God Bless the Welsh

Where to start?

I honestly just do not know. I guess the beginning would be best no? And the beginning began last Saturday. Actually it began on Friday night while out with the former roommie, Girl and our new English friend whose name is the same is a denomination of our currency and who will forever more be referred to as Pie which, I recently found out, is what her initials spell. We got together to watch a muchly anticipated movie that had Pirates in it. I think my feelings on this movie would be best expressed with this MovieKu:

Three hours, wasted
Please, give me my money back.
Pirates. Dead to me.

The plus side of the evening was that Pie mentioned she was heading to my favorite footie pub Scallys the following morning to watch some rugby. Now, I’ve never really known rugby… not had much interest in it save for drunken nights at the Velox Rubgy Club in University, which some of my university peeps can attest to. But Saturday morning footie is over for the time being and I’ve been feeling empty and hollow these past few weeks because of it. So I says, sure why not…

I arrive 11-ish the following morning to watch the Wales Australia match. And my week has not been the same since. For also in attendance were no fewer than 40 Welshman, ranging from ages 19 to 75, who happenstanced upon Scallys while in Toronto on a rugby tour. I felt like I had landed in the middle of “The Englishman Who Went Up A Hill And Came Down A Mountain”… It was hilarious. It was brilliant.

Now, had I blogged about this earlier, say Sunday… you would have had much detail on the Kangaroo court we were asked to juror, the shin raping that Pie received from a half naked Welshman who was displeased with the guilty verdict we imposed upon him for losing Moosey… or was it Lucy? I forget… or the random non-rugby Welshman in attendance who kissed me at 3:30 on a Saturday afternoon… or the sudden departure of Pie’s friend with a ’27 year-old engineer’ who was less of a ’27 year-old engineer’ than he was a ’22 year-old railway track layer’, or Pie’s equally sudden departure to test out how the stripper pole in her apartment would hold up against a naked Welshman… I’ll skip all that and simply say that I never really knew that having two naked Welsh rugby players on my balcony could be so hysterically funny. (By way of background, as I was explained later, rugby players have no issues with being naked around complete strangers, even if said strangers are fully clothed and laughing hysterically while taking pictures of them). So that was Saturday.

Sunday? Well Sunday was mostly about heading to Ikea to get a replacement beam for my Ikea bed. Which reminds me, I must have a word with the Ikea folks about how their products are tested. They should really be testing for EVERY contingency. Sufficed to say, they neglected to test what would happen if two 300lb naked Welsh rugby players were to climb onto the bed to pose for pictured being taken by a fully clothed girl laughing hysterically. Sadly I think Ikea really dropped the ball on this one. Sigh.

Monday was about stupid work which I am shortly going to have to do something about before I have a nervous breakdown.

Tuesday, also work but with the happy task of heading to watch the Welsh boys play the one and only rugby match they came on the week-long tour to play. They trounced the Toronto Scottish, which I was happy to witness, for a while back I had gone out with one of them and he had behaved very badly afterwards. So, happy to see their arses kicked I was indeed. We were then invited back to partake in the libations afterwards. As the establishment of choice was not but a 2 minute walk from my place we, and by ‘we’, I mean ‘I’ was happy to oblige. I am not entirely sure why we thought getting on their charter bus later to head downtown for more bevvies was a good idea, but I am sure our logic was sound as a pound at the time.

I sat at the front of the bus, with Bernard. Quite possibly the most adorable elderly gent ever. The young players on the tour be damned… We were more excited to listen to more of the silly, dirty jokes these fellows had regaled us with on Saturday than to talk to the ones closer to our age, who were mostly just bundles of testosterone with skin. And of course the singing. I’ve heard that every time a Welshman sings an angel gets its wings. Or is that a bell ringing? I’m confused. At any rate, we were very well taken care of by adorable men old to enough to be our grandfathers. That is not to say that they were not horny buggers too… That part of the story is perhaps better left for another time.

And of course my favorite of the two naked Welshmen from Saturday was there. In fact, my favorite of the two naked Welshmen was very adorable, thus making it kind of sad that he is, in fact a Welshman who lives in Wales. Oh, and married. But I am sure you knew that… because of course Bea could never meet someone proper. And now they are all gone, and somewhat thankfully I might add. From what I understand they were close to being run out of town with pitchforks anyway, most likely by the fathers of all the daughters they had sucked into their vortex of debauchery. Niagara Falls has no idea what is in store for them…

So in case you are currently keeping tabs, my current pecking order is as follows:

1) Irish… wall-eyed or otherwise (oh, an update on the Irishman from the subway last week… turns out he’s married… told you I am incapable of meeting someone proper).
2) Welsh… for no other reason other than the fact that I am sleeping again.
3) Scottish… I miss my Scotsman.
4) English… yes, for all of my blustering, the English are my least preferred of the British islanders right now. Although when it comes down to it, I’m not fussy t’all.

In case you are wondering where I will be every Saturday morning from now until the end of time... Yep, Scallywags.