My Family and Other Superheroes by Jonathan Edwards

In John F. Kennedy International Airport,
    a toothy blonde, whose name tag said Lucille,
    served me at check-in. I showed my ticket, was surprised
    when she said, ‘That’s been cancelled. Sorry, sir.’
    â€˜The flight to Cardiff’s off?’ I said. ‘It can’t be, can it?’
    â€˜No sir,’ she said, ‘you don’t quite understand. Wales
    has been cancelled. It no longer exists.’
    â€˜What?!’ I said. ‘What do you mean, Wales doesn’t exist?’
    â€˜Sir, do try and calm down,’ said Lucille.
    â€˜The US Government has simply decided Wales
    doesn’t exist. You can hardly be surprised.
    For God’s sake, you guys never even made it
    to the soccer World Cup finals. But don’t worry, sir:
    just for the convenience of clients like you, sir,
    we’ve re-created the essential Welsh existence
    in a small museum in Kansas. You’ll just love it.
    Male voice choirs sing Calon Lân, beamed Lucille,
    â€˜as bonneted crones serve cawl-and-Welsh cake surprise,
    and there are satellite link-ups with the King of Wales,
    Tom Jones, and his sister, Catherine Zeta, direct from Wales
    via LA. Now, could you please stop crying, sir?’
    I glanced round the airport: it was full, to my surprise,
    of Welshmen, mourning their land which didn’t exist.
    Wrapped in Welsh flags, girls ten times lusher than Lucille
    asked each other where to they could score a hit
    of cyanide, as men opened paracetamol, dropped it
    into duty-free vodka, blubbing for Wales.
    Dazed, I watched the next passenger approach Lucille
    and her say, ‘I’m sorry, that’s been cancelled, sir.’
    This guy’s suit was that quality they say no longer exists,
    a daffodil in his lapel, so I was surprised,
    when he heard Wales had been cancelled, he flashed a surprised
    smile. When she told him they’d re-created it
    in Kansas, he danced a jig, laughing, ‘Wales doesn’t exist!’
    That face looked familiar – who was this betrayer of Wales?
    As she told him, ‘We’ll switch you to the Hawaii flight, sir,’
    I leaned in to hear and that was when she said it, old Lucille:
    â€˜Our apologies again that Wales no longer exists.
    What an honour and surprise to serve you. Please, call me Lucille.
    Now I hope it’s a pleasant flight, Mr First Minister, sir.’

FA Cup Winners on Open Top Bus Tour of my Village
    I was down the park with my boy, having a kick about, when it came round the corner. Even from that distance, there was no mistaking the Versace smile of the star striker, the fairy-tale jaw of the captain. And was that the manager, cheeks red as the last inch of wine in the bottle, drunk at sunset in a hillside town in the South of France, from where you could look down on the world like you owned it?
    Within minutes, the village was gathered: fathers and sons chanting grown men’s names, sisters and mothers touching up make-up and cleavage. The players looked scared. The driver scratched his head, fiddled with the sat nav. Then Paul, a legend round here since losing his job, giving all his time to the Under 10s, forced his way on board, holding his son’s autograph book like a begging bowl. We watched with amazement, then with anger, as the Chilean winger – the one you’d recognise from the Nike billboard – raised his fist to Paul and floored him. Suddenly, everyone was holding something: a rake, a mop, a Stanley knife, a car bumper. We went for the tyres, then the windows.
    As the judge said later, in the absence of CCTV, and given the unreliable nature of witness statements, it’s impossible to decide on responsibility. But let’s just say this: it’s easy to imagine, isn’t it, what it would feel like to hold the FA Cup over your head, then bring it down – crack! – on twenty million quid’s worth of right ankle, as the man you’ve been in love with for five years