(no subject)
This weekend (well, Thursday-Monday) was pretty awesome overall, albeit with some suck. Big post coming later, but right now I'm going to go have a nose at Tradegar Park, since it appears that they're filming Doctor Who down there.
In the meantime, have something I scribbled during half time of the Wales-Ireland rugby match and edited later. It's only short, so you don't get a cut, either. :P
Match Day: A City In Seventeen Lines.
Cardiff glitters tonight like the facepaint slicking the faces of kids and big kids alike: a city flooded by laughing, singing red. Red shirts for the old men; red shirts for the giggling teenage girls. Red for the babies and the black kids, for the white skinheads with their beer bellies and for the blondes in miniskirts and co-ordinating heels. Red for the Welsh-speakers and the Welsh-by-adoption, red for the Asians and red for the Japanese. Red for the teenagers, the tweens and the toddlers, red for the tomboys and red for the tarts. Red goes with everything, but best with a grin.
There are scarves around waists and flags over shoulders, banners in the windows and cheering in the streets. Shops are at a standstill, chippies chock-a-block; every pub is packed and singing. Smiles and silly hats are readied for the serious business ahead. Cardiff glitters tonight.
Free flowers outside Marks and Sparks and facepaint in the street: a dragon on the cheek and daffodils on the hand. A pretty drummer thumps out a beat on kettle-bins, people dancing in her shadow. The city clock is ticking a countdown: a red tide sweeps towards the river.
Then, fireworks over the stadium; a city breathes in, roars its approbation as a single whistle squeals.
Tonight, the capital will dance.
In the meantime, have something I scribbled during half time of the Wales-Ireland rugby match and edited later. It's only short, so you don't get a cut, either. :P
Match Day: A City In Seventeen Lines.
Cardiff glitters tonight like the facepaint slicking the faces of kids and big kids alike: a city flooded by laughing, singing red. Red shirts for the old men; red shirts for the giggling teenage girls. Red for the babies and the black kids, for the white skinheads with their beer bellies and for the blondes in miniskirts and co-ordinating heels. Red for the Welsh-speakers and the Welsh-by-adoption, red for the Asians and red for the Japanese. Red for the teenagers, the tweens and the toddlers, red for the tomboys and red for the tarts. Red goes with everything, but best with a grin.
There are scarves around waists and flags over shoulders, banners in the windows and cheering in the streets. Shops are at a standstill, chippies chock-a-block; every pub is packed and singing. Smiles and silly hats are readied for the serious business ahead. Cardiff glitters tonight.
Free flowers outside Marks and Sparks and facepaint in the street: a dragon on the cheek and daffodils on the hand. A pretty drummer thumps out a beat on kettle-bins, people dancing in her shadow. The city clock is ticking a countdown: a red tide sweeps towards the river.
Then, fireworks over the stadium; a city breathes in, roars its approbation as a single whistle squeals.
Tonight, the capital will dance.