The Schalter

Written by: Louise Morgan

If you believe the pundits, Wales’ victory in the RBS Six Nations was something an entire nation had been praying for. Not true. What was almost undoubtedly going through most Welsh minds was: “Well, there’s still plenty of time to cock it up, isn’t there?” - right up to the moment that final whistle blew. And when it did blow, and bloody hell, we’d actually won something, Cardiff’s Millennium Stadium erupted not only with joy - but with what can only be described as gentle surprise. So now we’ve won, we’ll swagger round a bit, making the most of it because we’re all too aware of the fact that yes, next year will bring another opportunity… to cock it up. As someone I know puts it: “You should never underestimate a Welshman’s ability to see that the glass is half-empty when everyone else is telling him otherwise.” You could say it’s an ‘every silver lining has a cloud’ mentality.

Cut back several weeks, to the beginning of the tournament, and you would have found me with my husband, watching Wales beat England. It happens less often than, statistically, it ought to, and it’s drummed into every single child growing up in Wales that it doesn’t matter who you beat or lose to - as long as you beat the English. And when you do lose, it’s expected that you shake your head and mutter, “Well, it’s inevitable, really, isn’t it?” There’s more truth in that than you’d think: my poor little homeland with its population of 3,000,000 souls is trying to compete on an equal footing with its neighbour: England, a nation more than 10 times its size - and not just in the sports’ stadia, either. No wonder we’re a little insecure. That first match of the Six Nations - the one that saw a Welsh side beating England at Twickenham for the first time in 20 years - will probably be remembered much more fondly than the Grand Slam win. We beat them on their home soil.

Why’s it so important to the Welsh to beat the English at home, anyway? Speak to the right people and you’ll be treated to a (lengthy) lecture about the centuries of English oppression, the raping of the language and culture, the theft of the land…. and so on. It’s a mindset that normally comes with a Nationalist rubbing their hands together, cackling, and talking about the revolution to come. Which, strictly speaking, isn’t exactly looking likely. It’s not as much about one-upping the oppressors, though (nothing so Citizen Smith) as it is trying to salve hundreds of years of being the little brother. We may, as the Wales Tourist Board will gladly tell you, have 750 miles of coastline and 641 castles - but since the Laws in Wales Acts of the 16th Century, we’ve been considered a part of England - which is why you’ll not find a sign of us in the Union Flag. The Nationalists can grind their teeth as much as they like, that’s a fact that you can’t overlook. No wonder we’ve got a complex.

Not, you understand, that we’re able to put on a particularly united front. One thing divides the Welsh as a nation like very few others: language. Current estimates have around a quarter of the population speaking Welsh. A quarter. Imagine if only a quarter of the French spoke French… it wouldn’t be quite the same, would it? And although you only need to be born in a country to consider yourself of its nationality (and, if you’re looking to play for their football teams, sometimes not even that’s essential), there is still an underlying belief that if you’re not a native speaker, you’re not truly Welsh.

Rob Brydon likes to live dangerously when it comes to Welsh. Born in South Wales, he now lives in London, and recently went back home with some stand-up routines about what it is to be Welsh. His experience, shown on the BBC a few weeks ago, involved performing in front of a variety of local audiences - the final one also including one of his oldest friends (a man who quite sincerely admitted that in a football match between England and the Third Reich, he’d probably support the latter. That is, to paraphrase, proper Welsh). What really got his goat, though (sheep jokes aside) was when Brydon turned his attention to the language. As he paced the stage, mock-translating his English act into Welsh, the camera cut to the audience to show his friend looking both uncomfortable and indignant. You can make jokes about Wales having the highest teen pregnancy rate in Europe (we’re “more hands on”, apparently) but the language is sacrosanct. Touch on the language and you’re in for… well, a bit of a sulk.

It’s rubbish, of course, but it’s all part of the insecurity. The language is part of the culture (cue the Nationalists again: rape, culture, language, oppression….) and certainly Wales can do culture. It’s produced artists, writers, politicians, musicians, sculptors, actors, sportsmen….. but isn’t very good at just getting on with it. No. We have to package it, because we have to sell it, sell ourselves. Remember the ghastly late nineties cultural milestone that was ‘Cool Britannia’? Well, Wales had its very own version - the appallingly named ‘Taffia’. Spearheaded by the likes of Catatonia, the Manic Street Preachers and the Super Furry Animals, it was a label determined to prove that Wales could keep up with the metaphorical Joneses. We had our own Trainspotting, too: Twin Town - set in Swansea. And while thankfully the Taffia tag has gone, we now seem to have gone the other way: with so much to chose from in our culture, what makes us happy now is that Doctor Who is filmed in Cardiff, and Gavin and Charlotte are our very own Posh ‘n’ Becks.

Poor Wales. If Wales were a celebrity, it would probably be Amy Winehouse: there’s no disputing the talent, but in need of a bit of a wash and a good talking to before it’s too late and the reputation we once had is all we’ve got left. We need to lose the complex and try to join in with everyone else. There’s a surprising number of Welsh exiles living in London (bizarrely, the area around Holborn and Grays Inn Road seems to be a bit of a hotspot) but when was the last time you saw a Welsh bar, or heard of a St David’s Day parade down on the South Bank? And do we complain about this? No. Instead, we lurk in the background, muttering about how it’s to be expected, really, centuries of oppression, always overlooked we are - and quite possibly having a little bicker amongst ourselves.

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This post is tagged Rugby, The Welsh