2 plates, 4 plates, 5 plates, 6. "Hey Jim!

2 plates, 4 plates, 5 plates, 6. "Hey Jim! Betcha can't add another!" Jim loaded another plate on each side of the bar. All the patrons of Big Jim's Iron City gaped. "GRRRRAAAAHH!"

Jim sweated. Doing his vaudville routine at the Iron City bar for his customers required the utmost concentration. He finally had seven plates spinning on the pool cues. "Pay up!"

Said the woman with the cheap mascara to a Japanese tourist. Jim's sweat fell into his eye and all seven spinning plates flew off the stage and cracked the

floor a bit. The stress was getting to him. The tourists didn't notice.

That was the last straw. He was tired of being ignored by everyone, and it was going to end here and now. Right in the middle of the large crowd, he unzipped his pants and

pulled out a rubber chicken. No one took any notice. He took off his hat and ate it. Some people started to stop and look. He took out some spoons and played My Old Man's a Dustman

. A little more interest from a small gathering crowd. It wasn't until he pulled on a coconut bra & a grass skirt & played some old Led Zepplin on his ukulele that the crowd grew

restless. Playing on his ukulele, Steve sashayed his grass skirt, wobbled his coconuts and led the chavs out from the village of Llanddewi-Brefi like a modern-day Pied Piper.

Steve led the conga line down to the sunny beaches. One of the chavs asked where the boat was. Steve sang in reply, "No boat, hey. We got music. We got music, son, we got beats."

The water rose. Steve splashed as he danced, careless and free. They began to drown, but the music played on. It lingered on the air, floating, rocked by wave after gentle wave.