Ystrad Mynach

Ystrad Mynach, where a **** is a real ****, and a non-**** is home before dark. Despite my trying not to be cliche and sound older than I am, it’s hard to describe how the once quiet, small family orientated village I knew in my earliest youth has become over the past ten or so years a hive of **** activity, where apple derived honey is the currency of a dirty, tracksuited militia. The ***** of Ystrad Mynach seem to have no desire whatsoever to mature, still choosing the hangouts of their youth. The park is the main one of these, used widely by a variety of leisure-suited homophobes, although other places still attract a fair crowd. Perhaps tonight will be one of those where the local train station becomes a sort of crude Pub serving flagons and ‘buckets’ to it’s patrons? These clubs are however exclusive. If a non-**** were to show their face near this den of bling then the ***** would enjoy a favourite part of their night, the ‘beating up’ of a ‘gay’. Long hair is definitely a no here. Also any clothing not bought from B-Wise in Caerphilly or one of the nearby charity shops is a guaranteed fashion faux-pas. Oh, and don’t use words like ‘faux’ or ‘pas’ after sundown, only ‘queers’ speak French, and Xenophobia is a nice break for them from the usual drudgery of ‘Yoower lushhh’ or ‘Wha iz tha’?
In Ystrad Friday night is bike day; ***** will polish up their ‘cycles’ and meet up by Bryn Seion in the hope that their shiny and gleaming lawnmowers will catch the eye of a local ********, who will stumble blindly towards them, dazed and confused by the innate beauty before her, yet propelled with great speed and efficiency by the pride of her wardrobe, a pair of shining white Nikes, bought by her Mother with all the Dole Cheque ‘w’en we wen’ to Caaardiff larss week’. Who knows, if her earrings are of sufficiently huge diameter maybe tonight is the night that she’ll make Mam (note the lack of Dad) proud by creating the third generation of her family in the last 25 years? There has to be something wrong when your great-grandmother is 58 and still manages to get to bingo every night for her pint and ten ****. And they do. A dump in a county full of, and proud of, its dumps, where *** education is given by crude drawings on climbing frames, and safe *** means carrying a knife and thinking sharp, Ystrad is an eden of white Kappa, where maturation is getting a factory job ‘down da birff’ and being allowed in the Beech without having to sneak in through the broken windows. A place fit only for those people destined to stay there forever, and ever, and ever………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..Oh, and it wreaks of Lamberts.

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