No Escape

For audio click here

Danny hated football. It did his head in. He just found it so, so boring. He could admire it. He appreciated the skills on display, but so often those skills were too few and far between and the rest was just dross. The teams were too similar, there was enough invention so they cancelled each other out and boredom ensued. What was it that people saw in it? What made them so excited? What was Danny missing?  Maybe it was an emperor’s new clothes scenario. Maybe it just needed one person to say it’s rubbish, and the whole edifice would come crumbling down. But Danny wasn’t brave enough to take that risk.

It wasn’t only the game he hated. He hated all the things that went on around it. The behaviour of the players for one. They wagged their fingers and tongues at referees and waved imaginary cards. They rolled around on the ground in agony one minute and then ran around like baby hares the next. It was just cheating. It made his blood boil. Then the behaviour of the fans, the constant whistling and booing at games, and the violence and intimidation outside the stadium.

To make matters worse it was omnipresent. From August to May it was wall to wall football and then, just when he thought it was over and he could have some time off, there was the bloody European Championships. A whole month of bloody football. Everywhere he looked, TV, Radio, internet, newspapers, there was football. Everywhere he went people were talking about it, voicing their crazy opinions about who should start upfront or why so and so was replaced.

Who cares?

In work it was worse. God, his colleagues banged on about it all the time, discussing the minutiae of set plays and the intricacies of tika-taka.  Every time he tried to change the subject, to talk about food, or architecture, or travel, they managed to get the conversation back to soccer. He had to admire their skill, they were like those people who could come up with a song for every subject you were talking about, and just as annoying as them too. But because he wasn’t brave enough and tell the world it was shit, people assumed he enjoyed it. After all, he too could talk a good game.  

On his last day off he’d tried to get as far away from it as possible. Driving out into the countryside alone, finding a nice little village to have lunch in. But even there the shops had posters up, the café was showing a game and a waiter asked him for a score prediction.

It was really beginning to get him down. He felt like the football world was closing in on him. There was no escape.  People must have noticed it was affecting him.  If he could see the sadness in his own eyes, hear the frustration in his own voice, then they must be aware of it too but there was nothing he could do. He tried to smile when people brought it up. He tried to put some enthusiasm in his voice as he discussed how to deliver the perfect cross, but it was no use the frown remained glued to his forehead.

Danny looked down at the grass in front of him and up at the beautiful French sunset. For a split second he lost himself in the contrails that criss-crossed the sky and imagined himself flying far far away on one of those planes. But the moment was too brief. The roar of anticipation brought his attention back to pitch level. He watched as the number nine rose high and headed the ball past the keeper.  He raised his microphone to his mouth, he had about twelve seconds before his co-commentator would throw over to him.

“Yes Guy, I agree. A brilliant goal and it had been coming.”  He said, sounding more bored than ever.

Calon Lân

For audio click here  (worth a listen today me thinks) 

The factory that towered over the town was shrouded in the smog that it had helped to produce. The tyrannical building dominated the skyline like a gothic castle casting a shadow over all of those who lived in the terraced houses below. But the chimney was no longer bellowing smoke across the dark skies. Men no longer worked the machines, women no longer made the teas. An eerie silence hung over the deserted halls. Water dripped from a leaky pipe, a rat scuttled across the grimy floor but otherwise, all was still.

The town was also empty; an old lady taking in washing from her garden was the only sign of life.  Light rain hung in the air, too lazy to fall to the ground.

Like a lullaby the sound of song drifted on the breeze. Nid wy’n gofyn bywyd moethus. Louder and louder it got, deep baritone voices and fragile Sopranos, men; women and children singing beautifully. Calon onest.  Calon lân. The old lady could see them now. All the towns folk in their Sunday best marching up the hill towards the factory. Calon lân yn llawn daioni.  They carried their banners, and their placards demanding justice. They marched with their heads held high and in the middle, the pallbearers took precise measured steps, the coffin proudly on their shoulders. Dim ond calon lân all ganu.

Inside the factory, laughter came from a plush office - at odds with the rest of the grime. Cigar smoke hung in the still air. The voices of the townspeople grew louder and louder, but the laughter grew louder still.

They were at the locked gates now. The people fanned out around the factory walls. Canu’r dydd a chanu’r nos. The voices trailed away as the pallbearers reached the gates. They stooped and lowered the coffin to the floor.

“Comrades,” Carwyn Lewis’s voice boomed.

“We are gathered here to day to celebrate the life of…”

Deep in the bowels of the building the cigar smoker could hear the muffled voice of Lewis and the cheers of the crowd, but he didn’t care. A rowdy rabble couldn’t harm him, not now His laughter became harder still. There was a clink of glass and a glug of liquid.

“Comrades, we must fight this battle and the next and the next.” The crowd cheered. “Together, united, a band of brothers and sisters, we will find strength, we will win our struggle.”

No order was given, no signal made, but as one, the men, women and children charged the gates. The rusted hinges soon gave way and the masses flocked into the courtyard that they’d crossed so many times before. No one really knew what they were going to do, but that didn’t matter, they were doing something.

A fat finger flicked a switch. The factory speakers crackled into life and the haunting laugh rang around the grounds. People froze, stopped to look at the laughing sky. Fear formed on faces. Eyes darted around. Then the fat finger flicked another switch.

Boom.

The explosion could be heard in Cardiff. Debris rained down on the courtyard. Flames leapt. Children screamed. Laughter cracked and died in the rubble of the factory.  Calon onest.  Calon lân.
To hear the song a lot better than I sang it click here

The Fairground at night

Click for audio click here (and I really recommend the audio)
Another very short piece inspired by a writing task on my course. 

Locked away behind swinging doors, ghouls, ghosts, witches and warlocks scare no one but themselves. The fears hidden, the trains are empty - stopped at signals for the night. The white spirits dance on the dark walls and the luminous lettering gently loses its memory.

Next to the Ghost Train the Waltzers have stopped dancing, no flipping stomachs with snatched kisses. No longer spinning to a merry tune, they sit apart from each other, noting the others have seen better days with slashed seats, bruised bars and garish paint chipping off stainless steel.

The pirate ship hangs upside down in the air, to empty the terror built up after a rough night on the high seas, and to save it from being sunk by the rain that is beginning to pitter-patter, spit and splatter around the park. The pirates have all gone home to mum, but some of them left their tea behind.

Once the tallest ride in the fair, the Ferris Wheel sulks below the pirate ship. The gondolas sway in the breeze admiring the views, the lights from Weston and the orange glow of Cardiff. It creaks and groans, showing its age; it doesn’t like it when the breeze whips around its rough seats and through its arms.  

The stuffed bears stare out at the rides. Gaudy colours, cheap fur; rumour has it they’re made from pet cats that go missing in the dead of night. The guns that people pop to try to win the toys hang forlornly in their holsters; battered and bent, even the sharpest of shooters could never shoot them straight.

And finally the Funhouse. A silent hall of mirrors reflects itself into infinity, the moving stairway is stationary while a giant slide is going downhill fast. At the bottom, his body lies bleeding, lifeless, dead.

For more Barry stories click here