A question I frequently get asked (as well as “How long are you going to be in there? I need to shower!”) is, “Do you have the well-known writer’s fear of the blank page first thing in the morning?”
I don’t, because (a) I’m not a well-known writer and (b) I avoid facing a blank page, or blank screen, first thing in the morning, by starting work the night before!
To clarify, for anyone who lacks a sense of humour (or it only surfaces after a second cup of coffee), that was a joke. Yes, really!
We hear a lot about endangered species in the natural world, but not the endangered species in the unnatural world of comedy, the joke.
The one-liner. The topical zinger. And ‘The shaft of wit’, which the great Ken Dodd often liked to point out, is a phrase one has to enunciate very carefully, to prevent causing offence in mixed company.
A joke may only contain a handful of words, but, if it’s a good one, it has the power to create laughter, either amongst friends and colleagues or (increasingly rarely today) on stage and television.
I’ve heard jokes sneerily described as ‘Dad jokes’ inferring they’re a bit naff and old fashioned. Which I find rather sad.
Few modern British comedians tell jokes now, Tim Vine, the ‘Pun-slinger’ being an honourable exception. Comedians prefer routines, usually based on a single subject closely linked to the individual performer.
These routines can be inventive, thought-provoking and in some cases exceptionally intelligent.
If I owned a hat I’d take it off to them.
To create an hour or more of material involves facing a lot of blank pages.
While many American comedians also deliver long routines, jokes aren’t ‘looked down on’ over there, as they are here.
The late-night talk show hosts have always delivered a string of topical jokes in their opening monologue. And they go down a storm, though perhaps not with the big man in the Oval Office.
Elton John loves jokes so much he’s written a joke book, which I just finished reading.  It’s a little bit funny . . .

What about Black Friday weekend, the annual Welsh tradition where perfectly sensible people temporarily lose the run of themselves, elbowing pensioners out of the way for half-price kettles, while pretending they’re still in control of their lives?
Personally, I’ve saved an absolute fortune over the years by doing something revolutionary: not going anywhere near the shops.
That’s right, the secret to my financial success is simply . . . not participating.
Dragons couldn’t drag me to Tesco on Black Friday.
But, don’t worry, cariad, this year, I didn’t miss the entertainment.
Oh no!
From the comfort of my sofa, armed with a cuppa and a pack of Welsh cakes, I enjoyed front-row seats to the finest comedy outside of a rugby club open-mic night.
Picture this: a middle-aged man, proudly sporting grey tracksuit bottoms, the kind that say, “I’ve given up caring, but I still like comfort”, paired with brown leather shoes last seen on Tom Jones in the ’70ss, and a duffle coat that looked borrowed from a museum display entitled “Cwmbran Fashion Through the Ages.”
This hero, this titan among men, was locked in mortal combat with a 55-inch flat-screen TV, determined to wedge it into the back of a taxi outside a well-known retail store.
The taxi driver, who had clearly seen things no human should see on Black Friday, watched on with that familiar Welsh expression: 40% amusement, 40% confusion, and 20% “I’m not paid enough for this.”
And, yes, miracle of miracles, the TV eventually went in, but only after enough shoving, grunting, and questionable manoeuvring to qualify as an unofficial sporting event.
If Wales ever needs a new national sport, may I suggest Competitive Taxi Packing?
Meanwhile, the man’s wife stood by with her arms crossed so tightly she could’ve cracked walnuts, glaring with the intensity of a Dragon’s Den judge who’s just been pitched a solar-powered toaster.
Her patience?
Thinner than the Black Friday discount signs!
“You’re kidding me, right?” she thundered, loud enough to scare pigeons off the roof of Poundland. “You expect me to take the bus home while you play big man in the taxi?”
Then, with the dramatic flair of a woman who’s absolutely had it, she exploded:
“That’s it. I’m off to bingo. And you can shove that TV where the sun doesn’t shine, you selfish pig!”
Nothing says Nadolig spirit quite like screaming at your husband over bargain electronics in a public car park.
As the taxi drove off, with the TV wedged in and the man looking like someone who’d just realised he’d made several poor life choices, I couldn’t help but wonder . . .
Are they the only couple to kick off the festive season with a full-blown row?
Surely not.
Why watch a Hallmark Christmas movie when real-life Welsh drama is playing out live in HD outside your window?
So, in the end, while my bank account remains untouched and my blood pressure pleasantly steady, I’ve come to cherish the accidental comedy of Black Friday.
Here’s to the brave (and slightly unhinged) souls fighting for bargains.
Here’s to the couples whose love survives even the stupidest shopping decisions.
And here’s to bingo nights full of joy, winnings, and hopefully no more arguments about televisions.
Happy holidays, and may all your TVs fit in taxis without divine intervention.

This week I’m emulating the Chancellor Of The Exchequer.
No. I’m not admitting I failed my Math’s GCSE! I’m ‘Giving with one hand and taking with the other’.
Regular readers know I regard daytime TV as the Devil’s work, designed to trap humans in a never-ending cycle of mind-numbing ‘life-style’ and‘property’ shows, bargain hunting shows and back-to-back game shows, hosted by the increasing number of TV personalities who have absolutely no personality.
But Old Nick performed his greatest con trick when he created breakfast television.
Something that nobody asked for; nobody wanted; and nobody in their right mind spends more than 10 minutes glancing at before they leave for work.
But . . .
On a recent weekend morning, when it was too wet to go out, I watched an hour or so of the BBC Breakfast show.
Although the presenters possessed all the charisma of two empty crisp packets blown down a rain-soaked street by a chilly autumn wind, it suddenly dawned on me how difficult their jobs were.
In order to be on air from six am, they’d have to be at the studio at least 90 minutes beforehand to get informed, prepped, made-up and psyched-up to broadcast ‘live’ to the nation.
So their alarm clocks would have gone off around three am.
Every day, they must appear wide-awake, as they continually adjust to the tone of the next story.
They can switch from talking to a family who’ve suffered a horrendous tragedy or are challenging an intransigent Government Department over a terrible injustice, to having a light-hearted chat with a comedian or pop star, plugging their up-coming tour.
Apart from the interviews, at set times, they introduce contributions from their colleagues in sport, weather and business/financial matters. And the regional news bulletins!
They must be so relieved when each show is over.
Okay. Having given it with one hand, here’s what I’m taking with the other . . .
I still think we could live without breakfast TV.
And ITV’s decision to drop their (insultingly brief)) local news opt-outs after 7.15 am is a disgrace!
BTW – I didn’t fail my Math’s GSCE!

Call me old-fashioned, but I’m a big supporter of “please” and “thank you.”
Seriously, it costs nothing to be polite and appreciate an act of kindness.
It’s like finding a penny on the ground. Sure, it’s not a fortune, but hey, it’s still money.
Far too often, I witness acts of kindness being totally ignored, and it happened again just last weekend.
Picture this: I’m in a busy Cardiff shop, and I see a young girl holding the door open for a middle-aged lady.
It’s a classic scene, right? The kind of moment that makes you think, “Ah, there’s hope for humanity!”
But then, shockingly, the lady just breezes through without so much as a nod or a “thank you.”
I mean, come on. Did she think the girl was just auditioning for the role of “Door Holder Extraordinaire”?
Fair play to the young girl, though, she didn’t react.
She just went on with her day, probably thinking, “Well, that was a waste of my good manners!”
Not many of us would have that level of zen, I don’t think.
I can just imagine the inner monologue: “Did I just hold the door for a robot? Is this a social experiment? Am I on a hidden camera show?”
Now, I’d understand if this had happened in a big city like London, where the pace is faster and people are less friendly. It’s like everyone’s in a race to get to the next coffee shop, and politeness is just a speed bump on the road to caffeine.
But in Cardiff? Come on. Are we so preoccupied in our own little worlds that we don’t even notice when someone is being polite anymore?
It’s like we’ve all collectively decided that acknowledging kindness is so last season. “Oh, you held the door for me? How quaint! I’m too busy scrolling through my phone to notice!”
Here’s a thought: we can all make an effort to acknowledge acts of kindness from our fellow humans. There’s no excuse for turning a blind eye to someone’s good deed. Making small, regular gestures of kindness and appreciating the people around us should become a habit.
It’s like exercising. Sure, it’s hard at first, but once you get into it, you start to feel good about yourself.
So, let’s all channel our inner polite person and start a kindness revolution.
Who’s with me? Because if we can’t muster up a simple “thank you,” we might as well start practicing our door-holding skills for the next time we encounter a robot!

There’s been a noticeable change in attitude towards ‘bad’ language.
It seems people are less likely to be offended by comedians using four-letter words than they are by ordinary people expressing their personal opinions.
Yet, in 1972, the American comedian George Carlin first performed a routine now regarded as a classic, called “The Seven Words You Can’t Say On Television” – and, if you think I’m prepared to list them, you’re going to be disappointed.
Besides, his routine is available to view online,  but refrain from doing so if there’s anyone of a delicate nature in the room.
Although he performed the routine on stage for many years afterwards, ironically, it got its biggest audience when he incorporated it into an HBO TV special (he made 14 in all), by which time many TV viewers had heard most of the ‘forbidden’ words.
Today, we’re routinely exposed to them on terrestrial TV, often just after the watershed, and anytime on streaming services.
Which might explain why so many people feel free to use them in public.
A mate of mine and his wife were recently walking their daughter’s small dog for her while she was away and as they passed a young man wearing shorts, the dog suddenly snapped at his heels, not actually biting him.
However, the man reacted with a torrent of obscenities that would have made a sergeant-major blush, including variations of the strongest two in the English language, feeling no compunction to temper his words because he was in the presence of a middle-aged woman.
When my mate asked him to “Watch his language” the man just carried on swearing loudly, but before the situation could escalate into a nasty confrontation, the young man suddenly seemed to realise what he’d said and hastily apologised before walking off.
My friend ruefully observed that the young man’s instant verbal reaction included the two words once only heard in male company and that 20 years ago he might have been a little more careful with his language.
Maybe we should start a list of “Seven Words You Shouldn’t Say In Front Of A Lady!?

I don’t know about you, but this recent cold snap has left me feeling like a popsicle!
Seriously, at this rate, I’ll be unearthing my thermal underwear from its hibernation since last winter’s holiday.
I can practically hear it groaning, “Not again!”
So, there I was on Saturday night, taking a stroll down Wind Street in Swansea, and, let me tell you, the fashion choices were nothing short of baffling.
Picture this: I’m bundled up like a yeti, complete with a scarf that could double as a sleeping bag, while the majority of the nightlife crowd is strutting around in bare legs and flimsy tops.
I swear, I saw a woman wearing a crop top that was more ‘crop’ than ‘top’. Clearly, she had mistaken “chilly” for “chic.”
Now, don’t get me wrong, I admire a good sense of style, but come on!
When did practicality become the ugly stepsister of fashion?
I mean, I get it, fashion is all about making a statement. But what statement are we making when we’re one gust of wind away from a full-blown ice sculpture?
I’ve reached that glorious age where comfort trumps catwalk looks.
I’d rather rock a cosy sweater than freeze my buns off in some haute couture nightmare.
Seriously, I’d take a well-worn thermal onesie over a designer dress any day. Nothing says ‘I’m fabulous’ quite like a onesie that’s seen more Netflix marathons than social events.
So, here’s my plea to the fashionistas of Swansea: can we swap out the flimsy for the fuzzy just this once?
Let’s embrace the warmth. After all, if it comes down to fashion statements or frostbite, I choose to be the warm and happy one, preferably with a hot cocoa in hand.
And, let’s be real, nothing is more stylish than being able to feel your toes.
So, the next time you’re out and about, remember: it’s not just about looking good; it’s about staying warm enough to enjoy the night without turning into a human icicle.
Cheers to cosy fashion, folks.

“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!