I may not attend rugby matches in a sparkly cowboy hat but I am still of “The Welsh”, this much I know. I base it on the fact that I was born in Wales. Being of “The Welsh“, as the wise man on facebook once said, feels like this;

To be born in Wales, is to be born in Wales, in the rain, in a hospital that’s now a Matalan, accepting an inheritance of a sparkly cowboy hat from Tesco, Neil Hamilton’s shameless disdain, a bootleg copy of Only Men Aloud’s first album and a Wales v Czech Republic ticket stub from June 2007.

I say I’m of “The Welsh” but am I? My birthplace may have been in Wales and I may have always lived in Wales, apart from my salad days in august academia, but can I claim to be of “The Welsh“?

What defines “Welshness”? What brings “The Welsh” together? Is is watching rugby in a pub, voting Tory and loving Brexit? Is it going to watch the football side’s away matches and voting for humane parties? Is it the well known third option?

Is “Welshness” defined by “The Welsh”? Well of course it is. If people didn’t define themselves as “The Welsh” there would be no such thing. Is that enough?

No.

Is “Welshness” defined by the landscape? Well, Wales has lovely scenery and I once loved cycling to work with the sight of Snowdonia as a backdrop. However I feel I can state with some certainty that Wales isn’t the only place in the world with beautiful scenery. Similarly Wales has poor people like the rest of the world. Wales has idiots like the rest of the world. It rains in Wales like the rest of the world, only more often.

Is “Welshness” defined by a political element? Is it the non-conformity? “The Welsh” likes nothing better a twitter discussion with their politicians they do. They loves the intellectual cut, thrust and parry with others of “The Welsh”, the sort that can wholeheartedly support the black hearted cynicism of Westminster’s austerity whilst they criticise Y Senedd (Cymraeg for The Welsh Assembly) for failing to deal with the problems created by Westminster’s austere black heart.

They say “The Welsh” don’t vote Tory but some of the good people of my home town Llandudno have yet to receive the memo. Some people vote Tory and love Brexit at the same time as they feel dead proud to be of “The Welsh”, yeah I know.

There’s probably a sporting element to “Welshness”. I knew I was part of “The Welsh” when I used to watch Wales but I haven’t been to a Welsh football international for six years. But I didn’t even go to France but Wales v Belgium is one of the most joyous football experiences I’ve had. I felt real open mouthed joy. I felt of “The Welsh” then.

Hundreds of thousands felt proud to be of “The Welsh” when Hal Robson, Hal Robson Kanu hoodwinked the entire Belgian defence. We all felt so proud that we made a film about it even though Wales suffered a pathetic failure like England did at Italia ’90, and then made a film made about it. Yes I know but that’s “The Welsh” for you, always with the chip on the shoulder.

A year after these heights the followers of the big red clubs have returned to the world’s worst metaphorical tennis match on social media.

The Facebook serve comes; “Mickey Mouse Cup” The forehand return! “Yeah whatever, it’s a cup isn’t it!” The backhand RETURN!!! “It ain’t Champions League is it, calm down!!” Another MASTERFUL BACKHAND!!!!!! “We’re back!!!” A DEEP LOB!!!!!!! “Thursday nights! Thursday nights! Thursday nights!” A TOP SPIN RETURN WITH ADDED ZING!!!!!!!!! “Come back when you’ve won a European trophy!” A FOREHAND FROM THE NET!!!!!!!!!!! “Yeah come back when you’ve won the league in colour!!!” ANOTHER SEARCHING FOREHAND RETURN!!!!!!!!!!!!!! “Yeah come back when you’ve won 8 Europa Leagues!!!” THE CROWD GASPS AS ANOTHER LOB SAILS HIGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! “Yeah, come back when you’ve queued in the rain for 4 days to get the new shirt from Sports Direct”……. THE PASSING STROKE IS LASHED BACK WITH THE FORCE OF THREE PLAYERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! “Okay then, here’s the supreme cultural authority of a google image that includes words from the past that somebody else had already expressed. THE CROWD ACKNOWLEDGE THE UNSTOPPABLE WINNER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My painstaking research has shown we must look beyond landscape, politics and sport for the hook upon which we can hang our coat. At this juncture and apropos of nothing I must enquire “Whose coat is this jacket?”

There is something that we can use to define “Welshness”; Cymraeg, the language of “The Welsh”.

Even though I cannot speak Cymraeg fluently I still feel it’s effect. My wife, and her entire family, are fluent. I’ve tried to order food yn Gymraeg, I can understand half of a Sgorio commentary and discern the tone of conversations at Bangor matches.

Cymraeg has several qualities that I love. It exists as a means of communication, the sound of its syllables and there’s my second favorite quality; the unfavourable reaction it elicits.

It’s the UNDOUBTEDLY TRUE stories true that I love to hear.

“You can walk around Cardiff and no one not never speeka da Welsh. It’s the Monty Python’s Parrot of Languages. Honest guv!” “I went to a cafe and ordered stuff in English but they just looked at me with cold hard Welsh eye of the deepest hatred, and spoke that gibberish of the Welsh to each other.” “I heard Welsh when I went to Wales once and I’m petrified about returning in case it happens again.” “I once went to a Pitbull gig, I was a bit late. As soon as I arrived Mr. Worldwide stopped singing in English so he could sing in Welsh.”

In some senses I have sympathy with these UNDOUBTEDLY TRUE stories, I once ordered some food in a cafe.

I had even more sympathy after another visit to a different cafe. I placed my order clearly using the Queen’s English, yes you read that correctly, the QUEEN’S English, but the cafe owner and customers deliberately started speaking Welsh to each other. I remember my thoughts at the time; “This feels a little strange, we’re in Hamburg”.

It’s a shame that people never recount the correct story;

“I once went to this Welsh cafe and the owner briefly ceased his conversation in Welsh to take my order in English because he’s a nice guy.”

Within Llandudno’s infamously fickle Cultural Quarter I am still well known as an attentive wee person in social situations so you can treat the next point with all the deference it deserves;

I’ve noticed that Welsh speakers are not only BILINGUAL they are WILLING TO SPEAK ENGLISH with people that are obviously unable to communicate fluently in Welsh out of a sense of POLITENESS.

You may take from that what you will. I’ll bet that you’re champing at the bit to hear about my favourite quality of Cymraeg.

For me the best thing about Cymraeg is the sole reason that it continues to survive in the 20th century, namely Cymraeg’s ability to deprive Brexit voters of tax. Methods of communication are all fine and well these days but we have to factor in economic value.

DON’T EVEN DOUBT THE VERACITY OF THIS IDEA. SOME TELEVISUAL ATTENTION SEEKERS HAVE CATEGORICALLY STATED THAT CYMRAEG, THAT GIBBERISH OF A DEAD LANGUAGE, DEPRIVES US ALL OF SQUILLIONS IN TAX. SO THERE,

It was a truly beautiful moment when I realised that the people I know had the ability to be a drain upon the economic health of yer hard working Brexit voting payers of tax merely by speaking this Gibberish of a dead language.

After my epiphany I refused to allow logic to sully the beautiful feeling that coursed through me – I mean how would a reasonably sized government suffer bankruptcy because they employed bilingual staff, bought a bit more paper and added a few more letters to road signs? – I wanted to bask in the beautiful situation. I didn’t even need to research whether Welsh road signs were bigger anyway, I just had to luxuriate.

This beautiful situation allows one to fulminate in the knowledge that one is now more able to deal with our market-driven times. Now I can monetise my family’s ability to speak this Gibberish of a dead language!

Yes, yes, yes!!!!!

In fact my wife and I have been rendered ecstatic by the clear indication that we can now monetise her ability to speak Cymraeg thanks to a grant from Y Senedd’s“Waste of Public Money Fund“.

It’s difficult to take in but my wife isn’t just speaking Gibberish of a dead language any longer she, indeed we, now have a license to print money via a license from the The Nanny State. Result! Cry Huzzah and Hurrah for the Nanny State and Political Correctness!

After a bit of research we have now realised that things are even better. It appears that Y Senedd also offers a massive amount of taxpayer funded largesse from its “The Taxpayer Funded Largesse for Prolonging Dead Languages Fund“. All we need to do is open a rural language school in order to help others monetise their Welsh by passing on the ancient Welsh wisdom of depriving the Nanny State of Public subsidy and Tory voters of their tax.

I’m happy to say that the good news doesn’t stop there. It turns out that we’re also entitled to backdated payments from 1999.

Result!, or as we say near Rhyl; “Mae Rijkaard wedi Sgorio gol wych hebio Zenga!!”

We must be careful. Firstly we must avoid the logical path – That some people cost British society £150 million a year because they find Welsh to be their easiest method of communication – to let the golden words of televisual attention seekers guide us. Secondly the process of taxpayer funded dead language preservation is a rather tricky business.

It’s such a tricky business that without the right kind of guidance one can lose heart. For example, at some point last week the golden words of a televisual attention seeker on an edition of Newsnight convinced my wife to recant her ability to speak Welsh.

“Dwi ddim yn Heretic!” she said proudly! I told her not to give up so easily. “Come on baby, don’t give so easily. Be proud that you’re a drain on public finances! Hwyl!” My Wife realised I was right so she said; “Syt gallai I siarad iaith heb Z? Mae’r dyn enlightened ar y teledu yn gywir! You’ve just heard 15 Welsh words, that’ll be £15.50 please!!!” “That’s the spirit”” I said. “Never forget that you and your mates personally cost Brexit voters £150 Million a year! Cofiwch Lille!”

The monetising mission is so seductive that I, a non-Cymraeg speaker, can be at it. Here goes. I have typed “Dwi ddim yn Siarad Cymraeg!” and you have read it so that’s £4.50 that you and all the other hard working Daily Mail payers of tax personally owe me.

Now I have typed “T’yn Hoffi Pel Droed?” and you have also read that. So that’s another £4.70 that you and the rest of the hard working taxpaying Daily Mail payers of tax personally owe me.

Now I have typed “Dwi’n hoffi coffi!!!” and you have read that as well so that’s another £3.60 that you and the rest of you hard working Daily Mail payers of tax personally owe me.

That’ll be £12.90 altogether chief. No cheques or contactless I’m afraid.

To re cap, that’s £14 (Adjusted to include “The Taffy Is A Thief Stealth Tax“) that you and the rest of the hard working Daily Mail payers of tax personally owe me.

“The Welsh” may have to scrape by without a word for entrepreneur but my business acumen and genetic Welsh appetite for public subsidy, means that the hard working Daily Mail reading payers of tax have to pay me £15 (Adjusted to include Welsh V.A.T) for five minutes work.

From a personal point of view knowing that some people become annoyed when others have the temerity to communicate in an language other than English is a great comfort to me. It reminds me that my sense of Welshness, when allied to my left wing viewpoint, allows me to stand comfortably downwind of Farage et al.

Don’t worry about “The Welsh”, we wear the evident utter disdain of yer Daily Mail’s hard working payers of taxes as a fabulous cape of honour.