Side Alley 1 | A History of Newport Through the Medium of Being Approached by Mad 'Eds.

Being randomly engaged by strangers is part of the urban experience.

The first in a series of vignettes, connections, and reflections that interweave with JellyBread, and perhaps provide some more understanding of some of the characters in it.

When he was just a baby, Richard Moses’ mother had him at a bus stop, wrapped up and bound to her chest on a damp and cold winter morning, all scarves and knitted hats and red noses and watery eyes. Maggie Moses looks long and hard in the direction of oncoming traffic, as is the pose for the waiter of buses on these grey pavements. Baby Richard is being bounced, and he’s quiet and thoughtful, the first of which he often was, the second of which he was always assumed as being. When a man approaches and stands over them, looming, lank plastic bag in one hand and rolled up cigarette, gone out, in the taloned fingers of the other, Maggie Moses doesn’t look at him, part of her hoping he’s just waiting for the same bus, part of her knowing what’s coming. Beautiful baby, the man says. Worst thing. Mad ‘ed fixing on the baby like that. Maggie looks up at him. He has those tombstone teeth, yellowed and brittle, and he has a scratchy, bitty beard that goes all the way down his neck and into the collar of his shirt, down down down all the way to his bollocks probably. His eyes are wide, sparkling, but also dull. Maggie has worked in the hospital long enough to not be fearful of men like this - until they proved her wrong, of course - but to her this is an inconvenience on a day that always started out needing to run with military precision and by breakfast was already out of whack. Beautiful baby, he says again and she says thank you that’s very kind of you to say, and he bounces a bit on the balls of his toes, and then he says, He has a very intelligent glare about him, like he knows something, and Maggie nods and says a lot of people say that about him, and then the man says, Likely a psychopath. Maggie’s shoulders sink, but she holds herself together. The bus comes, she gets on it, but the man is not allowed, and he seems used to being told he can’t get on the bus. He stares at Maggie and baby Richie as the bus pulls off, and feeling a surge in her as they move away, a surge that simply, sympathetically, wants to cry out, Why do mad ‘eds have to be so fucking weird!, she just lifts the V to the man, coolly, coldly, and it feels good to communicate with him.

Sixteen years later, Richard Moses is drunk, it’s gone midnight, and he’s sharing a large mixed donner on the bench by the Civic Centre with his best mate Barnaby Swain (who doesn’t really feature in JellyBread, and at 19 moves to Liverpool to work in the theatre). They are digging forks in, not a word is spoken between them. Already, Moses has convinced Swain that he needs to do this, needs to try his first kebab, needs to experience the carnival of flavours, the garlic, the spiced meat, the chilli sauce, the raw onion (my god I’m getting hungry just typing this), and Swain is giving it the respect it deserves - the experience if not the dish. They are suddenly aware of the presence of a third human. Swain looks up, Moses doesn’t. He’s too into it. Isn’t oblivious. Just doesn’t care. Swain sees a tall skinhead, ripples in his forehead and what looks like some flecks of vomit across his lapel. Awwwww, the skinhead says, look at these two fucking gay boys. The swagger, the snarl, the smirk, the emptiness and loneliness - Moses doesn’t need to look up to know it’s all there. Instead, as he forks some shaved meat, he says, You’re only fucking jealous. Swain baulks, prepares for his first proper kickin’ on a night out in New Port, the town that has just recently been labelled more violent than Glasgow in a national research pole carried out by a paper that doesn’t sell well here. But the skinhead seems confused by the delivery if not the words. He staggers a little as if he’s just been punched. And for years to come, when Moses recounts the story, a story he has only Swain’s recollection for, as he doesn’t remember a thing, when he’s asked what happens next, Moses always says that the skinhead explodes into a thousand beautiful petals and they all float gently to the floor. Swain actually said the skinhead stumbled off, muttering drunk to himself. Maybe the guy was jealous, Swain mused. It’s a sad story if you think of it that way.

In the seventies, before she was even a mother at all, Maggie Moses was in the Irish Club on a Saturday night with her not-quite-yet husband Rhid and a bunch of friends and she falls back into her chair after dancing to Leo Sayer and Rhid says, Hey have you seen Frank Carson’s at the bar? Excited, Maggie looks over and sees the man who Rhid was pointing at. That’s not Frank Carson, she says to her fella. The guy looked a bit like him, but he was thinner, and younger, and the frames to his spectacles seemed much lighter and narrower. Nah that’s not him. It is, says Rhid. Swear to god. Tosh just heard him at the bar when he was getting the round in. Tosh leans over and nods confirmation of what Rhid is saying. Frank Carson, Tosh says, his glass eye glistening like a mirrorball. Nah, says Maggie, looking over again. I’m telling you, mun, Tosh says. And Rhid backs up his mate. Go and see for yourself, Rhid says. So, the Dutch courage topped up enough, Maggie, who, I should have said, is a massive fan of Frank Carson as he’s her favourite regular on The Comedians, marches over to him. Excuse me, excuse me, Maggie says, tapping the man claimed to be Frank Carson on the shoulder. He’s a lot shorter than she thought he’d be, which emphasises her suspicions. He turns. It could be him. My husband says you’re Frank Carson, she says to him. He looks past her at the table she has come from and Rhid and Tosh and the others raise their glasses in salutation. This Frank Carson chap raises his glass back to them. I am that, he says to Maggie. I don’t think so, she says back to him looking him up and down. But I am him, says the man. Prove it, says Maggie. And how am I to do that? Say that thing you say. The thing I say? The catchphrase. Ah yes the catchphrase. Go on then. This Frank Carson smiles widely, and his chin seems to sink into his breastplate, and he says, It’s the way I tell ‘em. Maggie lets it sink in, as if she’s the official expert on Frank Carson impersonators. Not bad, she says after a short while. But no. The Frank Carson looks disappointed. His chin reemerges from his chest. Really good effort, though, Maggie says, and smacks the man conciliatory on the shoulder. She goes back to the table. Nah, she says to everyone waiting for her verdict. Frank Carson, a little crestfallen, it has to be said, turns back to the bar and continues the conversation with his manager about the set he’s about to go and do.