Columns 29.8.2018 08:15 am

Tuning in to a noisy Welsh trio

Cellphone users. Picture: Twitter

Cellphone users. Picture: Twitter

Normally, I’d switch off when these pesky users sprout forth in public. But this time, having nothing else to occupy my holiday mood mind, I concentrate.

While treating my lips to scalding coffee at a Starbucks in Cardiff while my Heidi window-shops, three cellphone users come into my bubble. Sitting wind down, their loud conversations in broad Welsh accent penetrate my ears – despite a wax build-up.

Normally, I’d switch off when these pesky users sprout forth in public. But this time, having nothing else to occupy my holiday mood mind, I concentrate on the three-way vocals hitting fortissimo.

It’s obvious each of the two guys and one woman have some axe to grind and the more they speak, the more they froth at the mouth, with faces becoming puffy and sweaty. Heart attack stuff.

So much so, I remember the cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR) lessons our company insisted on. Then again, I probably wouldn’t mind doing the lady, but when it comes to the men, I’m hesitant. Especially the faux sumo wrestler.

It would take too much breath to reach his lungs, never mind the amount of pounding to trigger his heart. And the air blown into the thin one would escape through his skeletal rib cage.

Anyway, here’s the gist of the exchanges.

Cell No 1: “Forget it, Dad, there’s no way I’m coughing up more boodle for that idle son of yours. Yes, I know he’s my bro, but he has never done a proper day’s job in his life – now I must bail him out again! What? You say mom will turn in her grave? Tell you what, Dad, she’ll haunt me if I cast my pearls before the swine.”

Cell No 2: “What, Liverpool stronger than the Gunners? Look at the log, mate, what does it tell you? ’Pool’s dropping. They play like a yo-yo, blowing hot and cold. Every time I watch them play, I sink too many bitters. My ball-and-chain can’t savvy why I get so pissed in front of the TV.”

Cell No 3: “Those boobs! Watermelons bursting out of her bra. Her face? Didn’t see her face. But legs that would start a Harley. No, I didn’t hear her voice. Hey, what’s with you? Voice? Face? You’re getting old, my China.”

Then my ball-and-chain, sorry, my Heidi, appears and I down a cold draft with a Harley on my mind. Lloniannau!

Cliff Buchler.

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