Tag Archives: South Wales

Two cats go to Newport

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If you have never had the experience of being in a war zone look no further than the city centre of Newport on the Gwent coast. The grunge Capital of Europe is known historically for its small unfashionable venues playing host to the likes of Nirvana, the grunge greats of Seatle; and centre for a great many charismatic bands from the Newport hinterland (aka known as South Wales). Rumour has it that the great Van Morrison lived in one of Newport’s prime hotels for some time; and if he hasn’t been seen for a while the hotel is shut and boarded up… who knows?

But today many of those venues are sad boarded up relics, still displaying tattered and torn posters and faded murals of past rocking nights… devastation-chic is the style of the moment. The anthem for the Newport of today is best summed up by the Stereophonics ‘Maybe Tomorrow‘! So, it was with unfocused anticipation that Fat Freddies Cat and I slinked into Newport, where the grey clouds coming in off the channel offered one of the few signs of hope. Many of the pubs offer the attractiveness of a perpetually underfunded homeless hostel, probably providing the very social services support that has been steadily strangled by the good folk of the Westminster village. The coalition government need look no further if they wish to showcase a living ‘Museum of Austerity’, in tribute to a policy of rewarding the rich, in the misplaced belief that the greedy bastards will then cascade their wealth downwards through generous investment.

As I have suggested in a previous post my fellow cat has a nose for the good pub; even if it happens to be an oasis in a desert of Euro-fizz Emporia. And so

ye olde murenger house      we find ourselves at ‘Ye Olde Murengers House’ sipping well kept Sam Smith’s Ales, chomping on some good quality pub nosh, and parting with very few of the standard beer vouchers for the pleasure. This claims to be Newport’s oldest public house, built in the 16th century; but then, so do many others. It can’t be a tourist trick, there aren’t any tourists who venture outside of the iconoclastic tin shed of a new railway station. But this pub has much to recommend it, particularly as an old pub that retains what the good old pubs were largely about, even with locals debating the forthcoming trials and tribulations of the future of the city’s chartist mural.

We could keep refilling our bowls at this fine watering hole, but cats staggering in the mid-afternoon gloom is not a desirable sight. So, what to do on a Saturday afternoon in downtown dereliction? There is a yellow stream flowing across the bridge (no, nothing to do with hours spent gargling the nectar!), so being cats of curiosity we follow… minutes later we are at one of those sporting venues known to very few people anywhere outside of the greater Newport metropolitan area… Rodney Parade. It seems that the old exiles of Newport County, recent victors of the mighty Welsh ‘Battle of Wembley’ (North v South against Wrexham, if you weren’t watching the world-wide coverage back in May), are about to take to the field against the English Riviera minnows of Torquay United.

We venture forward to the ticket office, to be halted in our muted enthusiasm by the dimly lit figure behind the iron bars stating that will be £20 each… Twenty quid! We might have come from Cardiff but do we look like foreign investors making a takeover bid? Do you throw in the keys for the Freedom of the City for that price? ‘Miss Newport 1973′ looks suitably unmoved by the remonstrations, and we walk towards the turnstiles, lighter of cash but grasping the magic tickets that will provide entry to a world of League Two football (real football, as the multitudes who don’t have the option of following the Mighty Bluebirds will quickly claim):

Ticket

So what does real football look like? Here I am with my chair seemingly placed on the pitch (down in this league for your twenty quid you can pretend to be the corner flag). We are all strapped in and ready to go…

Kick offThe problem with Premier League style of play is that teams have to adopt tactics, and play within systems. Down in the real world, when the ball goes missing you can just fire the starting gun and have a good old fashioned race instead, and even the referee joins in (probably benefitting from a head start over players half his age): and they're offAnd the more open stadium means that gusts of wind off the River Usk have the potential to suddenly blow most of the players over, or have they decided it is better to audition as a dance troupe for the old version of ‘Come Dancing’ before it got strict. Fortunately, some of the local houses on the other side of the pitch are suspended on ropes so they can withstand the climatic vicissitudes (not a phrase often associated with the Premier League matches): Gust of wind

 

For the record Newport County won 2-1, so the cats of Cardiff must have brought some of the magic dust along to share with our ‘Old Ironsiders’ cousins. Look out for the continuing rise of Newport up the leagues. I have been Juno, and my elitist Premier League representative will be back to report on another match soon.

Sean’s World

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When you spend half the week working at the pub, half the week touring the skate parks, half the week listening to good music, and half the week chilling out with other people, how many more halves of the week are you going to find to become one of Cardiff’s newest fashion entrepreneur’s? In order to find some answers to this conundrum we need to go in search of Sean. He is a member of the Partridge family… let’s say the David Cassidy of South Wales (though he is far too young to realise what an insult that might be).

Despite my credentials in the skating world…

being a cat of sophistication and subtle tastes, I wasn’t sure I would be welcomed at The City Arms, particularly as I would have to sit on the bar to eye-ball my prey. So I sent my own beer-taster along to sample a few pints of the renowned Brains SA and track down this intrepid multi-tasker. I say he is working at the pub, but I’m not sure that is a fair description as Sean seems to be having far too much fun to count it as work, and Chris (the landlord, as well as being Sean’s brother) might also question the accuracy of the description.

An interview seemed out of the question, as Sean is far more interested persuading anyone who comes to the bar to sample the vast array of lotions and potions on sale at any one time… all on personal recommendation of course (nice work if you can get it, so I am told). But he obliged my drinking minion with occasional insights into the mind of a business guru, in between dispensing tankards and goblets of liquid nectar to the baying hoards. So tell us Sean what gave you the idea to branch out into the world of sporting gentleman’s haberdashery?

“Well I just saw this t-shirt with a skating logo on it like, and I thought I can do that! Having fun and making money out of it can’t be that difficult can it.”

So that’s how to break into the impenetrably complex world of big business?

“Well, you just need to keep it simple like… it’s about blading so I thought I would call it ‘The Blade’, keep it sharp and edgy like.”

I know you spend a lot of time listening to good music, well all this skating and business stuff got me thinking about Jethro Tull, but I digress. What were the early challenges you had to overcome?

“I had the name, and some ideas about t-shirts and hats… only good quality stuff, you know. Then it all went mental like… buying stock, designing logos, getting a video made for a website and launch. It started taking up loads of time when I should have been out there skating.”

I can understand the pressures of keeping at the top of your game as well as setting up an iconic new brand at the same time. What advice did David Beckham offer you?

“Who?”

What was the inspiration behind the design of the website, The Blade Clothing?

“I wanted to get something out there to promote the merchandise, but I also wanted to show people that skating is edgy like. Some have said the blog is a bit raunchy, but I just put together edgy images I come across that I like.”

It all sounds a bit of a scary venture to get involved in, how scary would you say it has been for you Sean?

Sean's world

And how big do you anticipate this venture is going to get over the next year?

Sean's world

 

 

 

And how much did you say I would get for endorsing this radical new clothing empire?

Sean's world

 

 

 

It is clear to me that you have the enthusiasm and determination to make a really good go of this adventure. I am also told that you have a friendly personality, engaging with everyone who comes into the pub, which can only be a tremendous asset for breaking into the business world. So how has it all progressed over the last 6 months?

“Well, one minute I am talking to a couple of local outlets to just take a few items to see how they will sell, and the next thing you know I have one of the world’s leading skaters wearing one of my t-shirts, and I am getting phone calls from Poland expressing interest. I don’t know how far this thing can go.”

Well, it seems like it can go at least as far as Poland. Sean, I can’t knock your enthusiasm and effort for getting the whole idea off the ground. I recommend your website and blog to my readers, and I will endorse the products, though I am waiting for the four-legged versions to come out before I wear any of them.

The Blade My AThe BladeDoes my bum look too big in this? We ladies have a certain modicum of decorum to maintain, you know.

As the Steve Miller Band once said, fly like an eagle, both in your skating and your business venture. I have been Juno, flirting with the FTSE100 until I see you again.

Celebration day

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It turns out that the president and vice president of my fan club celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary the other day. They even called in for a few minutes to offer me pats, strokes and unsolicited compliments, when it probably should have been me doing that for them… but why change the natural order of things! So momentous was this event that even the right royal Lizzie, queen of as far as she can walk, dispatched a member of her own staff (well it said HM Royal Mail on the side of the van) to deliver a card with congratulations on achieving what ‘ones husband and I’ also managed to do a few years back. It seems the Queen has even changed her dress in the picture on the card, following some televised complaints by some ton-up Tessa’s who live long enough to build a collection of these things.

So how do you celebrate such an event, and what kind of place would match up to the occasion? For all that Cardiff may have to offer the final decision (imaginary drum roll at this point…) goes to the Gwaelod-y-Garth Inn a few miles north of the city in the foothills of the Taff Gorge… a portal into the terrifying spectre of the place known as ‘The Valleys’, comparable only to ‘Mordor’ in the Lord of the Rings.

         The view from the Garth (the rocky outcrop visible from the A470) down the Taff valley towards Cardiff. The Bristol Channel is in the background and on clear days Weston Super Mare is visible

I digress, into territory where no cats played any roles of consequence, so lets get back to the more important subject, me.. oh ok, them. Despite 60 years of saying ‘eh… what?’ and more recently enjoying the divergent tracts of ‘coffee with the girls’ for her and ‘golf’ for him, it seems that there are still a significant enough number of blood relatives and close friends scattered about the regions of South Wales, and even back in my old haunt of London. So it was that a great celebration was organised to bring the tribal elders, the deluded young, and the real young together for a magnificent feast. ‘The Gwaelod’, as it is known by its locals, was tasked to meet the challenge:

Now don’t get me wrong, but my personal imbiber can go off on one occasionally… is it a pub, is it a restaurant, why are the campaign for real ale folks honouring a place that focuses so much on grub? There is a simple answer that I offer in these situations… ‘if the quality of everything is fabulous enough just do less thinking and more enjoying’! However, a point was well made when the range of beers available included London Pride as a guest… even I, as a cool cat formerly of that parish, have to wonder at the waste of a good hand-pump by presenting this particular number. Fortunately, I am told that the regular Wye Valley bitter was adequately complemented by a stellar cast that included the Dark Star Hophead (which my surrogate drinker won’t shut up about since discovering it in a few local hostelries). Apparently the red wines could have done with being served at a slightly cooler temperature, but the gluggers of the Sauvignon Blanc were too busy emptying bottles to offer any professional comment… but the New Zealand economy has sent its appreciation.

Downstairs bar

The real triumph of the evening seems to be the food (and I will try not to go on again about what I find in my perpetual bowl of blandness). I am reliably told, by someone who often appreciates the curves in a walked straight line, that a herd of the highest quality gave of their loins so that the multitude could stuff themselves to the point of synchronised satisfied grinning. The fillet steak at this place was superb, as were reports of the various parts of lambs and pigs consumed in honour of the newlyweds of 60 years previously. As in previous posts of mine, I can confidently report that no vegetarians were harmed at this event, but the vegetables and chips were also deliciously presented, should any meat-avoiders want to attend any similar such occasion (blindfolded of course).

In the interests of financial considerations, I count myself lucky that my paws and fine coat are designed for better things than messing in the murky world of money… yet the satisfied throng seem to be suggesting that ‘The Gwaelod’ is not only a place for fine dining and watering, but very reasonable in its prices. One word of warning though, I noticed on their own website that this place had recently hosted some of the stick-waving bell-jangling bearded types… just when I thought I had escaped the English embarrassment of Morris and his local yocal dancing troupe!

That aside, if you are looking for quality for any occasion I think you will be purring after a visit to this place. I need to do some purring of my own right now to try and get some attention out of my typing staff, and to find out how I get my teeth into some of that herd. To my personal fan club I am still Juno, see you again soon.