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.

A stop-off for a cup of coffee opened my eyes to the amazing progress women have made in the last 60-plus years.
Up until the late 1950s, women, once married, were usually expected to be stay-at-home housewives, who cooked and cleaned and depended solely on their spouses financially.
I was in a coffee shop packed with young mothers with babies and/or toddlers. High chairs were occupied and baby buggies filled a quarter of the room. The screaming, crying, belching and high-pitched laughter was truly a cacophony. And the babies were even noisier!
Boom! Boom!
As the waitress brought my cappuccino, I said, “There’s a lot of mothers and babies here this morning!”
She gave me a withering look and said, “Well there usually is on Mother and Baby Morning!”
I observed that every mum had recently visited hairdressers and nail bars.
While their fashionable clothes weren’t from Bond Street, they were definitely not cheap chain store purchases.
Co-incidentally, in complete contrast, the previous evening I’d watched a 1962, black and white episode of “Z Cars” which featured a stressed housewife in her mid-20s, trying to make ends meet, relying on her brute of a husband for money to pay for food, utility bills and the rent on their drab little flat.
As was the ‘fashion’ then for all housewives from 21 to 101, she wore a functional pinafore dress; no make-up; and couldn’t afford to visit a hairdresser or (had they existed) a nail bar.
Besides, new nails would have broken off the first time she scrubbed her front doorstep, a quaint daily ritual that disappeared along with whistling milkmen. Only the rich could afford washing machines and vacuum cleaners.
“Z Cars” was a TV series that, like the kitchen sink dramas of that time, was grittily authentic. That stressed housewife character, old before her time, would have been recognisable to many viewers.
Sipping my cappuccino, I reflected, if the housewives of 1962 could see those ‘yummy mummies’ buying expensive coffees and cakes, they’d be astonished at the huge change in their lives. And they’d probably think, “What the hell is a skinny latte?”

A stop-off for a cup of coffee opened my eyes to the amazing progress women have made in the last 60-plus years.
Up until the late 1950s, women, once married, were usually expected to be stay-at-home housewives, who cooked and cleaned and depended solely on their spouses financially.
I was in a coffee shop packed with young mothers with babies and/or toddlers. High chairs were occupied and baby buggies filled a quarter of the room. The screaming, crying, belching and high-pitched laughter was truly a cacophony. And the babies were even noisier!
Boom! Boom!
As the waitress brought my cappuccino, I said, “There’s a lot of mothers and babies here this morning!”
She gave me a withering look and said, “Well there usually is on Mother and Baby Morning!”
I observed that every mum had recently visited hairdressers and nail bars.
While their fashionable clothes weren’t from Bond Street, they were definitely not cheap chain store purchases.
Co-incidentally, in complete contrast, the previous evening I’d watched a 1962, black and white episode of “Z Cars” which featured a stressed housewife in her mid-20s, trying to make ends meet, relying on her brute of a husband for money to pay for food, utility bills and the rent on their drab little flat.
As was the ‘fashion’ then for all housewives from 21 to 101, she wore a functional pinafore dress; no make-up; and couldn’t afford to visit a hairdresser or (had they existed) a nail bar.
Besides, new nails would have broken off the first time she scrubbed her front doorstep, a quaint daily ritual that disappeared along with whistling milkmen. Only the rich could afford washing machines and vacuum cleaners.
“Z Cars” was a TV series that, like the kitchen sink dramas of that time, was grittily authentic. That stressed housewife character, old before her time, would have been recognisable to many viewers.
Sipping my cappuccino, I reflected, if the housewives of 1962 could see those ‘yummy mummies’ buying expensive coffees and cakes, they’d be astonished at the huge change in their lives. And they’d probably think, “What the hell is a skinny latte?”

It’s 9pm. Your GP surgery is closed. You’ve developed a mysterious ache, a suspicious cough or a stomach that appears to have declared war on you.
So, naturally, you reach for the nuclear option: A&E.
After all, what else are you supposed to do?
Well . . . quite a few things, actually.
Accident and Emergency departments are rather cleverly named.
They’re for accidents and emergencies, the sort of situations where something is broken, bleeding, burning or generally going spectacularly wrong.
They’re not really designed for the nation’s collection of “I’ve had this funny little pain since Tuesday” complaints.
And yet, every year, people turn up at A&E with illnesses and injuries that could often be dealt with more quickly elsewhere. The result? Busy waiting rooms, stretched NHS staff and patients (who genuinely need emergency treatment) having to wait longer.
Before making a dash for the hospital, it’s worth checking what other help is available.
Pharmacies can deal with plenty of common ailments, NHS 111 can point you in the right direction, and your local health board or NHS website can tell you where to go for less urgent problems.
Think of it as choosing the right queue at the supermarket.
You could join the one with 47 people and a trolley full of loose vegetables, but why make life harder?
The NHS needs our help, and sometimes helping means simply asking: “Is this actually an emergency?”
Because, when it really is, A&E needs to be ready for you. And when it isn’t, there may be a quicker, easier option just around the corner.

We British may lose our tempers when other drivers cut us up, or when a stranger parks their vehicle outside our house in ‘our’ spot’.
But, generally, politeness runs through us like ‘Blackpool’ through a stick of seaside rock and we do our best not to offend others.
This can often lead to us finding ourselves in situations we would’ve avoided had we realised how excruciating the experience was going to be.
If you’ve never sat in a darkened function room where a wedding reception or anniversary ‘do’ was happening and the music the DJ was playing was so loud it was impossible to speak to or hear the person ‘satthisclosetoyou’, consider yourself lucky.
It’s worse when you only vaguely know most of the people there. So, even when the music stops for 10 minutes while you grab a mini-pasty and three crisps, you still can’t strike up a meaningful conversation.
And then ‘Bang’! The DJ is back, with the volume turned up to 11. The flashing lights start again and you sit there like a lemon for the rest of the evening.
Noel Coward was wrong when he said, ‘Hell is other people’.
In my experience Hell is sitting in a darkened function room as my rumbling stomach and an ABBA mega-mix compete to see which is the loudest.
Few of us are brave enough to turn down invitations to these soul-sapping occasions, but the great Peter Cook’s stock response was, “Having consulted my diary, I find I am watching television that evening!”
When urbane actor Dennis Price met a man he knew to be a terrible bore one day in The Strand, in response to the man’s invitation to join him for lunch, Dennis replied, “Sorry, dear boy. The National Film Theatre’s having an Edie Martin season and I don’t want to miss a minute of it!” before walking quickly on.
Edie (Edith) Martin was a diminutive actress who appeared uncredited in tiny parts in dozens of old British films.
I wish I could think on my feet that quickly . . . and that wittily!

Well, folks, I think we’ve officially entered the Twilight Zone of holiday decorating.
Christmas decorations are popping up in stores before we’ve even had a chance to scare off the ghosts of Halloween.
I mean, come on . . .
I thought spotting Easter eggs in the shops right after Christmas was a bit much, but this is a whole new level of festive madness.
We’re still days away from Halloween, and already, people are decking the halls like it’s a holiday free-for-all.
At this rate, why not just toss all your decorations, birthdays, Easters, Halloweens, and Christmas cheer, into a giant holiday blender on January 1st and let it whirl for a year-round spectacle?
Imagine the chaos!
Around this time last year, I witnessed a scene that could only be described as a festive comedy.
An elderly gentleman in Swansea was attempting to channel his inner Santa.
Picture this: he was teetering on a rickety ladder, one hand clutching a gigantic inflatable reindeer while the other was desperately gripping the ladder for dear life.
Below him, his wife was shouting directions like she’s directing a live-action version of “Home Alone” – “Left a bit! Right a bit! Watch the lights!”
What had me genuinely worried was that they were both already drenched from the rain, and she was holding the plug for that inflatable reindeer.
One gust of that wild Welsh wind, and I swear Rudolph would have taken off for a joyride across the countryside, leaving a trail of tinsel and confusion in his wake.
So, keep your eyes peeled, folks.
You never know when you might spot an inflatable reindeer soaring over your town, trying to escape the chaos of early Christmas decorating.
And, remember, if you see a reindeer in the sky, it’s probably not Santa, it’s just a very determined inflatable trying to find its way back home.
Let’s embrace the madness and share our own holiday decorating disasters.
After all, laughter is the best ornament on the tree, even if it’s still October!

There’s an old gag that’s been used in pantomimes for years – possibly as far back as the days of Joseph Grimaldi. And because it always gets a laugh, I bet it’ll be around for as long as pantos are. Here it is.
STRAIGHT MAN: How do you manage to do so many stupid things in one day?
COMIC: I get up early!
See, it made you smile, too!
One day recently I encountered several stupid and annoying things that people accept as the norm, purely because they’ve become used to them.
I’ll just share a couple with you . . .
First off, I was watching a breakfast TV journalist giving a report about some Royal matter that was, frankly, so trivial I can’t remember what it was. At ten past six in the morning she was standing outside a seemingly-lifeless Buckingham Palace. As no lights were on upstairs or downstairs, perhaps whatever members of the Royals currently reside there were still fast asleep or had scarpered to Sandringham.
My point is, sending the journalist and a camera crew down to Buck House at the crack of dawn to give her two-minute report to ‘the team back in the studio’, which she’d then repeat at hourly intervals, served no useful purpose.
She might as well have been in the studio and for the handful of viewers who didn’t know what Buck House looks like or had forgotten, the graphics department could have stuck a giant photo of the Royal residence behind her.
These pointless ‘on the spot’ reports from places like Downing Street or The Foreign Office, when it’s still dark and no one’s entering or leaving the premises, have become so normalised, nobody questions the stupidity of them.
Then, I saw a few minutes of a programme that’s apparently been running for some time. Watching “Sort Your Life Out With Stacey Solomon” made me genuinely wonder just how bad a state your life would have to be in to request help from someone who came third on ‘The X Factor’ 17 years ago.
After that, my day didn’t get any better.