On Thursday, I worked out one of the miserly, few benefits of having a precocious toddler... you can force them - on fear of never seeing Wallace and Gromit and the Curse of the Wererabbit on DVD ever again - to help you with menial tasks around the house. It turns out that Ava isn't quite ready to dry up without supervision just yet. The broken plate and dented colander are testament to that. However, with a bit of perseverance and more evil threats from me, she should be knocking me up a half-decent vegetarian chilli and washing up after herself, by the time she is 6.

For a bristling number of different reasons, I hadn't been looking forward to this weekend. Ava and Jo were off to Jo's longstanding friend, Tara's, house to stay the weekend, leaving me to prepare for my Outside Broadcast in Aberdare alone and uncared for. And, I just knew that my DJ slot at Telfords Warehouse wasn't going to live up to the previous week, which had - almost - been an Istanbul of a DJ'ing set, as we Liverpool fans are prone to call any experience of great personal joy. This Friday, however, petered out in an unimaginitive mish mash of Beastie Boys, Aerosmith, Sympathy for the Devil, and other tunes I've played a million times before... I welcome the two week break I've got from Telfords because it will give me time to listen to some music in a relaxed, non-judgemental way, like wot I used to do in the olden days!

By the time I got to Telfords, Jo and Ava had already arrived in... err... wherever it was they were going! The house felt cold, quiet and lonely without them. Thank god, then, that I was going to spend the night in the company of a stout friend who never lets me down, and never buggers off to err... wherever it is they went... leaving me in the lurch... God bless Guinness, if not the dark, hard, painful pellets it turns your poo into, the morning after.

The morning after was lying. In reality, it was an afternoon.

I woke up with a furry, lonely mouth and a nervous anus.

I phoned Jo to find out how things were going. Apparently, Ava hadn't 'settled' for the night in Tara's children's bedroom, and Jo had to bring Ava into her bed, so neither of them got much sleep.

That'll teach them for deserting.

Ha! ha! hic!

Even if I was getting tortured, and all of my basic human rights were being abused, flouted and debased at Guantanamo Bay, I wouldn't be able to tell you what I did for the rest of Saturday itself. I mooned around the house missing the clatter of my daughter and the aromatic rumour of my sweetly-scented wife.

Guantanamo Bay is something we should all be ashamed about. I'll leave the politically sussed diatribing [new word?] to those more righteously switched on about such subjects, like Akira the Don and the Independent... suffice to say that that particular article made me ashamed to the pit of my being to be a citizen in a 'free' country that is openly colluding with another country in perpetrating such abuse.

Every day Bush and Blair plant many more little seeds that will sprout into terrorists than their myopic, self-serving policies will ever prevent from flourishing. And terrorists don't kill presidents or prime-ministers, they kill the likes of you and me who don't have armed guards [paid for by you and me], or armour-plated cars [paid for by you and me]...

Back 'on message', I eventually eeked out of the house ay 10:45pm on Saturday night to go give Soundhog a bit of support in 'the Warehouse'... not that he needs my support! The night was going swimmingly. There were happy, beaming faces all grooving and moving and drinking and having a peach of a time.

Of course, Soundhog was coughing and grimacing,

"I'm being a bit obvious. I'm not on the ball tonight," he said...

The dancefloor was full. There was joy. Even 'the grinch' was smiling.

I got home at 3am with clothes to wash, a bag to pack, and a running order to sort out.

I woke at 10:30am. I had already persuaded Al Daulby - my producer - to pick me up at 1pm instead of midday. I washed and tumble-dried and hoovered and made bed cocooned in a fuzzy dread of the night to come. As I have explained earlier, I love doing outside broadcasts, I just hate preparing for them, and the long, interminable couple of days beforehand when I brood over all of the things that could go wrong, but never do.

It took us four-ish hours to get to Aberdare. We talked 'shop' and I got sickly anxious because of Al's habit of looking over at me as he talked, even though he was driving. We got to the edge of the Brecon Beacons and were greeted with the spectacular sight of white, seemingly snow-draped hills. There were some obvious jokes about cwms. As we got higher and closer, the snow was disappointingly sparse, like the sugar on an Asda doughnut, but the views of Powys were pretty in a colourless, washed-out Winter-kind-of-way.

We arrived at 'the Black' in Aberdare at 4:30. I wasn't sure what to expect. The valleys of the Rhondda look quaint from a distance. Neat rows of houses dropped on slopes with no respect shown to gravity. When you're in amongst the houses and the high streets, they're no different from other towns. I felt quite at home in Aberdare; it felt very much like a bigger version Mold.

Some people that I spoke to in advance of the visit were disparaging about Aberdare, like it was a redneck backwater filled with people who would as soon smash a glass in your face as welcome you into their [many] pubs and bars. I had lived in Blaenau Ffestiniog for the best part of twelve months, where - at the time, 10 years' ago - it was unwise to go to a local pub, unless your face was known. We went to The Commercial in Blaenau, which was just around the corner from the studio that my band were recording in, ordered a couple of pints in an atmosphere of utter menace and intimidation, and stood at the bar waiting for the barman to pour the pints, and waited, and waited, until someone at the back of the pub said,

"When will you get the message we don't want you in here? Fuck off!"

We got the message and never went back.

Some mornings when we left the studio after our all night sessions, we would be greeted by a line of kids on the other side of the road, who would then throw stones and insults at us, a personal favourite of mine being,

"Look at him! His shirt's bigger than 'is head!"

It would be 4 or 5 in the morning. We had to admire their dedication to their hatred,

There were a lot of good, helpful and friendly people in Blaenau too, it has to be said... but the people in the Commercial and in the chippy across the road, who - honestly - gave you half-sized portions of chips if you asked for them in English, and the rattiest piece of fish in the fryer, were less than friendly.

Anyway, I had built up a picture that Aberdare was going to be similarly oppressive... all on the basis of my own paranoia and some ignorant, metropolitan claptrap spouted by Cardiff-based acquaintances...

We couldn't have been more wrong.

I decamped to the bar as soon as I got to the Black and stumbled into http://www.psychicspies.co.uk/, a band local to the town who had recorded a fine session for me last year. They were very friendly and grateful for the attention [the gratitude, of course, was more than reciprocated], and gave me a quick rundown on the 'scene' in Aberdare... and the over-riding sense I got from the whole conversation was the band's positivity and lack of moaning. It proved to be a feature of the evening. I didn't hear anyone - bands, promoter, landlord, sound engineers, audience - moan or make one negative comment all night. The whole scene is founded on a DIY, can do - will do ethic which is wonderfully, edifyingly refreshing in our cynical times.

However, for some reason, none of my photos of the band have come out, at all, like they were protected from my dire snapping abilities by some kind of electromagnetic cloud. Because their set over ran, we didn't get to interview them either... I hope they don't feel shortchanged by the whole experience. But more of their set, later.

The experience of, even, just speaking to the bands made - for example - those who had boycotted our outside broadcast in Holyhead a year ago this week, seem so petty and short-sighted.

And this positivity extended to the BBC staff who came to work the event too. Dave Harper - aka Dave Doubledecks - who used to work in Telfords doing the lights but is now down in Cardiff working for Radio Wales trails; Ellen, who is actually a scout for Island Records, knows Huw Poo, and is going out with Rob from 'the Automatic' and Sally, who ensures I get paid and the bands get paid, all worked their BBC logo socks off. To be unfair, Dave had gone a little bit over the top with the marketting. There were banners everywhere, to the point that when Dirty Perfect were soundchecking, you couldn't see poor Kip at all!

But Dave, Ellen and Sally did a marvellous job of creating a green room for everyone. Al had brought bottled water, crates of fruit, and a couple of newly purchased throws from Ikea, and - in no time - even Madonna would have felt at home [but a little chilly] in there.

I was very, very impressed with Dirty Perfect. From the moment they turned up, they were helpful and friendly, and when they finally started to soundcheck, it was clear that - musically - they were going to give us one of those 'moments' to rank with David Wrench's set in Rhyl, Weapons of Mass Belief in Holyhead, Jarcrew in the Pop Factory and the Pipettes in Rhyl [too]. Whereas many bands will take one idea or motif, and stretch it out over the course of an entire song, Dirty Perfect's songs are like one of the shots of the Battle of Pelennor Fields in Peter Jackson's Return of the King... they're almost overwhelming in the amount of things that are going on... and talking to Rich and Kip from the band, it was clear that this is intentional. Imagine, if you will, thoroughly contemporary, mini punk-pop symphonies in the vein of adrenalised, 21st Century versions of Good Vibrations and you would be closer to imagining their sound... better still, buy their new single, Quarterback Hairdo.

And, of course, we were also joined by the Hot Puppies, who are a band I would snorkel in a slurry pit for. They are a perfect amalgamation of so many sounds from pop music's past - a bit of Joe Meek, some Bo Diddley and Dion; a hint of the B-52's, the Cramps, Patti Smith and the Smiths - all bound together in songs that never sound like pastiche, and always sound thoroughly their own. Much of that, I think, is down to Bec's voice and performance. For someone who appears to be a little introverted off stage, she blooms into a captivating and alluring presence on it. Her voice is the thread through all of the disparate influences that draws them together and makes the songs sound so perfect and cohesive. And during tonight's set, they even managed to play four, quite breathtaking new songs that up the ante, even, on the brilliance of the familiar peaks of their 'old' set.

Aberdare was bewitched by them. The crowd were sucked deeper into the room towards the stage, and gave them a great reception. By this stage, it was clear that the throng - many of them still wearing their disappointed faces and red, rugby shirts after watching Ireland drub Wales that afternoon - weren't - at all - just there to support their local band, they were there because they loved music and loved having a good time.

They were very good at having a good time!

Then, finally, Psychic Spies took to the stage, and the whole place erupted. I haven't seen a less inhibited crowd in a long, long time. There was none of that standing there, arms crossed, "c'mon then, impress me!" attitude here that you find at many venues, certainly in the bigger cities. The band rose to the occasion too. I believe that these kind of performances are referred to as 'powerhouse'. They - and, in particular, Matt on vocals, worked the crowd like a seasoned stadium act. Sometimes when bands are that focused on performing 'in the room', the energy doesn't translate well to the radiom but I can say, without fear of contradiction, that that wasn't the case with Psychic Spies. They sounded great, and I can only hope that the whole experience proves to be worthwhile for them in the long run.

Of course, before all of the bands I had to get up on stage and make a twit of myself... I get more self conscious with age; but it must be a twisted ego thing because, clearly and understabdably, no one's there to watch me, thank the good Lord.

And there was much running about and frolicking through the rest of the programme with Mo Plume working aural wonders to ensure that all of the bands sounded amazing on the radio [a fact which Dirty Perfect, in particular, were most appreciative of]. Al Daulby was there holding microphones, and other than me calling Acid Casuals, Placid Casuals, I don't think that anything else went wrong.

Huw was Huw, dropping in spangly anecdotal nuggets about how Lenny Kaye ignores the bigger, corporate end of 'the business' and prefers to watch local bands because of the honesty and integrity in the performances... or, something like that! The Hot Puppies gave excellent interview, I just apologise for the 'oil of BA' comment - no idea where that came from ;0(

And Craig - we must not forget Craig. Craig [Chapman?] is one of the promoters at the Black and has been promoting bands from humble DIY beginnings for some time now. He is the most enthusiastic man you will ever meet. I asked him one question [on the radio], and he talked, non-stop, without pause, repetition or hesitation, for 5 minutes, exuding an absolute passion for promoting bands he loves in his home town. He's working with Dave Driscoll up at the Pop Factory [as well as holding down a day job in Cardiff] and I hope that this won't be the last time we have the pleasure of working with him.

The crowd drifted off into the cold night, steam rising off their backs, lopsided, joyous smiles on their faces, and the real workers, Mo and the excellent PA man, started to de-rig while I sat on my arse, getting in the way, saying elongated "good byes" to the bands. By this stage, the adrenaline that had been stiffening my veins for the last week, or so, had disipated, leaving me a little hollow and exhausted.

Eventually, Al and I got back to the car. More eventually, we got back to the hotel, the Ty Newydd in Hirwaun. God knows how we managed to find it. It's kind of remote. I'm reading Henry James' 'Turn of the Screw' at the moment, and the sight of this desolate, grey mansion house wasn't doing much for my peace of mind ;0)

The night porter asked us if we wanted a nightcap. Oh, yes! I had two nightcaps, and mighty fine they were too. There were two women in the bar. One of them knew Alabama 3.

I gave the night porter some paracetamol for his headache and he gave me a cigar. On reflection, the whole day had been that fortuitous.

The entire broadcast is available to listen to here for a whole week.

Check it out. It is ace.

Now, time for brekkie. Back to the top of the page...