The last thing I ever expected to do during my time at Sky would have been to travel to a different country. We’re always told to ‘bring your passport to the newsroom everyday, just incase!’ But then lots of people do the National Lottery. You never expect to get anywhere from it, more out of foolish hope than certain expectation.
So as the Volvo V70 estate I was sat in the back of trundled over the River Severn towards Wales, I was thinking I’d hit the jackpot. I love getting out and about away from a computer, but to be in a different country? With an overnight bag? Now we’re talking. This is why I want a career in journalism; so I can travel the world and see all sorts of different places.
And my god was this place a bit different. My best friend always moans at the fact I stereotype Wales for its constant rain. It started raining as soon as we saw the word ‘Cymru’ and it didn’t stop raining until we’d passed Bristol on the way home. Now tell me I’m stereotyping.
Look at it. I've made more sense out of sick.
Merthyr Tydfil is a dump. There’s no other way of describing it. Every building is dressed in dull, grey concrete; everyone under the age of 30 has to wear a tracksuit like it’s religious law; and the whole village is ominously shadowed by hills. As we drove round the town, I slowly realised why this place has previously been titled ‘the worst place to live in Britain’. Driving through the Gurnos estate was like driving through Peckham after a nuclear war and getting stared at by the locals was more frightening than if Medusa was to lay eyes on you. Fortunately we found a Subway (where they were criminally charging £2.19 for a Sub of the Day) and shacked up in there.
I was then sent off around the town on my own to do some research. I found myself in the library talking to the woman who worked there. She was like a wise old oracle that guides the hero in Hollywood films on their quest with mysterious and whimsical knowledge. It was a surreal experience, and after two hours in the library, I felt knowledgeable enough to give guided tours of Merthyr (as far as business propostions go, tours of Merthyr are up there with chocolate ovens). I was then tasked with finding the brother of Howard Winstone, a famous boxer who was named ‘Merthyr’s Man of the Century’. I started off in a bus shelter and then headed to the tourist information office to find the name of the sandwich bar that was owned by Winstone’s brother. As I walked into this sandwich bar, I got chatting with a few of the locals. Apparently his brother had gone bankrupt and sold the sandwich bar. More conversing (I say conversing, I was having real trouble grasping the thick Welsh accents) revealed that Winstone’s wife was still in the area and through a bit of begging, I managed to get the contact details of the wife. I arranged an interview, then headed back to tell Tim the producer the good news.
This is probably the nicest looking building in the whole town.
I was shattered by the end of the day. Whether it was the life-sucking Welsh air or just the fact I was wondering around all day, I had a little sleep in the car on the way back. Dreaming of how I would never have to go back to that crappy little village. Well, not until Thursday this week, a day off today should help.
Merthyr was Wales’ capital until 1955, then the steady decline and collapse of the coal industry took all of Merthyr’s industry and the Tories in the 80′s made sure they raped whatever was left … They’ve been left to inbreed since.
And if you ever need it again I could of got you Howard Winstone’s brothers number in 2 minutes lol.