A FAIR TO REMEMBER

HIS NOSE WAS BIG – that was the problem! Wherever he went, his nose got there a fraction before him and in the ring of that boxing booth it was a tempting and frequent target for his opponent. The sign outside was clear enough,

LAST THREE ROUNDS OF TWO MINUTES EACH AGAINST OUR NATIONAL CHAMPION, AND WIN £10.

Once “the drink is in, the sense is out”, in the same way that when your logic goes to your loins, you’re lost. Bravery gets to the brain when the fourth pint makes you Tarzan. Our local hero and challenger was flattened in the second round, his nose hitting the canvas first.

As a boy that was my first visit to a proper booth at Brynaman Fair.

Twice a year, spring and autumn, the Fair came to the village and filled the patch of ground between Siloam Chapel and Ebeneser Chapel with noise, colour and exciting temptations.

There weren’t many “rides” but, there were just enough to use up the limited money around. As you got older you graduated from the two small children’s roundabouts, with their double-decker buses, fire engines, steam locomotives and cars, up to the Noah’s Ark Carousel, where the animals went up and down as they went around. Come to think it – I don’t know why we called it “Noah’s Ark” because it only had horses on it! “The Stable” or The Cavalry” would have been better names.

The sail boats, or “swings” as we called them, were always down the bottom end of the field, where Gareth kept his buses and coaches. The swings were a favourite of mine, especially if the girls were watching you, because it was showing off time then, sending the swings high, towards the coal tips that rose behind the public toilets. Even the newly invented “pac-a-mac”, which was easily wind affected, was no restriction at all.

The “Dodgems” were always called the “Bumpers” in Brynaman and they were the last stop on the maturing trail for youngsters as they became older and braver. It was all very physical and it was always a dash to get a vacant car when they stopped.

Brynaman Fair offered me the first taste of toffee apples, candyfloss and butter-kissed popcorn. There was a fish and chip stall ,but there was no excitement going there: we had a couple of those in the village all year round.

I was never lucky at the competition stalls, “Roll a penny – Roll a ball – Poke a ticket out of a straw” – but, if you had three consecutive goes without success, the attendant, who was the first man I’d ever seen wearing an earring, gave you a prize anyway.

There was an early bingo or tombola stall but I didn’t understand how it worked, so I kept away from it. I wonder if anyone did actually win one of those big baskets at the top of the stall, the ones with the full tea-set inside.

As for the booths, well, you take in the boxing, the Mystic Meg Crystal Ball gazer, unusual exotic animals and, finally, the quiet stalls, those selling rugs, mats and linen.

There was the one booth, though, that stays in the mind, the best ever at Brynaman Fair. It was the “Historical Tableau Exhibition”. I couldn’t understand why one of our neighbours said to me, ‘Hey, you shouldn’t be going in there, you’re too young.’

But it all became wonderfully clear as we entered the tent. The woman in the tableau was nude. Naked as the day she was born. She posed behind a thin gauze curtain, in various historical character-guises, statuesque, not allowed to move apparently, lest it become deacon-testing sensual. When the thick curtains first opened, she was “Cleopatra at the side of the Nile”, holding a basket of fruit. Next came “Boadicea in her chariot”, her helmet being her only attire. Then, ‘Queen of the Incas’ in head bandana and nothing else, and on to ‘Josephine – waiting for Napoleon’, lounging on a French flag counterpane.

I think it was on that night that my abiding interest in history began; Brynaman Fair was the academy that set me off.

BRYNAMAN CARNIVAL … NOT RIO, BUT A CLOSE RIVAL

A day to step outside yourself … you could be anything, or anyone, you liked. Cowards could become heroes, a pauper could be king and the timid could become the Pied Piper.

Brynaman took its carnivals very seriously. There was a carnival season, every road had its own cavalcade and, on the fourth Saturday, all roads joined together for the big one. Jazz bands led the parade, with kazoos and kettle-drums filling the air, which was hard work when you were climbing the hill of Station Road. However puffed you were, you had to make an effort when you got to the Post Office. The road turned there and the place was wide enough for a big crowd, so that was the place to really do your thing.

My mother was well into carnival, being a member of the ladies’ jazz band under the leadership of Megan Thomas, nee Price, whose mother had lived next door to us in Chapel Street. My uncles, Illtyd and Thomas, were in the Rhos Garw jazz band. A very military band, dressed in smart hussar-style uniform. They practiced their display routine twice a week up on the tips and did the rounds of many carnivals, winning prizes along the way. My favourite jazz band was from the Club and Institute. All the men were dressed in a variety of outlandish comedy costumes, like nightgowns, slinky dresses, Vikings, Desert Rats army uniforms, their leader throwing his long baton into the air and attired in a beret, waistcoat, no shirt, skimpy bathing suit, Wellington boots, with a smoked kipper hanging between his legs.

As for me, well, let me tell you, my mother was an inspiration of design and invention. Mam turned me out as an Arab sheik once, having talked Dai Parry into lending us his horse and Dad into dressing up as half-clown, half-ringmaster, to lead the horse in the parade. I looked the part and, fair play, I won first prize.

The next carnival saw me as an Indian Prince, in silks and gravy browning, walking on my own between two of the lorry carnival floats. I must have impressed, even though my gravy browning was running, for I won first prize again. Mam got a bit cocky after that and entered me in carnivals in other villages, with less success, but that was down to local bias, according to her.

Actually, she kept the Indian Prince outfit for years and Richard, our son, was bedecked in it at one Fancy Dress event – with a lot of protest I have to say – but he won first prize, so Mam was doubly chuffed. Ah, talent and quality will stand the test of time.

THROUGH THE WINDOW TO ‘NARNIA’ IN AMMAN VALLEY GRAMMAR SCHOOL

I was mortified, after just one week in Amman Valley Grammar School, being given 50 lines for forgetting my Latin text book. Upset? Don’t talk! I never recovered. Latin and I parted company at the end of the first year. My “Amo, amas, amat” had really gone all flat.

What intimidated me more than anything was the fact that there appeared to be so many good pupils from Ammanford. I couldn’t understand it, were they on better food or what? More vitamins perhaps? Or was it because they didn’t have as far to travel to school as us, the bussed “up valley” kids, and could have an extra half an hour in bed? Thank heavens for Derec Llwyd Morgan, who was an ‘up valley’ Cefn Bryn ‘brain’ boy, he kept our end up. He was in 2A with me. Amman Valley Grammar didn’t bother with classes 1A, 1B or 1C – it was straight to the 2s, so you were given a fair idea of the pressure and expectation.

You could tell straight away that Derec was talented, able and academic. I’m sure he wore thick vests, just to keep his potential warmed up at all times. He was a high flier at 12, absolutely astral at 16 and totally cosmic in the Sixth Form. He ended up as a “Godfather” in Welsh universities. His only flaw, as far as his class-mates were concerned, was that he said he’d had a “calling” as a chapel minister, when he was about 16. No one could find out how the “calling” came. Whether it was a sudden dramatic flash, or crept up on him quietly, but, a year later, he had a greater calling, under a pac-a-mac with a talented, attractive, harpist, on a rainy day at Carreg Cennen Castle. After that, academia was a magnet far more powerful than religion for him and the pulpit played second fiddle to the lecture-theatre lectern. Good man.

I was nearly in the prestigious Sixth Form Christmas play, but, in that same roof fall earlier in my school tenure, I’d knocked out my front teeth. I was a long time getting falsies, so my “gap year” became four years, and I had difficulty saying my esses clearly. Sadly, I was demoted from my part but, because I was doing Art in the sixth form, I was given responsibility for the scenery. I must say, my distribution of the flakes in the snow scene at the window is still talked about today.

It was Narnia in the school hall; such was the drama and effect. It was a long time before “acting” finally got on my CV. Shame really: deep down I do feel there is an untapped reservoir of the “Al Pacino” about me.

PERSONALITY CHANGING WATER IN BRYNAMAN BATHS

Brynaman Baths, or swimming pool, lies alongside the pitch of the Brynaman Rugby Football Club. My first visit was when I was in the primary school. We were taken down as a class to be taught how to swim. The pool was not heated and the first encounter with the water almost parted body from soul, especially at that “aagh” breath-catching, just above the swimming trunks belly line, moment. Goose-pimples burst into view and your eyes roll towards heaven, your entire personality grabbing at any new, more equable, warmer universe.

We had to stand three or four yards from the rail at the side of the pool and then try to make three or four strokes to reach it, before sinking. Several of us didn’t quite make it. As I sank, I remember the world turning green. Luckily the water at that end was only about three feet deep. I do feel, however, that the Brynaman Baths water was instrumental in stopping me from being any kind of choir member. It was so cold on the occasions we were there that it had a delaying effect on a boy’s maturing processes. Puberty was disorientated by the deadening experience.

By the time it came for pupils to be chosen for the inter-school choir to sing at the National Eisteddfod in Ystradgynlais in the early 1950s, my voice didn’t qualify. No teacher could pitch it because it was on a scale beyond the norm. More quadruple cleff than treble. I was sent to the Group Recitation party instead.

A WINDOW ON THE WORLD AT BRYNAMAN HALL

Brynaman Public Hall was my passport to the rest of the planet. There, the world came to our village, twice a week if you could afford it. The first film I can remember was The Mudlark, about the little boy who spent all his time on the edge of the Thames and ended up in Queen Victoria’s company. When a school group was taken to see Treasure Island, Berian Evans hid under the seat when the nasty seaman, Israel Hands, chased Jim Hawkins up the rigging. Mr Jenkins, the cinema manager, always wore a suit and had Brylcreemed hair. He was strict, and kept us all in order. A shout of ‘Quiet’ shut us all up. Children were allocated the first three rows, unless you were with your mother, then you had free range.

The “features” changed on Thursdays, but the pattern was constant, “Supporting film”, the news, either Pathe or Movietone, followed by trailers, adverts – many hand-written if they were local, ice-cream delivery and, finally, the big film. If it was a cavalry versus Red Indians film, we’d very often gallop out at the end of the show, firing our imaginary guns while trying not to fall off our nonexistent steeds. Michael Lloyd had a very nasty accident, when his “horse” failed to corner at the Urdd Hall, next to the cinema. Down he went, scratching his knees and mucking up his coat. I knew his mother very well. They lived in our street, so I guessed what he’d have as a welcome at home for dirtying his coat – hot arse and cold tongue.

The Public Hall is in fine fettle still, with a wide stage and screen, which accommodated “Cinemascope” and “Stereophonic Sound” when they first came in. My father, to my knowledge, only went to the cinema once, possibly because he was on constant night shift. He went to see a film about the US Cavalry; I think it was called The Command. He became disturbed at the size of the screen and the sounds of the arrows and bullets coming, via stereophonic sound from all over the place, including from behind him. He never went again.

It was also a culture-led entertainment centre. The inter-chapel eisteddfod was held there once a year, over three days, but I was not a great chapelgoer myself and was disappointed not to be involved in it. I wasn’t too keen to go as a spectator, because there was always someone who’d ask, ‘Which chapel are you from then?’

I was put on the spot once, but Ashley Thomas, a good friend – ended up as a consultant anaesthetist in Haverfordwest – covered for me by saying, ‘He goes to church, not chapel, like me.’

Those acts of kindness stay in your mind.

The local operatic society production was always an exciting time. I walked around with an autograph book getting autographs from one or two “stars”, who were ordinary people in the village but, once a year, were transformed into princes in Vienna, French Legionnaires in the Sahara or students in Heidelberg.

There was once great controversy amongst the other operatic societies of the valley, because Brynaman had, seemingly, turned semiprofessional, in that they had chosen a leading lady from as far afield as Clydach – 12 miles away. There was great rivalry between the operatic societies and they would come and see each other’s productions each year, making comments like, ‘Yes, very good, but it wasn’t as good as our Student Prince production of ’52’

Bringing in performers from several miles away was really not playing the game and Brynaman ran into trouble again for bringing in a Director from Swansea who, like Alfred Hitchcock, would include himself in a cameo role. He was very good, as I recall, and it was said that his sophistication and natural suavity simply oozed into the orchestra pit when he came on as the boat captain and said, simply, ‘Your ship awaits, my lady.’

In the balcony women swooned.

The Brynaman Public Hall is still going strong, and, relatively recently, it received a grant to put new seating in, including, heaven be praised, “doublers” for courting at the back of the balcony.