Iestyn Edwards

‘Spectacular and eccentric…More! More!!’ Daily Mail.

‘Lovingly tart!’ The Rough Guide to Choreography.

‘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 humourless and knows f-ck all about dance”. We can’t comment on her having a supercilious spoon-face.’

You win some…

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I’m getting one of these. A jardinière. For my fire escape.

The last time I heard the word ‘jardinière’ was on video messenger during lockdown. I was chatting to my mate Finch Loudet, porn actor turned director.

He said that only cohabiting porn couples were able to work under the lockdown rules. On OnlyFans. Often asking subscribers to send in sex-suggestions.

Four days into lockdown, apparently, the subscribers were past requesting pegging, turd play and zombie necrophilia, and instead were commenting:

‘Bit of Vanish Oxy, loves, when you next wash those sheets.’

‘Your bedside rug has been turned up in that one corner since Monday.’

‘Forget golden showers between yourselves, you need to water that jardinière.’

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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.’

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Iestyn Edwards

Iestyn Edwards

Author of war memoir My Tutu Went AWOL, Vaudeville turn.