I was meandering among the grockles (tourists) on Llandudno Pier today and noticed the countless little plaques, screwed to the benches and railings -
‘Frank and Brenda spent many happy times here’
‘Forever in our hearts’
Sadly Frank & Brenda are no longer with us, hence the plaque.
But there they are… commemorated by a small weathered plaque screwed to a bench on the Pier in Llandudno - immortalised in sea salt and seagull shit.
And it made me think that, one day, apart from our immediate circle of family and friends, we’ll all be but plaques on park benches, or footnotes in people’s memories.
People will say (they always do) what a great person you were, others will agree, and click a 💖 emoji before scrolling on. And that’s it… you’ll be scrolled over… until your memory pops up next year on Facebook or wherever.
So that’s why it’s so important to make your own memories - even if it’s a 2 hour walk around the Great Orme in Llandudno with your eldest daughter and youngest son. It’s time to catch up, while soaking in the stunning views and cry laughing at the banter between us.
Life is short and precious, and it’s definitely for living - you don’t need to change the world; just your world (if you feel it needs changing) - make a difference if you like, but only for the better, because those who do want to change the world are usually megalomaniacs.
Just look at the current global tensions. And by “tensions,” I mean the kind where world leaders go on TV and say things like “we must avoid escalation”… immediately followed by more escalation.
I had to put luxury liquid in the car to get to Llandudno, prices are shooting up, fuel costs are rising, which means everything else is rising, which means your bank account is currently filing for emotional support. At this point, filling up your car feels less like a necessity and more like a bold financial decision.
You can see all the energy companies High Fiving each other and adding the great dictator Trump to their xmas card list.
[War is sexy, war is fun, iron ego - Dead Kennedys]
Today’s two hour walk has emboldened my decision - to make 10,000 steps a day every day mandatory - not a choice - not a, oh 6000 will do today as it’s raining - no, it’s an absolute priority.
Yes — I know — try not to be intimidated by my athleticism, but for seven consecutive days this rule has been obeyed, and I bow before thee, well before myself…
I’ll be honest, I’ve been slacking lately. Some days I barely get off the sofa as the unrelenting rain smashes against the living room window. So I thought: enough is enough. Time to become one of those people - you know — the ones who say things like “just got my steps in” and somehow feel morally superior.
So I’ve recharged the Fitbit — which, by the way, had been dead for so long it was basically an archaeological find — and now when it tells me to move, I move. No questions asked. Even if it’s just a slow, slightly resentful lap around the block like I’m a dog that’s been forced out in that pissing rain.
But — the plot twist is — it’s working. Seven days in a row. 10k steps. Every day.
I don’t even recognise myself anymore. Who is she? Why is she outside in this awful weather?
See! I told you!!
Now, alongside this fitness revolution, I’ve also decided to “eat myself fitter.”
Which sounds positive, but comes with a catch — I am NOT buying anymore supermarket food until I’ve eaten what’s already in my cupboards. Because apparently, at some point, I started preparing for the apocalypse. Tins of beans, tomatoes, black eyed peas, chick peas - packets of pasta, mung beans, lentils, noodles, rice and a freezer full of …well, frozen stuff.
And look — I don’t want to alarm anyone — but I’m starting to think World War 3 might not actually kick off in time for me to justify this level of stockpiling, although that Orange maniac is having a proper go at justifying my food mountain…
It’s like an addiction, I pop into the supermarket after work and pick up my tea at the reduced section - there’s also a carboot section of damaged tins and ripped packaging that I feel compelled to buy on account that I’m putting less money in the corporate pocket - does that make sense?
So, anyway, now I’m working through it. I’ve made menus based entirely on what I already have, and let me tell you — things are getting creative.
We’re talking dishes like… mung bean paella™.
Yes. That’s right.
I invented it. It’s mine. I’m trademarking it. Don’t even think about it.
At this point, my insides are basically a fibre processing plant. I am operating at levels previously thought impossible. I’m not saying it’s competitive in this house… but I am currently holding my own in the Farting Premier League.
Which is no small feat when you live with a 13-year-old boy.
This child — I’m convinced — could power a small village. Every morning, his quilt doesn’t just lie there. It gently hovers. Just… drifting. On a silent cushion of methane. It’s like a low-budget special effect.
I’m both impressed and deeply concerned.
Anyway — back to the cupboards. I reckon I’ve got about three weeks’ worth of food in there. Week one: fine. Week two: inventive. By week three, I fully expect the menu to look like it’s been written by a student in a bedsit who’s down to their last £3 and a questionable tin of something from 2009.
But you know what? I’m committed. - or I need committing…
Because for the next three weeks, I am not giving my money to Tesco. Apparently, every £1 in £8 in the UK goes there — and frankly, they’ve had enough of mine. We’re taking a break. A financial and emotional break.
So yeah — that’s where I’m at.
10k steps a day, experimental cuisine, and a household gas situation that should probably be monitored by professionals.
Alright — let’s talk culture. Because it’s not all steps, beans, and methane. Sometimes I leave the house for reasons other than being bullied by a Fitbit. Actually I spend so little time in the house that the utility companies think I’m fiddling the meters, as my bills are so low.
So — last weekend, I went to the Louder Than War festival in Manchester. And honestly? For an inaugural event — it was brilliant. Set in the excellent Manchester Academy building, a place I’ve seen some great bands in the past; it was like you’re witnessing something that might become a thing… or at the very least, a great story later.
And let me just say — we are lovely people sharing the love of music - it’s what makes us tick.
Was also good to reacquaint myself with the tireless and mighty John Robb and equally mighty Nigel Carr.
I had to collect them from their respective tiny Welsh villages — which, I’m fairly certain, are not actually on maps but exist more as a concept. You have to pass through some kind of unofficial checkpoint. Farmers. Pitchforks. Suspicious looks. It’s almost Bandit country…
Before all that, though, I’d already had a full social morning — breakfast in Bangor with Scott from Holy Coves. And I’d say “frontman,” but “fronteverything” feels more accurate — you know, one of those people who is essentially the band, the management, the promoter in human form.
We were both buzzing about their upcoming fourth album, Hiraeth — which, if you don’t know, is basically a Welsh word that perfectly captures nostalgia, longing, and probably how I feel about carbs right now.
Holy Coves don’t do things by halves. Me, I release an album (3 I think, no 4!) and, with the last two Spam Javelin ones just like, well, put it out there, and sell a few on Bandcamp and a few more at the gigs we play.
Holy Coves do campaigns, proper tours - all that stuff - and get paid! Imagine being paid for doing something you love! Spam Javelin are lucky to get petrol money, and thanks to that MAGA maniac, that petrol money has just halved in value.
Scott asked me what was going on today
‘LTW festival’ I said, so he decided to drive himself to the festival as well. No plan. Just vibes. Respect.
Now — the music.
The lineup was a full-on genre-hopping experience.
You had The Dirt opening bringing this narrated, thumping energy — like being told a story but aggressively, almost like Sleaford Mods, but far less annoying and better music - I bought their excellent ‘Monkeypunch' album off them and shared stories of North Wales (everyone needs to visit North Wales at some point in their lives - just not on a Friday afternoon so you clog up the A55).
Those were highlights among highlights, so make sure you check out the festival review which is up there now at louder than war dot com….
And talking of which, let’s turn our attention to the radio show. Because obviously, in between becoming a walking fibre experiment and surviving rural Wales and festivals I also have a weekly broadcast to maintain.
Yes — every Monday night, 10pm. Live.
Which means there’s no editing, no safety net, and absolutely no way to take back anything stupid I say. So, you know… high professionalism all round.
This week we kicked things off with The Dandy Warhols and their version of The Damned’s — Love Song — And then we very quickly did kick off.
INTERCOURSE with their take on Hole’s Violet — which is less a song and more a controlled detonation. Subtlety? Absolutely not.
I try and cram in around 20 songs in that one hour, so most are less than 3mins long, they have to be, I guess this week— a personal highlight was — Mclusky with as a dad.
Because nothing says “well-rounded playlist” like going from full-throttle hardcore into something that feels like existential commentary wrapped in dry, slightly unhinged Welsh brilliance.
Which, frankly, is a niche I respect.
By the time we hit the end — with bands like The Red Bastards and Dropping Bombs — it felt less like a curated playlist and more like we’d collectively decided to burn it all down… musically speaking.
Which is exactly how it should be - you can hear this episode here.
So yeah — if you like your music loud, slightly confrontational, and with absolutely zero interest in being background noise… Monday nights, 10pm.
Come join.
Or don’t. But you’ll miss out on whatever… and you can always catch up on mixcloud - and while you’re at it, I’ve now put 2hrs aside each week in my erratic walking schedule to listen to Mike Unruly’s Radio Zero show on LTW radio - every Wednesday, and again, on Mixcloud too.
Alright — bonus segment: “things I probably didn’t have time to do, but did anyway.”
So yes — I’ve been back across the A55 again this week, because apparently I now commute for fun and Wales simply isn’t good enough.
Destination: Crosstown Studios in Liverpool, where Crapsons are recording their new album — Sunshine On Keith — which already sounds like either a masterpiece or a cry for help. Possibly both. - in actual fact it’s definitely a masterpiece…
Well. That person is apparently me. And for reasons I still don’t fully understand, I said yes.
So here we are.
This session? Productive and very quick - there was no prattling about with cowbells or flower fairies. I laid down some backing vocals — and when I say backing vocals, I mean three-part harmony/screams and, of course, the essential punk staples: a generous scattering of “fuck offs”
All delivered with absolute professionalism.
And by professionalism, I mean there was a lot of laughing and very little dignity.
First gig’s already lined up too — LoopFest in Shrewsbury in May — so no pressure. Just casually committing to performing in public. Fine. Totally fine.
Now — I also brought Charlie along, he’s a good kid and agreed on the promise of a pizza at Outpost later (the best pizza and the best venue in the world).
There was only one rule.
No farting in the studio.
This was not a suggestion. This was a policy. And I’m pleased to report — he complied. Fully. A triumph of discipline. An historic moment, really.
We stayed overnight in Liverpool and managed to find a cheap but genuinely decent hotel right in the centre. And I’m not exaggerating here — it was called Epic and it actually lived up to the name. Rare for that price. Suspicious, even.
Now, the next morning — and I cannot stress this enough — we witnessed a miracle.
We walked back to the car, parked on Fenwick Street, and I couldn’t find my keys. There was that moment of panic - thinking I had left them in the hotel room, despite doing the obligatory Idiot Check before checking-out.
And then it hit me.
The car had been unlocked all night.
The keys — including my house key — were just… sitting there. On the centre console. On display. Like an invitation. Anyone could’ve got in. Anyone could’ve pressed “Home” on the satnav and just… taken my entire life.
But no.
Nothing. Untouched. Liverpool said, “Not today.”
Honestly — thank you, Jesus. And I don’t even say that lightly anymore.
Which is ironic — because speaking of Jesus…
At some point that same day, a group of far-right lunatics dressed as Christians decided it would be a great idea to march through Liverpool.
Now — I’m no expert — but if you’re going to test a city’s patience, Liverpool is… not the one. And sure enough — they got exactly the reception you’d expect. Let’s just say it did not turn into a peaceful pilgrimage.
Charlie and I, being completely uninterested in getting involved in any of that, made the sensible decision to remove ourselves from the situation entirely. And where did we go?
Ar Cains. Now this — this is culture.
Because sometimes, the best response to the world — the chaos, the weirdness, the near-miss car thefts and incidental racist street theatre — is to just… go play old video games and forget everything exists for a bit.
So yeah.
That was the week:
Walked round the Orme
Went to a festival
Created a menu
Walked more than 70000 steps
recorded an album
joined a band
nearly got robbed but didn’t
accidentally witnessed divine intervention
avoided a street-level ideological clash
and spent hours in an arcade like it was 1997
Completely normal behaviour.
Make sure you tune in next time because where else are you going to get mung bean paella, step-count updates, and hardcore punk in the same weekly experience?
Exactly.
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