Dear Rodney

My dear errant brother,

What's all this angst about the Welsh, look you? Beneath this desire to poke fun lies a deep insecurity, a sense of inferiority perhaps. I perfectly understand this boyo: all that psychological pressure from always being right. It must be lonely at the top, always unsure of one's historical roots: is it Anglo or Saxon? The Celts, on the other hand... I sense your pain. In the most Clintonesque fashion, I truly feel it. Do you feel the love? Come now, let me advise on a course of action before the year is over. Dust off those Tom Jones singles from your youth, immerse yourself in Dylan (no, not that one,-- Under Milk Wood fame), listen (if your wife will let you) to Max Boyce and this will clear away all that Freudian unconscious inferiority that cripples performance. After all, you could never be called Llywelyn ap Gogogoch, as my cousin is (they call him "go-go"). Not for you the refreshing soup known as "cawl", no wonder you are so skinny! Why, and I shudder with pain to think of it, you can't even call the notorious Welsh poet Dafydd Eis Teddfod one of your own. His famous sonnet, "At Home in the Valleys" moves me to tears every time I read it:

There was a young man from Mumbles
Who often gave in to grumbles;
“You could have been English” his brother said
But you are a Welshman instead!
And knowing it truly humbles!