The dust has settled on the New Year and the world has returned to normal, although I question any world that considers itself normal when people who refuse to return to their workplace can claim they are ‘working from home’ when they’re noodling around on their laptop in a beach bar in Tenerife or sat on their sofas watching the triple threat of Lorraine, This Morning and Loose Women.
If any TV shows need ‘trigger warnings’ it’s that trio of visual white noise, because after watching them, anyone owning a shotgun might be tempted to point it at their TV and pull the trigger.
Covid was a terrible time, but many office staff, forced to work at home, enjoyed their respite from the daily commute so much that they continued doing so after they were told to return to work . . . and many still haven’t gone back.
If you’ve ever been in central London during the morning and evening rush hour, you’ll know it can be hellish trying to get on already full-to-capacity buses or attempting to board a tube train so uncomfortably packed that even a sardine would hesitate to try and squeeze into a carriage.
I can understand why many workers in the City of London or the West End would prefer to avoid those experiences, but don’t really understand why so many office workers ‘H’yer in Wales’ continue working from home.
I’m well aware that while the daily commute is less stressful compared to what the millions who pour into London endure, Welsh commuters often wait for buses and trains that are late or don’t arrive.
And commuters driving in and out of Wales every day get snarled up in motorway jams.
But going to work has always involved some sort of journey, even if it’s walking or cycling.
That’s why it’s called ‘Going To Work!’
In an office environment, you interact with and learn from your colleagues.
If they have problems you share them.
Local cafes, sandwich shops and newsagents do well.
Towns and cities thrive.
So, come on folks!
Switch off Lorraine and get into the office!
Phil Evans,
c/o Rick’s Café American,
Casablanca,
North Africa

The other night, I attended a dinner party, only to witness a scene so tragic it could have been titled The Death of Conversation.
Eight friends sat around the table, not chatting, laughing, or even squabbling about the bill.
Instead, they were glued to their phones, oblivious to the culinary masterpiece in front of them.
It seems the art of face-to-face conversation is on life support.
We’re fast approaching a future where people will communicate solely through emojis and GIFs, leaving actual speech to the history books.
But the madness doesn’t stop at the dinner table.
Take a stroll through town, and you’ll find phone-obsessed pedestrians weaving through the streets like oblivious zombies.
They march as if the pavement is their personal runway, while the rest of us perform Olympic-level sidesteps to avoid collisions.
And the consequences?
Oh, they’re real
Last year, nearly 1,900 pedestrians ended up in A&E after walking straight into poles, walls, or worse, all while texting.
And let’s not forget the 14-year-old who, in a moment of multitasking brilliance, walked clean off an eight-foot bridge while messaging his mates.
So, here’s my challenge to you: next time you’re out for dinner, count how many phones light up at your table.
Better yet, declare a phone ban for the meal.
Rediscover the lost art of talking, joking, and maybe even debating whether pineapple belongs on pizza.
Yes, the lure of the screen is strong, but there’s something magical about a good, old-fashioned conversation.
It doesn’t crash, buffer, or need an update, and, as far as I know, nobody’s ever fallen off a bridge while simply enjoying a chat.
So, look up, laugh a little, and let’s bring conversation back from the brink.

Some random ramblings this week . . .
I’ve still not broken the New Years Resolution I made as 2024 drew to a close.
Admittedly, it’s not been that difficult, because my New Year’s Resolution was the same one as last year (and previous years!) – which is to not make any New Year Resolutions.
It’s been a dark, miserable winter, with February yet to come. However, the end of that month usually brings little signs that spring is just around the corner.
Daffodils and crocuses bring splashes of colour to our parks. The late afternoons stay lighter for longer . . . and SCS & DFS start their Summer Sale!
Many people, jaded by the British winter – which began in late August – are planning their annual holidays.
Some do it online, but there are still plenty who prefer a face-to-face with a travel agent, who provides detailed, helpful information about the holiday destinations their customers are thinking of flying off to.
What a job that must be! Being paid to tell people where to go!
I enjoy skiing and lazing on a beach and used to take two holidays a year – one in the Alps and one in Turkey. But I eventually stopped doing this after a couple of disappointing vacations.
I found fewer and fewer opportunities for getting a tan in the Tyrol and even fewer opportunities for skiing around Bodrum.
I may holiday in the UK this year as I find airports are a nightmare.
How do cruise ship entertainers cope. constantly jetting off to the Med, the Caribbean or further afield, to pick up a ship, then a few days later flying somewhere else to board another one, then another . . . all year round?
Ironically, although airports and air travel are no joke, many cruise ship comics find they provide a rich vein of material passengers can relate to and end up roaring with laughter.
I’ll sign off because I’m expecting a delivery from my local takeaway.
When I asked for a three-foot stack of spring rolls, they said “Blimey, Phil! That’s a tall order!”
How would a cruise ship audience react to that gag?

Sharp-witted readers among you may have noticed that this column has been going strong since June 2014.
That’s over a decade of my musings gracing your morning coffee, or lining your compost bin, depending on your mood.
When I was first asked to contribute to this esteemed publication, I was both honoured and stunned.
Writing a regular column hadn’t been on my to-do list. My typewriter was already busy holding up one corner of a wonky desk.
Could I deliver thoughtful, engaging content week after week? And how many ink ribbons would I need for this relic of mine?
But I embraced the challenge, and here we are, years later.
Along the way, I’ve realised that words have a way of connecting us, even across oceans.
I’ve had letters from Wales (of course), but also from Canada, America, and once, inexplicably, someone claiming to read me on a boat in the South Pacific.
Much of my inspiration comes from the wonderful, peculiar characters I meet during my travels.
Their stories fuel my creativity, and spare you from a column packed with ads for double glazing.
Without them, this space would be about as vibrant as a wet weekend in Merthyr Tydfil.
Writing this column has taught me that words are more than letters on a page; they’re a bridge, a mirror, and occasionally, a very effective excuse for avoiding DIY.
So here’s to the power of language, and to the many stories yet to be told.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think my typewriter just fell off the desk again.

When people ask “What sort of Christmas did you have?” the answer, invariably, is “Quiet!”
Just yesterday, a friend confirmed his Christmas was particularly quiet. He’s had laryngitis for weeks.
I watched a lot of TV over Christmas, including a film about a Salford couple who meet in a sweet shop . . . “The Mancunian Candy Date” . . . and the 2024 Royal Variety Performance, which huge international stars avoided this year.
Yes, I do realise Frank, Dean and Sammy are no longer with us. But surely some massive American stars might like to fly to London in wet, miserable November?
Maybe not.
Having been told they were available to view on YouTube* by a friend who worked on them in the 1980s, I also watched a selection of ‘Live From’ variety shows hosted by Jimmy Tarbuck, which regularly attracted upwards of 11 million viewers on Sunday evenings.
“Live From Her Majesty’s” ran from 1983 to 1985; there was one series of “Live From The Piccadilly” in 1986; and “Live From The Palladium” ran from 1987 to 1988.
Viewing these shows 30 years on, even Tarby would admit his opening gags (such is the nature of topical humour) are hard to understand unless you were around at the time.
But he gets huge laughs and is always encouraging to up-and-coming comedians like Brian Conley and Les Dennis.
The list of stars who appeared on “Live From” reads like a “Who’s Who” of entertainment . . .
Here’s just a sample –
The Pet Shop Boys, George Benson, Tony Bennett, Kylie Minogue, Joe Cocker, Barry Manilow, The Everly Brothers, Glenn Campbell, Gloria Estefan & The Miami Sound Machine, Dionne Warwick, Rick Astley, Dusty Springfield, Cliff Richard, The Shadows, Gladys Knight & The Pips, Engelbert Humperdinck, BB King, Roy Orbison, Donny Osmond, Patti Labelle & The Bluebelles, Robert Palmer, Neil Sedaka . . . and Bonnie Tyler!
I haven’t room to mention all the comedians, like Frank Carson, Bob Monkhouse and Steve Coogan.
So, if you need a boost any cold winter evening, try and find these fascinating shows online.
And let variety spice up your life!

Last autumn, my friend (let’s call him enthusiastically upholstered) announced he was embarking on a fitness journey.
The timing was impeccable: we were halfway through a feast of chicken tikka masala, onion bhajis, poppadoms, and garlic naans at the weirdest Italian restaurant I’ve ever visited.
His fitness plan wasn’t overly ambitious.
No marathons, no CrossFit memberships.
Just the World Health Organisation’s advice to walk 10,000 steps a day. A nice, round number. Manageable, right?
Fast forward to last week. I spotted him waddling, I mean, walking, down Fabian Way, Swansea.
Strangely, he seemed to have gained weight. Naturally, I handled this with my trademark subtlety.
“Oi! Chubster!” I bellowed.
His head snapped in my direction, proving the nickname still worked.
Both of his hands were full: one clutching a Greggs pasty, the other, mid-gesture with a Greggs sausage roll. I couldn’t criticise; I was holding my own sausage roll at the time.
Between mouthfuls of pastry, I asked, “Weren’t you supposed to be doing 10,000 steps a day?”
He sighed. “I was. But I couldn’t find one building in this city with 10,000 steps to walk up and down.”
You can’t fault his logic.
Curious, I looked into this “10,000 steps” idea.
Turns out, it wasn’t pulled out of thin air, like the whole “five-a-day” fruit and veg thing.
It started in 1964, when researchers in Japan found that walking 10,000 steps burns about 20% of your daily calorie intake.
Brilliant! By my calculations, walking 50,000 steps would burn 100% of your daily calories. Trouble is, if you walk 50,000 steps every day, by the end of the week you’d have marched to Hereford.
I hear Hereford’s lovely, though.
Maybe there’s a Greggs there?
My friend could certainly use the walk – and I could use the sausage roll.

Sharp-witted readers among you may have noticed that this column has been going strong since June 2014. That’s over a decade of my musings gracing your morning coffee, or lining your compost bin, depending on your mood.

When I was first asked to contribute to this esteemed publication, I was both honoured and stunned. Writing a regular column hadn’t been on my to-do list, my typewriter was already busy holding up one corner of a wonky desk. Could I deliver thoughtful, engaging content week after week? And how many ink ribbons would I need for this relic of mine?

But I embraced the challenge, and here we are, years later. Along the way, I’ve realized that words have a way of connecting us, even across oceans. I’ve had letters from Wales (of course), but also from Canada, America, and once, inexplicably, someone claiming to read me on a boat in the South Pacific.

Much of my inspiration comes from the wonderful, peculiar characters I meet during my travels. Their stories fuel my creativity, and spare you from a column packed with ads for double glazing. Without them, this space would be about as vibrant as a wet weekend in Merthyr Tydfil.

Writing this column has taught me that words are more than letters on a page; they’re a bridge, a mirror, and occasionally, a very effective excuse for avoiding DIY. So here’s to the power of language, and to the many stories yet to be told.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think my typewriter just fell off the desk again.

Like everyone who dares to put their personal thoughts and opinions into newspaper articles, I’m asked where I get my ideas from, time and time again.
I have a reply stored in my head, but I never use it (the reply, not my head) because I was brought up to be polite and it would sound slightly smug.
I abhor smugness as much as I abhor coleslaw.
No, thinking about it, I abhor coleslaw that little bit more.
As you’re the height of discretion and wouldn’t repeat it, I can reveal that my never-to-be-spoken reply is, “I find my ideas in the same places you could, if you looked up from your smart phone occasionally”.
Saucer of milk for Ginger!
It’s just that certain things that attract my attention might not register with others.
Like the sign I recently saw in the window of a health food shop – “Closed Due To Illness”.
You may not have noticed, as I have, that these days no one in the public eye, whether they’re a politician or a Radio 2 breakfast DJ resigns.
Instead, they ‘step down’.
Which infers that, in their minds, until that point, they’ve existed on a higher plane than the rest of us.
Why not be honest and admit, “I realise I’m unpopular, so I’m quitting while I’m behind!”?
And on this theme . . . whatever happened to things happening ‘in the future’?
People now refer to things happening ‘Going forward’!
“Will the Prime Minister confirm his decision will be reversed going forward?”
How daft does that sound?
Like saying a person has ‘passed’ instead of ‘died’, some people can’t face using the correct words, so substitute them for blandly meaningless alternatives they feel more comfortable with.
If this annoying trend persists going forward, I may have to step down . . .

Gentlemen, let’s set the scene: you’re at a party, cocktail in hand, and you’re chatting with a woman.
Everything’s going fine until it happens. She tilts her head, smirks, and drops the ultimate conversational grenade:“How old do you think I am?”
This, my friends, is the social equivalent of defusing a bomb.
The wrong guess could detonate the entire evening, and trust me, the fallout isn’t pretty.
Suddenly, you’re Tom Cruise in Mission: Impossible, except the stakes are higher and there’s no dramatic music to guide you.
Now, the obvious move is to go low – guess five, maybe 10 years younger.
But beware!
Some women see right through this and will respond with a knowing smirk:“Oh, you’re just being nice.”
Congratulations, now you’re branded as insincere.
Too high, and you’re done for.
Guessing 42 when she’s 35 is like cutting the wrong wire. It’s game over, buddy.
The “Are you kidding me?” glare will sear itself into your soul.
So, what’s a person to do?
Play it safe with,“Oh, I’d rather not guess,” and you might come across as boring or evasive.
Go philosophical with, “Age is just a number,” and you’re now the guy who reads motivational posters.
Some brave souls recommend flipping the script: “Well, how old do YOU think I am?” It’s risky, but might shift the spotlight.
So readers, I turn to you: How do you navigate this delicate dance?
Have you guessed correctly and lived to tell the tale?
Or do you avoid the question like it’s radioactive?
Write in with your stories, because if there’s one thing we can all agree on, it’s that the age-guessing game is a lose-lose scenario.

You find me in an unseasonal mood.
Not in Scrooge’s “Bah Humbug!” way – because I like Christmas.
A little.
Okay . . . I can’t wait for it to be over so I can de-clutter my house of decorations and the artificial tree that’s seen better days.
December 27th, 1985, was its last best day.
I’m unhappy after listening to a radio  discussion about a certain organisation –  I won’t name it because it doesn’t deserve the oxygen of publicity – that suggested the title and lyrics of the sea shanty “What Shall We Do With The Drunken Sailor?” should be changed to “What Shall We Do With The Grumpy Pirate?”.
The suggestion was because the original might be a bad influence on children.
Yet ‘Little Johhny Flynn throwing pussy in the well’ is okay?
The sea shanty opens with . . .
“What shall we do with the drunken sailor?
“What shall we do with the drunken sailor?
“What shall we do with the drunken sailor
“Ear-ly in the morning?”
The rest of the song contains several helpful suggestions regarding what could be done with the inebriated matelot, including shaving his belly with a rusty razor and, much less painfully, putting him in the long boat ‘til he’s sober.
I get very annoyed when people with too much time on their hands decide that something that’s been around for a long time (this song dates back to the early 1800s) requires updating.
I get doubly annoyed when they audaciously claim they’re ‘improving’ it.
I expect you sang this song in school, as I did.
Has it made anyone want to shave a drunken sailor’s belly with a rusty razor – except you, Mrs Betty Evans, of Fishguard Harbour?
Where will this arrogantly needless ‘improving’ end?
Will the lyrics of “Fifteen Men On A Dead Man’s Chest” be changed to “Yo, ho, ho and a bottle of milk?”
Will we soon hear “Little Old Tea Drinker Me”, “The Days Of Lemonade And Roses” and “The Night They Invented Orange Squash”?
And The Scaffold might be prevented from toasting Lily The Pink – Saviour Of The Human Race.
Think I’m exaggerating?
Just give it time . . .