No matter where you are in the world, you’ll make sacrifices non-Welsh friends just won’t comprehend in order to watch the game. ‘Right, get ready, I heard there was an Irish pub in Salt Lake City’ (you’re in Montana).
…If we won. If we lost, then it’s a solid month, and you can add financial and spiritual to the wrecked list.
So don’t talk to her about being broke. ‘Oh you can’t afford a new car can’t you? When I was young we had a horse and cart, when we froze we’d burn the cart and when we starved we’d eat the horse so don’t moan to me about being poor’. Followed by: ‘Here, take this twenty pound note and don’t tell your mam.’
Admit it, living in London or the smoggy commuter belt saps away your soul — you miss the raw emotion of the wild landscapes and Rhod Gilbert on Saturday morning.
You’ll never forget that time you and your friends saw a figure staring back at you in the top window. We did just make it up, right? RIGHT?
Unless it’s a bank holiday, a rugby day, within a month of Christmas, Easter, summer holidays, a birthday, or you know it’s going to be an easy Monday at work.
You smile and explain once more there’s this country called Wales, that it’s nowhere near Switzerland and in fact it makes up the UK along with you know, England, Scotland ad Northern Ireland — you’ve heard of them, right? Then you get really, really homesick.
Always, ALWAYS accompanied by plastic pints of beer, painted red dragons on your cheeks and the knowledge you will lose the daffodil to an attractive girl / guy you’re trying to impress at 2am.
Hugh Grant does not exist in Wales, and our closest thing to the Queen is Charlotte Church, who drinks down the local and goes on protest marches.
Experience has told you that anything good, even the weather, is a sure sign of impending doom. You mutter the phrase passed down from your parents ‘ooh, we’ll have to pay for this’ whenever the sun comes out. 