Iestyn Edwards is...what?

This afternoon I went upstairs from my Airbnb to ask whoever lived there would they mind if I had a singing lesson at some point this week. The woman that opened the door was in her seventies, with a wryly amused look; deep turquoise woollen pyjamas and matching slippers. Her hair was grey, side parted and up-combed-over.  Here is the transcript of her monologue: I can’t believe it’s Airbnb downstairs. I’ve been here twenty years, since I divorced my husband and the housing association found me this place. I wouldn’t want to be here, otherwise. But I’m from round here. There’s good places, of course, but also bad places. Ore. The Old Town is so overrated. All those...what are they called...artin...oh, is that it? I’ll know for next time. All that type of shops but still nobody picks up the dog shit.  Do you hear my tele? Because I go deaf of an evening. I can’t believe it’s Airbnb downstairs. I did see a fat woman in there. And a bloke coming in and out I never saw without a c...

We self-employed performers in the UK will be skin of teeth submitting our tax returns by 11.59 and fifty-nine seconds on January the thirty-first. But only if we're that anal and over-organised.  Now, one, don’t worry – the following won’t get over-naughty, just naughty enough – and two, it isn’t true. Though an actor in my year at Guildhall went into porn, which gave me the idea.  An HMRC pamphlet gave me some amusement one dullish day in Aldeburgh, Suffolk.  Q. Are you confused about what constitutes being self-employed as opposed to employed? For your own self-elucidation, we advise you to answer in writing the questions highlighted in the pamphlet with specific reference to your last completed paid employment. Your answers should be written in ink. A. Not blood, then? Q. Did you “A” instigate the work or were you “B” hired to do the work? A. B.    PS - maybe use numbers as well here? Letter on letter is a tad confusing.  Q.  If “B”, by whom were y...

Coochie, a late teen, in the pub wearing a lime green tracksuit ironed to cutting edges by his mother, needed to buy a new toaster.  He had never been left home alone before - clearly had never done anything for himself at home before - and his mother had gone on holiday.  Making breakfast for the first time ever, he had spread butter and jam on the bread before putting it in the toaster.  'How was I to know? That's how it always is on my plate.'

Other than the word ‘unique’ used over ten times, a digest of this week’s feedback from my talk My Tutu Went AWOL contains the word ‘hilarious’ five times, ‘laughs’ four and ‘hysterical’ once. On Wednesday I stood with a male member of the Welwyn U3a, in his most unsmiling late-fifties, watching the future talks programme in perpetual motion on the screen at the front of the hall. ‘That one about bomb disposal has sold thirty-seven more tickets more than you have,’ he told me. ‘The history of plague pits twenty-six. The murder case forensic officer nineteen. I think the bomb disposal woman was so far ahead because in her blurb she said she had suffered some failures.’ Oh. 

'Iestyn, we loved it. Thank you for entertaining us so wonderfully.' 'Warzone anecdotes told with such soul. Stacks is a tremendous character - plus spins and fabulous bass-baritone singing. I laughed one minute, cried the next. AI would be foxed trying to usurp this man's art.' 'I can't do the so-called funny talks, as they're usually not. But I just laughed literally all the way through yours.' 'As a public speaker myself, I wonder - how would one follow such a unique performance? Anecdotes both enthralling and hilarious, topped off with an amazing singing voice. What a treat!'

  Connie ‘Should Be Fully Bedridden Any Time Now’ Presland waved from a day bed, snug in the St Francis alcove framed by green paper chains.  A Dansette emitted a recessed blare of “Rock Around the Christmas Tree”.  Orange squash, fried spam and wintering prayer books smells mixed with the twelve Delaney kids’ mildewed tent and sketchy pants stink. Aged from two to fourteen, they sported nit-aftermath skinheads and binman surplus formals. At table they were under parents’ orders to eat a little and doggy-bag a lot. The Mission had fielded Mrs Mustin as representative on earth. In scratchy tweed the colour of turned beef, hairs on her chin combed for Jesus, she loomed in her small corner and made any child separated from the herd sing Sunday School Choruses. With full actions. Only a boy called David (no action to be done here) Only a rippling brook (don’t make it look too hula hula or God will be merciless) and the sling went round and round…round and round… (in t...

In four sweaters, long johns under tracksuit bottoms and my dressing gown, I've been writing my new book since 6am. Now I'm about to start ringing speakers' agencies to try and get myself on their books for My Tutu Went AWOL - the Book Talk that Morphed.  So, I've showered, shaved and dressed smart-casual.  Oops, nearly missed that I'd left my slipper socks on.  Brogues, better, I think.  All of which reminds me of a classic occasion when my mother turned up at my father's day job.  When Terry 'the Bargoed Yodeller' Edwards (my father) needed some extra income (very often) he worked on the Battersea bins as plain 'Tel'. Clarence was his supervisor.  One summer when Tex ‘Jessie’ Jameson booked Terry for a fortnight singing at the El Paso in St. Austell, Terry paid the however much it was back then for the doctor to sign him off sick.   'Are you Clarence Pugh, the chief shit-shoveller?’ my mother was wearing her old WRAF uniform, with her hair ...