Over the constant tapping of the rain against the single glazed windows of his crumbling terraced home, Neil woke, as always, with a cough. As he hacked himself into consciousness, he reached for the half-empty pint glass by the side of his bed and emptied a lung-full of mucus into the stagnating water.

He sat up in bed and leaned against the wall, using his pillow to cushion his back. He cleared his throat once more before reintroducing his lungs to the cause of his discomfort. After slowly acclimatising to the dim light of morning, Neil opened the faded curtains to his right and looked out onto the street through Japanese eyes: at the row of identikit houses opposite, the rain and the almost constant gloom that hung over the village and his existence.

Outside, he heard Mr Lewis next door bellowing at some passing school children - “Hurry up, myn, you’re late again! What’s the matter with you, do you want to be stuck here for ever?” - followed by the quickstep stampede of the lategoers. If truth be told, they weren’t hurrying to get to class, they were just trying to avoid the rain.

Neil killed his cigarette in a nearby ashtray, chuckled as he recalled Mr Powell shouting something similar to him and his mates when they were in school, and dragged himself out from underneath his red and blue Spiderman duvet.

He shivered as the morning’s cold greeted him and was pleased that he’d passed out fully clothed again last night. There’s nothing worse than leaving a warm bed to discover that you’re as bare as when you exited the womb. During the dreamless night, his drainpipe jeans had shoved his Primark boxers up his arse, which he now attempted to retrieve. After an initial struggle, he successfully saved the cotton from his crack and left the room sniffing the tips of his fingers.

He traversed the landing like a young goat on a cliff’s edge as his balance slowly stirred. Yesterday’s cider weighed heavily on his bladder so he stopped at the bog for relief. As he stood there emptying the scrumpy from his system, the heat of his piss reacted with the cold dampness of the bowl to create a smoky spectacle, like early morning mist lifting lazily over a loch.

He shook well, zipped up and went to the bathroom for a wash.

Neil’s reflection in the mirror was obscured by the steam created by his rancid breath, which made popping the whitehead on his hairy chin all the more difficult. After attempting, and failing, to squeeze the zit, he reverted to scraping the whiteness with an uneven nail until it bled. He followed this manoeuvre with a shockingly cold splash to the face which, he hoped, would both clean the cut and wake him up. It did neither with much success.

                                                            *

Before entering the kitchen, he pulled on his 8-holed Doc Martins so that his socks wouldn’t get soiled on the kitchen’s filthy floor. Neil can’t remember the last time he cleaned it, which isn’t surprising when the truth is it’s never happened.

He grabbed a bowl from the leaning tower of pizzas and other cullinary fossils by the overflowing sink, gave it a quick rinse under the cold water and looked for a clean haven to rest it on. He couldn’t find one so grabbed the tea towel, which was hanging from the oven’s rail. The towel crawled with filth and was as rigid as a cummerag, so Neil threw it aside and used the long sleeve of his black Megadeth shirt to wipe the bowl. He had been wearing the shirt for almost a week.

He pushed the tinfoiled take-away trays off the stacked breakfast table and put the bowl down before giving a near-by No Frills corn flakes box a good shake and emptying its contents into the bowl. He turned, opened the fridge and extracted the full-fat milk carton from within.

After drowning the flakes and wiping a discarded spoon clean of last night’s chicken fried rice remnants, he left the kitchen, entered the lounge and sat in his chair.

He aimed the remote at the box in the corner and was soon in the company of Big Phil and Fat Fern on their comparatively more comfortable sofa. As usual, they were talking shit. Today, the topic was ‘how to increase your sperm count’. A useless topic, Neil thought, unless you’re having problems in that department. His mind wandered as he contemplated phoning in and suggesting they discuss more useful topics like ‘how to find a girlfriend’. Then he remembered that his phone had been cut off months ago and decided to try himself instead.

The first thing he noticed when he flicked over to Trisha on the other side was the time in the corner of the screen: 11:07. An early start.

As he slurped the milk from the bottom of the bowl, he tuned in to the hot topic, addictions. Now, when you’re as partial as Neil is to a few ciders and your lungs should be members of Lambert & Butlers’ board, the last thing you want accompanying your cornflakes is some smarmy bastard called Beechy Colclough (that’s right, Beechy!), who’s never been addicted to anything more severe than his mother’s teat, yapping on and on about George Best this, the Osbournes that, like some scratched CD sponsored by Heat magazine.

Neil balanced the empty bowl on the armrest, switched the telly off, put a cigarette between his lips and sucked like a true subject.

With the time fast approaching midday, Neil returned the bowl to the tower by the sink and started thinking about leaving the house. He made a point of leaving every day even if it was just down the shop for some fags and scrumpy.

Today was different. Today was giro day.

                                                            *

He stood in the door and faced the elements. It had stopped raining but was still bloody miserable. His cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth as he zipped his bomber right to the top and the wind blew his hair all over the place. He placed a woolly hat over his head, pulled the fag from his mouth in order to exhale and started on his way, hunched against the cold valley wind.

The route to the job shop took him towards the old pit, dormant now for two decades. Its towers a constant reminder of a prosperous past, a festering present and a bleak future. Neil hated the place, hated what it now stood for, hated what it did to his family. He could never forgive, he could never forget. It’s bloody hard to, when every time you step outside the front door you’re confronted by it.

He could remember the day his father learned his fate: the first of March, 1985. St David’s Day for fucks sake! Neil was eight, his dad was thirty-four. He was dead in a little over a year, on another momentous day, the twenty second of June 1986. A day when every other Welshman rejoiced at the Hand of God, Neil mourned with his mam.

Of course, he understands now that the closure of the pit was the catalyst of the village and valley’s cancer, but to him, it will always be associated with his father’s death first, and the community’s second.

However, over the years the pain associated with the pit had lessened as another tragedy took its mantle.

It’s hard to accept the suicide of one family member, two is almost unimaginable. How do you recover from finding your mother hanging from the banister? The simple answer is, you don’t.

                                                            *

Neil turned left down Martin’s Lane, past the graffiti strewn garages as the rain poured once again. He huddled deeper into his jacket and pressed on, upping the pace.

Within minutes he was on North Street, and stepped into the bus stop to shelter from the rain.

“Alright, Neilo?”
He looked up from the chewing gum covered concrete to face Blag and Boz. They were a few school years younger than Neil, but well ahead of him in their chosen subject of strong white cider.
“Alright boys,” Neil replied. “What you doin’?”
“Not much, but,” answered Boz.
“Drinking,” added Blag.
“You want a swig, but?” Asked Boz as he shoved the bottle of Special Red towards Neil. He couldn’t decline. He took a hefty slug of the cider and felt a satisfying rush as the alcohol flowed through his system. Here we go again, he thought.
“Where you going, but?”
“There’s only one place you go on a day like this, Boz…”
“Aye, the offy innit,” Blag butted in.
“..the job shop actually, Blag.”
“That’s two places then, innit but.”
“Aye.”
“Aye.”
“Aye.”
They looked out from the shelter at the sheeting drizzle in silence as the bottle was passed around again.
“Looking for a job then are you but?” Asked Boz eventually.
“Am I fuck,” countered Neil, which resulted in fits of laughter at the absurdity of the question. The job shop wasn’t somewhere you went to get a job; it was somewhere you went to get your giro.

After another round of pass the piss, Neil said ta-ta to the bus-stop b-boyz and carried on towards the job centre on Hill Street.

                                                            *

As the rain evolved from drizzle to downpour, Neil stepped into the Job Centre’s hub and was welcomed, as always, by the notice board advertising the latest available positions. As usual, they were scarce. A couple of cleaning posts and a delivery driver. There was no chance that Neil could be a cleaner if his house was anything to go by, and as the successful candidate for the driving job had to provide his/her own vehicle, Neil was fucked on that front too.

He ducked under the hanging propaganda slogans - ‘HELPING YOU BACK TO WORK’ was Neil’s favourite. How could they possibly help him back to work, when they’d never helped him into work in the first place? – and took a seat to wait his turn.

He looked to his left at the row of ‘job seekers’ and thought that although everyone was distinctly unique, there was something familiar in all of them. Probably disillusionment, possibly defeat.

After waiting for half an hour to get Jan to sign his paycheque over, Neil was glad to leave. Although getting the money was the highlight of his fortnight, spending time in the Job Centre depressed him. It was like going to a butcher’s where you knew there was no meat.

                                                            *

Outside, back in the rain, Neil double-checked that the cheque was in his pocket before walking down Hill Street towards his next port of call, Anwar’s.

Anwar’s is actually called Spar by now, but when Neil was growing up, it was a locally owned shop called Anwar’s. Therefore it will always be Anwar’s to Neil.

He entered the empty establishment and was greeted, as always, by Angie, a local girl done good. She worked every hour god gave her, that’s how it seemed anyway. She was a constant presence behind the counter, which was a good thing on giro day as she would cash your cheque and save you the hassle and money of having to go to Merthyr to the nearest post office. Neil liked Angie.

“Alright, Angie?”
She looked up from the magazine she was reading and greeted Neil with a smile that dried his drizzled denims with its warmth.
“Hi Neil. Watcha doin’?”
“Giro day,” he answered and held the cheque up as if it was a trophy.
“That come ‘round quick didn’t it.”
“Not quick enough, Angie, not quick enough…” his voice  tailed away as he repeated the sentence. “Can you cash that for me please, Ange?” He asked as he passed her the cheque.
“Just for you Neil,” she replied flirtingly, but he knew she did it for half the valley. She cashed the cheque and handed Neil his wage. Ninety-four quid. Not bad for doing nothing.
He grabbed 8 cans of Spar own-brand cider from the booze section and put them down on the counter. Ange scanned them and placed them carefully in a carrier bag.
“Stockin’ up, isit?”
“Aye,” Neil lied; they’d be drunk by tomorrow night at the latest.
“You going down the Keys tonight, Angie?”
“Aye. See you down there isit?”
“Aye.”
After asking for twenty fags and paying for his unhealthy bounty, Neil thanked Angela for her assistance and returned to the dim, dullness of the outside world.
                                                           
*

After retracing his steps – up Hill Street (where he chuckled at some fresh graffiti, which read ‘Davey is a homersexual’), down the lane, past the bus stop where Boz and Blag were still drinking - he reached his house as another downpour descended.

He closed the door behind him and noticed the clock on the video. It was half past one. Lunchtime.

In the kitchen, he opened a can of savers beans and, after cleaning a caked saucepan, heated them on the one and only working hob. Neil couldn’t be arsed waiting for the grill to warm in order to make some toast, so had beans on bread instead. He put four cans of cider in the fridge and took the rest with him to the living room. He sat in his chair, turned on the TV and placed the plate on a cushion on his knees.

After devouring his meal in minutes – poverty is hungry work after all – he placed the plate on the overflowing coffee table and sat back to enjoy the afternoon extravaganza. Today’s doley’s delight consisted of Montel (which involved a load of fat Yanks shouting at each other), Pet Rescue (where there were more deaths than anything else), A Place in the Sun (which just made Neil sick) followed by Fifteen to One and Countdown (which just made him feel thick). This bevy of brilliant programmes were accompanied by a gut full of cider and cigarettes; by the time the last consonant was picked randomly by Mrs Vorderman, Neil was in dreamland. Literally in dreamland - as opposed to having some kinky fantasy about Carol’s quim - as he was asleep.

He woke at seven-ish, just in time to catch Emmerdale, and took a swig from a nearby can of cider to rid his mouth of its dry and smokey sensation. The flickering light of the television projected manic shapes onto the walls of the room, which helped ease Neil back to life. By the time the Dingles had said goodnight, Neil was almost ready to go to the Keys.

                                                            *

Before leaving the house he sprayed himself (his clothes anyway) with deodorant. For Angie’s sake really, not his own or anyone else’s. He grabbed another can of cider from the fridge, put his jacket on and left the house again. The giro in his pocket was begging to be spent and Neil was more than happy to oblige.

He left the house and was pleasantly surprised to see the stars in the sky above, shining like glitter on a witch’s cloak. He couldn’t remember the last time that happened, but to be fair, he probably wouldn’t remember seeing them now in the morning.

The pit’s dark silhouette rose monstrously above the village skyline; the decaying towers a constant reminder of its long lost legacy. Neil swigged on his cider and was glad to turn his back on the village’s most evident resident. As soon as he turned on to Albert Street he came face to face with Alvin, the village’s most notorious resident, who was reeling home after a hard day’s night. Like a mirror into the future, Alvin’s existence should serve as a warning to Neil. He side-stepped the old man and saved his cider from spilling, but even though his feet moved with the quickness of Gerald Davies’ in his pomp, he couldn’t stop himself from knocking Alvin’s own can of scrumpy from the alky’s uncertain grasp.
“Whaddthefuckareyoudoinboy!” Alvin gasped as he stumbled and came to a stop leaning on the front door of a nearby house. The old man swayed like a gondola on the high seas while Neil picked up the can from the pavement and handed it back.
“Yerafuckenstaryooareboy,” he slurred before swigging the can’s contents dry in one vacuous slurp.
“Ahhhhh…” he added satisfyingly as he wiped his mouth with a soiled sleeve. “Gizabitofthatboy!” He commanded, pointing at Neil’s can.
“Fuck off, Alvin. I reckon you’ve ‘ad enough for today,” Neil replied, before walking away and leaving the old man to his stooper. As he distanced himself from the scene, Neil heard a door open and a manly voice say:
“What the hell are you doin’ Alvin? Get the fuck away from my house!”

                                                            *

Neil drained the dregs and threw his can away - it crunched metallically as it came to rest on the pavement, a few feet from a rubbish bin – before entering the already lively pub. On opening the door he was overwhelmed by the bright lights from the bare bulbs within and it took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust.
‘The Other Man’s Grass is Always Greener’ played jovially on the jukebox and the first person he noticed was the angelic Angela. She looked great in a pair of skin-tight blue jeans and a low-cut cropped vest as she ran the gauntlet from the bar to her seat carrying 3 Bacardi Breezers and a pint. Below the cotton of her top, her love handles hung lazily over the denim of her bottoms. I’d like to handle her love, thought Neil.
“Hia Neil!” She screamed a little over enthusiastically.
“Alright Angie, you looks great.”
“Shut-up mun, don’t say that.”
“Why not?” Neil asked confusedly. “It’s the truth.” But Ange ignored the compliment.
“Come over and say hello in a minute, ok?” She said as she wiggled past in the direction of her mates.
Fuckin’ right, thought Neil, but answered “Aye”.

“Evenin’ Neil. Usual is it?” Asked Paddy the barman.
“Aye,” confirmed Neil, before adding, “I’ll ‘ave a whiskey chaser too, Pad.”
“Pay day is it, Neil?” Asked Paddy rhetorically.
“Aye,” Neil answered instinctively with a sly smirk on his face.
Paddy placed the drinks on the bar before Neil handed him a crisp twenty. As the barman fetched his change, Neil took a satisfying mouthful of the crisp liquid. He replaced the glass on the bar and thanked Paddy for the service provided before knecking the chaser in one, ordering another and fast-tracking his way to oblivion once again…

                                                            *           

Over the constant tapping of the rain against the single glazed windows of his crumbling terraced home, Neil woke, as always, with a cough…