Goodnight, Wes Craven

Horror at its brutal best

Ah, it had to happen. Wes Craven, director of some of the most iconic horror films has left us for the last great adventure in the sky. The young Dai Jakes grew up in the 1980s, when the summer blockbuster and slasher pics were born and A Nightmare on Elm Street was the first movie I lied about my age at the local video shop. Those were the days before this splendid beard and I was rather surprised my 14 year old baby face passed for 18. But im glad it did because it was the beginning of a love affair with horror films that was the perfect partner to my other love of heavy metal.
We could sit here and list classic 80s movies until teatime, and I doubt anybody would argue that the Elm Street films don't belong way up there on the shelf marked 'iconic'. Freddy Krueger is the Pac Man of its genre, sitting comfortably at the bar with fellow gore obsessed villains Jason Voorhees and Michael Myers (just don't go spilling their pint).
If I was to choose one Craven movie that stood out the most for me, it would be the Hills Have Eyes. Many say its not his best work but it stayed with me because it strayed into reality, the audience knew a scenario like that could actually happen and no matter how bad Freddy Krueger got, we knew no fiend could murder us in our dreams. Also there was the unforgettable Pluto played by Michael Berryman who was a popular bogeyman in many 80s films (still going in fact).

Anyway its best not to dwell too long in memories and eulogies, you can cheapen the words. Better to leave the great directors impressive body of work to do the talking. Im off to find out if Pluto is free for a date tonight in them thar hills.

Nos da/goodnight Wes, the world is the poorer this morning.

Last Of The Dark

The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living ~ Cicero

Death has never been a solemn subject to me, it is has never been taboo. It is fact that I have attended more funerals than weddings but not once have I shed a single tear (and these were close family members). Now before I am accused of being "unfeeling", allow me to explain. I have such a strong belief of a sweet Afterlife, I believe we ALL go there, good or bad, that whenever I find myself standing graveside I am so convinced the departed have "ascended to a better place" (to be glib about it) that no sadness will emerge. Not even by force. No amount of pleasant memories, or clenching fists or straining veins will tempt sorrow from its den.
At times I have wondered if I was simply cold or indifferent toward death but as the years turn into sheaths of grey, I realise my emotions are in check, their pulse alive and screaming. I believe. That is as simple as it gets.
Indeed if I was stood before a Judge about to sentence me to death, or a doctor about to deliver my cancer act in deadly script, I would more than likely grin in reply. (Of course I don't know 100% for sure of that smirking reply but I could lay my heart on it being 95% certain). Naturally I am wary of DYING but the actual DEATH part? Im no more afraid of it than razor steel is to flesh. Or a crocodile to butterfly (but I am being blown off course now).
For me, death has no end and therefore no sorrow. My bones might miss the company and mortal flashes of the deceased but I know, nay feel, that as the coffin is being lowered into its earthly haven or obliterated by flame, that the soul of Man is rising like a stunned eagle into realms where even the finest pearls would look as lowly as paupers rags. Shrugging off mortality and disease as it lifts unto the sanctity of unknown. And these brief shards of endless joy penetrate my mind so deeply, embedding themselves like euphoric clots, that sadness is obliterated, unable to bring me to my knees.
I have my humanity, feelings, and good many things will reduce me to tears but weeping for the dead is beyond my hearts grasp. I think too much, believe I even know too much and doubt can never get over the threshold of my imagination/beliefs to even begin to try and shatter these ideas. Of course every man will have weak moments, and being a man prone to sometimes rampant, wild emotion there are often times when all I am able to imagine after my pulse is done is a wall of black, blinding in its finality.

Not often I am happy to report. Often a good dose of Welsh coastal air or the sight of a buzzard hunting for its supper will remedy that.

Porthcawl Mexicans

The bandits still standing (just)

Porthcawl fair (or Coney Beach Pleasure Park to give it its proper name as it was named after the New York fair on Coney Island) has been around since 1920, offering thrills and cherished memories to countless thousands who would visit the fair every year. Sadly nowadays numbers are in the decline but during the summers of the 1980s Porthcawl was THE place to be.
Schoolchildren and grandmothers alike would look forward to the trip and the delights it held, from donkey rides on the beach to the famous Water Chute ride which was situated at front of the funfair and greeted visitors with the shuddering noise of carts on its wooden frame and great sprays of water that would spill over the plastic glass shelter.
I, and many many others, loved the place. For a child you couldn't not love Porthcawl because it was the place that could make your childish fantasies come alive before your eyes. Wooden roller coasters, ghost trains, the Devil's Dipper (a mix of coaster and ghost train), the Enterprise (think giant bicycle wheel with you on the spokes in a metal seat), amusement arcades, waltzers, dodgems, it never ended. And then there was the food! Like all funfairs, it had a bit of everything from candy hearts to hot dogs but it was the fresh doughnuts and faggots and peas that the fair was famous for.
So many memories nestle in the good parts of my mind; like wanting to be the first to see the Water Chute as the car got closer, and creeping slowly through the Chamber of Horrors where scenes of medieval torture would be lit up in the dark complete with blood curdling noises. Then there was the Funhouse which had an assortment of cool things from crazy mirrors to the steepest and highest slide I have ever seen. There was lots of grazed and bruised flesh after a visit in there.
One of the rides which stands out in my recollections is the 'cowboy ride' which is situated (its still there all these decades on) almost at the back of the fair. Its a childrens ride where a steam train goes around a Wild West themed track complete with saloon bars, cactus and the Mexican bandits you can see in the above photo. (A picture I took on a 2008 visit).
As you can imagine, being a childrens ride its not very exciting and the highlight was going over and under the small bridge in the middle of the track (I had a strange fascination with staring at the ferns which grew under this bridge) but whenever I think of Porthcawl my mind invaiable gets drawn back to this charming little attraction. And there I am once again, 7 years old, holding a quivering candyfloss in one hand and ringing the rusty bell on the trains bare carriage with the other.
And whenever we chugged past those Mexican bandits, my brother and I would try to reach out to try and touch one of them, believing if we did that some sort of magical dust would rub off on us. (Or at least I believed this).
Today if I tried touching those fading bandits, I might expect to be instantly sent back to my childhood, my beard gone along with my tattoos, and the sands golden again with the worlds weight lifted from my heavy shoulders. Those wooden cut outs are a link to my youth, long before the modern engines arrived and burned away the ghosts.