I’ve said it before and I’ll undoubtedly say it again.
Time is flying by faster than ever before.
Or as the academics among you might say, “Tempus ain’t ’alf flippin’ fugitin!”
Forgive me if I’ve explained this before, but in case I’m unable to think of anything to write about – or complain about – one week, I try to ensure I’ve sent in three, four or more articles well in advance, so they’re ready ‘waiting in the wings’ at any given time.
That takes the pressure off me a little – and off the editor a lot, as he knows that he’s unlikely to be left with an uninteresting blank space occupying the page that would have featured an uninteresting article of mine.
Because I always insert the date they should be published at the top of my articles, the calendar in my head is sometimes five or six weeks ahead of everyone else.
In effect, right now, my addled brain is telling me I should be enjoying a Spring break in Cornwall.
This ‘advanced thinking’ is not unique to me.
The Christmas decorations had barely been stored away when the annual January Toy Fair exhibition was held, allowing manufacturers and importers to give retailers a sneak peek at what toys and games they could (should?) be filling their shelves with from the end of August, allowing youngsters plenty of opportunity to select what they’d like Santa to bring them on December 25th.
Retailers aren’t the only people already planning for the next festive season.
A writer friend, who’s penned more than 30 pantomime scripts, has already been discussing what he’ll have to create for the 2025/26 panto season.
He’s been asked to re-write/update an old script of his, then write a brand-new script for a second panto.
This work should keep him busy until early June, when he’ll start creating a ‘Carry On’ style panto for grown-ups.
He has no idea how long that could take, but one thing’s for sure. He won’t be taking a spring break in Cornwall!
You academics are quite right.
“Tempus definitely ain’t ’alf flippin’ fugitin!”

It used to be that when you went on a trip, you could expect beautiful landscapes, scenic vistas, and the occasional “wow, look at that cute little coffee shop” moment.
Now? I’m dodging empty water bottles, crumpled fast food bags, and plastic straws like I’m in some sort of trash-themed obstacle course.
What happened?
When did it become fashionable to toss your chocolate wrapper out of the car window like you’re in a trashy music video?
Did I miss the memo about littering being the new chic trend?
Here’s the thing: people don’t just litter—they strategise their littering.
You know the type.
They leave a trail of empty snack wrappers as if marking their territory, like a human version of Hansel and Gretel, but with Doritos instead of breadcrumbs.
They seem to think the world is their personal trash can. “Oh, I’ll just toss this McDonald’s cup right here. Someone else will take care of it, right?”
I get it, it’s tempting to chuck your empty bag of crisps when you’re halfway through a hike and can’t find a trash bin.
But here’s the thing, there’s a certain magic to putting your trash in a bin.
It’s like contributing to the greater good, except instead of a world-saving superhero, you’re just a human being with basic manners.
At the end of the day, it’s simple: treat the environment like you’d treat your grandmother’s living room; don’t leave your mess everywhere.
The next time you’re out and about, think twice before tossing that water bottle into the bushes.
Because, believe it or not, someone has to clean it up.
And trust me, that someone is not your grandmother. Rant over.

I remember from my school history lessons that the ancient Britons, not having access to streaming services or council libraries, passed their leisure time decorating their faces with ‘wode’ – a primitive form of paint, usually blue, concocted from crushed berries.
Making wode was a hit and miss procedure.
Sometimes they got the mixture right. Occasionally the berry juice contained small stones making it painful to apply.
Well, who can claim they’ve never chosen the wrong wode?
This connects with an old article of mine I recently re-read in which, as I’ve done many times, I questioned the sanity of grown men who insist on wearing shorts all year round . . . even on bitterly cold January days when dogs find themselves frozen to the lamppost and the weather is ‘Unfit for man, beast . . . ‘nor Welsh Assembly Minister’.
Reading that old article, I felt like an ancient Briton myself because for years I’ve ranted until I was blue in the face about this weird obsession a growing section of the male population has with ‘getting their legs out’ even when there’s a risk of icicles forming on their knees . . . and other places I’m too much of a gentleman to refer to, ‘lest any sensitive reader has a touch of the vapours – as the Victorians used to say – and requires smelling salts waved under their nose.
Only a few weeks ago, I read an interview with a postman who was asked why he and his fellow posties wear shorts in the winter.
His answer? “If we wore long trousers in the rain and snow they’d be soaked through all day. But wearing shorts, only our bare legs get wet!”.
What?
Surely walking around delivering letters for hours on end in all winds and weather with cold, wet, bare legs can’t feel any more comfortable than it would if they were wearing wet trousers?
When I’m First Minister, the first law I’ll pass is that men who enjoy swaggering about in shorts all year round can continue doing so . . . provided they paint their bony knees with bright blue wode!
The sales of long trousers would go ballistic!

We used to be a nation of gardeners, stamp collectors, and amateur painters.
Now?
We’re a nation of pet owners.
And not just any pets, pets with Instagram accounts, matching sweaters, and beds that cost more than our first cars.
But what happened?
Why are we suddenly obsessed with these furry little creatures who can’t even load the dishwasher, let alone help with the tax return?
Well, the answer is simple: Life is a bit much.
We’re living in an era of chaos, deadlines, and constant notifications.
So, what’s better than a living, breathing stress ball with fur and a penchant for snoring loudly?
Pets, of course! They’re the emotional support animals we never knew we needed.
Plus, with everyone being so busy, it’s nice to have a companion who doesn’t need you to explain the difference between a “climate crisis” and a “self-care day.”
A dog doesn’t care if you haven’t showered in three days or that you accidentally sent a text about your boss to your boss.
They just want belly rubs and a snack, and really, who doesn’t?
There’s also the undeniable magic of pet-induced joy.
The way a cat can sit on your lap and make you feel like a warm, fuzzy ball of happiness, or how a dog looks at you as if you’re the best thing to happen to this planet.
It’s like they’re your personal cheerleader, minus the pom-poms and with more drool.
So, why are we a nation of pet owners?
Because pets love us unconditionally, ask for very little in return, and, quite frankly, they’re better at emotional support than most of us.
Plus, they’ll never ghost you on a text. And honestly, isn’t that enough reason to adopt one?

They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Perhaps that’s why Cruft’s winners rarely get inducted into the Magic Circle.
But I’ve proved that old saying untrue because I’ve recently learned an expression I’d never heard before – ‘Shovel List’.
Most of us have a ‘bucket list’ and as the years pass, various plans and ambitions on it will, if we’re lucky, be ticked off once they’re achieved.
However, some things on a bucket list, like . . . sky diving naked into an Olympic-size swimming pool filled with lemon jelly, should, if we’re even luckier, have a thick pencil line drawn through them, once we’ve realised they’re completely unachievable, totally impractical and not a little stupid. Especially once we’ve discovered we’re allergic to lemon jelly.
Incidentally, a shovel list has nothing to do with the never-officially-clarified social etiquette of whether we should or shouldn’t clear away the snow from the pavement immediately outside our abodes. Always a tricky one, that.
No, it’s a list of the people and things that annoy us so much we could cheerfully smack them in the face with a shovel.
And before I get accused of ‘toxic masculinity’, it’s a metaphorical expression coined by writer Marion Keyes in her 2012 novel The Mystery Of Mercy Close.
Some of the things on her list are clowns and ventriloquists and Brits who say “Chunk of change” or “Here’s the deal”.
I found several websites sharing who or what they’d put on their shovel list and ironically, the review of MS Keyes book on the website of a famous glossy woman’s magazine contained two annoyingly abbreviated words which I’d definitely have on my shovel list.
It read “We recommended it ‘Abs’” and “We think it’s ‘Amaze!”
Also on my shovel list would be that irritating Radio 2 daytime presenter who refers to his callers as ‘Guys’; people who listen to music on their phones in public without earphones; politicians who don’t answer the flippin’ question asked; and any official who says after they’ve spectacularly messed up “Lessons must be learned!”
Let me know who’s on your shovel list…as long as it’s not me!

Ah, the good old days when petrol stations sold exactly what you’d expect: petrol, oil, and maybe a bag of coal if you were feeling fancy. Simple times.
But fast forward to today, and your local forecourt has transformed into a miniature supermarket, a snack haven, and most importantly a last-minute Valentine’s Day survival kit.
Gone are the heart-stopping moments of realising, at 10pm on February 13th, that you’ve forgotten chocolates, flowers, or a card.
No need for panic, just pop down to the petrol station, where romance lives between the motor oil and the meal deals.
It’s like a one-stop relationship repair shop, where love is available 24/7 alongside overpriced sandwiches and windshield wipers.
And let’s be honest, Welsh men have an unfair advantage.
We get St Dwynwen’s Day on January 25th a built-in, three-week warning before Valentine’s Day.
It’s like the universe whispering, ‘Hey, mate, don’t mess this up’. Thoughtful, really.
Last year, I went all out for Valentine’s Day. Flowers? Check. Thoughtful presentation? Sort of.
I picked them up from my local pub, as they were there for safe keeping, where the landlord was so impressed by my grand romantic gesture that he proudly displayed them on the bar.
Nothing says a I love you like flowers that smell faintly of beer and pork scratchings.
So, this year, if you find yourself in a Valentine’s Day bind, remember: petrol stations aren’t just for fuel. They’re for fuelling romance.
And if you’re really lucky, maybe one day, they’ll start offering relationship advice, too. Because let’s face it some of us could use a little more than just a box of petrol station chocolates.

Thanks to ‘Catch Up’, I’ve been laughing my Christmas socks off at the funniest TV series the festive season provided.
Called (a hilarious joke in itself!) ‘Celebrity Mastermind’ had no actual celebrities taking part and, from the low scores many contestants ‘achieved’ in their General Knowledge round, there was a noticeable shortage of anyone who could be remotely described as a ‘Mastermind’.
I do hope Magnus Magnusson wasn’t watching from on high!
One contestant in each show was a comedian.
Although I recognised a couple, even they would agree that for them to be described as ‘Celebrities’ would be stretching the meaning of the word so far it’d be dangerously close to snapping in two.
To reduce the chances of any ‘celeb’ scoring zero points and looking foolish, most General Knowledge questions were breathtakingly simple.
Like, what number do you get if you invert the number 6?
Or what sort of chair made of wood and canvas would you find on a beach or the deck of a ship?
I know. It’s comedy gold, right?
One contestant’s ‘Specialist Subject’ was the film Gladiator and )not having seen it for a while) I later found it on ‘Catch up’ and re-watched Sir Ridley Scott’s multi-award-winning epic.
I’d forgotten many incidents in the film, which surprised me as I thought it was only 10 or 11 years old. As the end credits rolled, I was staggered to discover it was made in 2000!
Where has that quarter of a century gone?
At the time, nobody commented on Russell Crowe’s New Zealand accent, despite his character being referred to as ‘The Spaniard’, because his performance was so memorable.
But I recall that during a Radio 4 interview promoting his 2010 film Robin Hood,  a well-known BBC journalist was so incredibly rude to Russell about his ‘Nottinghamshire’ accent that the actor understandably curtailed the interview.
Wouldn’t it have been great if he’d said . . .
“My name is Russellus Crowus,
Commander of many accents.
Winner of a Best Actor Oscar.
And I shall have my revenge . . . in this life.
That’s my last ever interview with the BBC, mate!”

Ah, the weather. Once again, it has turned on us like a melodramatic soap opera star, leaving chaos in its wake and us mere mortals scratching our heads.
Storms with names, no less!
What’s going on, I ask?
Is it a ploy to make storms seem more personable, like a neighbour you can never trust?
“Oh, Karen knocked over my fence again!”
Except Karen is now Storm Karen, and she also flooded your basement.
Let’s start with this naming business.
Whose idea was it to give storms names?
The tradition dates back to the 1950s, when meteorologists decided it was easier to say “Hurricane Carol” than “That Really Big Windy Thing Over There.”
Now, storms sound like disgruntled co-workers, Dennis, Ethel, Nigel, and suddenly you’re mad at them personally.
It’s oddly therapeutic, to be fair.
Blame Nigel for the soggy ceiling, not the unstoppable force of nature.
But why are storms becoming such divas lately?
The truth is, climate change is the messy instigator here, turning regular storms into headline-grabbing celebrities.
Warmer oceans, rising sea levels, and unpredictable weather patterns are the ultimate reality TV cocktail, nature’s own “Keeping Up with the Atmosphere.”
The result? More storms, stronger storms, and, yes, storm names dominating watercooler conversations.
And the damage?
Don’t even get me started.
Rooves are flying off like frisbees, trees are auditioning for Cirque du Soleil, and insurance companies are in a constant state of “please hold.”
It’s chaos.
So next time someone mentions Storm Bob or Tropical Cyclone Cheryl, just remember: these names aren’t here to make storms friendly; they’re here to remind us that weather is no longer content with being boring small talk. It’s the main event, and we’re all just along for the windy, wet, wild ride.