The Summer Serial - How Grim Was My Valley? Final Episode
By Llewellyn Lloyd
July 26 2013
This Final episode, unlike the roundabout way in which the others came to light, was delivered to the COYS editorial office by a tall man with a pronounced limp, pronounced limp. Thank goodness rugby returns soon!!!
How Grim was my valley Chapter three – the Finale – Things take a sinister turn.
In which Idris discovers the true meaning of his mission to the English, and finds comfort and solace in the land of his Fathers
Over the next few weeks the people of the shire were both elated and troubled. They were elated because so far their beloved Saints had swept all before them. Home or way they had crushed the opposition. Saints stood proudly and rightly at the top of the premiership.
But they were troubled and some were worried. Their happy state was subject to a continuing barrage of dubious comparisons and dodgy scriptural exegesis from the reverend Idris Jones, who had even harnessed the powerful medium of the Internet to launch a message board campaign of scurrilous detraction after every Saints victory.
The other worry which loomed on the horizon was the eviscerating effect of the so called Autumn Internationals when as many anticipated Saints would be shorn of their front line payers as England asserted their right to entertain the corporate legions and merchant bankers and their doxies who regularly packed out Twickenham and made a bad job of singing a good spiritual.
These concerns were discussed at length by all and sundry but nowhere with more acuity and intellectual rigor than by the eclectic bunch of ne’er do wells who met every Friday evening at the Hop Barn Tavern.
First to arrive on this particular Friday evening were Jack Gregory and Old Dick. Their usual match day companion Rob Downes did not be attend these weekly mysteries as he was rarely allowed out and in any case was addicted to watching Emmerdale and re-runs of Mr and Mrs
Jack and Dick has just sat at their usual table taking their first and very welcome sips of that week’s guest beer, the quaintly named “ Exterminator “ when in came the shadowy figure of Ivan Spinks lately returned from exile in Spain accompanied by Frank Malcolm recently retired from the police and the ex journalist now working as a free- lance seller of rare bicycles Pete Shadwick. Sitting down with their beers the group looked around them and established that it was safe to talk about rugby and related matters. This arcane security measure bore no relation to the possibility of an errant Fez Head lurking under the table but was out of deference to the great inquisitor.
The great inquisitor was Saul Platt whose comfortable frame and otherwise amiable disposition belied an almost pathological devotion to seeking out and categorising information. His arrival on a Friday evening would nearly always be characterised by a series of disconcertingly blunt questions about the prospects for next game. This had over the years led the assembled sages to confine their discussion of rugby to the brief period before the arrival of Mr Platt.
So it was they started to discuss the effect that the call ups for international duty would have on the Saints prospects. Their views ranged from - “ we will manage as we have strength in depth “ - to “ there’s nothing we can do about it “ to a glum and pessimistic silence on the part of Old Dick.
Soon after establishing who in the team would be missed most, the conversation stalled and people looked at their beer.
Frank stood up and gesturing towards the nearly empty glasses of his companions took their orders for the next round. At that point in bustled Saul Platt.
“ I take it you have talked about the rugby then? “ he asked glumly.
The assembled friends all nodded.” OK then, “ said Platt - “ What then are we going to do about this Idris Jones? ”
“ Ignore him –he’s an idiot “ said Frank “ I want to know where he gets his money from, “asked Ivan Spinks. ” “He will get fed up in the end “ suggested Pete..
Platt looked at them sternly and settled his gaze on Old Dick who had remained silent. “What do you think then? He asked Old Dick “ Or are you Welsh this week? “Old Dick was used to this.
“Not particularly – replied Old Dick sympathetically “but I could be if you wanted me to be “
Something like this conversation happened on a fairly regular basis as both Platt and to be honest Old Dick himself were confused by the latter’s origins.
“ Humph “ grunted Platt and turned to the others “But we must do something -he has got to be stopped “
“ How “ asked Jack Gregory “ his performance pre match is now just an annoying joke but it’s his constant assault on the fans message board that worries me. I’ve done my best to deal with every one of his posts but they still keep coming.
Saul Platt took a long sup of his beer and spoke “ Well I think there could be trouble. From what I have heard sooner or later someone is going take matters into their own hands
That night after a hard day tramping the street of Northampton trying to give out leaflets written in Welsh and Polish (they were the only ones he had having been originally produced to protest at the visit of the late Pope John Paul II) the Reverend Idris Jones returned to his camper van foot sore and weary.
Tomorrow was another home game against the tatterdemalion vagabonds whose home lay in the shadow of Twickenham itself. Yes the Harlequins were coming to town and Idris was determined to continue his mission.
He realised that an early night was called for and even though he really should have sort comfort by reading selected passages from the WRU handbook or even in extremis the unexpurgated biography of Ray Gravel he was very tired and rather stressed.
Within the confines of the camper van Idris looked at a bottle. It was dark brown and unlabelled with a plain cork protecting its contents. Idris looked at and wondered.
It was a bottle of Mrs Watkins Special tonic, pressed into his hand as he climbed aboard his van back in Maes y Cac by Mrs Watkins herself. “ There you are Reverend love ” she had said, “ It’s a special recipe just herbs and stuff handed down by my Nan who swore by it. Very good for all your common ailments and even men’s problems -if you know what I mean.”
Idris decided it couldn’t do any harm and it wasn’t as if it contained alcohol. -Mrs Watkins had assured him of that. He took the bottle uncorked it and took a large swig. It tasted - herby - but with a strange after -glow that really did seem to reach into the very core of Idris’ being.
Some time later after many healthy and he had to admit enjoyable swigs of the strange liquor Idris drifted off to sleep.
What Mrs Watkins had not revealed was that a herb that her nephew Bryn had kindly donated in large quantities had supplemented the original recipe. Bryn was a gangly youth with a penchant for home agriculture that involved tall plants in pots and lighting rigged up via some very dodgy wiring to the street lamp outside his cottage.
“ Don’t worry Aunty “he had reassured her “ Its just –sort of like grass “
Idris lay on his bunk and began to dream.
Meanwhile several shadowy figures stumbled through the bushes surrounding the deserted car park at the back of Franklyn’s gardens where Idris had parked his camper van ready tomorrows mission. They were or liked to style themselves as the militant wing of the SSC.
“ Are you sure we should be doing this? “ asked one of them
“Shut up you wimp- it’s too late to change your mind now “ said another who was carrying several spray cans.
They advanced on the darkened camper van. “ Sure this is the right one, “ asked one of the groups.
“ Can you see another one with a bloody great Welsh flag painted on its side? “
They got to work and then scuttled back through the bushes and away. Their job done and a blow struck for English honour.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
At first Idris dreamed pleasantly of lambs gambolling on the hills above his home village and harmonious singing from the chapel choir. Then Mrs Watkins nephew’s additional ingredient kicked in and the choir started to sing in a different and frightening key. Discordant notes boomed forth and then as they died away Idris saw a barren landscape – the hills were bare and the village broken down and deserted. The chapel was a ruin. Litter blew up the main street and no birds sang. Above all this a blue - black sky of broiling clouds pressed down on the empty land.
Idris turned on his bunk but the dream went on. As he looked the clouds parted and a great hand appeared in the sky. It was a left hand. The finger of the hand pointed at Idris and a voice so loud that it filled Idris' head spoke.
“ IDRIS JONES, YOU HAVE FAILED!! THE ENGLISH REMAIN UNGODLY HEATHENS WEDDED TO THEIR TEN MAN RUGBY AND YOUR OWN PEOPLE HAVE BEEN SORELY TRIED BY YOUR ABSENCE. GO BACK TO YOUR VILLAGE. GO BACK TO YOUR VALLEY AND LEAVE THIS PLACE FOR YOU WILL FIND NO PEACE HERE. “
The clouds closed and the hand withdrew and Idris woke up sweating profusely and though that his trousers were rather tight.
The next morning very early several cars passed through the car park on their way to the reserved place for players’ cars on a match day. All them went straight through the car park except for one, which slowed down as it passed the old camper van. It stopped and a very large tall young man got out and walked around the camper van looking hard at its sides. Eventually after standing and looking for several minutes the young man got back into his car and drove very fast towards the players car park.
Idris awakened by the noise of the cars going past woke up after a very restless and disturbed night. He remembered the dream and shuddered. Climbing over the back of the cabin area he put himself into the driving seat – and with tears coursing down his withered cheeks started the ignition and drove away from the car park and from Northampton altogether.
Meanwhile as the players met with the coaches to begin the pre match briefing a crisis broke out. Leighton Owens the Saints new star winger recently signed with much publicity from Newport Dragons and so far the top try scorer in the league this season – had announced that he was refusing to play.
“ But Why? “ asked Jack Colander the Director of Rugby “
“ Because “ said Leighton there is a van in the car park out there with “WELSH GO HOME “painted on its side “
“God give me strength, “ muttered Lucien North the forwards’ coach.
“ No I’m serious, “ said Leighton I’m not playing while this anti Welsh stuff is going on here.”
Olly Van DeMerve and John Nkome the saint’s star South African props looked at Leighton –looked at each other and shook their heads.
Later, after it was discovered that the van with its offensive slogan had gone and Leighton had been calmed down by being allowed to talk to his Mam on the phone. The full saints team took to the field and thrashed their opponents. Many Wendys were sung and many celebratory beers were drunk.
But for Idris things had got worse. As he drove away from Northampton he was plagued by doubts and dark thoughts. What was the meaning of his dream? Had he been wrong all along? Would a Welsh team ever win the Heineken Cup?
Just after crossing the Severn Bridge the van began to make strange noises. At first it was an intermittent rattle coming from somewhere under the steering column. By the time he was passing Newport the rattle was accompanied by a whining noise. Then smoke began to curl up from the front of the bonnet. Idris was alarmed but could see a turn off only yards a head. He took it and pulled up to a stop in a lay by. He got out and looked with mounting horror at the smouldering contraption that was now in his view UN - drivable.
Idris looked around him and saw that a road to his left was sign posted Basseleg 3 miles. There must be a garage or something there he thought and set off.
It was a warm day for the time of the year and as Idris walked up the hill away from his decrepit van the accumulative effect of heat fatigue and worry took their toll. So it was very sorry and dishevelled figure that stumbled up to and leaned on the gate of the first of row of little cottages.
“ You all right, Love “ called out a voice. Idris turned and looked about. Sat on two chairs outside the door of the cottage were an old couple. Their names were Clarice and Ron. She was 90 and Ron was 91 years old.
“ You looks dreadful, “ said Clarice “Shall I get Ron yet to get you a glass of water or even a cup of tea? “
Idris nodded and opened the gate and went towards the woman. “ You sit by yer she said “ Ron will get another chair. And tell me what’s the matter. “
There was something about this small round woman that Idris couldn’t identify but it was a good feeling. - And so not in the public sonorous baritone that pierced the souls of his congregation but in a quavering and hesitant voice he explained all about his mission to the English.
When Idris had finished his tale and Ron had returned with three mugs of tea Clarice looked at the broken man that was Idris Jones.
“ Now listen yer “ she said “ You have got it all wrong. I think that we have all got to get on with each other. What I always say is that we are all the same but we are all different see.”
“ But what about the English? “ stuttered Idris?
“ Oh don’t you worry about them “ replied Clarice “ They can’t help it - They are very sensitive. They just want to be liked by everybody. It’s hard I know but we have should try. And you never know they might even learn to like us back.“
THE END
If you do not already have an account Click here to Register.
Saint til I die
However since this episode is ever so slightly less opaque than usual and if even I can manage to work out who might be the real life inspiration for Mr Saul Platt then I want to make one FACT clear for those who might be bothered with such trivialities -
To my knowledge and recollection, I have never threatened or implied that I would cause or initiate trouble along the lines of that suggested above
Quote:Saul Platt took a long sup of his beer and spoke “ Well I think there could be trouble. From what I have heard sooner or later someone is going take matters into their own hands
I do have a very clear memory that I have argued with the author of this saga and suggested to him that he should stop trying to defend the indefensible.
To this I would add two more entreaties -
1) Be careful that your jolly japes don't creep too close to defamation
2) Don't wait up for the Booker Judges to call any time soon.
"Your days are numbered. Use them to throw open the windows of your soul to the sun. If you do not, the sun will soon set, and you with it."
-- Marcus Aurelius, Roman Emperor 161-180 A.D.
Edited 2 time(s). Last edit at 2013:07:27:10:06:56 by Paul Flatt.
Which ever is true and I guess we all have our own opinions, I think it seldom does much good telling others how they should think or act. Which is probably the point of the story, or maybe I am just an idiot.
Saint til I die
Saint til I die
Sounds like a complete plonker