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Most Fringe performers come down with Fringe Flu. I get Fringe Gangrene. Not only does the whole emotionally agonising experience cost me a few hundred pounds I can’t afford but, in putting stuff back after our PBH ‘Free’ shows, I caught myself with a chair and removed a load of skin on my right leg.

I only hope it gets a bit less sore and doesn’t really go bad on me before I go off to Spainland in a week and a bit.

Meanwhile I want to lay down a vid of my latest work, a translation of Trafferth mewn Tafarn, by Dafidd ap Gwilym, which went down well with the few folks we laughingly refer to as our ‘audiences’ (despite the ineffectiveness of shouting “Fourteenth Century Welsh poetry!” as a flyering pitch). Watch this space; next week, hopefully.

Deuthum i ddinas dethol,
A’m hardd wreangyn i’m hôl.
Cain hoywdraul, lle cwyn hydrum,
Cymryd, balch o febyd fum,
Llety urddedig ddigawn
Cyffredin, a gwin a gawn.

Canfod rhiain addfeindeg
Yn y ty, mau enaid teg.
Bwrw yn llwyr, liw haul dwyrain,
Fy mryd ar wyn fy myd main.
Prynu rhost, nid er bostiaw,
A gwin drud, mi a gwen draw.
Gwarwy a gâr gwyr ieuainc —
Galw ar fun, ddyn gwyl, i’r fainc.
Hustyng, bum wr hy astud,
Dioer yw hyn, deuair o hud;
Gwneuthur, ni bu segur serch,
Amod dyfod at hoywferch
Pan elai y minteioedd
I gysgu; bun aelddu oedd.

I shall be attempting to render it in the voice and manner of Welsh comic Rhod Gilbert, as I did (reasonably) well in our shows. And who should be on the next table in the Bar Napoli restaurant that night but Mr ap Gwilym himself?!

No, it was Rhod Gilbert. Mr ap G’s long dead.

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