Fear and Loathing in Cardiff

We were somewhere around the bar in the throbbing heart of the Union, when the drinks began to take hold. I remember saying something like “I feel a bit light headed, maybe we should sit down?” And suddenly there was a terrible moaning from all around us and young French girls appeared from nowhere all dancing and swooping around the bar, and a voice was screaming “Holy Jesus what are these goddamn animals?”

Then it was quiet again. An indie band struck up in the corner in a blaze of synths, their flat front man moaning that he’d vomited copiously over geraniums. Or something like that anyway. What a terrible thing to lay on someone with a head full of tequila. “Who told them that shit?” my attorney screeched into my ear over the dreadful din. “One day I’ll throw a bomb into their fucking bass drum!” I grabbed one of the French girls. If I explained things to her, maybe she’d rest easy.

“Let’s get right to the heart of this thing. Three hours ago we were sitting on an antique sofa under the fairy-light domed roof of Milgi’s. In the yurt section of course. Sipping some kind of strange heated Indian honey and orange concoction. I’d been expecting the call, but I didn’t know who it would come from, and the fear was brewing. My journalistic attorney was watching a dysfunctional couple opposite us pull apart their own heart strings before eating each other’s faces. Do you understand me?”

The girl’s face was a mask of pure fear and bewilderment. I blundered on.

“My attorney is a foreigner. I think he’s probably German. But it doesn’t matter does it? Are you prejudice?”

“Non!” she blurted.

“I didn’t think so,” I said. “Because in spite of his Bavarian handicap, this man is extremely valuable to me.” I glanced over at my attorney, but his mind was somewhere else.

I leaned over to whack his back with my fist. “This is important goddamn it! This is a true stroy!” The bar swerved sickeningly as  I missed. “Keep your hands off my fucking Corona!” my attorney screamed. The French girl looked like she was ready to run right out of the bar and take her chances on the Cardiff streets outside.

Our vibrations were getting nasty – but why? I was puzzled, frustrated. Was there no communication in this bar? Had we deteriorated to the level of dumb beasts?

Because my story was true. I was certain of that. And it was extremely important, I felt, for the meaning of our journey to be made clear. We had been briefly sitting in Milgi’s after a day of losing reality in the dusty words of medieval texts, but fled to Buffalo’s soon after. We had to gain intoxication and find the heart of the student dream. This much was clear. We had to escape the fear, which was inexorably building as we saw the year drawing to a close and Life rapidly veering into view, squatting like an evil black vulture at the end of this crazy booze-soaked highway. Within an hour we were drinking Tequila cocktails with mescal on the side and lager chasers. And when the call came, I was ready.

My attorney’s mobile phone lit up with that technological rumble which will come to define our age. The light cast an eerie neon glow over his dark stubble, as he perched in a stuffed armchair under the red smoulder of a twisted lamp, which was rising ominously behind him. I watched the lamp closely, every muscle in my body poised, ready to pounce. He briefly scanned the text then turned to face me.

“That was Marie,” he said. “They want me to go to CF10 at once and make contact. She’ll have all the details.” He said nothing for a moment, staring into the distance. The lamp held it’s breath as the telephones climbed the wall. I jumped, nearly falling out of my chair as my attorney suddenly sprung into life.

“God hell!” he exclaimed. “I think I see the pattern. This one sounds like real trouble!” He pulled on his jacket and rose. “This is an ominous assignment, with overtones of extreme personal danger. You’re going to need plenty of legal advice before this thing is over,” he said. “And as your attorney my first advice is that we should down another shot of tequila, then get out of this bar for at least two hours.” He shook his head sadly. “This blows my evening, as naturally I’ll have to go with you – and we’ll have to arm ourselves. To the teeth.”

“Why not?” I said. “If a thing like this is worth doing, then it’s worth doing right.”

The rest of the evening blurs into snatches on this dark Cardiff night. Who is, or was Jennifer Shepperson? And why the hell do I have her driving licence?

Try as I might, all I can remember is that we ended up in the Taff, demanding Desperados off a bewildered barman.

“I don’t have any!” he yelled in terror.

I could see it in his eyes. He was lying to me. But I was very happy to settle on cheap rum. And he seemed happy enough to provide cheap rum to me. This was a good understanding I felt. A rare bond of friendship forged in the swirling glow of the cacophonous night. I maintain that all relationships, politics, and capitalist businesses in our modern world can be boiled down to that simple image. The barman and the drunk.

Rising out of the fragments of memory is my attorney fleeing, sprinting round that same bar, upsetting chairs and tables screaming at the top of his voice, “I’ve lost my keys man! Call security! We need help! We need help!” His panic only grew as, emerging from the jukebox, the white rabbit peaked, biting his own head off.

“Calm down man,” I said, downing the last of the rum. “You’ll be straight in a few hours.”

Turns out the French girls had them. I knew all along that we couldn’t trust them. But our trip was different. It was a classic affirmation of all that was right and true and decent in the national character. It was a gross physical salute to the fantastic possibilities of life in this city – but only for those with true grit. And we were chock full of that.