I am sweating and tapping a keyboard and shifting wires.
I have Patrick Jones on my mind because I am going to see his play tonight.
It’s Thursday March 23rd 2000.
I am sweating my bollocks off in a Japanese factory near Hirwaun.
I am at one end of the production line.
The girl with the pretty smile is at the other end of the line.
And in between an endless sullen stream of computer monitors humming monotonously all day.
*
I went to see Everything Must Go at Blackwood Miner’s Institute on March 23rd, 2000. I saw the premiere in the Sherman Theatre the previous year. The acting was excellent and the casting remained mostly unchanged from the Cardiff premiere. Andrew Lennon, Maria Pride (ex Rhydfelen pupil) etc.
I was so moved by the production at Blackwood. It felt unnerving to witness the story unfold given my current work and the way I was feeling (or not feeling) at the time.
I was then working in the the Cynon Valley’s largest factory, Hitachi Electronics on Rhigos Industrial Estate outside Hirwaun. In the 1970s in its heyday it employed several thousand people. Now in 2000, the closure of the factory was inevitable and there was an air of despondency and gloom that made life in the factory difficult and depressing. I felt sorry for the workers who had invested ten, twenty or more years of their lives in this one factory and knew it would all soon end with little prospect of getting another job.
In Everything Must Go, one scene in particular reminded me how brilliant Jones is as a poet and dramatist : the scene with the miners and computer monitors being thrown down a mineshaft. In one brief but very poignant scene in the play, Jones contrasts the traumatic changes that have happened to the Valleys in recent years and the human response to that : a need to express anger at such inexplicable changes. I could relate to this writing. It made me want to try and put pen to paper.
In his own words from the play’s directions :
Unit 7
Music : Ready for Drowning by the ‘Manic Street Preachers’
7 miners climb out of the ground and sit in lecture chairs, brought on by factory workers, and are presented with computer screens. After failing to work out how to use them, each miner picks up his screen and throws it down into the pit. They take a long look at the audience, their lamps shining straight out, then exit.
A factory hooter sounds. Silence.
This scene resonated deeply with me. I was working computer monitors on an assembly line and sometimes felt like throwing them simply to feel alive. Production line work numbs the body and mind. The factory making the computer monitors was situated literally down the road from Tower Colliery, the last deep mine in South Wales. Everything seemed to be going, going, soon to be gone.
The Manic Street Preaches song ‘Ready for Drowning’ played out with this scene. Listening to this song I felt as if tears were welling up inside and filling my heart and lungs, blotting out and drowning traumatic experiences from my own past.
Here’s a true story said someone to me yesterday…
Deny its history, deny its history…
So where are we going we are not ready for drowning ?
I stayed for the after-show event where Patrick Jones performed some of his new poetry. I had brought a few questions with me but never got the opportunity to ask them. He read some poems concerning the St David’s Woods area of Blackwood which was about to be destroyed by road developers.
I took notes, as I usually do, throughout the play and in particular during Patrick’s after-show reading. I took so many notes, I started writing on the edges of the newspaper at hand. Eventually I ran out of newspaper, and then I started writing on my hand, and then up my arm. Thus I walked out of the Blackwood Miner’s Institute with Patrick Jones written up my arm. I looked like a tattooed yob, albeit one inspired by poetry.
I had never invited a politician to meet in a recording studio until I wrote to Christine Chapman the Cynon Valley Assembly Member in July 1999.
At that time I was promoting an unsigned band from Cwmaman called Rat Salad and trying to help them reach a wider audience. Rat Salad were three young and very talented musicians called Chris Cartwright, Mathew Whitney, and Kinley Williams.
I created a Press Plan for the band so that we had a clearer idea of how to promote the band. The press plan listed gigs and other appearances and gave us all a chance to see clearly what was happening for weeks ahead. It helped tame the creative chaos to our advantage.
I looked at the Plan for the end of August 1999 and Rat Salad were in the Studio in Cardiff recording an album. This was a large investment of time and money for the band. It was a financial and creative risk for young musicians at the start of their career. And from my point of view there was a promotional gap that needed some creative pizzazz.
I tried to think of ways to help the band reach out to close that promotional gap. I admired Chris, Mathew and Kinley, as young artists investing so much energy into a creative project. They were the ones to be feted. So I invited Christine Chapman, our local Assembly Member in Cynon Valley to come into the studio in Cardiff to see the lads.
I would never have dreamt that this swiftly hand-written letter would eventually lead to a gig in the Assembly later that year. The Gods of Rock N Roll looked down on us and they gave us their blessing!
As a school pupil in Rhydfelen I would be taught the most by Menna Tomos.
She would use songs to teach children to learn and I repeat some of those songs to myself to this day, over twenty years later. She was a poet who could paint these vivid landscapes with words I could only stutter to pronounce.
I started Rhydfelen school in September 1982 and Menna started her teaching career in Rhydfelen school that same year.
She was my registration group teacher and taught me Sylfaen (foundation subject) and so she was a central figure in my early school life.
I want to make an important aside here to say : Menna Tomos was a key influence in my schooling and a positive influence.
After being attacked by John Owen at Llangrannog in October 1984 my relationship with this teacher would become strained because my mind was disturbed. I distrusted people, especially teachers. Years after leaving Rhydfelen and putting the scattered pieces of my life back together I would undertake teacher training and teach many Welsh classes. Menna Tomos’ enthusiasm for the subject would remain with me despite the earlier traumatic experiences. There is always hope.
To continue…
John Owen was assigned as the Senior Teacher to help and assess Menna as a newly qualified school teacher starting at Rhydfelen in September 1982.
I remember many lessons where John Owen would come in and sit at the back of the classroom taking notes. As a trainee teacher twelve years later, I would experience the same scenario of teaching whilst being shadowed, assessed and coached.
At Rhydfelen 1 Owain was my registration group. Owain was one of the 6 llysoedd or houses and, of course, it was the best. We didn’t sing Owain yw y Gorau (Owain is the Best) for nothing.
1 R was my form group and we stayed together throughout most of the school week.
The accountant in me wants to put a specific figure on the time I spent as pupil to Menna Tomos.
I first need to calculate the number of weeks of schooling.
There are 52 weeks in a year.
Less 6 weeks for summer holidays
Less 2 weeks for Easter
Less 2 week for Christmas
Less 3 weeks for three half-terms
Less 2 weeks for Inset/training days etc.
Which leaves 37 weeks of contact time.
In Year 1 of Rhydfelen Menna Tomos was my Sylfaen teacher. Sylfaen meaning ‘foundation’ or core subject which was Welsh plus other themes and subjects. I estimate it was six hours per week.
From Year 2 (starting September 1983) of Rhydfelen Menna Tomos taught me Welsh until Year 5 (starting September 1986). We were taught 4 hours of Welsh per week.
So to calculate contact time with Menna Tomos, I believe I need to complete the following sum :
(37 x 6) + ((37 x 4) x 4) = contact time with Menna Tomos in Rhydfelen
Answer = 814 hours
Let me put this figure into some sort of context.
After Menna Tomos, 296 hours of contact time represents the most I would spent with the next teacher.
After being attacked by John Owen my school performance simply fell off the face of a cliff. I went from being a gifted student in many subjects to one that was consistently under-performing across the whole spectrum of school subjects. My mind was elsewhere.
Months after the event Menna Tomos asked me the most important question any teacher in Rhydfelen has asked me. She asked Beth sy’n Bod Darren ? (What is wrong Darren). She then asked Wyt ti eisiau symud i ddosbarth Mr Owen ? (Do you want to move to Mr Owen’s class?). I was standing near Jeff Davies (Mathematics) classroom. My next lesson was with Judith Evans (the adjacent classroom). It must have been after ‘Egwyl’ (lesson break).
There was no answer to Menna Tomos’ question.
How could I as a teenage child explain the experience of being attacked late at night, in the dark, away from home and the shame, the guilt, and the fear ? How could I even begin to explain the feelings associated with trauma ? It would take me another decade or so to begin to understand the nature of the harm caused to me by John Owen, and I have only been able to do that with tenacious love from family and friends, help and counselling.
Menna perceived my failure in her subject as something to do with her self and her own teaching, but nothing could be further from the truth. In Rhydfelen school I simply withdrew to protect myself because the only way I could make sense of what happened to me was to deny it happened to myself and everyone else.
In August 1999 I travelled from Pontypridd for the National Eisteddfod in Anglesey by hitching a lift with a local choir. I think it was Penri Williams who suggested the lift. It was very generous of him to help out. The Choir was Cor Godre’r Garth. I spent the bus journey at the back of the bus and chatted to an elderly gentleman for what seemed like hours. Only being able to sing in the bath, I found it thrilling to be on a bus with all these people who sang in public. It was as if they had an aura about them : they seemed to glow expressively, ready to burst into song at a moment’s notice.
The Eisteddfod was being held at a place called Llanbedrgoch that year. I recall the Cor Godre’r Garth bus dropping me off at Bangor and at the station meeting Menna Tomos. What could I say ? I said hello and exchanged some pleasantries but I didn’t really know what to say. I was probably doped up on anti-depressants at the time and all the painful experiences and feelings from Rhydfelen were still locked away inside. I felt numb and was still running away. I couldn’t just say thanks you were an inspiration as my teacher.
I have Patrick Jones on my mind.
