THE CONFUSED CAPITAL

I had to race for the train. Heart pounding, rucksack bouncing, I leapt up two steps at a time as my train pulled slowly into the platform. I got there just as the doors were closing; like Indiana Jones, I slid onto the carriage as they slammed shut behind me.

I am in Cardiff then. The sun shone brightly over the fluffy clouds and the train whistled by the smooth green hills of South Oxfordshire. Tunnel followed tunnel, and forgotten rail-side houses and gardens sped by until the tall concrete of the Welsh capital came into view.

It's an interesting city, this. At least, what I've seen of it so far. I had a tea in a grotty Starbucks and watched the world go by for a bit. The sun was hot through the glass and with the low angle, painting the Main Street white.

There are a lot of young people here. One sat in the corner, applying a contraption to her eyebrows; some others flipped open MacBooks and giggled into their lattes. Outside, hundreds more wandered by, the boys with short shaved hair, thin leather and shiny white trainers; the girls, slim, blonde, with meticulously applied make-up. Cardiff instantly struck me as a university town, a hub of coolness for people with fresh-skin and no council tax.

Wikipedia maintains that Cardiff has a 'complex and often conflicting cultural identity' as the Capital of Wales. While I'm hoping to find out more about its specific history tomorrow, it struck me that this could be a very good description - a Capital City that hasn't quite made its mind up in the 60 years it's been one.

On the one hand, it proudly beams its history and status as the national centrepiece, with the great castle like a grand old father on the river; on the other, it's strewn with bags of rubbish and overflowing litter. Redevelopment and gentrification is happening - I emerged from the station to face a building site where they're clearly pulling down the old bus station. On the other hand, many of the buildings look tired and unloved. And my first view of Cardiff was a JCB swinging around in a pile of rubble.

I haven't seen enough yet, true.

I found my hotel (literally opposite the Millennium Stadium), relaxed for a bit (I am still coughing like a smoker) and then made a plan for the evening. Whatever it would be, it would have to involve me not being in the room - it is unbelievably warm.

Well, Madame Butterfly was on at the Wales Millennium Centre. I like a bit of culture, as you know, and I'm not averse to a highbrow evening. And so it was for that exact reason that I went to see The Lego Batman Movie instead.

Puccini doesn't need me coughing through his arias does he? And anyway, the only tickets left required a small mortgage for their purchasement. You can't beat a fun movie for four pounds.

Then it was on to sample some of this famous night-life that people talk about. Now I'm as much of a party animal as you could hope to find of course, having once stayed out until the decadent hour of 11:30pm on the Ribena-and-Cokes! Oh yes, quite the reputation, me, and so it would be interesting (I thought) to see whether Cardiff would meet my oh-so-high expectations.

Well. I can see it, I really can. But you'd have to be two things to enjoy it I reckon: drunk, and in your twenties. There's very little evidence that I was ever either of those things, so walking up the Main Street between the overflowing bins and the stiletto-wearing, arm-clutching, uninhibited huddles of inebriated students, was always going to be more intimidating than 'a great night out' for me.

It is true that there are many easily accessible clubs, bars, pubs and establishments pouring noise into the street, flashing neon 'cocktails' signs between their heavily guarded entrances. Like most British cities these days though, the 'party town' vibe that younger people go on about is only really visible through beer goggles.

I went past O'Neill's, the Irish pub, on the way up. They were playing Wham's Wake Me Up at a thousand decibels. On the way back, some twenty minutes later, they had moved on to Smokey Robinson's Tears of a Clown. I don't even think they were playing ancient music ironically you know.

So, I went into a small, brightly lit, brick-lined warehouse called The Grazing Shed, ordered a burger, ate it gratefully and then went back to my hotel. See, party-animal all the way.

The river shimmered peacefully beneath the lights of the stadium. There is great beauty to an old river by night. I like the way that light wobbles on the surface like an impressionist painting. My reverie was cut short though, by the distinct sound of someone being sick.

Back to the tropical hotel room then. The radiator has no thermostat. I've opened the window but honestly it's like the rainforest in here. Baking inside, cool outside, an old city but a new-ish capital. Same old songs from the eighties blaring from flashing pubs, but a new generation of revellers with their arms in the air like they just don't care. Clean, shiny redevelopment at the docks; rubbish blowing past a closed-down Boots-the-Chemist. I think Cardiff needs to make its mind up.

It's okay though; I'll give it a chance tomorrow.