“Remember, remember the 5th of November!” was the seasonal rhyme that we youngsters used to chant in the weeks running up to the excitement of Bonfire Night celebrations.
Mind you, a combination of November downpours and the fact that every box of fireworks seemed to contain the odd one or two that fizzled out disappointingly in a couple of seconds, often meant the evening’s fun turned out to be a bit of a (pardon the pun) damp squib!
“Light up the sky with Standard Fireworks,” went the song in the TV ads.
I can’t recall what make of fireworks we had at home, but I doubt they were Standard or Brocks, who were both major names in the firework firmament.
I suspect the fireworks we had must have been ‘bargains’ bought just before the shops shut on November 5th, because my favourites, the rockets, didn’t have enough firepower to light up one of my gran’s ciggies, let alone the night sky.
I tend to mention, most years on this very page, that over the past couple of decades parents have been spending tons more money on Halloween-related costumes, party food and suitably macabre plastic and rubber ‘scary’ props than on fireworks.
Despite October 31st overtaking November 5th as the much-anticipated date in the autumn calendar, fireworks are still purchased and enjoyed.
I don’t know how many of today’s kids are familiar with “Remember, Remember the 5th Of November” and recite it, because I obey the cautionary advice that’s written on bottles of strong cough medicine, boxes of painkillers and powerful chain saws used for felling giant Californian Redwoods – ‘Keep Away From Children’.
But it’s struck me in recent autumns that some of the young un’s (and not-so-young-un’s) around our way have mis-heard the rhyme during their formative years and believe it goes something like “Remember, Remember the 8th or possibly 11th or maybe 29th of  September” . . .  because those are some of the dates I’ve first started hearing loud ‘bangs’  as fireworks are let off in the evening.
Dear, oh dear! Doesn’t Tik Tok teach these kids anything useful?

As I sit down to write this week’s column, I feel an overwhelming urge to reflect on Remembrance Sunday, a day that resonates deeply for countless individuals across the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth.
It’s a solemn occasion, yes, but it’s also a heartwarming reminder of the courage and resilience that transcends generations.
Some time back, I delved into the significance of the poppy, that little red flower that has become a symbol of remembrance.
To my surprise, I learned that it was inspired by the haunting lines of the World War One poem “In Flanders Fields.”
The opening lines evoke a powerful image of vibrant red poppies flourishing amidst the devastated landscapes of soldiers’ graves in Flanders, a region in Belgium that bore witness to unimaginable loss.
These delicate flowers, emerging from the churned earth, stand as a testament to life persisting in the face of death, a poignant reminder that even amidst despair, hope can blossom.
It’s like finding a bright red poppy in a field of grey; it’s a little nudge from the universe saying, “Hey, life goes on!”
Remembrance Sunday is not just a date on the calendar; it’s a sacred moment to honour those who have given their all for our freedoms.
It invites us to pause and reflect on the heavy price paid for our choices and the liberty to express our thoughts.
It’s a day to acknowledge that our voices, including mine (with the editor’s approval, of course), are the result of countless sacrifices made by brave souls who believed in a future where freedom reigns.
As we gather to remember, let us carry forward the legacy of those who served, ensuring that their stories and sacrifices are never forgotten.
This day, and the symbol of the poppy, implore us to honour their memory with gratitude and resolve.
So, as you don your poppy this Remembrance Sunday, take a moment to reflect, not just on the past, but on the present and future we are building.
Let’s celebrate the resilience of the human spirit and the hope that blooms even in the darkest of times.
After all, if a little flower can thrive in the most challenging conditions, so can we.

Have you ever been ‘Super Excited’ about anything?
Me neither.
But it seems in recent times, every organisation that I’ve had dealings with, at some point, writes to tell me they aren’t just ‘excited’ about their product/holiday villas/window cleaning and gutter clearing service . . . they’re ‘super excited’.
Medical professionals should make a scientific study into how many degrees higher ‘super-excited’ is above being ordinarily excited.
Because . . . I’m becoming ‘super worried’ about our nation’s health.
It can’t be good for so many people running businesses and Government departments to be continually ‘super excited’ surely?
Imagine a grown-up version of a hyperactive child bursting with anticipation on Christmas Eve, resisting all requests to go to bed – and then imagine that grown-up version being the CEO of a company or the Head Of The Department For Squeezing The Last Five Pence Piece Out Of The Hands Of Workers and Fixed-Income Pensioners Who Uncomplainingly Act As Unpaid Childminders!
That person’s ‘super excitement’ during, and possibly after office hours, would eventually lead to high blood pressure and all the nasty things BP might lead to.
Despite my concerns, ‘super excitement’ has reached ridiculous heights.
A friend told me he burst out laughing when his opticians said in their text message, to remind him about his annual eye test, that they were ‘super excited’ about his imminent visit to their premises.
He told me, tongue firmly in cheek, that from the ‘super exciteable’ way the text was worded, when he turned up for his appointment, he expected, at the very least, to be greeted by a Mariachi band, have a garland of tropical flowers draped around his neck and be handed a glass of the finest champagne.
Unfortunately, it seems we’re saddled with everyone but us being ‘super excited’, just as we are with politicians who over-use the word ‘robust’.
They all use it, eventually.
When Westminster or the Senedd fail to do something they’re supposed to, they always assure us it won’t happen again because  ‘robust measures’ have been put in place.
Every time I hear a minister use the word ‘robust’, I tend to get ‘super annoyed’!

Every week, I have the pleasure of sharing a little piece of my life with all of you.
It’s like a rollercoaster ride, full of ups, downs, and those unexpected twists that make you question your sanity.
But hey, it’s all part of the fun, right?
Now, let me tell you about my newspaper editor.
This person is a taskmaster of epic proportions.
I thought we were living in the age of freedom of speech, but apparently, I still get called out on a few things.
Talk about a reality check. I half expect them to start wielding a red pen like a sword, ready to slay any hint of creativity that strays too far from the “approved” path.
You might be wondering why we even bother reading newspapers when we’re bombarded with news from every angle, 24/7.
I mean, can’t we catch a break?
It’s like trying to sip a latte in a hurricane.
Here’s a little secret: research suggests that we humans have a bit of an addiction to gossip and negative news.
It’s like we’re moths to a flame, drawn to the juicy stuff.
No wonder most of us can’t keep a secret to save our lives.
If you want to know what’s happening in the neighborhood, just ask the person who’s been to the shops. By the time they’re done, you’ll know who’s dating who and who’s been spotted in questionable pajamas.
All this got me thinking about my own collection of stories.
Sure, they’re mostly true, with just a sprinkle of exaggeration for comedic effect.
But hey, it keeps things interesting, right?
And don’t worry, I’m not complaining.
In fact, I absolutely love that people trust me with their events and stories.
It’s an honour and a privilege that I hope will continue for a long, long time.
So, here’s to more colorful adventures and wild tales.
Let’s embrace the chaos, share our stories, and remember that life is a wild ride, so buckle up and enjoy the journey. Cheers!

As October 31st looms, you may wonder why I’ve not ranted about the shocking amount of money spent on plastic and cardboard Halloween tat.
Or that ‘Trick Or Treat’ is nothing less than obtaining confectionery through extortion!
I finally realised complaining about Halloween is a waste of time. so I’ve (pardon the pun)‘given up the ghost’.
But there are still many things in today’s seemingly over-sensitive Britain that baffle me.
Like the story from a few months ago which recently came to my attention, about complaints from some quarters that an actor cast in the title role of a stage production of “The Hunchback Of Notre Dame” lacked Quasimodo’s unique physical structure and the part should have gone to someone who did.
It wasn’t enough for complainants that the actor was ‘shadowed’ at every performance by a deaf actor using BSL, allowing deaf audience members to enjoy the show.
Or that both actors were said to be superb in their parts.
Complainants must have realised there was little chance of finding two actors with Quasimodo’s unfortunate problems (the star actor and his understudy on standby to take over at every performance) who’d both have the skills and stamina required for a top West End production.
When Lon Chaney played Quasimodo in the 1923 silent film version of the story, I doubt anyone complained that Lon wore bulky padding and (his own) make-up.
Charles Laughton played the part brilliantly in the 1939 version and no-one complained.
Many other actors have played the part in films and TV without being criticised.
So why, in 2025, with all the horrific things happening in the real world to worry us, would anyone be so negative regarding a stage production about (let me remind you) a fictional character created by Victor Hugo?
If “The Miracle Worker” is ever revived on stage, will the same people insist only a visually and hearing-impaired actress plays Helen Keller?
Woe betide any actor auditioning for the part of Long John Silver in “Treasure Island”.
You might not get the job unless you agree to have drastic leg surgery . . .

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!

They say it’s never too late to learn – and I’ve learned something new that would’ve blown my socks off, had I been wearing any!
My tired feet were soaking in a bowl of hot water at the time.
British films of the 1950s and early 60s often featured scenes set in impossibly glamorous London night clubs frequented by impossibly glamorous ladies accompanied by impossibly handsome (but obviously untrustworthy) villains in impossibly white dinner jackets.
I thought those glitzy places only existed on studio sets, but I recently browsed through an October 1960 edition of the weekly listings magazine “What’s On In London”, which opened my eyes to the realisation that, while Wales was comparatively still living in austerity, London’s West End was awash with ‘nite spots’ where you could eat, drink, be entertained and dance until dawn.
As I understand it, Wales in 1960 was somewhat more low key.
Pubs weren’t open on Sundays in many areas and if you fancied going to the pictures on your day of rest, they didn’t open their doors until teatime!
Visitors to London in 1960 looking for sophisticated nightclub entertainment could choose from The Pigalle, The Gargoyle, Edmundo Ros’s Club, The Blue Angel, The Stork Room, Murray’s Cabaret Club, Winston’s (Danny La Rue & Ronnie Corbett’s ‘home’ for years) and dozens more.
Soho had its strip joints, catering for a male clientele, but most nightclubs were classy places offering spectacular floor shows and top international stars.
In October 1960, The Talk Of The Town was offering “Two fabulous floorshows, a superb three-course dinner, dancing to two bands and at 11.30 . . . Eartha Kitt!” – all for 47/6!
Which is around £2.50 in modern money.
But, listen to this!
At The Latin Quarter club, for 32/6 (less than two quid) you could enjoy dinner and dancing to a live band, comedy juggler Kumar, Greta Unger ‘World famous Viennese dancer’, The Latin Quarter Showgirls, 1960s vocal sensations The Freemen . . . and . . . The Inverness Scottish Pipers and Dancers!
Do any ‘impossibly glamorous’ London nightclubs still exist?
I’d like to think so.
I’d happily pay 32/6 to be entertained until dawn by Scottish pipers and dancers!
Words: 354

Ah, the supermarket queue, a modern day rite of passage that tests our patience and sanity.
You know the drill, you stroll into the store, eyeing the two checkout lines like a contestant on a game show.
You pick one, and without fail, it’s the slowest moving line in the universe.
It’s as if the universe has conspired against you.
There’s always that one customer ahead of you, blissfully unaware that they’ve chosen the only item in the entire store without a price tag.
You can practically hear the collective sigh of the people behind you.
And, just when you think it can’t get worse, the checkout operator decides to plonk a “checkout closed” sign right in front of your shopping pile.
Is it just me, or does this happen to everyone?
And let’s not forget the cashpoint.
I always end up behind the person who suddenly thinks it’s a great time to print out their entire financial history.
Seriously, who needs to check their balance on four different accounts while I’m standing there, tapping my foot like a caffeinated squirrel?
Then comes the internal debate: should I switch queues?
That little voice in your head screams “NO!” because you know that the moment you move, your original queue will suddenly transform into a Formula 1 pit stop.
But you do it anyway, and lo and behold, your original queue starts moving faster than Usain Bolt at the Olympics!
So, dear readers, I want to hear from you.
Have you experienced the great queue conundrum?
What are your queue horror stories?
Write in and let’s commiserate over our shared struggles in the never-ending battle of the checkout line!

I’m once again confessing that I occasionally give in to temptation and instantly regret it.
I’m talking about watching that vast wilderness called ‘Breakfast Television’. Home to an endless supply of numpties, deadbeats and vacuous, slack-jawed nincompoops who are daily brought into the studios and allowed free rein to voice their opinions which, like a rogue breakfast bap bought from a roadside van, are half-baked and indigestible.
Take the recent discussion on Good Morning Britain between an articulate, cheerful spokesperson for pensioners and a sour-faced young woman who really ‘had it in’ for pensioners.
I’m unsure who she represented, other than the “I’ll keep interrupting you because I’m right and you’re wrong” Society, but the point she was making was that the State Pension is unsustainable and within 10 years it’ll have to be scrapped!
So, cancel that order for a new Ferrari, Gladys!
She was too busy being angry at seniors for having the audacity to reach the age when they’re entitled to a pension, to explain how (should the State Pension be scrapped) seniors, whose sole income is their state pension, will be able to buy food, pay their utilities, council tax and the other monthly bills we all have to pay.
Funny she didn’t mention that!
She resented that her generation’s National Insurance payments finance the current State Pensions of 1.9 million seniors, choosing to ignore the obvious fact that today’s pensioners had to do exactly the same during the 40 or 50 years they were working.
Anyone recall them going on TV moaning, “It’s so unfair!”?
She even brought up the tired cliché about pensioners ‘rattling around in houses that young people should be living in’.
Was she really unaware that due to marriage breakdowns and other domestic problems, many young people are living in pensioner’s houses, having moved back in with Mum and Dad – which they wouldn’t have been able to, if their parents had downsized to a one-bedroom flat, as the young lady ‘helpfully’ suggested they should.
Anyone wanna buy a telly with a boot-sized shape through the screen?

Brrr! It’s that time of year again when the big question arises: have you turned your heating on yet, or are you still trying to channel your inner polar bear?
Well, I finally took the plunge, only to be greeted by a delightful symphony of gurgles and hisses that sounded like my boiler was auditioning for a role in a horror film.
And then, silence!
My boiler decided it was time for a holiday, leaving me in a frosty chill that could rival any winter wonderland film. I half expected to see a snowman waving at me from the living room.
But fear not. I have boiler cover with a well-known supplier, so I knew a fun adventure awaited.
I dialed the number, ready for action, and was greeted by a voice so cheerful she could have been the human equivalent of a hot cocoa. “Your call is very important!” she chirped. Really? Because I was starting to feel like a penguin waiting for the ice to thaw.
Some 20 minutes in, I was on a first-name basis with the hold music, seriously, I could audition for an elevator hits album.
Just when I thought I’d become one with my phone, a real voice broke through the haze. In my excitement, I fumbled my phone like a clumsy acrobat, and poof. Call disconnected!
Now, five days into my frosty fun, I’m convinced my house might qualify as an ice sculpture.
At this point, I’m just waiting for a family of penguins to move in. But hey, at least I can claim the title for the world’s longest wait for heating.
Here’s hoping the next chapter comes with some heat, preferably before I start charging admission for my new winter wonderland.