Wedi cael ei saethu allan o ganon y belen canon ddynol yn y syrcas, mae’r enwog Bryn Terfel yn glanio yn Ffrainc.
Yn ffodus, mae ein hoff ganwr opera wedi canu yn Ffrangeg o’r blaen, a gwybod tamaid bach am ddiwylliant Ffrengig.
Mae e’n mynd i fwyty a gofyn am gawl winwns.
– Vous êtes chanteur, n’est-ce pas, monsieur? meddai’r dyn y tu ôl i’r cownter.
– Oui, mais comment vous le saviez? ymetyb yr enwog Bryn Terfel, yn rhyfeddol o rugl.
– Ça, c’est de l’huile de moteur, et ceci est un garage. Mais pourquoi vous habillez-vous comme le Père Noël en plein été, et c’est quoi ça sur votre tête?
Ni ddaw ateb.
Yn sydyn, does dim byd yn gwneud synnwyr bellach – na’r wisg Siôn Corn na’r tun rhostio.
Byddai’n well iddo fe ddod o hyd i syrcas arall a chael ei saethu’n ôl i Gymru.
Saesneg / English
France
Having been shot out of the cannon of the human cannonball in the circus, the famous Bryn Terfel lands in France.
Fortunately, our favorite opera singer has sung in French before, and knows a little bit about French culture.
He goes to a restaurant and asks for onion soup.
– You’re a singer, aren’t you, sir? says the man behind the counter.
– Yes, but how did you know? replies the famous Bryn Terfel, surprisingly fluently.
– That’s engine oil and this is a garage. But why are you dressed as Father Christmas in the middle of summer, and what’s that on your head?
No answer comes.
Suddenly, nothing makes sense any more – neither the Santa outfit nor the roasting tin.
He had better find another circus and be shot back to Wales.
