A language that for seventy years of English observational comedy was derided as a series of phlegm-filled hacks and sputters. If you ever had the misfortune to be alive in the 1980s, you’d have been treated to jokes such as:

“That Welshman just said hello to me, and now I am irreversibly covered in sputum”

“Apparently the River Taff is 90% bronchial mucus because they just stand there talking at their rivers. That’s how fucking stupid they are. They talk to rivers.”

Welsh Valley
Climbing mountains is a cunt’s game when you’ve got a tit-load of sexy valleys to roll around in

“What the hell is their problem? I mean I can understand the French talking a different language, they’re foreigners. But I can drive to Wales.”

“I just think it’s a bit passive aggressive that they chose a dragon as their mascot, when we’ve got St George. I mean, what are they trying to say? That St George didn’t kill that dragon? That it moved to Cardiff and gave dragonback rides to their kids? That the King of England can’t even kill a stupid Welsh dragon?”

In fact, Welsh is a beguiling language that slips into your ear like spider’s silk, and the Welsh accent is so calming, that nurses will frequently slip into an Aberystwyth lilt before telling you your lungs are about to explode.

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