There’s been lots of media coverage recently about the 40th anniversary of the film “Back To The Future” and the stage musical version, currently running in London has been a massive success, with fans of the original film returning to see it multiple times.
A touring version of the show will hit the road next year, although at the moment, the closest it’ll come to Wales is the Bristol Hippodrome.
I’ve seen all three “Back To The Future” films, but unfortunately, to quote Eric Morecambe, not necessarily in the right order.
I don’t recall why, but I saw “Back To The Future 3” first, then “BTTF 2” and eventually the original.
It messed with my head, so I felt like Marty McFly, travelling back and forth through time inside Doc Brown’s DeLorean.
Similarly, I saw “Jaws 2” before the original “Jaws”, which celebrates its 50th anniversary this year!
Discussions about the film invariably claim that it was “The first ever summer blockbuster”.
While it made more money ($400 million) than any film previously released during the summer, many of the articles, written by people who weren’t born in 1975, would have us believe it was the first successful film ever released during the summer months. Hmm . . .
In the 1950s and 60s, Disney regularly released ‘big hitters’ during the summer and although lacking Jaws’ massive ad campaign, thrilling adventure films, like “Hercules Unchained”, “The Lost World” and “The Treasure Of Monte Cristo” had been huge summer holiday hits in the early 1960s.
Once American and British studios realised they could make money with summer releases, they rolled them out by the dozen!
Cinemas of the early to mid 60s offered patrons exciting attractions like “Mysterious Island” and “Jason & The Argonauts”, while in the summer of 1968, audiences queued around the block to see “2001: A Space Odyssey”. They may not have understood the ending, but it made a fortune.
So, next time someone claims ‘Jaws’ was the first big box office success of the summer, tell them they’re going to need a bigger knowledge.

Ah, the holiday season is upon us, and with it comes the annual tradition that fills me with equal parts joy and confusion: the arrival of Christmas cards!
And every year, without fail, I find myself embroiled in the same baffling mystery: Who on earth is “John”?
You know the one.
Every December, like clockwork, a card appears in my mailbox, signed simply as “Merry Christmas, John.” No last name, no return address, just a cryptic greeting that leaves me scratching my head like a confused chicken.
Now, I know a few Johns.
There’s my cousin John, who still thinks he’s the life of the party despite his last dance being in 1998.
Then there’s my old school mate John, who once tried to convince me that wearing socks with sandals was a fashion statement.
And let’s not forget the John from Pilates, who swears he’s a Scorpio but gives off serious Virgo energy. Trust me, I’ve seen him organise the mats by colour.
Yet, every year, I’m left stumped. I’ve even resorted to analysing the handwriting like I’m Sherlock Holmes on a caffeine binge.
“Slanted left? Flourished ‘J’? Could this be plumber John? But why would he send me a card? I haven’t even called him for a leaky faucet!”
One year, I decided to enlist my partner in this festive detective work.
“Do you recognise this handwriting?” I asked, shoving the card under her nose like it was a rare artifact. She squinted at it, then shrugged. “Looks familiar,” she said, unhelpfully. Of course it does! It’s John! But which one?
This year, I’m convinced it’s all part of a grand conspiracy. Someone, somewhere, is cackling with glee, watching me spiral into a Yuletide identity crisis. It’s the perfect holiday prank: just cryptic enough to drive me mad, yet harmless enough to avoid suspicion.
Could this “John” be part of an underground society of card-senders? A secret club dedicated to perplexing polite people like me who are too nice to just . . . not care?
I can picture them now, gathered around a table, sipping eggnog and plotting their next move: “Let’s send him a card signed ‘John’ again! That’ll really get him!”
And the worst part?  I’ll still display the card proudly on my mantelpiece, right next to the one from Aunt Mabel that features a cat wearing a Santa hat. Because that’s what the holidays are about, isn’t it? Spreading joy, even in mysterious, mildly frustrating forms.
So, cheers to you, John. Whoever you are, wherever you are, you’ve won this round.
But, mark my words, next year? I’m sending out cards signed  “From: Me.” Let’s see how you like that, John! Game on!

As Jane Austen intended to say before last-minute notions of pride and prejudice distracted her, it’s a truth universally acknowledged that one’s funny bone can often be tickled by the unlikeliest of things.
Which was proved one recent Sunday afternoon, when I was feeling particularly cheesed-off because it’d been raining all day, it was almost dark, and twice (within half-an-hour!) I’d heard an annoying ad on the radio that featured a man telling me that a well-known electronics superstore was offering “Twelve mumf’s interest-free credit!”
Yes. Twelve ‘mumf’s’.
Is it possible The Advertising Standards Council have lowered the bar on their standards?
Anyway, as the radio began to assault my ears with the same ad for a third time within an hour, I switched it off and turned on the telly, which I hadn’t watched for a couple of days.
So the channel that appeared on the screen was the last one I’d tuned into – Talking Pictures TV, the home of vintage films and ‘retro’ TV series that’s achieved unexpected but well-deserved success since it came on air 10 years ago.
The programme on the screen was an episode of a 1950s series I’d never heard of, called “The Vise”. Each episode featured people caught in an emotional or moral vise (or vice).
This episode was set in a Monte Carlo nightclub where a performer named Edmondo Ros sang a song with a lyric which was so unexpectedly ridiculously hilarious it made me laugh out loud, lifting the gloomy mood of a winter afternoon.
When I heard Edmondo, accompanied by his orchestra, sing the plaintive lyric “Who stole the beans from my maracas?” in such a jaunty manner, it amused me so much I rewound it to watch again.
I discovered that Trinidad-born Edmundo Ros (who lived to be 100) was a huge star of radio, TV and upmarket West End nightclubs in the 1950s and 60s. A favourite of the Royal Family, one of his records, “The Wedding Samba”, sold three million copies.
So, I don’t think he was too despondent that someone pinched the beans from his maracas!

Let’s face it, coffee shops have evolved from mere caffeine dispensaries into the bustling heart of our social lives.
These magical establishments have brewed their way into our daily routines, transforming into modern-day town squares where friendships blossom, business deals bubble, and first dates percolate with all the awkwardness of a barista trying to remember your name.
Take a gander around any lively café, and you’ll witness a delightful circus of humanity: the brainstormers, fuelled by caffeine and crumpled notepads that look like they’ve survived a tornado; the giggling friends catching up over caramel lattes, their laughter louder than the espresso machine; and the lone philosopher, staring into an Americano as if it holds the secrets of the universe.
Spoiler alert: it probably just holds a lot of caffeine.
And let’s not forget the unspoken rule of coffee shop etiquette: there’s a seat for everyone at the table of life, provided you don’t hog the power outlet like it’s the last slice of cake at a birthday party. Seriously, folks, share the juice.
So, why are coffee shops such happy places?
For starters, they smell incredible, a heavenly mix of fresh pastries, roasted beans, and that faint whiff of productivity that inspires even the laziest among us to pick up a pen or, at the very least, scroll through social media with purpose.
Secondly, these cozy havens create a space where the mundane melts away like butter on a warm scone.
The soft hum of espresso machines and the clinking of mugs create a white noise of contentment, perfect for deep conversations or comfortable silences that say, “I’m here for you, but I’m also here for my third cup of coffee.”
More importantly, coffee shops are where big ideas are born and little joys are celebrated.
From casual chats that lighten your day to impromptu networking that might just land you your next gig (or at least a free muffin), these spaces offer more than just caffeine, they offer connection, camaraderie, and the occasional slice of cake that you definitely didn’t need but absolutely deserve.
So, the next time you sip your flat white, raise your cup high and toast to the café! It’s not just a pit stop; it’s a meeting ground for a happier, more caffeinated world.
Here’s to the brew-tiful moments, the friendships forged over frothy lattes, and the endless possibilities that await us, one cup at a time. Cheers!

A question I frequently get asked (as well as “How long are you going to be in there? I need to shower!”) is, “Do you have the well-known writer’s fear of the blank page first thing in the morning?”
I don’t, because (a) I’m not a well-known writer and (b) I avoid facing a blank page, or blank screen, first thing in the morning, by starting work the night before!
To clarify, for anyone who lacks a sense of humour (or it only surfaces after a second cup of coffee), that was a joke. Yes, really!
We hear a lot about endangered species in the natural world, but not the endangered species in the unnatural world of comedy, the joke.
The one-liner. The topical zinger. And ‘The shaft of wit’, which the great Ken Dodd often liked to point out, is a phrase one has to enunciate very carefully, to prevent causing offence in mixed company.
A joke may only contain a handful of words, but, if it’s a good one, it has the power to create laughter, either amongst friends and colleagues or (increasingly rarely today) on stage and television.
I’ve heard jokes sneerily described as ‘Dad jokes’ inferring they’re a bit naff and old fashioned. Which I find rather sad.
Few modern British comedians tell jokes now, Tim Vine, the ‘Pun-slinger’ being an honourable exception. Comedians prefer routines, usually based on a single subject closely linked to the individual performer.
These routines can be inventive, thought-provoking and in some cases exceptionally intelligent.
If I owned a hat I’d take it off to them.
To create an hour or more of material involves facing a lot of blank pages.
While many American comedians also deliver long routines, jokes aren’t ‘looked down on’ over there, as they are here.
The late-night talk show hosts have always delivered a string of topical jokes in their opening monologue. And they go down a storm, though perhaps not with the big man in the Oval Office.
Elton John loves jokes so much he’s written a joke book, which I just finished reading.  It’s a little bit funny . . .

What about Black Friday weekend, the annual Welsh tradition where perfectly sensible people temporarily lose the run of themselves, elbowing pensioners out of the way for half-price kettles, while pretending they’re still in control of their lives?
Personally, I’ve saved an absolute fortune over the years by doing something revolutionary: not going anywhere near the shops.
That’s right, the secret to my financial success is simply . . . not participating.
Dragons couldn’t drag me to Tesco on Black Friday.
But, don’t worry, cariad, this year, I didn’t miss the entertainment.
Oh no!
From the comfort of my sofa, armed with a cuppa and a pack of Welsh cakes, I enjoyed front-row seats to the finest comedy outside of a rugby club open-mic night.
Picture this: a middle-aged man, proudly sporting grey tracksuit bottoms, the kind that say, “I’ve given up caring, but I still like comfort”, paired with brown leather shoes last seen on Tom Jones in the ’70ss, and a duffle coat that looked borrowed from a museum display entitled “Cwmbran Fashion Through the Ages.”
This hero, this titan among men, was locked in mortal combat with a 55-inch flat-screen TV, determined to wedge it into the back of a taxi outside a well-known retail store.
The taxi driver, who had clearly seen things no human should see on Black Friday, watched on with that familiar Welsh expression: 40% amusement, 40% confusion, and 20% “I’m not paid enough for this.”
And, yes, miracle of miracles, the TV eventually went in, but only after enough shoving, grunting, and questionable manoeuvring to qualify as an unofficial sporting event.
If Wales ever needs a new national sport, may I suggest Competitive Taxi Packing?
Meanwhile, the man’s wife stood by with her arms crossed so tightly she could’ve cracked walnuts, glaring with the intensity of a Dragon’s Den judge who’s just been pitched a solar-powered toaster.
Her patience?
Thinner than the Black Friday discount signs!
“You’re kidding me, right?” she thundered, loud enough to scare pigeons off the roof of Poundland. “You expect me to take the bus home while you play big man in the taxi?”
Then, with the dramatic flair of a woman who’s absolutely had it, she exploded:
“That’s it. I’m off to bingo. And you can shove that TV where the sun doesn’t shine, you selfish pig!”
Nothing says Nadolig spirit quite like screaming at your husband over bargain electronics in a public car park.
As the taxi drove off, with the TV wedged in and the man looking like someone who’d just realised he’d made several poor life choices, I couldn’t help but wonder . . .
Are they the only couple to kick off the festive season with a full-blown row?
Surely not.
Why watch a Hallmark Christmas movie when real-life Welsh drama is playing out live in HD outside your window?
So, in the end, while my bank account remains untouched and my blood pressure pleasantly steady, I’ve come to cherish the accidental comedy of Black Friday.
Here’s to the brave (and slightly unhinged) souls fighting for bargains.
Here’s to the couples whose love survives even the stupidest shopping decisions.
And here’s to bingo nights full of joy, winnings, and hopefully no more arguments about televisions.
Happy holidays, and may all your TVs fit in taxis without divine intervention.

This week I’m emulating the Chancellor Of The Exchequer.
No. I’m not admitting I failed my Math’s GCSE! I’m ‘Giving with one hand and taking with the other’.
Regular readers know I regard daytime TV as the Devil’s work, designed to trap humans in a never-ending cycle of mind-numbing ‘life-style’ and‘property’ shows, bargain hunting shows and back-to-back game shows, hosted by the increasing number of TV personalities who have absolutely no personality.
But Old Nick performed his greatest con trick when he created breakfast television.
Something that nobody asked for; nobody wanted; and nobody in their right mind spends more than 10 minutes glancing at before they leave for work.
But . . .
On a recent weekend morning, when it was too wet to go out, I watched an hour or so of the BBC Breakfast show.
Although the presenters possessed all the charisma of two empty crisp packets blown down a rain-soaked street by a chilly autumn wind, it suddenly dawned on me how difficult their jobs were.
In order to be on air from six am, they’d have to be at the studio at least 90 minutes beforehand to get informed, prepped, made-up and psyched-up to broadcast ‘live’ to the nation.
So their alarm clocks would have gone off around three am.
Every day, they must appear wide-awake, as they continually adjust to the tone of the next story.
They can switch from talking to a family who’ve suffered a horrendous tragedy or are challenging an intransigent Government Department over a terrible injustice, to having a light-hearted chat with a comedian or pop star, plugging their up-coming tour.
Apart from the interviews, at set times, they introduce contributions from their colleagues in sport, weather and business/financial matters. And the regional news bulletins!
They must be so relieved when each show is over.
Okay. Having given it with one hand, here’s what I’m taking with the other . . .
I still think we could live without breakfast TV.
And ITV’s decision to drop their (insultingly brief)) local news opt-outs after 7.15 am is a disgrace!
BTW – I didn’t fail my Math’s GSCE!

Call me old-fashioned, but I’m a big supporter of “please” and “thank you.”
Seriously, it costs nothing to be polite and appreciate an act of kindness.
It’s like finding a penny on the ground. Sure, it’s not a fortune, but hey, it’s still money.
Far too often, I witness acts of kindness being totally ignored, and it happened again just last weekend.
Picture this: I’m in a busy Cardiff shop, and I see a young girl holding the door open for a middle-aged lady.
It’s a classic scene, right? The kind of moment that makes you think, “Ah, there’s hope for humanity!”
But then, shockingly, the lady just breezes through without so much as a nod or a “thank you.”
I mean, come on. Did she think the girl was just auditioning for the role of “Door Holder Extraordinaire”?
Fair play to the young girl, though, she didn’t react.
She just went on with her day, probably thinking, “Well, that was a waste of my good manners!”
Not many of us would have that level of zen, I don’t think.
I can just imagine the inner monologue: “Did I just hold the door for a robot? Is this a social experiment? Am I on a hidden camera show?”
Now, I’d understand if this had happened in a big city like London, where the pace is faster and people are less friendly. It’s like everyone’s in a race to get to the next coffee shop, and politeness is just a speed bump on the road to caffeine.
But in Cardiff? Come on. Are we so preoccupied in our own little worlds that we don’t even notice when someone is being polite anymore?
It’s like we’ve all collectively decided that acknowledging kindness is so last season. “Oh, you held the door for me? How quaint! I’m too busy scrolling through my phone to notice!”
Here’s a thought: we can all make an effort to acknowledge acts of kindness from our fellow humans. There’s no excuse for turning a blind eye to someone’s good deed. Making small, regular gestures of kindness and appreciating the people around us should become a habit.
It’s like exercising. Sure, it’s hard at first, but once you get into it, you start to feel good about yourself.
So, let’s all channel our inner polite person and start a kindness revolution.
Who’s with me? Because if we can’t muster up a simple “thank you,” we might as well start practicing our door-holding skills for the next time we encounter a robot!