I'll Have a Large Retcon, Please

In which The Author has a sensible conversation on election day

At about 1.30 this afternoon, having been driven from Aberdare Library by the xenophobic drivel churned out by the Debating Society, I decided I needed a pint.

I can't entirely blame the fuckwits who come in every day 'to read the papers' for swallowing the neo-Nazi bullshit peddled by the Desmond and Northcliffe press. Most of them don't listen to the BBC Radio 4 news, or read a quality paper, or have the 21st-Century skill set necessary to access something like the BBC's 'Reality Check' website. Following the latest round of financial cutbacks within Rhondda Cynon Taf, the only national 'news'paper available to the public is the Daily Express.

As the unofficial house journal of the British National Party, this rag (along with its cut-down comic digest for knuckle-draggers the Daily Star, and its rivals the Sun and the Daily Mail) has been responsible for many of the myths, half-truths and downright fucking lies spewed out during the nastiest, most hateful and most deceitful election campaign I have the misfortune to remember. For some unknown reason, this 'socialist' council has decided that the only print media available in our central library will be this poisonous chalice. I'm sorely tempted to fork out £2.50 a week of my own money and sneak a copy of i into the rack every day. (Needless to say, I'll then be withholding a tenner a month from my council tax. I'm willing to pay for one or the other, but not both.)

Anyway, I repaired to Thereisnospoon, which seems to have had a bit of a reinvention furniture-wise. The tables have been completely rearranged: the small tables are now dotted around the place, rather than being lined up at one end; the high tables are all near the bar; the average height tables have been turned through 90°, and the high circular tables have been moved to the middle of the room. (I'm sitting at one of them at the moment, feeling very conspicuous.) Meanwhile, a small round table, big enough for two, with two comfy wing chairs, has been positioned beside the patio doors.

I decided to grab that small table, and was enjoying my first pint of the day when a shadow fell across me and a voice said, 'Hello, how are you?' I looked up into the vaguely familiar face of a chap in his twenties, with wavy mid-brown hair, casually dressed in 'student' style. I knew I knew him from somewhere, but I couldn't think where.

I invited him to join me, and we started chatting about the election in general. Both of us had voted on the way into town, so we were able to avoid the pros and cons and discuss it at a sensible level. I mentioned my Plaid Cymru membership, and he talked about his instinctive anarchist tendencies (which I could sympathise with to a great extent). Then we started talking about politics generally – Jeremy Corbyn's track record, our shared admiration for Dennis Skinner MP, the prospects for the Tories in the event of a 'Remain' result tomorrow – and the historic internecine feuding on the left of British politics which kept Labour out of power for eighteen whole years.

Before long the conversation turned into one of those free-jazz conversations over beer which I always enjoy: veering from topic to topic with no obvious connection; exploring a theme in depth before changing direction abruptly; pulling in information from elsewhere and incorporating it into the development; harking back to something which was mentioned earlier; looping and spiralling into an overall work the structure of which neither of could have predicted, and which would have been impenetrable to anyone arriving late on the scene.

I do know that we chatted about film-making, the Spanish Civil War, the Vote Nobody campaign in South Wales a decade ago, the Battle of Verdun, family history in Cwmaman, Geoff E.'s book The Men Who Marched Away, my last copy-editing job, my forthcoming proofreading job(s), Throbbing Gristle, Industrial music in general, gigs I went to in London in the mid-1980s, the German sense of humour, a Czech film (which I've never seen), BBC radio comedies, psychology, ancient history, abortive ideas for Situationist happenings, anarchism in general, police spies, obscure neo-folk bands, interesting books and documentaries, Doctor Who and Blake's 7 …

I also remember that my pal was heading off to Bristol by train, and couldn't stick around any longer. In fact, considering that in the course of an hour and a half we'd covered a range of subjects worthy of a full day of blogging, I remember a fair amount of what we talked about.

But do you think I can remember his fucking name?

I know that we've met before, because he mentioned this very blog. However, I've got no idea of his name, or where it was that we first started chatting, or how long ago it was. It was a very refreshing change to have an afternoon drink with such an intelligent, interesting, well-informed and stimulating young chap, all the same. I just wish I could remember his fucking name!

The only reason I'm writing this now is because after a few more pints I won't even remember the broad outline of this afternoon, never mind the fine details. I blame the Retcon, personally.