Coming from the valleys – as he does – and being surrounded by us English taking the piss out of him all the time (yakki dar), we all decided to be Welsh… just for one day.
To make him feel at home.
And so we went to a local golf driving range – golf being one of his passions.
But we went wearing tee-shirts and pants (over our trousers) emblazoned with the Welsh flag, and with the words “Welsh For One Day” across the back.
And we carried sheep with us.
Unsurprisingly, this drew interested stares from those around us, but after the fourth pint of wife beater, I wasn’t feeling self-conscious anymore.
And despite never having played golf, it turns out I was actually quite good. Actually, I was rubbish, but I did manage to hit it in the big holes several times. I’d have probably got an even higher score had I not been experimenting to see which bat worked best for me.
Back at HQ, silly games, beer, barbecues, beer, more silly games and more beer all ensued.
All washed down with beer.
As midnight got closer, I couldn’t handle any more alcohol, and switched to softer, warmer drinks as we continued to raucously play silly games and impossible quizzes. Because I’m a light-weight, nowadays, and I think ten hours of drinking is enough for any liver.
This morning, I have awoken to find that my head – and somewhat inexplicably, my legs – are really hurting.
If that’s what it’s like to be Welsh, then you can keep it.