They say writing is 10 percent inspiration, 90 percent perspiration – unless you’re a writer who lives in the middle of the Sahara, in which case….how do you prevent your sweaty fingers from sliding off the keyboard?

Before I begin scribbling my weekly witterings, I usually have no idea what to write, so very often perspiration wins over inspiration.  But there are times when an experience will cause me to rush to my laptop to get the words down, fast.

Such an incident happened at a motorway services on the M5.
I had no business being on the M5 because I was driving from Bridgend to Carmarthen, but that’s another story…
After I’d got my coffee from the machine, I told the till lady “I’ve only got a £20 note, sorry” and she replied “That’s alright, love. You can owe me the extra 35 pence”. I went outside with my cup.   No….it couldn’t have been a cup because I heard the till lady remark “That mug’s going outside!”

It was a bright, crisp winter’s day and as I sat on a bench watching the steam rising from my cappuccino – everyone needs a hobby – I was joined by a lively group of disabled people and their carers.  They were in great humour, clearly enjoying being out on the first dry day we’d had for ages. Their loud laughter wasn’t an issue for me. Well, it’s been such a long time since I’ve heard any.  But I was astonished by the reaction of other adults sat around us, who stared inappropriately and disapprovingly at the disabled people, while ignoring the bad behaviour of their own children.

I have no idea why these intolerant onlookers were so annoyed by a group of wheelchair users, but obviously they didn’t have the common sense to think for just one moment that they and their annoying offspring might one day be involved in an accident or develop a serious illness that could render them ‘disabled’. I can only put their appalling attitude down to ignorance, which in 2023 is inexcusable – but extremely common.
The chilling words of The Spirit of Christmas Present have stayed with me since I first read “A Christmas Carol”…
“This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both. “But most of all, beware this boy”.  I believe ‘This boy’ was lurking amongst those insensitive onlookers that day – and they revelled in his presence.  Shame on them.

I have just realised that I’ve been contributing to the local newspapers since June 2014. I am slightly surprised by the fact that I continue to come up with new ideas and stories on a weekly basis. I just happened to be approached and accepted the challenge in my usual enthusiastic way.
Having said that, I now get a great deal of positive feedback in my inbox on a weekly basis, and it is lovely to know that readers are gaining some pleasure from my work. Even my doctor commented recently, which totally threw me as he was carrying out my prostate examination at the time. My reply was quite high pitched.
Not the conversation I was expecting and not that I have a prostate issue – but I’m at the age where regular check-ups are advisory.
If you are male and of a mature age then make sure you also have a regular check up of anything that might be worrying you. You can thank me later.

As you put away the Christmas decorations…you have put them away I hope?…and put the imitation tree into the attic or took the real one to the recycling centre, did you pause for a moment like I did and think “Was it really worth all the fuss?”
And when, with shaking hands you scanned all the items on the credit card bill that the postman popped through your letterbox this month, did you wonder why you spent so much and stress about how you’re going to pay it all back?
If December is the ‘Jovial Uncle’ of the Calendar family – the month of parties, gift-giving and good will to all men, women and non-binary persons – then January has always been the grim-faced elderly Aunt dressed in black, who ‘Tuts’ disapprovingly while shaking her head at your over-indulging and overspending.
If we all know these bills are going to catch up with us, why do we stress so much about Christmas, especially when we’re going through a cost of living crisis?
Between December 25th and January 31st we might de-stress for a while, but then stress even more as we wait to find out how much we’ve wasted…and I use that word deliberately…buying things for people who don’t need them with money we can’t afford.
Some of you might think I’m a curmudgeon for saying all this, but the harsh truth is, a lot of my readers have lived through seven recessions over the decades and this current one has given many people, who managed to just get by previously, a real kicking.
We’re living in a world in which the not-too-badly-off can chomp their way through Christmas cakes, selection boxes, tins of chocolates and other calorie-infused confectionery, while just down the road, in our own towns and cities, food banks are struggling to fill their shelves, such is the demand from people on their uppers who can’t provide basic nutrition for their families.
Many of these people are in full-time employment but are still struggling.
In the run-up to next Christmas, try and remember this article before you reach for your credit card to buy gifts for people who’ll be using their credit cards to buy gifts for you. Call a truce. Tell each other not to bother.
Come January 2024 you could be glad you did.

Will you be raising a toast for Burns Night?
I have to confess that until I did my research, I thought Burns Night was an episode of Casualty.
Casualty has been running for more than 30 years.
A mate of mine does walk-on parts and he’s played ‘Man lying on trolley’ since it first started.
The way things are with the NHS these days, a patient lying on a trolley for more than 30 years isn’t unusual . . .
Burns Night celebrates the birth of Scotland’s greatest poet – Robbie Burns, born in 1759. That’s more than 250 years ago. Just think, if he was alive today . . . he’d be in a hell of a state!
It may come as a surprise to you that Robbie Burns died at the age of 37.
It certainly came as a surprise to him!
Robbie Burns had three great loves in his life – Haggis, whiskey and women!
He over-indulged in all three and they eventually did him in.
The constant diet of haggis wore out his digestive system.
The non-stop drinking wore out his liver. And his bedroom antics eventually wore out his . . . . appetite for haggis and whiskey!
Burns suppers have been part of Scottish life for 200 years. ‘Burnt suppers’ have been part of my life since the first time I came home late from the pub. Men never learn, do they?

When the Beatles, The Stones, The Kinks and other ‘beat combos’ took America by storm in the 1960s, it was referred to as ‘The British Invasion’.
But the Yanks got their revenge in the early 70s when the stealthy Americanisation of our vocabulary began, replacing words and phrases that had served us and our forefathers – and foremothers – perfectly well.
The first blatantly American expression that infiltrated Britain was “Have a nice day!” which was adopted by shop assistants, petrol pump attendants (remember them?), receptionists and everyone else who dealt with the public.
Saying “Have a nice day” to someone is meaningless because the person who says it has no power over the myriad external forces (luck/fate/destiny) that govern whether the person they say it to has a ‘nice’ day or merely an averagely miserable one.
But try explaining that to the lady in Greggs who sold you a corned beef pastie and you’ll get a blank look for your trouble.
Today, no-one realises they’re speaking cod-American.
Just last week when a friend and I went into a restaurant, a young, enthusiastic waiter greeted us with “Hi guys!”  Guys?
The restaurant was in a Welsh town. Not on 59th Street, NYC.
British waiters used to greet you with “Good evening sir, madam” or, if you were regular customers, a subtly whispered “Don’t eat the fish!”.
I knew exactly what the waiter would say next, because in every restaurant I’ve eaten recently, the next thing every waiter or waitress says is “I’ll grab you some menus!”
I always thought when you ‘grab’ something you have to snatch or forcibly remove it from somewhere or somebody.
With dozens of spare menus around the place, why would waiting staff have to ‘grab’ them when they can gently pick them up and hand them to the customer?
As waiting staff all over the UK started using the word ‘grab’ at the same time, I can only think an edict must have been issued by the Head Waiter In Charge Of All Waiters, along these lines…
“Let it be known that from this day henceforth you will not ‘bring’ customers a menu, you will ‘grab’ them”?  How does that explanation grab you?

As a young lad, I was brought up in the days where everybody in the street on which you lived knew everyone else.
I am sure many of you reading this column can remember this time very well.
The good old days.
However, times have changed and, unfortunately, there are so many of us today that don’t know who lives on the street, or, in some cases, even who lives next door!
The Covid lockdown made that even worse as we all had to stay inside to wait for the pandemic to pass.
Bring back the days when you would pop next door to borrow a cup of sugar or your neighbour would pop in to share their copy of the local paper when they’d finished it.
My grandmother would always make the effort to check on her neighbours and get to know anyone new who moved into the street.
If she were still around today, they’d nickname her “Google”.
Keeping in touch with those around you was second nature.
Do you think this is something that could happen again?
Wouldn’t it be lovely to see this sense of community make a welcome return?

You got through it relatively unscathed, then?

‘It’ being Christmas, which seemed endless thanks to appalling weather, short dark days and lacklustre TV schedules designed by people who, while we sat at home surfing the channels to find something to watch, were surfing the waves off a tropical island.

‘The Spirit Of Christmas’ out-stayed its welcome like a house guest who arrives on Christmas Eve and can’t comprehend you just might have had enough of their company by New Year’s Day.  When they show no sign of leaving, you subtly strip the duvet cover off their bed, pack their suitcase for them, put it in their car and start the engine so they can clear off without any delay. Ring any Christmas bells?

Christmas wasn’t all bad because I bought exactly the right ‘special’ gift for my partner and she did the same for me.  This was less to do with our thoughtfulness and more to do with to the fact that our carpets still have huge dents in them from the heavy hints we dropped about what presents we’d like.

Of course, not everyone’s so fortunate.  While you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth – particularly if the gift you receive is a horse – a recent survey revealed many people are disappointed with Christmas presents their partners buy them.  And it’s not surprising the recipient’s faces dropped when they unwrapped such truly pathetic presents as…a pair of windscreen wipers; a mop and bucket; an ironing board cover; Hoover bags; and a toilet seat!  You’ve probably guessed that these ‘gifts’ were bought by men for their partners/wives/girlfriends.

I think we can agree that any man who buys last-minute presents at a petrol station on Christmas Eve …  ”Here you are luv. An instant barbecue; a car cleaning kit…and half a Wispa. I ate some of it on the way home!”
…is a thoughtless plonker.

But a man who plans ahead to buy the person he shares his life with windscreen wipers for Christmas and actually believes she’ll be pleased to receive them, is something else.  I’d like to think there aren’t many of them around.  But if you know better, send me a note on the hotel writing paper he gave you last year…

So, the Christmas decorations are all down and safely stored away.
When you think about it, Christmas is just a cardboard box in the attic now!
By the end of this week, it is most likely that I will have broken at least three of my New Year resolutions – and probably four of the Ten Commandments.

Why is it we head into January full of good intentions, yet find it so hard to stick to our goals?

On the 31st December I filled the fridge with salad and ironed my running vest.  By the 2nd January, I’m sitting in my kitchen, writing this column while sampling some freshly baked goodies from my local coffee shop.

At least I lasted one more day than last year.

For many, January is the time of year when we feel in ‘limbo’.  The fun and excitement is over and the harsh reality of paying for an elaborate Christmas hits home.

There’s one question I always ask myself during the Christmas period: Whatever happened to soap on a rope?