SOME female singers have been around for a while.
Madonna, for example, was annoyed when Vera Lynn’s version of “We’ll Meet Again” beat hers into the charts.
But how many will have careers spanning 50 years, like Bonnie Tyler?
I never met her, but I’ve heard about her down-to-earth personality and willingness to chat to any fan who approached her.
A mate of mine who worked in TV, met her a couple of times, most memorably in the late 2000s when he co-produced a big charity show at St David’s Hall, Cardiff, to raise money for LATCH.
The show featured 16 young Welsh performers, each one introduced by a Welsh celebrity.
Now, if you can name 16 Welsh people who can truly be described as celebrities (rather than ‘a familiar face on the telly’), you’re doing well.
‘Our Shirl’ and ‘Our Tom’ were living abroad at the time, unavailable to jet over to Cardiff for a five-minute appearance for which there was no fee.
Bonnie was definitely a  celebrity and the biggest name on the show, so it was only fitting she should be the last star to introduce a young singer.
However, just before curtain-up, Bonnie and her husband Robert approached my friend with a request.
Bonnie was feeling unwell, but didn’t want to disappoint the audience.
Could it be re-arranged for her to go on first, so she could then hurry home to bed? She looked nauseous, due, apparently, to something she’d eaten.
My friend’s heart sank, worried that the audience would feel a sense of anti-climax once Bonnie had departed, leaving a less-starry line-up of weathermen, politicians and sporting personalities.
But what could he do but agree?
So, Bonnie went on first, looking fantastic, received rapturous applause, spoke her scripted introduction perfectly and then left the stage, got in the car and went home.
Some lesser performers might have pulled out altogether, but Bonnie went on, the audience having no idea of the effort it took her.
That, my friends, is the mark of a true showbiz great!

TOMORROW night, Wales will once again celebrate Bonfire Night in the traditional way: spending a small fortune on fireworks, standing in horizontal rain and pretending the display would have been better if we’d organised it ourselves.
Across Carmarthenshire, Swansea and beyond, dads are already inspecting the weather forecast with the grim determination of a Six Nations coach.
If it says “light showers”, they’ll call it a promising evening.
If it says “heavy rain and gale-force winds”, they’ll put on a waterproof and declare, “It’ll blow over.”
It won’t. It never does.
Supermarkets are stacked with sausages, sparklers and enough bags of marshmallows to give every child in Wales a sugar rush lasting until Christmas.
Meanwhile, one man on every street is convinced his garden bonfire will be the biggest in the county. His wife is convinced the garden fence won’t survive it. Both are usually right.
And let’s not forget the fireworks themselves.
For the price of a decent display, you could take the family out for a meal, although in Wales, that would probably mean arguing over which pub does the best chips before everyone settles on the one they always go to.
There’s something wonderfully Welsh about the whole affair.
We’ll queue in the cold, complain about the price, criticise the display, moan about the parking and still tell everyone afterwards that we had a lovely evening.
But perhaps the best firework is the one we don’t set off in somebody’s back garden at midnight, terrifying the dog and waking the neighbours.
So, enjoy Bonfire Night, Wales. Wrap up warm, support local displays and keep your eyebrows where nature intended.
And remember: you can always tell a Welsh winter has arrived when it’s raining sideways, your tea’s gone cold and someone says, “Lovely weather for the time of year, mind.”
Happy Bonfire Night. Iechyd da, and mind that hedge!

I’M aware of the rumours and media speculation.
I’ve been aware of people not-so-subtly pointing at me in supermarkets, whispering conspiratorially and avoiding eye contact. Some bold as brass individuals have asked me to my face.
I told them what I’m telling you today. I can neither confirm nor deny I’m on the shortlist to be the next James Bond.
So now, you know. Well, sort of . . .
I’m having you on, of course, Or is that a double-bluff designed to put you off the scent?
Since the shock demise of Daniel Craig’s Bond at the end of “No Time To Die” in 2021, 007 fans have wondered who will take over the role.
Others, including yours truly, haven’t given it much thought. Except to wonder if,  after 25 official Bond films made by Eon Productions and the two ‘unofficial’ screen outings (1967’s all-star spoof “Casino Royale” and 1983’s “Never Say Never Again” which saw Sean Connery return) perhaps it’s time the highly-successful series came to its natural end after 59 years.
By the time the next Bond movie is given the ‘green light’ and filming gets underway in exotic locations, is then edited and eventually released, it could be the summer of 2028 or later.
By then will moviegoers (who are in the main under 30 and lap up the seemingly endless supply of superhero films based on Marvel & DC comics) have an appetite for ‘Thud’n’blunder’ secret agent shenanigans?
Presumably, Eon’s longtime producers Barbara Broccoli and Michael G Wilson think so because they’re now in business with Amazon to keep the Bond brand alive, relevant and of course, lucrative.
I hope this doesn’t mean that the next in the series of films that have always been much anticipated cinema ‘events’ since 1962, will bypass cinemas and go straight to streaming. Turning it into a TV series would diminish Bond’s worth even more.
I occasionally watch a Bond film on TV, but I’ve already seen most of the ones made since the 70s on the big screen – where 007, whoever portrays him, belongs.

IF you’ve ever wondered why the Welsh are such a cheerful nation, try spending five minutes outside in October.
You’ll soon discover that laughter is the only thing keeping us from climbing into the tumble dryer and staying there until April.
Storm Austen has swept across Wales, bringing strong winds, heavy rain and enough atmospheric drama to make a weather forecaster look as though they’ve just received their electricity bill. Gusts reached a remarkable 74mph at Aberporth, proving that even the wind has developed a taste for showing off.
In Wales, however, we’re made of sterner stuff.
We don’t let a little bad weather spoil our day. We simply cancel everything, put the kettle on and watch the wheelie bins perform interpretive dance across the garden.
Umbrellas are largely decorative here. Open one in a gale and you’ll find yourself holding a metal skeleton while your neighbours wave goodbye as it heads towards England.
The Welsh weather forecast is equally straightforward: rain, followed by heavier rain, with occasional sunshine to confuse the tourists.
Locals can identify a shower by the sound it makes against the window and know precisely when to bring the washing in. Usually, this is approximately three seconds after putting it out.
And, just when we thought Austen had finished its performance, another storm arrived to remind us that nature does believe in encores. Apparently, the weather has more sequels than a Hollywood action film.
Still, there’s always a silver lining. At least the garden’s been watered, the car’s been washed, and nobody needs to visit the swimming pool.
In Wales, we don’t have bad weather. We have outdoor plumbing with attitude.