Ready or not?

Idris has changed out of his glad drags, and removed most of his lippie. His eyes still show a touch of mascara, but that’s nothing compared to his getup. When I said we were going on a little adventure, I thought he might have dressed a little more sensibly.

Cerise is not normally a colour I associate with stake outs……

thats forgetting the sequinned pumps and the silk pashmina.

‘Well, Darling, it IS Merthyr Tydfil! What if I was spotted by one of my fans, I wouldn’t want to let them down….’

I think he could be spotted from space, in that outfit.

The songbird of Senghenyddd

‘Idris, it’s me, Bear. How’ve you been?’

there’s a silence. Which isn’t a good sign. Is his phone playing up?

‘You’ve some nerve. How longs it been? I’m still waiting for that trifle you promised me.’

‘How d’you fancy picking it up tonight then? By the way, you allergic to dogs?’

‘ No, only bears….’

‘C’mon now, don’t be like that. Just thought you might fancy the evening out?’…….

Chihuahua Foundling and Handbag Company

If I can’t get Big Wendy to do some digging, maybe I’ll just have to go myself. Not that I want to make a habit of it, but who else is there?

Tony the fingers operates out of an animal sanctuary in Dowlais. Well, when I say animals, I mean Chihuahuas, as his daughter Pancetta had a thing about them. For her fourth birthday, Tony established a chihuahua orphanage/ tax haven and imported a container load of Puerto Rican rescue dogs. Several had managed to jump the fence, and established a feral colony on the outskirts of Merthyr Tydfil. The local Mothers Union took up their cause and knitted them coats for the winter, hence the famous photo of a welsh flag clad chihuahua in three feet of snow next to the Coal mine winding gear.

Tony managed to apply for Eisteddfod funding on the back of their new found Welshness, and spent numerous hours teaching them to bark the national anthem

China, Duck!

So, if Tony the Fingers is behind all of this, I’m going to have to play it safe. I need someone who can do a bit of the leg work for me. By that, I mean someone who will risk their own kneecaps, and not mine.

Seeing as Big Wendy is sitting here beside me, maybe I can persuade her? I’ll throw in one of Mam’s trifles….

‘Heya Wends, what day reckon then? Up for a bit of a mystery cat chase? Bron the Bar will be your friend for life if you find her Tiddles… just think, free drinks, and as many pork scratchings as you can eat. What do you say?’

Apparently, this doesn’t go down very well. she tips her tea in my lap and heads for the door.

Is it something I said?

Hatches, matches and jacuzzis

Three hours later and we’re on to our second Urn of tea.  Brenda has very obligingly whipped up another batch of  iced gingerbread, and I’m caught up on all the births, deaths, affairs and clerical scandals.

Who suspected that the Evangelical  minister had turned the baptism pool into a hot tub and invited several ‘working ladies’ to a pool party?  More to the point, how did he stop the sausage roll crumbs from blocking the drains? ( I speak from bitter personal experience).

we still haven’t got round to why Cyril has gone off sherbet lemons, but I do know something. He says that Tony the Finger’s wife has three new cats. One of them sounds exactly like Tiddles, so I might be on to something here…

Potted histories

The Big C sits in his conservatory, surrounded by potted begonias and photos of celebrities. He’s wearing his standard rugby shirt under a brown cardigan, with elbow patches, and his broad features support a smile, as big as a tea plate. The smell of baking sponge cake wafts in from the kitchen, and we can hear Brends cooking up a storm. I say ‘we’ cause Big Wendy from Bargoed has given me a lift, and Cyril insisted she come in for a piece of his fudge.

‘What happened to the sherbet Lemons Cyr? You gone off’em like?’

he looks appalled, grabbing the side of his chair to steady himself.

‘Its like this, you see……

The Big Cyril

Aberdare eh? That really changes the stakes.

Since the big clean up in Merthyr, the majority of organised crime now operates from a portakabin near Hiwaun. If Tiddles is there, she could be destined for export, with new tags and a spray job. Not even Bron would recognise her.

But who knows the underworld off Aberdare better than the Big C, ex boxer, sweetshop owner and part time preacher?

Time for a visit. I’ll need a bag of sherbet lemons…..

Asian tiger Lilly

As she tears off the ticket, and attaches it to my jacket, I plead to her better nature,

“C’mon, TaraLuv, don’t be like that! I do love your new Doo by the way, is it from Asda”

She strokes a strand back beneath her hat,

‘No, Asia, can’t you tell, like? Cost me two weeks wages, got it from Margaret down at Kozy Kutz. Real human hair…..’

suppressing the urge to vomit, I try once again,

‘Any sign of white vans in the area, Im looking for some catnappers? Scratch marks, kitty litter, that kind of thing? Bron the Bar has lost her Tiddles…..’

‘Well,’ she pauses, for maximum dramatic impact, ‘there was a couple of men acting suspiciously. Dressed up as tigers they woz…….’

she whispers, conspiratorially, ‘I think they must be from Aberdare…….’

BoomDeAy

‘Yoo Hoo! Tara Luv, you got 5 minutes?’

she turns to face me, and looks like she’s just been thwacked by a high speed haddock. Her rouged lips purse, and she lets out a stream of curses…..

oops. Apparently I forgot to pay back the fifty quid I borrowed from her last month.

is it my fault, when Ive got so many people to pay back? Surely she won’t hold it against me?

She lifts her camera, and snaps a photo, starting to write out a traffic ticket.

‘Dont be daft Luv, Im not driving anything!’

‘An arse that big, you need a license. £50 spot penalty notice, tell it to the judge….’

That’s so unfair. She knows he hasn’t forgiven me for that incident in the toilet at Tescos….

Dim Tiddles O Gwbl!

If anyone will  know the whereabouts of Bron’s missing moggie I’m sure it will be Big Tara.

Normally, I’d go straight to Aunty Tydfil, but she’s sunning herself down at Madonna’s chalet near Saundersfoot.

Tara used to work down at Babs’ Showbar and Grill, till the accident. And now makes her living as a traffic warden in Caerphilly, still claiming it was a set up, and that Babs herself put a real bullet in her Calamity Jane routine.  Who’d have thought her bullwhip skills would be so handy when dealing with Range Rovers outside Tescos?

Big Tara stands five foot one, in heels, and still wears a blond wig the size of Birmingham, which is a good thing, otherwise I’d never be able to spot her behind all those parked cars.

There she is!