Cathy of Cathays

Posh bars boast giddy girls who started out the night in serious specs and red lippy. Same gals are now gagging for a shag outside the lavvy and it makes you wonder the power of beer. Sitting on paving stones, propped up by pillars, rolling a joint I spot Cathy. She’s doing a degree which nobody believes. She’s always got a carrier bag with her and usually it’s empty. She says she’s saving the environment but it’s at the price of making herself look deranged. Ah the magic of vodka, I can take a hit of her joint and she is not moved, lost in Cathays. She is so still. To get a response, a taxi cabby toots his horn, flashes his light even up her gaping cling on skirt but you can’t get between a student and nicotine. Grade A students abound through fire doors, all future lawyers, doctors etc swinging it in with the locals for a few years before the fast track finds them or they land on their ass with a bump at Burger King. You decide. Flight path or dole queue or a bit of both? Let’s play spin the wheel.
- Good band at the Union. Still pumping their limits all late and live. You can hear them through the exterior walls. All the blokes are young white and lost looking.
I like it when Cathy speaks out loud. We’re in for a top night.
- It’s Ska night. You get lost in jazz derivative. There are no notes.
Blimey. It’s verbal diarrhoea. Cathy asks for redemption by seeking a light off me. Last time we split things were not so even keel but we admit we both have shocking memories. Cathy can’t get so much as a match and it feels like the junction to move along. She asks through blurred vision anyone for a flame, the street of passer bys flow past her as she stands there dangling her fag to defy gravity. Her body gravitates towards the railway bridge.

Salty martinis 3 for a tenner barman can’t wait for American Express which is good because it’s not ours. Rollerblade service he’s onto the next. Just put the money in the till. Foreboding through the glass doors where we take our fags, is the shitty grey clouds rolling over neon lit late night Cardiff. Chippy alley breaks the bonds of friendships as alcohol overwhelms sausage meat toxins as money runs out and home is too distand and you need to piss. Office workers who have partied too hard and mindfully grabbing for anyone’s floor space. Forward back M4 corridor for work has taken their toll on the foreheads of those who fail to visualise what they are achieving at their desk. There is a Senate near by where jobs in catering are plentiful so I have no sympathy. You can make tea for the folk who have the least influence in Britain but carry sharp briefcases. Onwards and Upwards we trundle through the Bay. Ghosts of the docks are plentiful but folk are too busy bowling to stop and stare. The noises of the immigrants brokering a new cultural identity for themselves in the Bute Town streets hang heavy around the multi screen cinema. Depending on which show you like the best, you pays your money you takes your chance. Go Tom Hanks! Bay is a knock it down start again maze of badly labelled streets. Grid system becomes random and a man with 2 bulldogs on one leash rescues us after passing us twice. The dogs look like they want to eat us.
- Map tells us we’re good
- It’s upside down. You’re here.
- Ah.
- Why not catch a bus?
- Because that would be cheating.
He catches up again with us after we reach the central status of Queen St. How much walking do two dogs need ay? Streets are spilling over. Talk nervously eat Burger King only a funfair is blocking our thoroughfare. Realise the big decisions we make in life all add up to one big whole that bites you on the ass when you are least expecting it. I probably love Cathy. And it’s not in the least bit convenient, useful or constructive. And mainly I could wring her bloody neck.

Boot circling around the floor of the ‘Hanging Gardens’ super club at Union. Big tie it up kick it boot is lost to the throng as my ass is carried on air to da TOON ‘Sing Hallelujah’
- Noooo sing where’s my bloody shoe I got two and I lose one everyone look on the floor
But my boot is getting further away and I can’t, well it’s pointless by now. There’s thousands in their droves bopping up and down now to ‘It’s ya money I’m after baby’ shaking fists in the air and all and I know I shoulda tied it up tighter the left leather boot is out of view. Doing China girl stripey pop socks look pulled up to knee has it going on coz the one boot look hobbling around is OK. Just can’t kick it.

Twin bed on hard board floor draped in fireproof upholstery is classic 20 quid a night Cathays B&B. Never far from the train tracks, the window panes shiver by the hour.
- Let’s see what we have for our money bird
Plastic white soap in bathroom, booming aircon, sandpaper towels and a take-me-away-from-this bonnet de douche.

Plastic trimfone on stapled together chipboard bedside table, big enough for the Gideon bible that fills the shelf. Dial ‘9’ for an outside line, universal truth, start talking. Body blitzed by Aftershock but speed dial is automatic to the finger nails. Lethal 6 digit numbers has us hailing up the dead and buried love machines of our teens.
- No you.
- No you.
It becomes competitive who can cause the most carnage. We twist their current girlfriends into late night convolutions of hate, venom and rage. These ladies already know our names and curse the day their beau met us.

Jump on the diddy beds and play Gondolas I swear my boat is ahead when the room above starts thumping. We are aloud. Chips in bag still under arm we eat them on vanity table, the reflection of the juicy chips in the mirror making them desirable. Truthfully chips are cold and the thermostat dial just spins round and round endlessly. Not warm enough we wrap ourselves around each other land our asses on the remote control and fall asleep to the sound of Italian satellite TV. Sleep is ecstasy and a state I never thought I reach. Wake up after sharp cold blast from window to German shopping channel after a further roll on the remote. Careful, nearly went home with a full on purchase of 6 weeks of diet shit. Although it sounds fantastic all you can eat in a bag you just add water and the fat just drips off you. Laughing. But resist. Rolling around to sleep on stupid floor wrap duvets around drunk soft body on soft body rip off underwear with teeth to crave more comfort.

Cola necked out of brittle toothbrush mugs become early hours brekkie. Sugar fizz swills our teeth; fills our body to the feet. Gulps of sweet caffeine creates the ultimate shared experience. We leave before dawn heralds the bill being pushed under our door.

White bridge over dirty angry Severn cleaned by bitter January sunshine we stride over in our Panda. Biscuit tin on wheels rattles in ruthless wind, hey we paid our toll. And it hit me, you don’t have to stay anywhere. Not if you don’t want. It’s free to leave Wales.