they do with their cash? Yes, that’s right they dish out £300,000 to each of the three clubs and the one merger at the start of the new season. Money that Cardiff used to pay for Ben Blair – the ex-All Black with not a single Ponty development bone in his body. Let me spell this out a little clearer. That is £1.2 million that could have been used to keep the Celtic Warriors alive.

And on the telly the other week I saw a lovely heart-warming story about the poor rugby people in North Wales struggling to travel 32,000 miles every week, via donkey and cart to play in a league which you wouldn’t call “top-flight” even if you did wear Blue and Black on your weekend out of the funny farm.

And finally there is Leighton Samuels, the man who gave the Warriors to the WRU. He’s taking them to court over their handling of the affair. Am I the only one who sees a solution to Welsh rugby’s problems? The Valley Commando’s! The Glamorgan Gladiators! Or Celtic Warriors II – the sequel.

Kids will have heroes again, dads will stop crying into their beer every weekend and the DIY stores profits may fall. So yes, I want the Turks and Dragons to suffer because without MY rugby team beating Bath, Leicester, Munster and Wasps I feel that my people are poorer, my culture has been crushed and that Wales has been let down.

Ask yourself this – if push comes to shove, will the WRU let the Scarlets go down the toilet the same way they flushed valley hopes and dreams away?

25th Sept 2006