He’s at it again. The three foot high over-exhuberant maniac has turned up for Grandslam week far too early and is plaguing the households of Welsh people everywhere with talk of easy wins and pre-ordering victory T-shirts and DVDs. Do stop it, there’s a lovely butty bach.
He’s pointing at all sorts of evidence for his manic chipperness; France want the roof open, Fofana’s been hidden on the wing, Sam’s back, the letters spelling “Cymru” in scrabble are worth “12” points – but the empty bottle of penderyn and four-pack of red bull are more likely to be the fuel for the little fella’s fit of frenzy. But when he caps it off trying to look up your missus’ skirt and starts hosing away in the kitchen sink singing ‘hymns and arias’ then it’s time to stow him away in the airing cupboard and gag him. Leave him in there with a warm flannel and a copy of Razzle and he should burn himself out soon enough.
Some say at full moon he wears a deer’s skull and rides a chariot along the Heads of the Valleys road pulled by George North and Alex Cuthbert, some say he turned down a role in the new Hobbit film over a philosophical protest at large corporate media killing innovation in the arts, some say his erogenous zones cover most of South Wales. All we know is that sometimes before a match you want to stick his head in a food blender, but at the end of the day, he’s only trying to help. He loves us, and sometimes we love him back.
Here’s to optimism, the amazing prospect of 3 grandslams in 8 years and the 22 boys trying to get us there. C’mon Wales!