(Words: Michael Hogan)

(Transcribed by monkeyman)

Next time you’re subjected to some pub know-all whining that 1998 hasn’t been a good year for music, take him by the anorak lapels and tell him he’s talking out of his art-school arse. It’s been a vintage one for the likes of All Saints, the Manics and Madonna. There’s been a rucksackful of rump- shaking club anthems. And meanwhile, the miserabilist minstrels of ’97 (yer Ashcrofts, yer Yorkes) have been replaced at the center of our world by a pair of proper pop stars. People you’d actually want to share a pint with. Robbie’s one. The other? Catatonia queenpin Cerys Matthews, whose rocking rasp ruled our charts, hearts and radio waves. Tell that to the pub know-all. Then deck him.

This time last year, Catatonia were a cult Cardiff crew known for one thing: Cerys. More specifically, Cerys’ shandy-fuelled shenanigans. A brief episode guide? There was the one where she cancelled a Brighton gig after going on a bender the previous night and waking up in the south of France. The one where she cart- wheeled the entire length of a double-decker bus roof. And the one where she shocked a Welsh discussion programme by getting mullered and asking weather- girl and fellow panellist Sian Lloyd, "Who’s shagging Sian tonight?"

And that’s just the omnibus edition. So how did her band transform themselves from under-achieving Liggers With Attitude to Top 10 fixtures? The makeover started back in January, when skewed sci-fi love song Mulder And Scully flew like a saucer to No 3. This was fast followed by The Ballad Of Tom Jones with Space, another hulking Euro-hit in Road Rage and a No 1 album, Mercury Prize near-miss International Velvet. Thunder-stealing gigs at all the major festivals and Pulp’s Finsbury Park one-dayer kept up the momentum. And all the while, like her namesake Meg but way cooler, Ms Matthews was gracing awards ceremonies, catwalk shows and paparazzi- friendly parties with her unique spin on sequined glamour.

The afternoon we meet in a West End hotel bar, she’s abandoned her Designer BarmaidÔ combos of Copperwheat Blundell and Mark One (no, really) for something lo-fi, fresh and more suited to a day’s shopping: pink cardi, alphabet necklace, combats and make-me-taller shoes. But waving a Marlboro Light in her amply-sovereigned fingers and absent-mindedly humming along to Simply Red on the jukebox, Cerys is unhappy with today’s retail achievements.

"I just hate prejudice," she sighs. "I’m quite posh really but some people assume I’m a hick. I go to nice shops and they think I haven’t got the money. I’m gonna walk in there one day with fifty grand cash in a bag." King’s Road rage, anyone?

Desperately trying to get back to normal. Next month we’re recording the next album in the same place as International Velvet. It’s all ready to go. Can’t wait.

On tour in the States, I talked to Americans on a CB Radio pretending I was one of the Spice Girls.

Brainy Spice. Or going to the World Cup in Paris with the Simon Mayo show. I was supporting Jamaica but they went out quite early.

A bit young-looking for me. He’s a footballer, his skills are on the field.

Queuing for about an hour to get served in the Met Bar. I wanted to show off so I dragged my friends in there because they’d read about it and that. So I was trying to get all poncey drinks and ended up stood at the bar for ages. Then when I finally got ’em and sat down, the lady came over and said, "Oh you don’t need to pay for any drinks, just sit down." Ha.

Mmmmm. By then, our songs had become better- known than they’d ever been and the sheer volume of people singing along was great. But I wore a binbag with my satin high heels, it was that wet.

My radio mike’s in there, so it’s a purely practical thing. I don’t wear trousers, so there’s nowhere to clip it, see? I think it’s quite smart myself. Don’t you?

Going back down the pub, definitely. Some of the best days are after a big weekend. Sundays and Mondays.

Oh, I like that. Courting. It’s better than dating. No, I’m not. You asking?

Not as long as Stephen Fry, put it that way. It’s like wine. The older you get and the more you know what you’re talking about, the more you start appreciating good stuff. You try a bottle but you wouldn’t want to buy the whole cellar. It takes a while to meet the vineyard of your choice.

Don’t get me excited.

I’d flirt with a dog. If it caught my attention for a while.

Not really. The only thing my exes have in common is smelly feet. What I think’s sexy is when someone’s getting a hell of a buzz out of what they do. That could be books, fly fishing, carpentry, gardening... If they’ve got a passion, I find that very, very attractive.

Yeah, I do on tour. I like watching dancing and I don’t get the chance to go to the ballet. And at lapdancing clubs, it’s more comfortable, you can drink all the way through the performance and don’t have any trouble getting people to go with you. I think the human body’s very beautiful and they’re pneumatic ladies.

Yes but it's like a salmon swimming against the tide to stay a lady these days. Especially with a mouth like mine.

Tape off, drinks drained, it's time for the lady to retire to a nearby cocktail bar. The aforementioned margaritas are supplemented by B52's and tequila shots. And as sky's mobile keeps Cerys updated with the latest Wales v Belarus footie score, we debate the finer points of gardening (Cerys' favored hobby), Saving Private Ryan and her ideal party.

(The eventual verdict: "Everyone's in medieval dress - corsets for the girls, tights for the boys. Oasis and the Beatles play with extra mikes so you can get on stage and sing along. There's lots of candles, sushi, mead and ale, plus big slabs of meat turning on spits over open fires. I'd provide beds to chill out on and big wooded hillsides everyone could fornicate on, with bugle players to herald each orgasm. Oh, and a ferris wheel that when you get off, you ski naked down a slope and into a dolphin pool." A modest affair, you'll agree.)

Then she remembers something: "Scrub what I said earlier. My granddad, who's this amazing but dead quite old bloke, won the Neath In Bloom contest recently for his gardening. And they introduced him as the most famous grandparent in Wales. That's my highlight of the year" Consider it done.

The Wales boys eventually stage a dramatic comeback to win 3-2. We lurch happily into the night bellowing 80s classics by Spandau Ballet, Wham! and Kajagoogoo. Even though Cerys admits to being "a bit sick of him", Robbie's Angels also gets airing. The year's two proper pop stars have suddenly become one. Soho's neon lights are swimming. It's time to go home.