The Clive Arms Penarth

I woke up this morning and I thought I had six toes on my left foot. Turned out not to be the case. Scared the bejesus out of me though. So as I said before, I’m visiting a friend of mine, Mathew here in Cardiff and last night he says that we should check out his local which is ‘amazing’. Mathew’s a pretty enthusiastic chap generally, so I take most of his assertions as I would someone else’s mild recommendation. From afar The Clive Arms is like any other pub in Britain. White pebbledash walls, dark wood frame, crest of arms swinging from an iron arm and a family of Area 51 style alien dolls in the front window. As I double take at this I pass through the seemingly normal door of a seemingly normal pub. Little did I know I was stepping into the land of the unpredictable and weird, the land of … The Twilight Zone… (God I loved that show). Sorry, focus – right, so I’m expecting one of those cool London-style postmodern pubs where they play Blondie and Fischerspooner and there’s postmodern bric a brac on the wall everyone’s under 35 with cool hair. But no, the Clive had other charms inside it’s doors. I’m brought immediately by my guide to a hallowed piece of red paint peeling off the wall that is apparently the exact same shape as Wales. It’s not, but Mathew insists it is, and I’m his guest so what am I going to do? As he points out Cardigan Bay, Caernarfon Bay and Holyhead I survey the bar. Yet more aliens, both blow-up and life-size in the form of local legends Huey the Bank Robber, Jim the Blim, and possibly the biggest woman I’ve ever seen behind the bar. As glamourous as they sound, they reminded me of the barflys in Shaun of the Dead. Huey the Bank robber is a local legend who spent 7 years inside for failed armed robbery. Jim the Blim is a agreeable depressive who lives in the bar along with 3 Drink. 3 Drink is the name I have given to the guy who impressively and silently put away over 8 pints in the space of 90 minutes by gulping each glass 3 times. In the background Sue and those wankers from a Question of Sport giggle over some pathetic sexual innuendo. You’ve been having it your way for a while now Ally. Note to self – kill everyone involved with that programme. Above where we sit lies a stuffed pigeon in an old war-time megaphone. To add an air of the bahamas a fishtank containing a suicidal fish adorns the corner. The fish which at first seems to be dead simply rests at the bottom of the tank with his head in the water pipe. He stays there all day a rotund couple inform me, chipolatas in hand.
It sounds depressing and I suppose it was, a truly insular place where life revolves around telly, snacks and pints – the real Royle Families frozen in time. Of course everyone there was the salt of the earth and friendly as hell, but riding on the crest of expectation it was bizarre to be confronted with, well, the end of the world. My friend’s unlikely devotion to the place made me even more aware of this pent-up need to give two fingers to trendy bars, snotty chicks and fancy cocktails. But it was more than that. The Clive was a chav-free, tosser-free dump where you could just be at home because everyone was worse off than you. And despite our tragic surroundings we spent 2 hours choosing our personal selection of rock hits on the Lighning 500 jukebox, playing pool badly, downing Carling and talking about everything from the nature of infinity to the Orient Express. To paraphrase Terence Trent D’arby(and thus change the meaning of his song completely): We didn’t have to put our fancy clothes on, to have a good time. That didn’t really work did it, but you know what I mean. Anyway, to Mathew my host, his late grandfather, Jim the Bim, Huey and suicidal Nemo – Lechyd Da.