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.)
What could possibly go wrong...
The school assembly hall was a riot of Formica, asbestos and six-year-old’s paintings, busy with singers and their hangers on, all in their Sunday best, looking slightly alarmed, as Welsh people do. (As though the Methodist Minister is among them and haven’t combed their hair, not prioritised getting the plaster cast of Saint Bernadette back out of hock; or have been putting Monopoly money in the collection bag again.). Competing before me was a smug, handsome, grey suited baritone, who fluffed his climactic F sharp, but otherwise sang a terrific Count’s aria. He bowed, wringing his hands either side of his head, like Swannhilde, when she shakes the sheaf of wheat to hear if it rattles, meaning that Franz does love her after all.
My turn to sing. ‘Iessstynnnn Daviddd Edwarrrrrds. Gan Mozzzart. Non Piu Andrai.’
All smiles, Titty-Top Soprano asked me a question in Welsh. Shit. I introduced myself again with my chosen song. 'Iesssstynnn Dav...'
And got another question in Welsh.
‘Baritone?’ I wondered.
And again.
‘Hill that’s a mere mound?’
Er...just wait till the soprano pats her chignon.
Aunt Sophia had been coaching me in how to come across as a native Welsh speaker. In one session, she had irrelevantly reminded me of the number of words in Welsh for hill. Hill that’s a mountain in all but name. Hill with upward climb. Hill with downward dash. Hill with trees. Hill bare of trees. Hill with brook but still lacking trees. Hill with sheep, no brook but – hwrê! – here are the trees back again. Hill with castle. Hill with sole remaining turret. Hill with positively six lumps of castellated rubble. Hill where you stand singing and the wind brings your song back to you. Hill where you stand singing and it doesn’t. Hill where you stand pointing and ask, ‘Is that edible?’
The soprano was patting her chignon.
‘You’re not really a Welsh speaker, are you?’ she said in English.
‘No.’
‘Then you can’t go up to the field as you won’t understand what’s going on.’
Instead, I took the walk of shame. The audience were clearly relieved that someone else was going to the flames, where was Jenkins the Religion to point the way. I apologised to the hand-wringing baritone for speaking to him in English and asked what the female judge had said to me in Welsh.
‘Oh, she said she had fond memories of singing with your father around and about these parts and she hoped you’d be a chip off the old block.’
Aunt Sophia hustled me out of the school gates beneath her burgundy pac-a-mac. ‘All those years I spent doing the catering, being chased round concessions marquees by those red-faced, string holding up their trousers, reeking of sheep-shit farmers wanting me to line my wellies up with theirs at some back door in the Teifi Marshes, telling them ‘Na na’ as I ran, which I spent how long teaching you to say because if you pronounce it in the right way you sound legitimate Welsh…and now look!’
Flash-forward ten years and I was back at the Eisteddfod. This time being chauffeured to and from Bristol, where I was performing Ballet Star Galactica at the Tobacco Factory. For two ten-minute sets on Family Day in the Llangollen International Field, my fee was five months’ rent.
I did barre holding a guy rope, with a harp competition under way in the tent. An entrant played Arlan Y Mor very touchingly and there was silence for a few seconds before the applause. The set I went with was tame because it was a family show. When a toddler said I wasn’t a real fairy, I resisted wondering aloud where, when you needed him, was King Herod. A troupe of male Ukrainian folk dancers lined up as I came offstage and bowed, hands on hearts.
I had forty-five minutes before my second set and trotted back to the harp tent to warm down.
A druid steward bimbled up. ‘Please, they say can you come back and go on again, the audience is leaving ever so sharpish, please.’
Holding my tutu skirt against my belly, I trotted back across the grounds. The steward hurried chest up and out, like a chicken with intent.
The audience was scrambling, muttering, up the side of the natural amphitheatre.
‘What on earth happened?’ I asked Maisie, stage manager. She was stocky, in blacks, from Merthyr. She indicated a performer standing chatting to a St. John’s volunteer. ‘They thought they’d booked a children’s entertainer, but he wasn’t.’
I could have told them that! I knew him from late night Cobden Club gigs.
‘They booked him for the Family Show?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fantastic!’
‘No, it’s really upset people. He’s meant to be a childrens’ entertainer, was how he got booked. Look how pale everyone is.’
The act booked as a childrens’ entertainer, in reality plays a childrens’ entertainer. Who’s drunk, has a potty mouth and a fake penis hanging half out of his trousers below a sign offering Free Sex Here for the Kiddies…
And I’d been worried about using my King Herod line.
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.)
What could possibly go wrong...
The school assembly hall was a riot of Formica, asbestos and six-year-old’s paintings, busy with singers and their hangers on, all in their Sunday best, looking slightly alarmed, as Welsh people do. (As though the Methodist Minister is among them and haven’t combed their hair, not prioritised getting the plaster cast of Saint Bernadette back out of hock; or have been putting Monopoly money in the collection bag again.). Competing before me was a smug, handsome, grey suited baritone, who fluffed his climactic F sharp, but otherwise sang a terrific Count’s aria. He bowed, wringing his hands either side of his head, like Swannhilde, when she shakes the sheaf of wheat to hear if it rattles, meaning that Franz does love her after all.
My turn to sing. ‘Iessstynnnn Daviddd Edwarrrrrds. Gan Mozzzart. Non Piu Andrai.’
All smiles, Titty-Top Soprano asked me a question in Welsh. Shit. I introduced myself again with my chosen song. 'Iesssstynnn Dav...'
And got another question in Welsh.
‘Baritone?’ I wondered.
And again.
‘Hill that’s a mere mound?’
Er...just wait till the soprano pats her chignon.
Aunt Sophia had been coaching me in how to come across as a native Welsh speaker. In one session, she had irrelevantly reminded me of the number of words in Welsh for hill. Hill that’s a mountain in all but name. Hill with upward climb. Hill with downward dash. Hill with trees. Hill bare of trees. Hill with brook but still lacking trees. Hill with sheep, no brook but – hwrê! – here are the trees back again. Hill with castle. Hill with sole remaining turret. Hill with positively six lumps of castellated rubble. Hill where you stand singing and the wind brings your song back to you. Hill where you stand singing and it doesn’t. Hill where you stand pointing and ask, ‘Is that edible?’
The soprano was patting her chignon.
‘You’re not really a Welsh speaker, are you?’ she said in English.
‘No.’
‘Then you can’t go up to the field as you won’t understand what’s going on.’
Instead, I took the walk of shame. The audience were clearly relieved that someone else was going to the flames, where was Jenkins the Religion to point the way. I apologised to the hand-wringing baritone for speaking to him in English and asked what the female judge had said to me in Welsh.
‘Oh, she said she had fond memories of singing with your father around and about these parts and she hoped you’d be a chip off the old block.’
Aunt Sophia hustled me out of the school gates beneath her burgundy pac-a-mac. ‘All those years I spent doing the catering, being chased round concessions marquees by those red-faced, string holding up their trousers, reeking of sheep-shit farmers wanting me to line my wellies up with theirs at some back door in the Teifi Marshes, telling them ‘Na na’ as I ran, which I spent how long teaching you to say because if you pronounce it in the right way you sound legitimate Welsh…and now look!’
Flash-forward ten years and I was back at the Eisteddfod. This time being chauffeured to and from Bristol, where I was performing Ballet Star Galactica at the Tobacco Factory. For two ten-minute sets on Family Day in the Llangollen International Field, my fee was five months’ rent.
I did barre holding a guy rope, with a harp competition under way in the tent. An entrant played Arlan Y Mor very touchingly and there was silence for a few seconds before the applause. The set I went with was tame because it was a family show. When a toddler said I wasn’t a real fairy, I resisted wondering aloud where, when you needed him, was King Herod. A troupe of male Ukrainian folk dancers lined up as I came offstage and bowed, hands on hearts.
I had forty-five minutes before my second set and trotted back to the harp tent to warm down.
A druid steward bimbled up. ‘Please, they say can you come back and go on again, the audience is leaving ever so sharpish, please.’
Holding my tutu skirt against my belly, I trotted back across the grounds. The steward hurried chest up and out, like a chicken with intent.
The audience was scrambling, muttering, up the side of the natural amphitheatre.
‘What on earth happened?’ I asked Maisie, stage manager. She was stocky, in blacks, from Merthyr. She indicated a performer standing chatting to a St. John’s volunteer. ‘They thought they’d booked a children’s entertainer, but he wasn’t.’
I could have told them that! I knew him from late night Cobden Club gigs.
‘They booked him for the Family Show?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fantastic!’
‘No, it’s really upset people. He’s meant to be a childrens’ entertainer, was how he got booked. Look how pale everyone is.’
The act booked as a childrens’ entertainer, in reality plays a childrens’ entertainer. Who’s drunk, has a potty mouth and a fake penis hanging half out of his trousers below a sign offering Free Sex Here for the Kiddies…
And I’d been worried about using my King Herod line.
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