The song “Fame” declares, “I’m gonna live forever” – but fame doesn’t guarantee immortality.
Time marches on – and inevitably comes to an end – for celebrities, as it does for the rest of us.
At the end of every year we’re reminded of the many celebrities who left us during the previous 12 months and, at the time of writing, the list of actors (in no particular order) we bid fond farewells to in 2025 includes Robert Redford, Val Kilmer, Prunella Scales, Patricia Routledge, John Woodvine, Jack Shepherd, Joan Plowright, Gene Hackman and Diane Keaton.
A writer friend was acquainted, albeit briefly, with Anglesey-born actor Tony Adams, who died in October, aged 84.
He played Adam Chance in “Crossroads” for many years. then enjoyed continued success on the stage.
In 1993, my friend travelled to the Key Theatre Peterborough to discuss a play he’d co-written, which was being staged there the following year.
While waiting in the theatre café, he saw Tony Adams walk in with Jane Rossington, who’d also starred in “Crossroads”. They were appearing at the theatre that week in “Dial M For Murder”.
While Tony ordered coffee, Jane engaged my friend in conversation and he mentioned he’d written a corporate presentation for Tony a few years previously.
When Jane told Tony this, the actor smiled and said, “Of course! That went very well! How are you?”
Later, as Tony got up to leave he said to my friend, “You’ve had a run of bad luck, but that’s about to change. You’ll see.”
Before following him out, Jane said to my friend, “He knows what he’s talking about.” And then whispered, “His mother was a witch!”
My friend had no idea how Tony knew he’d been through a rough patch for six months, but appreciated his positive prediction.
A month later, about to run out of money, he was offered a well-paid television contract, which, in turn, led to him being in demand for many years.
If you don’t believe some people can predict future events, no explanation is possible.
If you do, no explanation is necessary . . .

Last autumn, my friend, let’s call him ,“Couch Potato Extraordinaire”, decided it was time to embark on a fitness journey.
The timing was impeccable, considering we were halfway through a glorious feast of chicken tikka masala, onion bhajis, poppadoms, and garlic naans at the most bizarre Italian restaurant I’ve ever encountered.
Seriously, who serves tikka masala in a place that specialises in spaghetti?
His fitness plan was refreshingly low-key.
No marathons, no CrossFit memberships, just the World Health Organisation’s advice to walk 10,000 steps a day. A nice, round number. Manageable, right?
Fast forward to last week, and I spotted him waddling, sorry, I mean walking, down the Kingsway in Swansea.
Oddly enough, he seemed to have gained a few pounds.
Naturally, I approached this delicate situation with my usual grace and subtlety. “Oi. Chubster,”  I hollered, because nothing says “friendship” like a good old-fashioned nickname.
His head whipped around, proving that my nickname still had its charm.
But here’s the kicker: both of his hands were full, one clutching a Greggs pastie and the other mid-gesture with a Greggs sausage roll.
I couldn’t really criticise; I was busy devouring my own sausage roll at the time.
Between bites of flaky pastry, I asked, “Weren’t you supposed to be doing 10,000 steps a day?”
He sighed dramatically. “I was. But I couldn’t find a single building in this city with 10,000 steps to walk up and down.”
You’ve got to admire his logic.
Intrigued, I decided to investigate this “10,000 steps” phenomenon.
Turns out, it wasn’t just plucked from thin air like the “five-a-day” fruit and veg mantra.
It all started back in 1964 when some clever researchers in Japan discovered that walking 10,000 steps burns about 20% of your daily calorie intake.
Brilliant. By my calculations, if you walk 50,000 steps, you’d burn 100% of your daily calories. The only problem? If you actually walked 50,000 steps every day, by the end of the week, you’d have marched all the way to Hereford.
I hear Hereford’s lovely, though. Maybe there’s a Greggs there?
My friend could definitely use the walk . . . and I could use another sausage roll!

2025 will soon be history. So long. Farewell. Auf Weidersehn. Ta-ta!
Missing you already.
We’ll still have our memories . . . and more than 500 selfies . . . to remind us of the places we went and why we won’t go back to most of them.
Whether we bid 2025 farewell with a teary eye and quivering lip, depends on how 2025 treated us.
There are many people who’ve had a rough year, financially or health-wise, who’ll be glad to see the back of it. Not long to wait now.
But a word of caution!
I’m sure I’m not the only person in town who’s regretted saying, “Let’s hope next year will be a better one for both of us than this year’s been!”
If that’s not a magic spell for conjuring up all manner of disappointments and disasters, I don’t know what is.
And I speak as someone who has absolutely no belief in superstition, fortune-telling, prophecies or portents.
Which is a trait I share with many others born under my star sign.
As for ‘New Year’s Resolutions’, do people still bother making them?
I don’t know anyone who does and, speaking for myself (who else can I speak for?), I stopped making them around the same time someone last smiled on “Eastenders”.
However, there are a few changes I’d like to see in 2026, which I’ll share with you . . .
I’d really appreciate it if, during TV and radio interviews, Welsh and UK Government ministers would refrain from telling us, when things have gone wrong on their watch or one of their merry band has been caught out doing something they shouldn’t, that the Government will put it right by ‘taking a robust approach’ to the matter.
Ever since a spin doctor decided the word ‘robust’ would convince us plebs it guaranteed the powers that be would take a serious, no-nonsense stance, the word has become so overused, it belongs in cliché corner along with, ‘We’ll soon get spades in the ground’, which they invariably trot out when questioned about long-delayed construction projects.
They need to junk these tired phrases…‘At pace’!
Happy New Year!

So, the other day, a loyal reader approached me and dropped this bombshell: “Are you really annoyed by everything, or is it just an act?”
My epic response? “Pass me that towel and get out of my bathroom, please!”
Needless to say, I had new locks installed on my doors the very next day. You can never be too careful when your readers start asking questions that deep.
Now, let’s get real for a moment.
Yes, I do get annoyed by a lot of things.
For instance, Christmas songs blasting in stores before we’ve even had a chance to remember the brave souls of Remembrance Sunday.
I mean, come on! I can’t even buy a pumpkin spice latte without being serenaded by “Jingle Bells.”
And don’t even get me started on how those same songs haunt my eardrums long after the holiday season.
I swear, I heard “Last Christmas” in July last year. I’m pretty sure George Michael is haunting me at this point.
Just the other day, I was listening to a traffic presenter on BBC Radio Wales who said, “There are some issues on the Heads of the Valleys Road.”
My quick-witted comeback? “Yeah, and that’s not the only thing with issues.”
I mean, if they’re handing out awards for sass, I’m ready to take the crown. Craig Revel Horwood, step aside; there’s a new diva in town.
I must be one of those easily-triggered souls whose feathers get ruffled at the slightest provocation.
Now that winter is in full swing, my eternal pet peeve has resurfaced: grown men strutting around in freezing weather wearing shorts as if they’re auditioning for a role in “Survivor: Arctic Edition.”
They may think they’re tough as nails, but honestly, they’re as daft as a brush!
Picture this: their pale, goosebump-covered legs are enduring icy winds, hail, and snow, while they have the audacity to wear woolly hats to keep their heads warm. I mean, does that make any sense at all? It’s like wearing a parka while sporting flip-flops, totally mismatched.
I overheard one young lad justifying his lack of proper legwear in December by proudly declaring, “I’ve just come from football training!” If he hadn’t been twice my size, I would have retorted, “Alright then, but why did you leave your trousers in the changing room?”
And don’t even get me started on those middle-aged men with beer bellies and crumpled shorts, wearing them all year round.
I’m seriously considering scheduling a meeting with the Lord Chief Justice to propose making it a capital offence. “Your Honour, I present Exhibit A: the man in the crumpled shorts.”
So, stay tuned for more adventures in my world of perpetual annoyance.
Who knows what other absurdities I’ll encounter next? One thing’s for sure: it’s never a dull moment when you’re on the lookout for the hilarity hidden in everyday life.

Here’s a seasonal story told to me by a friend I’ll refer to as Bob, that happened decades ago, but which he only recently related.
In their mid-20s. Bob and his wife were living in the East Midlands and a week before Christmas they received a letter from their bank, advising them they were £47 overdrawn and the assistant bank manager wanted Bob to call in ‘at his earliest convenience’ to discuss the matter.
Bob and his wife had just returned from visiting their respective parents in Wales and the cost of buying them presents, together with rail fares, had made them overdrawn for the first time.
Bob’s appointment at the bank was on December 23rd. He was ushered into an office, where, behind a desk sat a living caricature of everyone’s picture of an officious assistant bank manager. Bald, small moustache, gold-rimmed spectacles, scowl.
Interrupting Bob’s explanation for being overdrawn, the bank official absolutely roasted him for being irresponsible, making him feel six-inches tall.
Ordered to repay the overdraft at £6 a week from his weekly salary of £30 (before tax), and with nothing bought for Christmas dinner, they were facing a miserable December 25th.
He went home feeling depressed.
But then, he had an idea.
Christmas Eve morning he walked into town with his only asset, his precious acoustic guitar which he’d owned since he was 16, to try and sell it at one of the musical instrument and equipment shops that catered for the local music scene.
There were seven shops in total and in the first six he’d either been offered £20 or nothing.
When he entered the last store, the proprietor must have noticed Bob’s air of desperation, because he offered him £30. Bob hesitated for a second while he worked out what that would buy him and his wife for Christmas. Then he suddenly heard the shopkeeper say “Okay . . . £40!”
That afternoon, Bob and his wife bought all the food they needed and the last, smallest, Christmas tree in their local Co-op.
You probably won’t believe that it started snowing as they walked home.
But it did!
So, here’s to the guitars we may have to part with, the sacrifices we make, and the joy that comes from the heart.
Merry Christmas to all, and may your holidays be filled with love and warmth, just like Bob and his wife discovered all those years ago.

Ah, the annual pilgrimage to the attic to retrieve the holiday decorations. It’s like a trendy scavenger hunt, but with more dust and questionable life choices.
Seriously, why do we stash so much stuff up there?
It’s like a time capsule of bad decisions and forgotten dreams.
I don’t know about you, but every time I venture up there, I’m greeted by a mind-boggling assortment of items.
It’s like a bizarre episode of “What’s That?”
I find things I completely forgot I owned, like that inflatable dinosaur costume from last Halloween (which, let’s be honest, I’ll probably never wear again).
And then there are the items I’m pretty sure I’ve never used, like that fondue set that’s been gathering dust since the early 2000s. Who even uses a fondue set anymore?
I can’t help but wonder: am I turning into a hoarder?
Is there a support group for people who can’t let go of their 90s Beanie Babies? Because if so, I might need to sign up.
Now, here’s the kicker: ever seen “Antiques Roadshow”?
Those folks always seem to stumble upon hidden treasures in their attics.
Not all finds are worth a fortune, but many come with fascinating backstories.
Meanwhile, I’m up there unearthing a collection of mismatched socks and a VHS tape of “Titanic” (which, let’s face it, is probably worth more as a relic of the past than as a movie).
So, as I embark on my New Year’s decluttering mission, I’ve decided to dive into the backstories behind the junk in my attic.
Who knows? Maybe that old lamp with the questionable shade has a tale to tell, or perhaps the box of old board games holds the key to my childhood memories (or at least a few missing Monopoly pieces).
Stay tuned, folks!
In 2026, I’m not just decluttering; I’m embarking on a treasure hunt through my own personal history.
Who knows what gems I’ll uncover, or what embarrassing relics I’ll have to explain to my friends?
Either way, it’s bound to be a hilarious adventure.

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!