That fine singer Matt Monro had a string of hits here and across the ‘Pond’, where Frank Sinatra helped establish his name.
When Matt scored his first hit “Portrait Of My Love” in 1960 he already had several club bookings in his diary and even thought he’d become a ‘name.
He appeared on prestige TV shows. He was contractually obliged to appear at all the venues his agent had booked him into, no matter how small the club . . . and the fee.
So it was that, with a No3 record to his name, Matt set out for the long drive to a social club in a mining town ‘Oop North’.
It was dark when he reached the town, but he couldn’t find the venue for love nor money.
After fruitlessly driving around for an hour, he pulled up outside a suburban house and knocked on the door. When a man opened it, Matt asked if he could please tell him how to get to the club in question.
The man said “Thee’s got thy-sen reet lost, me duck. Just down t’road, you’ll see church on t’left. Tek first left, third right and fourth left and you can’t miss it!”
Matt, still figuring out the directions, thanked the man and walked away. Then he heard the man say, “But thee’l not get in’t club toneet, lad”.
When Matt asked why, the man said, “That Matt Monro’s singing there!”
One more quick one . . .
Comedy actor Peter Butterworth was more than a stalwart of the Carry On films.
He was a brilliant panto dame and had a bone dry sense of humour.
He once found himself surrounded by a group of ‘bright young’ BBC producers in a Green Room, who spent half an hour discussing the merits of foreign cinema.
During this time, no one had spoken to Peter, but he was too polite to walk away and join a more friendly group.
Suddenly one of the producers said, “Peter. Have you seen Fellini’s ‘Eight And A Half?’” to which Peter responded with a straight face . . . “No. But I have heard the rumours!”

People often ask me how I manage to write a newspaper column every single week.
The answer is surprisingly simple: I refuse to leave my computer until I’ve written one. That’s it. No inspirational walks. No deep meditation. No artistic soul-searching. I simply sit there staring at the screen until my brain gives up and produces something vaguely entertaining.
It probably helps that I see the world from a slightly skewed angle.
While normal people walk through life peacefully, I spend most of my time becoming irrationally irritated by phrases, signs and everyday nonsense.
Take the expression “going forward.”
What was wrong with saying “in the future”?
Why does everyone now sound like they’re chairing a business seminar in a motorway hotel?
Then there’s the phrase “my bad.” I absolutely cannot stand it.
“My bad” what exactly? Your grammar? Your decision-making? Your complete betrayal of the English language?
The first celebrity I remember saying it regularly was Jonathan Ross, who always seemed eager to adopt Americanisms. Mind you, his infamous phone call with Russell Brand mostly involved words your grandmother wouldn’t allow at the dinner table.
I briefly considered learning a proper trade once. An electrician perhaps. Then I realised there’s probably a reason society prefers qualified people handling live wiring. Although, for fifty quid cash, I’d still be willing to give your house a go.
Admittedly, there’s a fair chance the toaster would activate every time someone flushed the toilet.
My latest annoyance came during a trip to the bank. Above the counter was a sign reading: “Assisted Counter Service.”
Assisted? Isn’t helping customers literally the point of counter staff? Then every customer was asked, “Have you tried online banking?”
One elderly gentleman replied, “No! Because if we all banked online, this place would shut and you’d all lose your jobs!”
I laughed so much I nearly dropped my shopping bag and frightened the cashier.

There are more and more people I’ve never heard of who are referred to as celebrities.
I don’t just mean reality TV ‘stars’ who enjoy a moment in the spotlight before heading back to obscurity.
Until I read a review of his autobiography “From Blitz To Glitz”, I confess the name Jess Conrad meant nothing to me.
But, there again. the name Phil Evans would mean very little to him.
But, viewing on-line interviews with Jess, it turns out he’s an actor/singer who has been in ‘the business’ for decades.
Precisely how long depends on whether you accept Jess’s version, or check the easily available facts!
He says he got his first break in show business when, after seeing the film “Cleopatra” in the West End, he went into a café off Leicester Square for a cup of tea. Sat at the next table, tucking into egg and chips were Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton!
Just kidding!
Sat there was tough-guy actor and stuntman Larry Taylor.
Jess. a good-looking lad, not lacking confidence, told Larry he’d just seen him playing a Roman soldier in “Cleopatra” and asked if he could advise him how he could get into films.
Larry generously recommended a casting agent friend who, soon after their first meeting, arranged some walk-ons for Jess, which led to a 60-year-plus acting and singing career.
That would be a great story, except for the fact that “Cleopatra” opened in 1963 and Jess’s first film appearances were in “Cockleshell Heroes” and “Joe Macbeth”, both made eight years previously.
He also says that in the film “Konga” (made two years before “Cleopatra”!) ‘at the end, a giant gorilla carried me up the side of Big Ben’.
In fact, a normal-size gorilla bumped him off halfway through the film, in the driveway of a Croydon semi!
But, he can be self-deprecating, as he was during his cabaret act, when he asked the audience for song requests.
Someone shouted “Great Balls Of Fire” and Jess replied “Leave it out! I’m a poseur, not a singer!”
Obviously a good sport, Jess will be 91 next February!

What began as a quiet Saturday morning quickly turned into glorious chaos when the annual town festival rolled into the park with music, food stalls, and enough glitter to terrify the local pigeons.
By noon, children were charging around with painted faces, teenagers were attempting dance moves they had clearly learned from the internet, and grown adults were pretending they “weren’t really that competitive” during the sack race.
The biggest surprise of the day, however, came from 78-year-old Mr Jenkins, a man previously known only for complaining about parking and shouting at squirrels.
After hearing a local jazz band perform, he marched straight onto the dance floor and unveiled moves nobody had seen since 1963.
“At one point I thought his knees had detached completely,” one stunned onlooker reported.
Meanwhile, local businesses were thriving. Mrs Jenkins sold out of homemade cakes within an hour after a toddler loudly declared her brownies “better than chocolate itself.” The candle stall next door did brisk business after someone accidentally knocked over a tray of garlic chutney near the yoga tent.
Artists, musicians, and performers filled every corner of the festival with colour and laughter. One magician accidentally locked himself inside his own equipment van, which somehow became the highest-rated act of the afternoon.
But, beyond the music and comedy, something lovely happened. Strangers chatted like old friends. Teenagers helped elderly visitors carry chairs. Volunteers handed out free water bottles during the afternoon heatwave, while exhausted parents united in solidarity beside the ice cream van.
As the sun began to set, hundreds gathered together, singing badly, but enthusiastically, to the final band number.
And, for a few magical hours, nobody worried about bills, emails, or the washing-up pile waiting at home.
Because festivals do something special: they remind us that joy multiplies when shared, especially when Mr Jenkins is dancing nearby. Join the party and support festivals this year!

I recently watched the TV documentary ‘The Cancellation Of Benny Hill’, which shocked me – but not in the way the producers intended.
I was well aware Thames Television cancelled Benny’s contract in a cruelly perfunctory manner in 1989 after 20 years, which was a major blow to his career and health. He died three years later.
His style of comedy may appear old-fashioned to some, but he was one of the few British comedians to find success in America, where his shows earned £27 million for Thames TV.
He lived a quiet life and was a prolific writer of sketches, monologues, limericks and lyrics . . . and didn’t commit any crimes!
So, who suddenly decided the man himself should be ‘cancelled’?
The programme followed the usual tired format of comedians, most of whom weren’t born when Benny was at his peak, ‘reacting in horror’ at excerpts from some of Benny’s  shows, muttering “How did he get away with it?”
But, were the clips they saw the same ones we did? I wondered if TV jiggery-pokery was involved?
I also wondered if the people taking part were qualified to pass judgment on a man who was a star for almost 40 years.
That they didn’t appreciate Benny’s saucy humour may have something to do with the report that people born between the late 1990s and early 2010s – known as Gen Z – were unfamiliar with the expressions ‘Rumpy Pumpy’, ‘Slap And Tickle’, ‘Nookie’ and ‘A Bit Of How’s Your Father’!
For them to have never heard those expressions, they must have avoided every TV screening of a ‘Carry On’ film since they were born.
As ITV 3 shows back-to-back ‘Carry Ons’ every Bank Holiday weekend, that’s nothing short of miraculous.
I was also surprised that ‘Hanky Panky’ was another expression Gen Z hadn’t heard of, because Madonna recorded a song with that title.
My surprise vanished when I found out it peaked at No10 in 1990*.
If a week’s a long time in politics, 36 years in the pop business is an eternity.
*Benny Hill’s “Ernie” was No1 for four weeks in 1971.

Residents of a quiet local village were left stunned this week after one determined grandmother continued wearing a gigantic winter coat despite temperatures increasing.
The pensioner, known locally only as “Nan the Forecast,” has reportedly spent decades enforcing a strict family policy: Nobody removes winter clothing before the end of May.
“If I had a penny for every time she shouted, ‘Hold your horses!’ when I reached for a lighter jacket, I’d own three cottages and possibly a yacht,” said her long-suffering grandson.
Family sources confirm the woman treated the rule with the seriousness of international law.
Witnesses claim children were forced to march through sunny April afternoons dressed like Arctic explorers, while neighbours mowed lawns in T-shirts.
But rebellion was brewing.
In what relatives now call ‘The Great Coat Betrayal of Early May’, the grandchild finally ditched the puffy jacket after spotting blue skies and chirping birds.
“At first, I felt powerful,” he admitted. “Like a butterfly emerging from a fleece-lined cocoon.”
That confidence lasted approximately 14 hours.
By the next morning, temperatures had plunged dramatically, with locals describing the cold as “penguin-bottom freezing.”
The coatless rebel was reportedly seen shivering at a bus stop while muttering words unsuitable for print.
Meanwhile, Nan appeared at the front door wearing mittens and the expression of a woman who had just won the lottery.
“She looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘I told you so,’ the victim recalled.
Shockingly, the story does not end there.
During a June visit last summer, relatives discovered Nan still wrapped in full winter armour despite blazing sunshine.
Asked why, she calmly explained the rule now extended through June “just to be safe.”
Meteorologists declined to comment, but family members say one thing is certain: common sense may predict the weather, but Nan predicts victory.

Looking through a 1994 copy of ‘The Stage & Television Today’ (Yes, I should find a hobby) in the terrestrial TV Top 20 soaps rated highly, as did entertainment shows (remember them?) like Des O’Connor Tonight, Blind Date and Noel’s House Party.
I was surprised that several films like Mad Max and Honey I Shrunk The Kids also scored well.
In this age of streaming and digital channels, film fans are well catered for.
But I miss watching a mid-evening film on BBC 1 or 2 or, if I could put up with the commercials, ITV.
Some nights when I look at the TV schedules for BBC One and Two, ITV One and Channels 4 and 5, very few shows strike me as a ‘must watch’, so I’d prefer to see a decent film, whether it’s recent or a classic.
But you will have noticed that, apart from Christmas and Easter, the terrestrial channels rarely show films in prime time?
It’s like a decision was made several years ago to fill prime time with nothing but home-made dramas, quizzes and lifestyle shows, some of which are pretty thin gruel when it comes to entertaining viewers.
One Monday evening, not that long ago, I was looking through the TV schedules and was dismayed to see the usual line-up of soaps, fly-on-the-wall documentaries, a Channel 5 psychological thriller and a cookery show.
Then, just by chance, I noticed that tucked away in the pre-midnight ‘You should be in bed’ slot on BBC 2 was Christopher Nolan’s magnificent 2008 film about rival stage magicians “The Prestige”.
With a plot that contains more twists than a pretzel and a cast that includes Michael Caine, Hugh Jackman, Christian Bale, Scarlett Johansson and David Bowie, quality-wise it blew away every other offering that night on terrestrial TV, deserving a mid-evening slot.
That the same broadcaster, that happily serves up that stultifyingly superficial seven o’ clock souffle “The One Show” five nights a week, thought so little of this gem it buried it in a late-night slot, annoyed me.
I really should find a hobby . . .

The editorial desk of this prestigious newspaper has once again been flooded with philosophical questions nobody can answer, and frankly, several that nobody was emotionally prepared to hear before breakfast.
Local man Trevor Higgins reportedly sparked chaos at a local coffee shop last Monday after calmly asking, “If God helps those who help themselves, why do we prosecute shoplifters?”
Witnesses say the room fell silent, except for one barista whispering, “That’s . . . actually upsetting.”
Trevor, who has not held a stable job since 2019 because he “doesn’t believe in Mondays,” insists society is built on unanswered contradictions.
“Another thing,” he continued while stirring tea he didn’t pay for, “if Adam and Eve never got married, what exactly does that make the rest of us?”
At this point, one customer reportedly left the building and called her mother for reassurance.
Experts say humanity has always wrestled with impossible questions.
Ancient philosophers asked things like, “What is truth?”
Modern philosophers ask, “Why does the printer only jam when you’re late?”
Other troubling mysteries submitted to this newspaper this week include:
If olive oil comes from olives, where does baby oil come from?
Why do we press harder on the TV remote when the batteries are dying?
If tomatoes are fruit, is ketchup technically a smoothie?
And if money doesn’t buy happiness, why does everybody look so cheerful in yacht advertisements?
Professor Nigel P Crumble from the Institute of Deeply Unhelpful Thinking says unanswered questions are what make us human.
“Life,” he explained, “is essentially a giant escape room designed by someone who lost the instructions.”
At press time, Trevor was reportedly banned from three cafés and a garden centre for asking whether invisible ink manufacturers are secretly failing quality control.

I think I’m safe in saying that people who know me would describe me as tolerant.
When it comes to annoyances and irritations, I tend to shrug and try to ignore them.
Although, ironically, one thing I find hard to tolerate is other people’s intolerance.
That said, there are things that get right up my nose – apart from nasal spray and pepper that’s exploded from a pepper pot which I picked up mistakenly, thinking it was a salt cellar.
I get annoyed when, during a face-to-face conversation with someone, just as I start to speak after listening to them talking for 10 minutes, they’re suddenly distracted by something they consider more important than whatever I’m saying, while telling me, not entirely convincingly . . . “I am listening. Carry on!”
When it first happened to me I wondered if it was my fault for being a boring conversationalist.
But, as I hadn’t had a chance to actually say anything before the person I was with decided he needed to search inside his briefcase for something, it dawned on me it was more a case of him being ill-mannered.
I witnessed an example of someone plainly not listening saying “I am listening!” in a café just last week.
Two middle-aged couples (who I assumed were long-married) sat opposite each other.
On the table in front of them were four of those little metal teapots with lids that won’t shut properly.
One couple talked ‘at’ the other pair for a long time, then, the moment the gentleman opposite opened his mouth to speak, the female half of the talkative couple started fiddling with her teapot and her husband started trying to squeeze the last drops.
Ignoring what the man opposite was saying, she said to her husband, “We need some more hot water”, then tried to attract the attention of a waitress, before turning to the man who was valiantly trying to finish his story, and said, “Do carry on. I am listening!”
I felt like leaning across to say, “No. You’re barely half-listening!” but my innate tolerance prevented me.
Plus, her husband was twice the size of me!

Residents of Betws may wish to check their postboxes, doorbells, and possibly their long-lost relatives, as a curious phenomenon has swept the village in the run-up to local elections: sudden, intense popularity.
One local resident (who asked to remain anonymous, presumably to avoid further “friendship”) reports an unprecedented surge in attention from councillors (and would-be Senedd members) of every political persuasion.
“It’s been relentless,” they said. “They’re smiling, waving, asking about my bins, my views, my hopes, my dreams. I had one ask how my hydrangeas were doing. I don’t ‘have’ hydrangeas.”
The resident, previously known mainly to the people at the corner shop and one mildly judgmental pigeon, admits confusion.
“I don’t know these people. Last month, if I tripped in the street, they’d have stepped over me. Now they’re offering to help me ‘not’ trip in the future. It’s suspicious.”
Eyewitnesses confirm sightings of candidates appearing at improbable moments, emerging from behind hedges, materialising near recycling boxes, and once, reportedly, “just . . .  already sitting in the living room.”
Local experts have suggested the attention may be linked to the upcoming elections, though this remains unconfirmed by the councillors themselves, who insist they’ve “always cared deeply” about residents they met approximately six minutes ago.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” the resident added. “It’s lovely. I’ve never felt so important. If this is what winning the lottery feels like, I’d recommend it, though I assume the free pens will eventually stop.”
As polling day approaches, villagers are advised to remain calm, accept any complimentary leaflets with grace, and remember: after the votes are counted, it may once again be just you, the corner shop, and that pigeon.

#elections #localelections