The least authentic story in my collection is set down Bute Park. Or at least that’s what a negative review I had for my book said. It's a really bad taboo to disagree with a review of your work, but you know what? I don't give a shit. I'll disagree if I don't think someone knows what they're on about. This story is essentially an amalgamated version of the first and last chapters of my PhD. I spent months researching the Cardiff vernacular to get the voice right. I explained it all in an 11,000 word chapter. The two professors I went up against in my viva thought the voice was right. so I know I have more than enough validation for this story. But I lived this. Anyone who knows me knows I speaks in a strong Kiaadiff accent and I doesn't know how tah stop. And this story is essentially a part of my lived experience, reminding me of a time before anyone had a worldwide communication device in their pocket and you had to go and track people down every day. At any one time I could go to Bute Park and know 50-200 people depending on the time of year and weather. I saw some crazy things down there. I saw a goth who boasted about jizzing on people's graves get booted into the Taff. I saw people openly have sex on the rocks in the middle of the field. One time I was stopped from coming to blows with a now long-deceased friend by some undercover police. Did I tell you there were a lot of drugs down there if you wanted them? You probably should have guessed. And if you don't believe me about any of this then say so in the comments and you'll easily have a dozen people reply saying nah this actually happened, this place was crazy. So yeah, this was the only review that ever hurt, cos it's like saying I can't articulate some of my most formative years.