Iestyn Edwards Wonders...is it Lumpy or Runny?

  Stacks, Royal Marine, inherited his love of music from his granny. Sadly no longer with us, she was a church organist.   Until one Easter.   As Stacks tells it, 'She was playing for Devotions.  One hymn every hour, on the hour. The churchyard gate was opposite the Dog and Feathers and she was going over there in the interim. The head verger had to help her up into the organ loft for "There is a Green Hill.." He decided after that she was better left. And left.  And left. Christ had long since risen while she was still beer-snoring.'

    Clearly, we're not expecting out front at Stanford's that Dagenham stag do, the shopping channel staff on a corporate bonding night, or the congregation of St Peter's as officiated over by the non-elected Dean of  Bocking...   At the Woman's Insitute, Ear Soham, Celia was the only member wearing her name badge. Coming into the Green Room (village hall kitchen) she said if I was going lower than knickers-on level, I should go into the ladies' as she had to be in the kitchen just then to meld her mini-pavlovas.   During audience questions, she asked how I'd gained early experience working a crowd.   'I was working at the Walworth Road McDonald’s during sixth form to pay for singing lessons after my tuition grant passed its use-by date.'   The chemist in East Lane couldn't give me enough hours.  Not to mention that on my first day a woman came to the counter with something wrapped in tin foil.   'Sonny, you’re new.  What are you ...

  My first time at the Eisteddfod, 1994, I’d competed as a baritone in the operatic/songs class in Bargoed.   And pretended to be a native Welsh speaker.   On the panel was the front woman for the now defunct Welsh Schools Television equivalent of Dame Joan Sutherland telling puppets the stories of popular operas.  Schools Music Programming, now sadly defunct.  In the Welsh version, slick thigh over slick thigh, the presenter wore a dyed black chignon and a velvet titty top, an a-line skirt and fuck me boots.   ‘I am a little fishy, I swim in the river, I swim all day long,’ she would sing, and move her right hand up and down to show the tune rising and falling.   Let’s not bother remembering her name.   I thought I could get away with saying my name in the vernacular – and how natively Welsh sounding is Iestyn David Edwards? – and the name of my chosen aria: ‘Gan Mozart.  Non Piu Andrai.  Diolch Yn Fawr. (Thank you very much.) ...

Please pre-book to avoid my being disappointed...   A truly lovely Tutu book gig last night for the Earl Soham WI - great welcome, sold out of books, divine spread: all home made: quiche, sausage rolls, dates laced with marzipan.   Celia asked about Combined Services Entertainment sending The Other Iestyn to spy on me in North Wales.  The video below has the the short answer to her question. (A longer one is included in the book My Tutu Went AWOL.           Hope to see you at Stanford's, Long Acre, 6.30pm, April 12th.

   Click to pre-book your place, nicely   Stacks, Royal Marine, central figure in My Tutu Went AWOL, thinks that driving a car can't be classed as travel.   I said, 'Not even something on the level of Route 66?'   'No.  It's still driving a car.  Travel implies someone else has their hand on the wheel. Or the tiller.  Or the throttle.'   We were having this conversation between Christmas and New Year in the walk-in health centre.  Cut a long story short, I was house sitting, had been feeling default setting ill for months, and had now begun to feel really sick.  Looking up my symptoms online, I realised that I couldn't rule out bowel cancer.    Yes, I know.  Never look up symptoms online.  We had the Reader's Digest medical pull-out in the seventies.  When my mother had swollen glands; my father had to physically stop her giving herself a tracheotomy with a Bic Biro.  God knows what she'd be like...

Follow this link to nicely book tickets, please...   So grateful to be going back to the legendary Stanford's Travel Bookshop. April 12th, 6.30. Do please pre-book tickets following the above link.  Their Olympia show earlier this year was fantastic. Brilliant organisation.   Artistes - huh! - often forget what a strain gigs are for the organisers. My mate Gerard reminded me after I'd gigged for his mother, Allegra, in Suffolk.   'Thank fuck that whole Allegra shebang’s over, Iestyn.  No offence - your show was okay.  One less thing for her to be frantic about.  “Oh, where are my combination Bach Flowers, Gerard?  Actually, pass me the gin - tonic-shmonic! - are you sure you don’t have any drugs in the house?  To destress I'll have to go for a swim - have a Thai massage - eat charred-in-the-Aga bay leaves - do Yoga in front of the open airing cupboard door as that upgrades it to being Bigram - give myself a beta blocker suppository -...

  I’ve inherited Eirwen’s sense of entitlement. (She's my mother.)  After I was confirmed, I expected to be casting out demons.  And I’m miffed at the low impact nature of my paranoia.  I should be unable to watch television because I think the canned laugher is at me; be convinced that anyone’s mobile phone ringing will be the Freemasons checking up on me; be unable to go to a barber’s or clip my toe nails, because a witch doctor would use the hair and the clippings to make that planned voodoo doll of me.   Oh, and I had stress-sinusitis when I was went to a funding circle to pay for my own audiobook.     The beggars outside Morrison's, Wood Green, all believe that they alone are entitled to work that pitch.  Each in turn will go and fetch security to see off the others.   One was sitting holding up a sign that said I am dumb and homeless.     'See,' said another, 'having that sign is an unfair advantage.'   'But he'...

    I've collated these results from audience survey forms.  I use them as material in my live show.   He was exactly the right size for the venue.      The two people in front of me didn't like him.   I think I may have liked him more readily than did other village folk, because my great chum Lord Julian was one of the earliest people ever to suffer a death from AIDS.     This act should be on some kind of TripAdvisor or Google Reviews or talent finder for cross-dressed clowns.  Before we booked Madame Galina Ballet Star Galactica, we used to have classical string quartets and classical piano recitals.  I suspect we'll be going back to those.   His book is ideal for a second-home spare bedroom!   He's an interesting racial mix, isn't he - obviously half Maori, half Jewish.    What on earth must his parents be like?   No wonder his shoes were in that state when he went ...