Regular readers know I have a pet hate I’ve spent years trying to eradicate.
Readers who aren’t regular will hopefully empathise with me, despite their temporary uncomfortableness.
“Temporary Uncomfortableness” sounds like an album by a pretentious 80s synth band that only reached No64 in the charts before its disappearance into the musical void caused them to disband and return to their previous day jobs as pretentious lecturers in pre-Byzantine pottery.
Well, it does to me, anyway!
I felt so strongly about my pet hate, I once led an angry mob holding flaming torches and pitchforks* to the Senedd, demanding ‘Something must be done!”
*Actually, the ‘mob’ consisted of me and my Uncle Cledwyn, holding wind-up torches and wooden forks from my local chip shop and we were more grumpy than angry, because it rained and we’d left our umbrella on the train.
However, our protest went un-noticed because the Senedd was deserted.
Uncle Cledwyn reckoned the AMs were all WFH – and he didn’t mean ‘Working From Home’.  WFH were the initials of the exact description he used, which was so crude (although, to be fair, not unwarranted), I daren’t repeat it here.
Despite my grumpy protest, plus all the articles I’ve written about it and the petition I handed in to No10 with almost 23 signatures, demanding “Something must be done!” . . . something hasn’t been done!
Which is why, when you venture outside, despite the bitterly cold weather you’ll inevitably encounter the horrific sight of grown men strutting around in shorts, displaying their pasty legs and knobbly knees , as if they were on the beach in Rio De Janeiro . . . or Swansea Bay . . . on a boiling hot afternoon.
I’ve pointed out countless times that men who wear shorts in the winter look ridiculous – especially when they wear woolly hats to keep their heads warm! But I’ve seen more men’s knees around this year than ever.
So, congratulations gents! You win!
Feel free to trudge (bare) knee-deep through the snow.
I won’t write another disparaging word about you.
Although I retain the right to think, when I pass one of you, “Look at that WFH!”

The annual trip to the attic to retrieve the decorations is always a hilarious and trendy affair.
Why do we stash so much stuff up there?
I don’t know about you, but the things I find up there are mind-boggling. Stuff I totally forgot about, had no idea I owned, or haven’t touched in ages.
There are things I’ll probably never use again, and some I don’t even think I’ve ever used before.
What’s the point of hoarding all this stuff?
Am I turning into a ‘hoarder’?
So, once again, I’ve stumbled upon another bad habit that needs to be dealt with.
Now, here’s the deal – you know the Antiques Roadshow? They often feature people who discover hidden treasures in their attics.
Not all the finds are worth a fortune, but many have fascinating stories behind them.
So, as I declutter in the New Year, I’m going to dive into the backstory behind the junk in my attic, which might just be more valuable than the items themselves.
Stay tuned!

I once read a newspaper article that suggested we should learn one interesting new fact every day.
The interesting new fact I learned that day was that we should learn one interesting new fact every day.
I’ve since tried to learn one interesting new fact every day and felt all the better for it… until last week…
Although I like the occasional drink (“A foaming pint of Old Occasional, please Landlord!”) I’m not ‘a big drinker’.
Am I a social drinker? Well, I don’t like drinking alone, so I suppose that makes me a ‘sociable’ drinker – though I never touch the stuff when I’m driving.
For someone who’s supposed to have his finger on the pulse, I’m ashamed to admit I was unaware of the ‘interesting fact’ that, here in Wales, for some time we’ve been paying more for our alcohol than people do in England!
If you weren’t aware of this, chalk it up as the interesting fact you’ve learned today.
I think we pay around 50p a litre more for alcohol here in Wales, which explains why so many people who like a glass or two of vino with a meal or enjoy a whisky nightcap to help them nod off in front of Newsnight, regularly head over the border to purchase their favourite tipple.
It doesn’t require the brains of Lloyd George to work out that this is taking money out of the tills of Welsh businesses – particularly at this time of year when people tend to spend a little more on celebratory drinks like sparkling wine and the odd bottle of champagne.
I appreciate it’s not so convenient for residents of west Wales, but I know people living along the M4 corridor regularly head over the Prince Of Wales Bridge to visit supermarkets in places like Portishead – and  despite the price of petrol, they’re still quids in.
However, when they re-enter Wales with a case of wine in the boot, they have to endure the dreaded Brynglas Tunnels bottleneck in Newport, which, as we know, could have been sorted, if…
Ah! But that’s a subject for another article…
In the meantime, mine’s a Babycham

Why don’t Christmas shoppers really look like they do in the adverts on TV?
Smiling families, matching jumpers and scarves, calmly strolling around the shops, snow gently falling around the town (they never seem to carry ANY bags though, have you noticed?)
Now, here’s the reality . . .
The city centre is jam-packed, people all walking in different directions (always the opposite way to me), there are men being dragged around shops they obviously don’t want to be in, children are screaming . . . all surrounded by the same jolly Christmas music in every shop.
Then we have department stores doubling up as saunas.
It’s freezing outside, so you have to wrap up, but as soon as you walk into a shop, it hits you like one of those unexpected hot flushes!
Oh yes – you can totally relate to this, can’t you?
It’s the children I feel most sorry for, strapped firmly into their pushchairs with only a Jenkins pastie for company (other pastie providers are available), so many shopping bags hanging on the back of the pushchair, both child and pastie are in danger of tipping backward and being catapulted across M&S.
Happy shopping, my friends!

“Three things are required at Christmas Time.
Plum Pudding, Beef and Pantomime.
Folks could resist the former two,
But without the latter, none can do!”
That’s what the Victorians said about the time of year when packed theatres echo with helpless laughter and ear-splitting cheers and ‘boos’ from children aged five to 95.
Pantomime season’s already underway at some venues, with more opening shortly, featuring TV soap stars; pop singers; comedians and sitcom actors…and those stalwart performers who annually put on ‘skirts’ (never ‘drag’ in pantomime) to become the beating heart of any pantomime – the Dame.
Although pantomimes often open in late November, traditionally the first performance was always on Boxing Day and they’d run for several weeks.
A mate witnessed those terrible Winters of the 1970s – Mike and Bernie – wandering through “Robin Hood” at Bristol Hippodrome . . . at Eastertime!
Not many pantomimes feature sports ‘personalities’ today, because after their first entrance, the novelty wears off once audiences realise talented sports stars don’t necessarily make talented actors.
Then again, you rarely see Panto Dames playing in the Rugby World Cup!
Before the season ends in January, I’ll try and fit in some amusing panto stories, but I’ve only got space for one,concerning the great pantomime Dame and Welsh Prince of Laughter, Wyn Calvin.
Because he performed in ‘skirts’ he could usually pass through the stage door unrecognised.
But, one night, a lady waiting outside the Theatre Royal, Nottingham, recognised his voice, grabbed her little girl’s programme, gave it to Wyn and said “Sign this for her!”
Charming!
Having asked the girl’s name, Wyn turned to a photo of himself as The Dame, signed it “To Avril” and handed it to her.
The child looked at it and burst into tears, prompting her mother to ask, “What’s wrong, dear?”. Her daughter, tears rolling down her cheeks, sobbed “He scribbled all over my programme!”
Whether you attend a professional pantomime or an am-dram production, you’ll be transported into a colourful world of quick-fire comedy, slapstick, song and dance and hilarious audience participation for a couple of hours – something we could all do with.
See you in the posh seats!

Ah, the good old days when neighbours were more than just strangers living next door.
Do you remember them?
I’m sure many of you do.
Back then, everyone on your street knew everyone else. It was like a big extended family.
But alas, times have changed, my friends.
These days, we’re so caught up in our own little bubbles that we barely know who lives on our own street, let alone who’s hiding behind the front door next to us.
It’s like we’re all living in our own private islands, except without the palm trees and sandy beaches.
Gone are the days of borrowing a cup of sugar or sharing a newspaper. Instead, we turn to the almighty Google for answers and the latest news.
If my grandmother were still around today, they’d nickname her “Google” because she knew everything about everyone. She was the original search engine, my friends.
But let’s take a moment to reflect on those lost life skills and values. The art of keeping in touch with our neighbours was once second nature.
We would check in on each other, lend a helping hand, and maybe even share a laugh or two. It was a true sense of community that made life a little bit sweeter.
So, my dear readers, wouldn’t it be lovely to see this sense of community make a grand comeback?
Imagine a world where you could knock on your neighbour’s door and ask to borrow a cup of sugar without feeling like a burden.
A world where your neighbour pops in to share the latest gossip from the Evening Post, just because they know you’ll appreciate it.
Let’s bring back the days of knowing our neighbours, of forming connections, and creating a stronger sense of community.
Because, let’s be honest, life is a lot more fun when you have someone to share it with, even if it’s just a cup of sugar or a newspaper article.
So, my fellow readers, let’s channel our inner “Google Grandma” and start reaching out to our neighbours.
Who knows, you might just find a new friend, a helping hand, or maybe even a partner in crime. After all, life is too short to miss out on the joy of knowing thy neighbour.

I had so many thoughts this week, whirring around in my brain, I found it impossible to choose between them.
So, instead of presenting you with one large main course (with a generous side order of jokes) I’ll lay out a selection of ideas you can pick and choose from.
Think of it as a buffet table of words.
And just like a real buffet, there may be some ideas on display here that don’t appeal to your personal taste and may cause you to briefly shudder in dismay.
You know . . . as you do when you bite into a vol-au-vent!
While I’m on the subject, does anyone actually like them?
Of course not!
Otherwise, every town in the UK would boast branches of “Kentucky Fried Vol-au-vent”, “Vol-au-vent Express” and “Vol-au-vent King”.
And when you place your order at a certain well-known fast-food chain, (the one that brought the first ‘drive thru’ from America to the UK for people too lazy to walk a few yards from their parking place into the restaurant), you’d be asked “Do you want vol-au-vents with that?”
So, please cast your eyes over my buffet-table of ideas and feel free to disagree. I can’t hear you, anyway.
I often feel I’m the lone voice, crying out in the wilderness about some of the terrible pronunciation inflicted on us by TV and radio presenters and ‘personalities’.
But it was a radio ad that I kept hearing on a certain radio station that really got my goat.
It was advertising an electrical goods superstore and the young-sounding male voice-artist kept saying “This washing machine is only £29 a munff!”
Yes. He said “Munff”!
I know. Because the ad was repeated about four times in under an hour, after every three records.
All TV and radio ads have to be approved by the Advertising Standards Council.
So, I assume they thought it’s okay to allow someone who can’t say ‘Month’ to say ‘Munff’ in a radio ad.
Oh hang on. I’ve run out of space and you’ve barely touched the goodies on my buffet table.
To be continued . . .Later this “munff”…

Every week, I have the pleasure of sharing a little piece of myself with all of you. It’s like a rollercoaster ride, full of challenges and bursts of colour. But hey, it’s all part of the fun, right?
But let me tell you, this newspaper editor of mine can be quite the taskmaster. I thought we were living in the age of freedom of speech, but turns out, I still get called out on a few things. Talk about a reality check!
Now, you might be wondering why we even bother reading newspapers when we’re constantly bombarded with news from all directions, 24/7. I mean, seriously, can’t we catch a break?
Well, here’s a little secret: research suggests that we humans have a bit of an addiction to gossip and negative news. It’s like we just can’t resist the juicy stuff. No wonder most of us can’t keep a secret to save our lives!
All this got me thinking about my own collection of stories. Sure, they’re mostly true, with just a touch of exaggeration for comedic effect. But hey, it keeps things interesting, right?
But don’t worry, I’m not complaining. In fact, I absolutely love the fact that people trust me with their events and stories. It’s an honour and a privilege that I hope will continue for a long, long time.
So, here’s to more colourful adventures and wild tales. Cheers!