Get driving with the lark
As cities sleep
Steal a march before the sun
It’s all philosophy
On an open motorway
Chasing break of day
Somewhere on a border town
I’ve packed my ceilidh boots
I’ve got my “once was” looks
I’ve got my tubes and hooks
Reel, drogue, priest and bung
Throw away your fears
Peel away the years
I’ve seen too many leaves
Falling down
‘Cause we’ll get old
Before this night is done
So get far away
Oh come with me
Everything you see
Is everything you need
Take a road trip
Go soul deep
Unwind: touch the brine
Take some bread: break some wine
I can see the water line
Red below the Lewis sun
Where the ocean rolls
Aboard the ship of souls
The healing wind blows
So why crawl when we can run
Go find your other life
One road: steeper climbs
Where the river winds
Straight into the west
Fade away like rust
Vanish like the dust
‘Cause, baby, tramps like us were born with a 'cianalas'
Oh come with me
Everything you see
Is everything you need
Take a road trip
Go soul deep
Take a road trip
Let's go
Get free: Believe: Go real
Everything you ever need
Is waiting for you here
Get Free: Believe: Go real
Could this be the living glimpse
Of all that’s meant to be
Take a road trip
Go soul deep
Wow. I hadn't expected it to take quite this long, but I've finally reached the end of my indefatigably (I had to steal something from George Galloway) long rundown of that unforgettable week in South Wales. I started writing this blog on the bus home on Friday the 6th, at around Junction 27 (Cardiff East), so this project has actually outlasted the trip itself by a ratio of 11 of 1. I probably shouldn't be boasting about that. But I'm glad I wrote it, as I had a few clear ideas of what I wanted the blog to achieve, policital manifesto-style.
I wanted people to be left with a definitive account of the week's events from someone who was there. I think field trips are the most under-rated cog in the proverbial wheel of University life, and from the moment I started getting involved in the spirit of things at Southwaite Services on the Sunday (alliteration), I knew that a big-time blog was the only way to publicise the brilliance of the annual Geography-2 jaunt to Swansea. The internet is a near-miracle, and perhaps if a naive or nervous student is booked on a field trip in future, then by stumbling across this page via Google or Bebo their minds can be put at rest. If I can survive it, anyone can.
I also wanted to write this because just thinking back to April was so darned enjoyable - moments like the Floor 4 party; falling down the scree slope; dodging Prestatyn: they almost wrote themselves. Embedding J-Pegs in HTML format and cutting/pasting text may be laborious, but at times the actual writing was a skoosh. Swansea was, and remains, the most entertaining, action-packed and relaxing week of my life, in spite of (or perhaps because of) the carnage ensuing around me. Even if you tried to screw up a review of the week, you couldn't manage it: it was too engaging.
I wanted to mention Nerina Pallot humming in every entry, no matter how random or bizarre it seemed. I am now one blog away from achieving that goal.
But above all else, I had to thank the people who made it all possible (this is sounding like 'This Is Your Life' now), the 122 students who woke from their/your slumbers to board that bus on April Fool's Day. Ever since the start of the blog, I've been using Welsh town names to describe all students and staff, to avoid a dehabilitating lawsuit. And in addition, because people may have wished for some of their antics on the trip to remain a secret. Some more than others, methinks. Haha *laughs slightly*. But allow me, if you will, to directly violate the Privacy Act (1988) and cast aside the Welsh town names for a minute. Saying things like, "I'd like to thank Ffestiniog" just sounds ridiculous, and doesn't give the proper credit to the right people. So in no particular order, similar to the X Factor eviction process...
The staff were superb throughout. I would have expected nerves to be fraying like a Lord Watson curtain by the end of the week, but despite their blatant fatigue on Thursday night, cooler heads always prevailed. I guess I should thank Susan Waldron for helping me across the river in the Brecon Beacons (would I have made it anyway? I suppose we'll never know), and the likes of Jim Hanson and Kenny Roberts for their stellar work in guiding us across the Beacons and limestone pavement. Jen and Jo were exemplary on the Monday and Tuesday, and steered us towards a winning presentation. Their generosity with respect to the champagne bottle was also noted by us all.
Paul Routledge......this man redefines legend. I can't for the life of me imagine the week without his enigmatic personality, overall comedy and irreplaceable presence. From the very moment he stepped on the bus on Sunday, it was clear he was 'The Boss'. And where, oh where would we all have been without the Great Dr. Derek Fabel? We'd have missed his fascinating views on limestone caving, our physcial talks would gone down the toilet and the Floor 4 Party would only have been 70% as entertaining. And I'd probably still be stuck on the 'Slope of Doom'. A sobering thought. How ironic that I'm using the term 'sober' in this paragraph.
The staff at SUSU were friendly as you'd expect, but Pembroke Bay in particular was a character, whatever his real name is. Until April, I thought the idea of striking up chat with a bar attendant was the mere domain of the Rovers Return and the Queen Vic, but it is indeed possible to start a conversation out of practically nothing and still come to a non-twatty resolution.
I have to thank Ally. The only other cast member from P*******k A*****y, Ally has known me a fairly long time. I thought that would actually count against me in Swansea, but it ended up being an advantage. He introduced me to his faction of co-friends, and shockingly allowed me to 'hang out' with them on numerous occasions. And he is a bit of a comic character as well, with his "Sheeeuuuuut up" catchphrase, random Australian impressions for no apparent reason, and his revered talent for whistling the "s" sound, in a touching tribute to that guy in the Chewin' the Fat sketch.
While I wandered aimlessly around the city during the Human task, the project was somehow held together by Angela and Duncan, two people of tremendous integrity and intelligence. If you're wondering how our sub-sub-group discussed Welshness in public places so well on Tuesday night, I would point the finger of credit (is that a phrase?) at Angela and Duncan rather than me. They showed great perseverance (sp) in Carmarthen when lesser people would have called it a day. Kudos must also to Carla for helping to rescue the physical project, when all looked lost in a myriad (sp?) of exhuastion.
I was introduced to a lot of people at Swansea, as the trip was more packed than a George Michael concert held on Clapham Common. I'd never spoken to the likes of Kat, Guy, Pete, Ross, Robert, Magnus, Karen, Joanna, Ewan and Rob before April 1st, but I'm delighted I finally got the chance to. Not everyone moves in the same social circles, for logistical reasons, but I was able to keep up contact with Guy, Magnus and Joanna on a semi-regular basis throughout April and May. I just wish I'd got to know them more at Swansea, so there'd be more anecdotes about them in the blog. And the cool guy who told all the jokes in the presentations, whose name I never caught, deserves copious amounts of praise for his heoric efforts at raising morale. The John Smeaton of Swansea, surely.
I don't have to thank Prestatyn. Prestatyn scares me.
Neal is out and out comedy, as perfectly displayed at the Floor 4 Party. With sidekicks such as Lester (there were too many 'Craig's on the trip to call him by his first name), he somehow manages to keep up with multiple social circles instantaneously. I sincerely hope he sticks around for Honours Geography. That's not an order, but it might as well be.
Thanks to Susie for being such a cheery influence on the group throughout the week. Luckily, she doesn't seem to judge people solely on first impressions: otherwise she would think of me as a 24-hour drunkard who can't play pool. When in fact...I just can't play pool. She was certainly a valued part of the trip, and is one of those people who's always full of energy, no matter how dull/tiring/depressing the task.
I must apologise to Sandie for not mentioning her throughout the week. I honestly don't remember seeing her during the trip, although we have met since then. The lack of a mention is by accident rather than design - in fact, you can have your own Welsh place-name anyway. Pontyberen!
There were so many people who just randomly struck up conversation with me - Alex, Johnny, Gordon, Stuart, Scott: the list could go on indefinitely, much like an Eddie Murphy film about dressing up as 50-stone women (how many different variations of that theme can one man try?). Stuart appreciates the work of the Manic Street Preachers, so deserves respect immediately. Since Swansea I've only bumped into him a couple of times, in the ever-reliable Round Reading Room, but like with so many other people, Bebo has facilitated (big word) a rapport since April. And Scott is possibly the only other wrestling fan who made the trip, although others claimed they "used to watch it but stopped years ago". Aye, yer maw. How do you know all the new characters then? Anyway, Scott and I got on well at Swansea, and I hope I meet him again, perhaps in Honours. When I started blabbering about Stacy Keibler, he understood what I meant. He is, thus, a man of great taste.
Another person I babbled to quite regularly was Judi. I'd met her before, at a Lab in December, but it was one of those weird deals where you see someone at a Lab, you sit next to each other then the next week they've disappeared. That seemed to happen on a weekly basis, actually. Maybe Room 204 is haunted. Anyway, she made it to Swansea, and it was great chatting to her all week. Whether it was during brief moments of respite at the Kilvey reception, deep within the concrete maze of SUSU or down on the Limestone Pavement, she always had something nice to say. Thank frig for people like her, I say. It's all very well looking back on Swansea as the greatest week I've ever had, but such happiness was never a guarantee beforehand. It required the help of a great many people (whether they knew it or not) to provide me with the confidence I needed in life, and I'll always be grateful for the experiences I had that week. Without the likes of Judi there, it would have been a lot harder to get through. I'm not sure if I'll ever see her again, or if she'll be doing Geography in the future, but her contribution to the week will be remembered, that's for sure.
Can I thank Nerina now? Or will I just skip straight to the proposal?
Pate. This man almost redefines legend. Many people have attempted charisma over the years, and some have failed miserably. For every John Smeaton, there is a Jade Goody that slips through the net. But Pate has successfully mastered the fine art of not only 'being a legend', but doing so with ease. Tough tasks (alliteration) like the clast analysis and river project were somehow made entertaining with Pate around, and what's more, he hardly seemed to break sweat the whole time. His contributions, such as his hosting of classic nights in Room 3-0-whatever-it-was will live long in the memory. He is currently believed to be contacting the Guinness Book of Records for a world record attempt at charisma levels.
I don't think I met Kim or Pate before Tuesday night or Wednesday morning (two timeframes that seemed to merge into one another), but I was glad I finally did. Kim always has something nice to say, whether it's about the big issues facing every human on the planet or her intruiging fear of squirrels. I was randomly selected to be in this group for the physical project (after Routledge made the selections, overseen by an independent adjudicator), and to put it lightly, I'd say I was very lucky with the draw. She's also a fan of Wolfstone, who regularly work in conjunction with the legends that are Runrig, so the concept of Scottish folk-rock as a SERIOUS genre of music is clearly not lost on her.
And then there's Craig. No, not me, the other one. When I met him at the 'infamous flat party of February 3rd', I made a number of naive assumptions about the impending trip to Swansea. Such as, "no-one will be getting drunk", and, "we probably won't be allowed out at night". Luckily, Craig is much more edcuated about these kind of things, and duly set the record straight. His attendance at Swansea was a life-saver for me, as he got the trip running by introducing me to other people, such as Paddy. Paddy humorously spent half the week calling himself "Craig", leading me into the inevitable grounds of confusion. How was I to know his name was Paddy? But the magnificent pool tournaments and nights on the town quickly passed into legend, and I have since partaken of many more nights out in Glasgow. Craig's flat has been something of a second home in September, to the point that I should probably be paying some sort of rent or electricity bills. A loyal (if long-suffering) fan of Dunfermline Athletic, his part in the remarkable events of the week will be remembered. And I apologise for forgetting the odd incident in the blog, such as the Thursday Night in Wetherspoons when Pate and you saw someone leave the toilets with baked beans right down his shirt. Either he was drunk, or the two of you were. Either way, it's a damning indictment of binge-drinking in Wales.
And that's about it. Thank you for reading this much of the blog. To paraphrase Sir Bob Geldof at Live8, it would have been a bit crap if no-one had logged on. I hope you enjoyed reading it at least 17% as much as I enjoyed writing it, and I can only apologise for the relentlessly intrusive nature of the entries. Swansea was such a defining week for me that I felt it necessary to document every detail, however minor, but rest assured the Big Brother-style spotlight has now been removed from the Geography department, never to return.
Did someone say 'Majorca'? I didn't hear that.
But anyway, all that remains is to thank the city of Swansea for its hospitality. Despite the area's reputation for sordid binge-drinking and chaotic debauchery, I found the locals to be polite and helpful most of the time. Wind Street on Thursday night was a bit hairy, but that's to be expected, and you'd find more trouble in Ayr High Street on a Sunday afternoon (actually true). And while our respective parents may be the greatest funding body known to mankind (we don't have to prove our income details and tax status, like with SAAS), I would happily pay the Swansea fee myself now. I owe a tremendous debt of gratitude to some great people, and I hope this blog has in some small way provided that.
Right. Well, I'd, um...I'd better be off then. Hope to see all you soon. It's been good fun writing.
...
Nah, hold on a minute...there's something I have to do first......
Friday April 6th 2007
7:00am. My alarm woke me far too early. I had a quite ridiculous dream last night. You'll never believe this. I was walking down Wind Street when I bumped into Bangor and the unique Llanelli, who said they were going to some nightclub to - get this - strip naked. Then I was stuck in a lift with Newport, where I poured my heart out (not quite literally), before accidentally becoming part of a sexual discussion in Room 305. Then I went back to the lift, where two lesbians were flirting with me, but before I could run and catch up with them, they disappeared into the night. And then I woke up. Strange what a bit of alcohol does to your brain, eh?
7:10am. My parents called me to make sure I was up in time for the long, long bus journey home. While standing up to reach for the phone took a bit of effort, I suppose it did help to wake me up. If you need to get up early for something, then make sure to put your alarm on the other side of the room. No pain, no gain, as they probably say at the rehearsals for the Spice Girls reunion.
Outside, the Bristol Channel glittered between the trees of Singleton Park. The grey concrete block of SUSU faced me. For the first time since I stood atop the University Avenue hill last Sunday, there wasn't a sound or a movement outside. It was quite a surreal moment. Pretty emotional. Not because of the SUSU concrete, no. But because of what had happened since last week. I thought I was heading straight into the worst week of my life: a disaster waiting to happen. And yet, unbeknownst to me at the time, I was actually entering the best week I could ever have hoped for. The contrast between my life on April 1st and April 6th was as clear as the contents of a Smirnoff glass (Smirnoff is apparently a type of vodka. Oh, wait, was that part of the dream as well?) Stood there in my room for the very last time, it suddenly struck me. After 20 years of trying, I had finally found the happiness I'd been searching for. After heading down the M6 on the aptly named 'April Fool's Day', I was heading back on the equally-aptly named 'Good Friday'. And let's face it, anything's good compared to the murder of Jesus Christ.
Murderer: Pontius Pilate
7:25am. No-one else is in the breakfast queue. Have they cancelled it for the Easter holidays? Gradually, people start arriving one by one, the shutters are pulled up and breakfast begins. Consider the fast broken. But does Mount Snowdon really need to bellow so loudly about the packed lunches? Doesn't she know we all had a late night?
7:45am. Cardiff, Abersytwyth, Port Talbot and others drift in to proceedings. Word is sweeping SUSU that a group of students went to a nightclub called Jumpin' Jaks (sp) and did indeed strip on stage. Male students. Despicable. Absolutely despicable. But maybe last night wasn't a dream after all, an even more frightening thought. You'll notice that throughout this blog, and in my final video package (thanks to everyone whose pictures I silently and shamefully pasted from Bebo), there is no coverage of the nakedness on show at Jumpin' Jaks. There are reasons for that, namely the fact that, well, it's absolutely despicable. But I'll leave all mentions to the Swansea Bebo page, uniting students since April 2007 (cheap plug).
8:10am. One last look round reception. I spent quite a bit of time there over the week, as my room was as souless as a Louise Redknapp cover. Aberdare was there, so we handed over the room keys before heading down to the bus. Aderdare was sad to be leaving as well, but was also looking forward to catching up on all the big football action. We boarded the bus, as Wrexham paced around outside. For almost three months, he has assured us that the bus would be leaving at 8:30 sharp, and not a minute later. So, 20 minutes later...
...we still haven't left. Wrexham is a man on a mission, flitting between the three buses, making his lists and checking them twice. It appears, ladies and gentlemen, that one person is missing. Boy oh boy, they're late. They're later than the Late Show With Conan O'Brien, that's how late they are. Wrexham's promise of an 8:30 departure, no matter what, is looking a bit hollow, but I'd rather wait for the final straggler to board. Then we can at least leave with a clear conscience.
Late: Conan O'Brien
8:55am. Thank the lord. After a long wait and the dispatching of a full-scale search party, the final passenger joins proceedings. His name is Ebbw Vale. Wrexham is frantically searching for the guy's mobile number at this stage (I think he was prepared to knock the door down, if it came to that), but thankfully, there will be no need. After a final glance over to SUSU, the bus revs the engine and heads down the short slip road to the coast. And here, in a sad but inevitable moment, is the last ever picture I have of Swansea. Ah, the memories.
9:30am. The coach convoy rounds the dramatic slip roads of Junction 42 again, this time heading east for Cardiff. Ffestiniog is sat in the back row, while Llandudno and Port Talbot sit opposite me, deep in conversation. My aim for today is to get to speak to Newport, and thank her for all she did in the last week. I have until Glasgow, then the masses will disperse, heading into an uncertain future of sporadic Geography lectures, exam revision and a seemingly unending 4 (FOUR) month summer holiday (does no-one else think that's a tad long?) If I don't speak to her before the coaches reach the Boyd Orr again, I will have failed in my final mission of the week, which would be like accumulating six crystals in the Crystal Maze then only grabbing 50p in the final round, the one inside that massive crystal.
Crystals: Richard O'Brien
Have I just mentioned two celebrities in a row called O'Brien? That's uncanny, so it is. Next I'll be printing pictures of Coronation Street actress Tina O'Brien for the world to see.
Tina O'Brien: Surname coincedence
9:45am. The first Cardiff junctions are reached. I turn to my rucksack and reveal a Swansea notebook I had packed for the trip. It never got used, as eye-catching yellow ones were provided for us instead, but I feel I should still put it to good use. So I start writing about the week I've just had. The notes will eventually form the introduction to this very blog, so in a weird kind of way, it's actually overlapping itself now.
"Picture the scene. It's Autumn 2004. Your life is currently down the cacker after the complete failure to..."
No, I've got to change the end of that sentence. It's embarrassing.
10:00am. Ok, nearly finished the first paragraph. Let's just read it back, then I'll get on with the...
*Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding*
Oh lord, not them again. I forgot to mention, the chap who rang me about a new mobile last night, also said he would ring again today to iron out the specifics of the deal. This is hardly the place to conduct such business, but I have no real choice.
"Um, basically Craig, we are offering you a brand new 3 phone completely free of charge apart from the sub-monthly payments every month of £12.50 a month for the first 12 months of a 12 month contract."
Yes, of course. I'm beginning to know this speel off by heart.
"So if I could start with your address and home telephone number..."
The next ten minutes are equally painful to the seventeen I went through last night. I don't really want a new phone, or a new pay package, but he's so difficult to shut up that I feel compelled to answer every question with "yes". This call, and every call I've received from 3 ever since, has all the hallmarks of a Fonejacker wind-up. But unfortunately, this time I am not even offered a "free ring-ding". What a bunch of cheapskates.
10:45am. The convoy is roaring along the M5 (can a bus roar? it can now) to Strensham Services, but Wrexham takes hold of the microphone and informs us that our next stop will be Keele. A slight letdown, in all honesty. Not that Strensham Services forms the apex of my existence on Earth, but we were all looking forward to the rest from travelling. Now we have to circumnavigate Birmingham first, at the height of the Easter traffic. This next stretch will be painful. Think I'll have to crack open the iPod for some classic Runrig.
10:50am. Oh take me there!
's na horo eile, horo bho
's na horo bho, hillean o
's na horo eille ho,
Take me there!
10:55am. Now we walk in empty glens
Rushes blowing in the wind
A voice that's calling you again
To come back home
Where have they gone, where have they gone
Gone to illusion everyone
In the darkest heart, the pride of man
Will walk alone
11:00am. You'll take the high road and I'll take the low road
And I'll be in Scotland before you
Where me and my true love will never meet again
On the bonnie bonnie banks of Loch Lomond
Hoch hoch maneva
hoch maneya banya
hoch hoch maneva
hoooo-och maneva banya
(rough estimate of translation)
After all of that, I'm slightly tired out. I chat to Llandudno and Port Talbot for a while, but it's clear that we're all too exhausted to muster up the energy, even for a few words. Despite all the new friends people have been making, the bus is actually quieter than it was on Sunday.
I decide to fall asleep.
......
......
......
11:10am. Oh, hi Nerina. Didn't see you there. Um, Nerina...there's something I have to ask you. I've been meaning to do this for a long time, but, um, basically......there's no other way of saying this.........will you m......
*Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding*
Huh? What the frig is this? Oh, it's my mobile again. We appear to be somewhere near Smethwick, for better or worse. My parents are calling again, inquisitive over the new mobile deal. They seem quite alarmed by my confused responses, but I guess when you call someone who's half asleep you have to expect a bit of gibberish sometimes. Which must mean that Ian Wright spends every waking hour in a state of unconsciousness.
Gibberish: Wright
11:40am. Birmingham. Not a pleasant sight, really. I've never set foot in the city, and surprisingly, I've never even seen a picture of the city centre. Although that's maybe not too surprising for anyone who's actually been. Today is Good Friday, traditonally known as one of the worst days of the year for motorway traffic, and we're joining the M6 in about 10 miles. Which, roughly translated into time, is probably about an hour away. The bus is grinding to a halt, surrounded by a mass of fumes and pollutants. There is very little in the way of scenery here.
11:55am. Oh wow, what a cool flyover.
12:15pm. The stop-start momentum of the bus is getting rather tiring, and we're falling drastically behind schedule with each passing minute, so it's with some relief that we sweep onto the M6 at Junction 8. And...into another jam. At least we avoided Spaghetti Junction. I'm not sure we could cope with the exitement.
12:30pm. The convoy is powering up the M6 to our lunchtime destination of Keele. KT Tunstall has joined me on the iPod, and she's singing about a horse who proposes to a woman. Remarkable stuff, but not as quite as remarkable as my dream last night. Cause, um, it was a dream. Wasn't it?
Oh for frig's sake, it's another jam...
The nature of today's traffic seems inexplicable to me. I'm hardly Jeremy Clarkson (I think I can be thankful of that), but I know a little bit about roads, and as I understand, if there's a jam ahead, it's probably being caused by a lane merge or an accident. Yet this road doesn't narrow or merge until Carlisle, at least 200 miles away. Is there some special stipulation that on Good Friday the traffic must slow to 10mph every few miles for a laugh? Gordon Brown, get it sorted.
KT Tunstall is now singing about being on the other side of the world from a loved one. I just wish I was on the other side of the central reservation. At least they're moving at a decent speed.
1:15pm. After a Superbowl-esuqe number of stops and starts, Wrexham grabs the mic to inform us that Keele is just a few minutes away. We'll have a bit of time for lunch, then we're heading straight to Southwaite in the Lake District. We alight from the bus (I don't mean we were all set alight), and aim for the Burger King/KFC hybrid located high above the motorway. Aberystywth, Lanfair P.G. and Merthyr Tydfil are queueing for some fast food, just as they did 5 days ago. But this time, I actually know who they are. Crucially, Merthyr Tydfil appears to have escaped serious long-term injury after last night's events. I seem to remember hurting her in an arm wrestling match, which I thought I was incapable of doing...
Beneath us, the traffic ebbs and flows like the tides, snaking round the corner to places such as Stoke-on-Trent and Newcastle (Under Lyme). One minute cars are moving freely, then the next they're nose-to-tail, with no apparent explanation. And so it goes on. My Snapfax deals are restricted to the Greater Glasgow area, so due to the notorious price range of service stations, I decide to settle for a couple of the snack options. I think it was medium fries and onion rings. Onion rings are so good, they should be receiving government subsidies. Another thing for Gordon Brown to sort out, after crushing al Qaeda and banning Lily Allen in enclosed public places.
Tuntsall: Horse proposal
1:30pm. Back on the ground floor, Aberdare is skimming through the tabloids and broadsheets of the 'in-house' newsagent. It seems that the Roma vs. Man Utd game (which took place on Wednesday, according to Bangor) degenerated into a crowd brawl at the final whistle. That's strange, I caught the last two minutes in the bar at SUSU and witnessed no such mindless violence. Perhaps ITV should sack their cameramen. They should sack their news team as well, but that's a different issue. Combined with the crowd trouble in Tottenham's game last night, the papers speculated that English fans were becoming the victims of a wave of violence sweeping Europe's football grounds. We had all been more or less cut off from the outside world for the last week, Big Brother-style, and had no real access to TV or the internet, so the news came as a shock to me. Thankfully, things calmed down the next week, and Man Utd royally spanked Roma 7-1.
Outside, Wrexham and Newport are stood in the sunshine, admiring the fine work of a local brass band who appear to be playing the theme tune to the Flintstones (hey, I'm not making this stuff up). Newport says 'hi' to me, but I struggle to find the right moment to say...you know, what I was trying to tell her earlier. Keele Services just doesn't feel like the right place for such a conversation, but I'm aware that Southwaite will be my last chance unless I speak to her here. But alas, the moment passes. Besides, it's too entertaining watching Wrexham dance to 'Flintstones, meet the Flintstones' to concentrate on anything else.
And why is Prestatyn stalking me round the service station? You keep away from me with those petrol pumps. Prestatyn scares me.
2:30pm. Over the Thelwall viaduct we go, with Liverpool on the left and Manchester on the right. Some of the world's greatest football and music derives from here, but the convoy is heading north to Preston and Lancaster. Then, in what could be only be described as a 'large misjudgment', someone decides it would be a good idea to put on some in-bus entertainment. The entertainment, in this case, being Johnny Vegas. Now don't get me wrong, he's good for a laugh if you're in an anti-establishment mood and want to hear someone shouting incessantly about the price of beer. And we are deep in the heart of Vegas country, rather ironically. But this show wasn't a straight stand-up gig, it was one of those bizarre attempts at 'alternative comedy' which featured Vegas touring Britain, actually admitting his act was rubbish and receiving coaching from some other guy, who was also rubbish. And it was turned up to such a volume that you could probably hear it on the Isle of Man.
Petrolheads: Flintstones
2:40pm. Vegas is still prattling on. A lot of alternative comedy works, like The Office or The Day Today (or even Saxondale, in a weird way). But I'm not sure this show does. People around me are getting restless, as they can hardly hear themeslves think or speak above the unsightly dim. Finally, a bus mutiny (sounds like roche moutonee) is avoided when the TV is switched off. I'm quite tired again, after all that. I think I'll go back to sleep.
...
...
...
Hold on. I can sense something. Someone's looking at me...
I wake up and turn to my left to see Cardiff in fits of laughter on the other bus. They must have pulled up alongside us, which is technically illegal in the left hand lane. I can only muster up a kind of embarrassed smirk at being caught red-handed (or red-eyed) falling asleep. It's a good job the driver of the aforementioned bus wasn't peering in at us, though. As straight ahead lies - you guessed it - another jam.
*Hrmph*
Thought for the Day: If a drug dealer was demanding payment from a Welshman in a high-speed pursuit, could it be said that both men were chasing the dragon?
Back on the iPod, The Killers are singing about someone who doesn't look a thing like Jesus. It's actually approaching 3pm, which is reported to be the time Jesus was crucified on this day 1970 years ago. How's that for irony?
Brandon Flowers: Not mistaken for Jesus
3:15pm. My writing of the blog is going reasonably well. I've got to the bit where I was told I would have to do "compulsory presentations every night", and it reminds me of the fear that overwhelmed me for the last few months. I feel like a bit of a cheat, having ducked out of the presentations every night, and it proves to be my only nagging doubt as the bus inches along the motorway. What if they had been compulsory? Would I still be smiling then? In the end, I decide to stop worrying about it, choosing instead to listen to my iPod. If I actually still suck as a person, then it'll become pretty obvious when I get back to my life in Glasgow. But for now, I'm going to go by the working assumption that Swansea changed me. I ruddy well hope so, anyway.
3:30pm. The jam has finally faded into obscurity, and we're rampaging up the M6 towards Southwaite. Hopefully I'll see Newport then and speak to her, but in the meantime, Nerina is singing about taking a road trip to Idaho and turning her life around. It's an awe-inspiring song, one of my favourites, and contains more than a little irony for me this week. People have asked me 'what the big deal is' with Nerina, but I can assure you, I'm not quite as obsessed as I make out on the blogs. It's just done for entertainment value. Honest. Although...now you mention it, it would be rather helpful if her new husband kind of...conveniently disappeared. You know. He doesn't have to divorce her - just ask for an annulment or something. Do the right thing and move along. In fact, are you listening, Mr. Pallot? Yes, I'm talking to you. All you need to do is admit that you made a mistake, and then end things amicably. We'll say no more about it. And if you don't......well, then we move to Plan B. And you don't want to know what that entails.
4:15pm. We are parted by desire for the strange and new
I've got a quarter in my pocket, I've no apple left to eat
I am running, I am running
I can't feel my feet
And now, I'm halfway home
The Isle of Man lies out to sea, with the Lake District on the northern horizon. The coach convoy seems to be partaking of some sort of drag race (not racing in drag clothes), as our coach constantly swaps places with the other two. I've no doubt that it's very entertaining for the drivers, and some of the passengers (including me), but is it really the best way of going about business?
Llandudno is slightly concerned, but in a light-hearted way, about the situation regarding his field notebook. He was supposed to hand it to Anglesey at Keele Services, complete with a survey of the week's events, but accidentally left it in his bag, which lies in the coach boot. The problem is, he'll have to wait until Southwaite to hand it over, and to the untrained eye, it could appear that he smuggled the notebook onto the bus before adding more notes this afternoon. Port Talbot and Ffestiniog reassure him that no-one will assume he is capable of such a cold-blooded deception.
Deception: Nadia
4:40pm. Southwaite is looming. Deep breaths now. I need to refocus, as I've given myself one last task to complete, but it's a tall order. I have to tell Newport I'm grateful for everything she did over the last week, but I'm woefully underprepared for this kind of thing. I'm going to have go out on a wing and a prayer (or is it 'Living on a Prayer'?) and pretend I'm used to this stuff. But since I've basically been doing that for the last six days, it's fair to say that nothing is impossible in this world. Apart from Louis Walsh actually being sacked from the X Factor.
4:45pm. As we alight, Wrexham informs us that the drivers are legally entitled to an extended break, due to the delays at Birmingham and Preston. The announcement goes down about as well as news of the smoking ban in Ballieston. There's nothing we can do about it, so we resign ourselves to a whole hour at Southwaite Services, home to such exciting luminaries as Cafe Ritazza and WH Smith.
5:15pm. Cardiff has organised another football kickabout in the car park, and I stumble along exhaustedly to take part. Whatever football skills I had have evaporated since primary school, and my technique now resembles that of Ronald McDonald rather than Ronaldinho. Then, over by the entrance to the Burger King restaurant (how can they not have a drive-thru at a service station?), I see Newport pacing around with a cigarette in her hand. I sense this will be my last chance. Gradually, I edge away from the kickabout, making sure to pass the ball away from any HGV lorries parked nearby, and walk towards Newport. What the frig am I going to say? Ok, ok, I've decided. Keep calm here. It's not like a presentation, is it? Since there's only one person there. No, that thought's making me more nervous.
5:30pm. "Hi Craig."
"Oh, hi."
"How are you?"
"Oh, you know, just about too tired to stand up..."
We chat for a couple of minutes about the week's events. Right, I'm just about ready to say what I planned to all along. All I need is the right opportunity. Ok, here goes. In 3......2......1......
WHAT THE FRIG IS THIS!!!?!?!
IT'S PRESTATYN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Prestatyn marches over like it's Armageddon, planting himself right next to Newport. Oh great. Just frigging great. I've waited the whole week to do this, and I'm going to be screwed out of my last opportunity by PRESTATYN??? He looks like he's going to take someone's head off, as well. I haven't heard him speak much, so every time he opens his mouth I expect him to calmly and quietly say, "It's time", before calmly and quietly taking me to the next world. But what's he going to say tonight? And can he frigging well hurry up about it?
"Have you seen the news today?"
What the...No, I haven't. Don't tell me, Lily Allen's running for Prime Minister.
"The British soldiers held hostage by the Iranian government have been freed."
Well, that's wonderful news, naturally. They weren't even in Iranian waters, so the entire thing was a diplomatic farce. But what's this got to do with me or Newport?
Prestatyn proceeds to systematically announce the major news stories of the day, as if he's Trevor MacDonald or something.
BONG!!! The crowd trouble at the recent European football games has prompted pleas for calm from UEFA.
BONG!!! Passengers are warned to expect delays over the holiday period as Central Station closes for Easter.
BONG!!! At the US Masters, Justin Rose misses a putt at 18 to drop to level par, two shots behind the leaders at the halfway stage.
BONG!!! And finally - A woman tries to smuggle an iguana into Blackpool Airport in her bra, police in Lancashire say.
Are you done now? Prestatyn stands smoking his cigarette as if he's just mauled Clint Eastwood in a gangland assault. I hate gangs, and cigarettes, so if you don't mind, would you like to, um, move on? You know? Go and talk to Wrexham about how Tony Blair is "the real terrorist" or whatever. But right now, mate, you're kind of cramping my style.
Prestatyn is walking away to place the charred remains of his cigarette in a nearby bin. I feel like I'm going to faint. As Avril Lavigne once sang, why d'ya (do you) have to go and make things so complicated? Can I not just do the normal thing and talk to her about alcohol or something?
No chance. I've not come this far to fall short at the final hurdle. No-one's talking to Newport at the moment. So, I guess this is it. Here goes.........
"Can I just say..."
Newport turns around.
*miniscule yet awkward pause*
"...thanks for speaking to me all week."
Her face lights up. "Aw, it's no problem..."
*almost faints again with relief*
I then proceed to ramble incoherently about my level of conversation, noting that I was often "too exhausted" to think of interesting things to say. Looking back, that was quite a rubbish excuse. I mean, everyone else had gone through the same week too, hadn't they? She tells me that she enjoyed talking to me over the course of the week, which I'm rather flattered by. Then she kind of reaches out as if she's about to hug me, in a renactment of Wednesday night's events. Unexpectedly, this is going better than a James McFadden attack in Paris.
*Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding*
Oh what the FRIG is THIS!?!?!?!
Ah, it's Newport's mobile this time. Her mother is calling to decipher when the coach convoy will reach its ultimate destination of Glasgow. I would have laughed my head off if it was 3 Mobile. She speaks to her mother for a little while before ending the call, turning back to me and smiling - "Sorry about that." I tell her it's fine. After all, I'm getting used to being interrupted by mobile phones this week.
Edmonds: Interrupted by phone calls
5:40pm. Wrexham rounds everyone up to board the coach convoy for one last haul up the M6 to Glasgow. Newport is reassuring me that the fear of presentations and social situations will fade away, much like travel sickness in that regard. Time will tell, but hopefully over the next few months I'll look forward to nights out, rather than avoid them twatilly. And with that, she leaves for the coach convoy, promising to see me at Glasgow. See, that wasn't so difficult, was it? Piece of cake. Um, no worries at all.
*climbs aboard bus, almost faints*
5:50pm. The bus has left Southwaite, bound once more for the glorious nation of Scotland. In my blog introduction, I've reached the paragraph where I weigh up the pros and cons of the Swansea trip. Should I go or not? Will it really be the catastrophe I think it will? Will it frig!
6:30pm. We'll well into Caledonia now, passing the source of the River Clyde near Abington. We're approaching Lesmahagow (was he not in a band in the 70s?) and life is as close to perfect as I could possibly imagine. Whatever's round the next corner, I'll face the challenge with relish.
It's another jam.
I want to faint again.
To be fair to the M74, a road of reasonable integrity, this jam was brought about by roadworks at Junction 7. Something to do with "tarmac resurfacing", apparently. I can barely keep my eyes open by this point, but I manage to methodically reach for the iPod and bring Nerina back into proceedings. I just wish she'd been invited onto the northbound coach in person. I'm sure a quick hum would convince Wrexham he'd made the right decision.
Nerina: The back of the bus, they CAN sing
6:40pm. If love is a drug I guess we're all sober
If hope is a song, I guess it's all over
Don't be so depressed, Nerina. Life is on the up. Speaking of sober-ness, most of us are either nursing hangovers or still drinking. Aberystwyth, in particular, has smuggled booze on the bus in an illegal attempt to "get through the day". Tut tut. Tut.
6:50pm. This jam is painful. Even more painful than the others. Despite my own personal joy at Southwaite, and the remarkable highs of the past week, I feel utterly drained of all positive emotion, sitting stranded on the M74. The sun is setting to the west, over the Isle of Arran and my hometown of Prestwick. No offence whatsoever to the co-travellers on my coach, but I don't think anyone could have kept the spirits up on this journey. It was as physically sapping as anything I'd ever done. Before climbing Goatfell, of course.
7:00pm. I'm not quite losing the will to live, but I'm certainly losing the will to stay conscious.
Who the heck does Llandudno look like? Is it...oh wait a minute, we're moving again!
The convoy roars into gear, safely negociating the line of traffic cones polluting Junction 7 and sailing along the M74 to Glasgow. If a bus can sail. Before I know it we've passed Motherwell and Hamilton, rounding the veritable chicane of the M74/M73/M8 section and charging at full tilt towards Glasgow City Centre. I remember coming down this road on Sunday, sitting with Aberystwyth, Ffestiniog, Cardigan and others. I felt too insular to speak regularly to them, but I feel I've got to know them, however slightly, over the last six days. And in an extraordinary coincedence, they're all nice people. Who'd that thunk it (thought it)?
7:25pm. "The cheques had been cashed, the rooms had been booked, the coaches were ready. And I was about to embark on the trip of a lifetime with 122 very interesting people. Very. Very, Very..."
I finish the blog introduction in the nick of time, as the coach convoy swings round Charing Cross and onto the Great Western Road. Up to the Oran Mor we go, before turning left onto Byres Road and round into University Avenue. The Maths Building, The dear old Maths Building. The last time I was in there, I thought I was approaching my social extermination. Finally, and not a moment too soon, the convoy reaches the Boyd Orr car park before grinding to a final halt. Somehow, we all manage to stand up and stagger to the door, clambering down the steps and reaching the terra firma (latin) of the ground. I made it. We all made it. Mission accomplished.
Aberystwyth and Lanfair P.G. are preparing to leave, so I make sure to say my goodbyes. Aberystwyth appears to be going to the QMU, in a crazed plan to continue the drunkenness, but I need to head home, see my family again and catch up on the missed sleep. I reckon about 37 hours will do the job.
Lanfair, of course, heard the story of my appearance at the 'infamous flat party of February 3rd', when I refused to drink late into Saturday night because I had a Geography lecture on the Monday. He gleefully takes the opportunity to remind me of this naive folly.
"No, Craig won't be going out tonight...he's got a lecture on Tuesday morning!"
Yes, very funny. I have to admit, I laughed too.
Across the car park, Newport is walking with a purpose towards a waiting car near the traffic lights. I make sure to say goodbye to her, and she says she'll see me again soon. And with that, she's off into the evening. Hopefully she'll catch up on the dramactic events of Coronation Street, after I informed her that Tracy Barlow had indeed been convicted of the murder of Charlie Stubbs. She seemed utterly delighted by this news.
Llandudno and Port Talbot are walking up the hill towards the Library and SRC. A thought strikes me. How could I thank Newport and not Port Talbot, after all she'd said (particularly during the madness of last night)? I try and catch up with the two of them, but running is effectively out of the equation at this stage. Eventually I reach them, and say thanks to Port Talbot. Similarly to Newport, she doesn't seem to find it a weird compliment. If I said to a Prestwick ned, "thanks for talking to me", they'd probably reply, "shut it ya dobbaaaaaa", but then, this isn't Prestwick is it?
Cardiff had talked to me about hitching a taxi ride into Glasgow a couple of minutes ago, but when I turn round, the great man has done a disappearing act. I stumble up the steps towards the QMU and circumnavigate the Maths Building, but there's no sign of him. Across the road, one of his mates is sat outside the Wolfson Building. Since we're back in Glasgow, I guess I should give this guy a Scottish place-name. Kyle of Lochalsh.
Disappearing Act: Paul Daniels
Kyle of Lochalsh says Cardiff is long gone, and asks if I had a good week. "The greatest of my life", I respond with no hesitance. But the exhaustion is getting to me. He asks another question, but I can't for the life of me figure out what he said. I stare inquisitively at him, as if I'm being visited by a spiritual demon, before curiously asking, "What?" He still doesn't seem to think I'm weird. Why does no-one think I'm weird up here? It's so refreshing it's almost, well, weird.
7:45pm. The only people left are the staff. I consider going over and shaking their hands as well, but that would stand out as a little bit odd. Even this week. Past the Boyd Orr, Glaswegians are mingling in the West End. I round the corner into Byres Road, and almost have to pinch myself. Something's changed about this place. Something's happened since I left on Sunday morning. Everything looks different.
I can see people's faces.
Allow me to explain. When I used to walk along Byres Road in the past, I would do so with my head lowered. Staying out of trouble was the number one goal, quickly followed by the desire not to get noticed. But now, for the first time ever, I'm walking along this road with my head held high. I can see people's faces: their eyes, even. With the existence I've led, this is quite the revolution. I had absolutely no self-confidence a while ago, and went through life as quietly as possible to avoid embarrassment. But now, I see people as potential friends, not potential dangers. I'm looking at people as I walk towards Hillhead Underground, and they're looking back at me. And for the first time, it doesn't seem bizarre in the slightest. Calvin Harris was acceptable in the 80s (the 80s, DOO-DOO), but after years of trying, I think I'm finally acceptable in the 2000s.
Inside, I purchase a new 20 Journey ticket (these are seriously underrated) and descend the escalators to the platform. And true to form, someone walks up and talks to me. He recognises me from Swansea, but truth be told, I'm not exactly sure I remember him. But in any event, his name is Pitlochry. Pitlochry and I have a good chat for the next few minutes, recalling some of the key events of the week. At Buchanan Street I bid him farewell, and march up the staircase towards my final, final, final destination of the bus station. The 8:35 to Prestwick will be leaving in a few minutes, and right enough, it's sat waiting as I arrive. Extraordinarily, so is someone else from the field trip!
Her name is Troon, and she seems to be getting the same bus as me. I'd like to report a storybook ending here, and say I bounded up and talked to her as well, but in truth, I didn't. There's always a nagging doubt that I'll end up talking to the wrong person, in a case of mistaken identity. Walk up to someone on the street and say, "Did you enjoy Swansea?", and if they weren't on the field trip, they'll look at you like you have 18 heads. And besides, she probably didn't remember me. She was part of the Blue Group, along with Prestatyn. And no matter how much confidence I gain in life, rest assured that Prestatyn will always, always scare me.
At approximately 20:30 on Friday the 6th of April 2007, I boarded the bus back home to Prestwick. What transpired on the South Coast of Wales that week will live with me forever. The experiences. The comedy. The drama. The people. No matter what happens in our respective lives, I hope everyone remembers Swansea for as long as they live. Whether it was a life-changing experience for you, or just a fun time drinking (in moderation) with mates, I hope it goes down as a defining moment in your life as well. THIS is how to live. Not squabbling with twats, or picking fights on street corners, or heaven forbid, launching bombs at innocent bystanders. Just having fun with great people. 122 great people who were flung in at the deep end, yet somehow pulled through. 122 great personalities who shone throughout.
In the surrealness of Swansea was the normality. In its unpredictability was its reassurance. In its ridiculousness was its sanctuary. The purpose of the trip was primarily to learn about Welsh glaciation and national identity. I learnt about life. I learnt about the ancient art of having a good time. And above all else, I learnt that the time for lurking in the shadows, chav-style, is consigned to history. You should have to apologise when you offend someone. You should have to apologise when you screw someone over. You should have to apologise when you hurt someone. But you should never, ever have to apologise for being yourself. And after Swansea, neither will I.
Remember you're a Mumbles.
P.S. Llandudno looks like the lead singer of Keane.
