It was early one summer's morning.
The sky larks tweeted, invisible in the azure sky, and the sound of someone banging on my front door was not doing my hangover any favours.

Wearily I dragged my stinking corpse out of bed, and opened the door.

It was my mate Rob.

I grunted, turned, and he followed me in.

"Get the kettle on" I grumbled, and started to roll a cigarette.

"No time for that" he said, "We're hitching to Wales."

"What?"

"We're hitching to Wales. I've got an ounce to deliver for my Uncle Jim, so we're hitching up there."

"Oh for fuck's sake" I moaned. "Can't we do it tomorrow?"

"No time like the present, and it's not as if we've got jobs to go to."

"Oh for fuck's sake" I moaned again, "I'm having a shower first."

"You can have a shower at his. Come on - we're going."

I grabbed my bag and off we went.

_____

The trip into Bristol was easy enough, and it seemed around then that a pint was in order.

We walked to the other side of town, and tried to work out how to get onto the Severn Bridge.

A few false starts and we picked up a lift with - unsurprisingly - a travelling salesman, who was going to Cardiff. He was an easy-going chap, and soon we were hotboxing his little Metro and we were having a grand old time. On arrival in Cardiff we gave him a blim as thanks, and tried to get our shit together enough to figure out the next part of our route.

Jim lived in Glyn, which is just outside Bumblefuck, due north of Wherethefuck.

It was about 3pm, and it looked like aiming for Abergaveny was our best bet.

"So what's your uncle called, Rob?" I asked.

"Jim." he replied.

"Jim what, though?"

"I dunno. I last met him when I was seven."

We got four miles north of Cardiff, and then there was a significant lull in the traffic. Another joint, and we managed to flag down a posh lady in a Range Rover who took pity on the two gangly, red-eyed youths with their silly mohicans and leather jackets. "My son's into all that" she said, "He's an idiot as well".

She asked whether or not our parents knew the state we were in, "They do worry about you, you know - whatever they might tell you". She told us about how she'd been at Woodstock, and, impressed, we asked her if she fancied a smoke. "What sort of hashish is it?" she asked, "I understand it's quite strong these days."

We told her it was just a bit of block, and Rob skinned up.

"Gosh" she said, mellow-wise as she drove, "I haven't smoked for years ... wait until I tell the girls I was smoking with a couple of handsome young lads from Bristol - they'll be so jealous! Don't tell my husband, though!"

She dropped us off near Llandridnod (I apologise if my Welsh is off, but it's your own fault for not discovering vowels early enough), and by about 7 I was starting to wonder what the fuck I was thinking that morning.

Via another salesman, a half-hour hike to the horizon, and a farmer called Pelé (yes), at Midnight, we'd managed to get to Glyn, which, as far as I understand to this day, consists of a pub, drizzle, and an orange street lamp.

The lights were still on in the pub, and Rob thought we should give it a try.

We walked in through the door - two young, dirty, English upstarts, travel-weary and cold, into a warm, smoke-filled room full of farmers talking Welsh. As the door creaked and slammed shut, silence fell. If a record had been playing, it would have scratched to a halt.

Understandably, they were staring at us like we were about to ask for their daughters' hands in marriage.

"Hello" said Rob, "Do any of you know Jim?"

"Jim?" replied one, "You've just missed him, lads."

"Ah" said Rob, casual, like, "How far away does he live?"

"I'll take you there in a bit if you like" said Mr Farmer, "I'm going that way meself after my beer."

"In that case" said Rob, "Can I buy you a pint?"

We got to Jim's, a bit pissed, at about half past two.

"Rob!" he cried happily, "How are you?! Great to see you!"

We spent a week there. He's got a double hammock in the garden with a mattress in it, that hangs over a tiny little trickling stream. He's got wind chimes, and a magnificent climbing tree. He built his house himself - he's a builder by trade, and his son has a fish tank built into the end of his bed.

Jim water-divines in his spare time, he showed me what to do, I had a crack and it worked.

A great place is Wales.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 15:07, 17 replies)

Do you have a job?
Or is it all finished by Friday afternoon?
Thanks for entertaining us :-)
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 15:18, closed)

When you have a high flying job you can spend all day on B3ta
Vagabond was head of News Of The World until today.
( The Mock Turtle ™ --- Thinks you are a cunt, on, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 17:19, closed)

needs more honda

(Monkeystrumpet monkey. Monkey, MONKEY!!!, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 15:19, closed)

Oh, I see, YOU can get away with all the line breaks, but me, I get it in the neck...
fine, if that's how it's played, see if i care.

(click)
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 15:20, closed)

Line breaks are ok with me if content is worthy
:)
( SauronWibble I'll hold it, you lick it..., Fri 15 Jul 2011, 16:06, closed)

Ouch!

( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 16:09, closed)

*look again dude*
I loved your Miami story, for reelz innit
( SauronWibble I'll hold it, you lick it..., Fri 15 Jul 2011, 16:13, closed)

To clarify, I was at your defense there, too many lunch time pints made me come across a twunt
sorry
( SauronWibble I'll hold it, you lick it..., Fri 15 Jul 2011, 16:14, closed)

It's OK, I was kidding anyway.

( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 16:20, closed)

*retracts tongue*
I'm sensitive you brute...
( SauronWibble I'll hold it, you lick it..., Fri 15 Jul 2011, 16:21, closed)

I was in Swansea...
and a charity worker refused my cash because I'm English. Other that that, it's a sweet place!
( SauronWibble I'll hold it, you lick it..., Fri 15 Jul 2011, 16:30, closed)

Vowels
Welsh has 7 vowels. English has five.
(cockneyjack, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 17:46, closed)

Yeah
but they're really fucking stingy when it comes to using them.
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 18:35, closed)

Cwm on.

( flake has nothing against your right leg, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 20:39, closed)

This gets less coherent as it goes on.
Were you smoking to relive the experience as you typed?

Also:
- "we were hotboxing his little Metro" - is this a gay thing?
- "gave him a blim" - are you Dr. Seuss?

Good story, anyway, even if you are a man with a handbag.
( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 19:58, closed)

Irrational Hatred

People who cannot cope with the fact that language is in a constant state of flux.
Deal with it, grandad.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Mon 18 Jul 2011, 9:15, closed)

My God,
This is like a real-life Withnail and I.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sat 16 Jul 2011, 3:14, closed)