Iestyn Edwards is...what?

No, no to the venue staff at the Pleasance, Edinburgh, being able to pull Jerry Sadowitz's show because it doesn't 'align with their values'.   During Jack and the Beanstalk, in 204, one of my Dame Trott costumes was late out of the workshop.  It was a beehive.  There was a nylon thread attached, but because of the bulge in the beehive, I couldn't see where this thread led to or what happened when it got there.   Wearing the new costume, I went onstage to meet the King, played by Brendan Coach Trip Sheerin.  The King's coach had broken down.  Brendan's opening line was, 'Hello, my good woman, I bet you'd like to help with my big end and lubricate my dipstick.'   I pulled my thread.  Brendan looked down.  Apparently, I had just opened a tiny drawbridge in the lower part of the hive.   Innocently, he said, 'Is that your flap where honey comes out?' The adults out front giggled, tensed for my reply.  I said right to...

        Regimental Sergeant Major 'Pam' Ayres emailed me when I was just back from performing in Iraq.   Iestyn my mate, you are truly barking as a turn and I don’t know how you do it, particularly where you’ve just been.  I was surprised to say the least when I heard what you were to be about in the wilds of Iraq.  But I suppose you have little choice but to carry on with it because of the scarcity of Rest Homes for Retired Sugar Plums.  Perhaps you could find one, however, and have a little lie down over Christmas?   Thank you for your kind information that I have been mentioned in interviews you’ve given to the Mail on Sunday , T he Times and whatever Full House Magazine may be.     I would, however… RATHER  READ THE FUCKING  BEANO !!! Take care, kid.  Best...Pam   '...whatever  Full House Magazine  may be...'    Therein lies a tail...   'The phone's  in Major Flynn’s ...

  A woman with wiry, flicked hair, in a pink vinyl mac, and gingham pedal pushers came through from Thorpeness Meare, leaving her jack russell off the lead as she continued past the duck pond. Three pairs of nesting swans and the egyptian geese were grazing there. The woman turned as people remonstrated with her, then stood in a bevelled pose, like a resting burlesquer, and indicated that she was happy for her jack russell to run to and fro barking by the water's edge.  The goose nosed the tiny gosling into the pond and jumped in after it followed by the gander. The swans stood absolutely still, feathers up all around, in front of their cygnets.    The woman smirked indulgently at the jack russell, until a man picked the dog up by the collar, walked over to her and thrust it into her arms.  ' Take this back to wherever it is you're from!' he told her. After a stunned moment, the woman loped off across the grass, drawling back over her shoulder, 'Crouch...

  The Simpson's annual pop up summer bistro in East Suffolk went vegan the year Francis Quentin-Curnow was six.    Francis had apparently been born gluten and lactose intolerant and with IBS. His wasn't cradle cap so much as Intensive Care Baby Incubator cap. By the time he was four he was asthmatic, eczmatic, diabetic; rivalling pure violet light for taking up space on the spectrum. Aged five he asked to go in the carnival procession as Anne Frank. The following year he announced that he was vegan, please.  On the QT that year, Gerard Crastley - whose grandmother, Lady Simpson, remember, made him spell out long words, as he went to the wrong school: Harrow rather than Eton - encouraged Francis to adopt a yak. Daphne, Gerard's mother, was Francis's godmother.  'You adopt the nice yak, chap, and you get a photo and it will write you letters,' said Gerard.  'What joy, eh?  The yak is being endangered to death, Quent,  And it's not a quick death - as...

  An oh so proud, pre-plague moment.  Hosting the Dance for Victory Ball at the Blackpool Tower Ballroom.   'After sound check, you have a query out front,' said stage management, pointing.  'Her over there. She's been too difficult even for the circus archivists.' Her over there was a woman with a waved combover, in a sequined puffa jacket, nylon culottes and pink trainers. Wafting Lily of the Valley and carbolic.  'You may have seen my quick step earlier to the Wurlitzer.'  She was giving me an undecided look, her tone no-crap librarian.  'Every Wednesday I've danced here since before even my mother passed on. To the Wurlitzer only when practicable.'   Spiralling her right wrist at me, she said, 'Now, I've got these three expected carrier bags.  In this first one: Happy Shopper vodka. Not paying your bar prices. In two - shrimp that were Morecambe-bought, home-self-potted. In three - glad rags. So, I'll thank you to tell me your ...

                         Filming for C4. "Madame Galina's Whirlwind Guide to Ballet". 'Spectacular and eccentric...More! More!!' Daily Mail .  'Lovingly tart!' The Rough Guide to Choreograph y.  'Essential viewing.' Evening Standard . And, during filming, from the general series producer: 'Iestyn, we are very sorry you got a poorly foot today, but please don't send the director off the set again for - as you view her - being a complete cretin, misfilming your pirouette sequence six "shi*ting" times. We could perhaps discuss your stance that it's "completely mental to employ her to make a humorous piece about ballet, when she's humour less and knows f-ck all about dance". We can't comment on her having a supercilious spoon-face.' You win some...

I would visualise and visualise Madame Galina on tour to London's West End and to Blackpool: wearing a fur, dragging a trunk, staying in old-school theatrical digs, being partnered by either Michael Nunn or William Trevitt: both Royal Ballet Principal Dancers... About to move to London from Aldeburgh, I was walking past the Sue Ryder shop when volunteer Janet banged on the window.  Can you imagine Bette Midler, but mouselike?  That was Janet. She dragged a blue trunk out of the stockroom.  'Don't open it till you get home.  Inside's for you to wear as Madame Galina.  Brilliant you've got yourself that London residency.'  At Murray's Cabaret Club. 'My aunt forbade us girls ever to go on to Murray's in the sixties, you know. "Filth goes in there!  The Krays, that Keeler monstrosity. Filth!".' Oh. At home I opened the trunk.  Inside was a rabbit skin fur.  For cheapness' sake on tour, I would book myself into the class of B and B ...