The Betws-y-Coed Incident

 

Steve told me a belter of a tale, one that unfolded a few years back on what was supposed to be a quiet camping trip in the scenic woods of Betws-y-Coed. A group of lads – Mike, Roger, Dave, Mikey J and the usual suspects – had pitched up for a weekend of beers, banter and bad behaviour.

By chance, a party of young female ramblers set up camp nearby. Fate, as it often does, conspired to mix the two groups.

Mike was well-oiled by evening, tanked up on lager and, unusually for him, introduced to Bob Marley’s favourite pastime courtesy of the ramblers. A few drags in and he was woozy, pale around the gills, but still keen to impress. With slurred charm and quick-fire patter, he managed to win over one of the girls. When he suggested a late-night drive, she agreed without hesitation.

Now, Mike’s driving skills weren’t exactly sharp on the best of days – and beer plus hash didn’t improve matters. The two of them wove their way along the narrow country lanes until they found the perfect pull-in: a secluded lay-by. Romance blossomed, lips locked, and for a few minutes it was heading the right way.

Then Mike whispered he had to answer a call of nature. She assumed it was the usual tree-side pit stop. She checked her hair in the wing mirror while he stumbled off into the dark. But Mike hadn’t mentioned the full extent of the “call.” After a day’s worth of booze and the alien effect of hashish, his body finally staged a protest. He dropped his trousers, squatted, and – mid-poo – promptly fell asleep.

Minutes passed. Concern turned to confusion. The girl stepped out of the car to find her new flame collapsed in a ditch, pants round his ankles, a steaming log between his legs. To her, it looked like he’d suffered some kind of fit. Terrified, she bolted back to camp in hysterics.

By the time the lads found him and shook him awake, the damage was done. The poor rambler would never forget the sight: a romantic spin in the hills ending with a snoring suitor, trousers at half-mast, and nature’s cruel sense of humour on full display.

A tragedy? Maybe for her. For the rest of us, though, a story for the ages.

Guinness, Trains & The Fluff

It all kicked off around 4:30pm in Bangor at The Ship, raising a pint (or several) to Alan Fisher, who was making his grand exit from Jewson. A celebratory pint of Guinness in hand, I found myself joking with Dewi Hughes, Mike, and Dewi Coch about the barmaid’s top — or more accurately, the very strategic Guinness-coloured stain on it. We decided, in our growing wisdom, that her breasts might be full of Irish stout. Turns out it was just from leaning against the pump, but hey, it made the 15-minute wait for the next pint a little more entertaining.

By pint number three, the topic of conversation turned to a friend’s upcoming interview on Radio Cymru. Pre-fourth pint, I dashed across the road to grab a double cheeseburger — pricier than the usual kebab house fare, but so worth it.

Then came the 10-metre crawl to The White Lion for two more pints of iron-rich goodness. Afterwards, we democratically voted (with great seriousness) to return to The Ship for another round. Somewhere around pint seven, I casually mentioned heading to Rhyl to catch The Fluff live. One of the guys decided to hop on the train with me, claiming seven pints was his limit. Sensible.

Of course, the legendary British Fail hotline (0345 484950) told us there’d be a train at 10:22pm. Lies. We had an hour to kill, so off we went to Angels for a final pre-train pint — lager this time. Guinness was starting to feel like a meal.

I bid my mate farewell at Llandudno Junction and made it to Rhyl just before midnight, sprinting to The Bistro in time for a lager and the last 20 minutes of The Fluff’s set.

Now, The Fluff and I go back a couple of years — I first saw them when I was doing my time DJ-ing at The Bistro. My crime? Knowing Martin Trehearn. The punishment? Thursday night slots. But The Fluff were a welcome relief from the sea of mediocrity that can quite often grace this stage.

Fast forward two years and they've leveled up — hard. Visually and aurally. Enter Krissy: 22, new lead singer, and exactly what the band needed. The locals weren’t wrong — her voice and stage presence gave the band a huge lift. The sound? A rich, psychedelic Britpop blend that instantly made me think they’d fit perfectly on Delerium’s roster (if they fancied kissing their souls goodbye).

Only complaints? I dropped a full pint of lager while, shall we say, “multi-tasking” outside the gents. And maybe — just maybe — the songs ended too soon. Just when they’d hit that sweet, free-form psychedelic groove, it was over. But you know what? It left me wanting more.

So I did what any true fan would do.

I ordered another one.