Well we just had two days over in the Gower peninsula at the wedding of Nathan and Suzanne, daughter to some of our oldest friends Lynne and Phil who we knew from University. It’s long time since those way off days in way off Aberystwyth. Phil and I played for the Uni team and Lynne and C were ever-present supporters on the sidelines. Happy days.
The wedding was great and really enjoyable. C is godmother to Suzanne and she looked lovely. We were very pleased to see her looking so happy. Son Gareth has turned into a smashing lad too – we had a really enjoyable time talking to him and he even delivered a win for C on the bet to forecast the overall time for two best men speeches. It was just one of those days. We even met a couple of other old contacts from Aber, Chris and Wendy. They both looked just the same, in Chris’ case a little greyer and a touch heavier. Chris was honest enough not to suggest that time had been kind to me. I think we both knew that I look all of my 45 years.
Anyway the only element of sadness on the day was the eagerness of the speakers, Phil apart, to make jokes about the English. What is it that makes all Welshmen seemingly hate the English? They say they’re only joking but I lived there for 3 years and inside they still bear this deep-lying grudge it seems, or is it just me? Surely all those stories about ovine traces in the Welsh bloodline can’t possibly be true, so it must be a generational hand-down from whenever it was that the English oppressed them. That or the recent mullahing they received at Twickers. Either way get over it fellahs.
What’s more none of our near neighbours seem to like the English – the Scots, Irish, N Irish, French, Germans and so on. What precisely is it that makes everyone dislike the concept of living next door to the English? Answers please below.
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Pasta Paulie 