Tuesday, July 25, 2006


Spent a day at the Royal Welsh Show. Handing out leaflets, meeting children and parents, and generally soaking up the atmosphere.

I loved agricultural shows when I was young. Every year, we'd go to the East of England, and I'd eat a pork pie, look at cows and sheep and pigs and horses, and maybe pop into the BBC stand to pick up a piece of paper that was exciting just cos it said "BBC". Somewhere I've still got em.

Anyway, there I was, handing out leaflets and posters and stuff and feeling a bit rubbish for not speaking any Welsh (how I cringed when a five year-old said patiently "Diolch means thank you. There.").

Most of the people were deeply lovely, but it was amazing how the 0.001% of vile people can really leave you in a mood. The Dad who just pointed at me, snapped his fingers and then pointed at his two kids. The girl who asked me all sweetness for a poster, then threw it away over her shoulder, still smiling at me. The little boy with the milkshake... oh, but hang on, the twitching's started again.

Oh and then the grans. One came up to me, asking "Can I have a cool drink for the little kiddies?" I apologised, we didn't do drinks. "I see," she said, eyeing my cup of coffe, "You don't do drinks. No. That's right." And then sailed away, dripping dignified disdain.

I didn't really get to explore. Apparently the Sheeptacular was unmissable, but there just wasn't time to see performing pedigree pullovers.

I did get to see a jolly woman parading her horse and trap round the main ground, while giving off a commentary that sounded, as someone put it "just a shade too excited" - "Now, then Jasper's really breaking into it... oh good Jasper! Jasper! Oh a little faster! You too, Starlight! Really go for it! There we are! Yes!"

The real delight was, of course, Welsh farmers with their shirts off. Without a thought or a care in the world. Topless tractor totty just strolling around, or watching a display of dancing ducks, or whatever. Shyly oblivous to the world, yet beautiful and content. Like barely living Greek statuary. Only with cheap tattoos and a thousand acres.

I bought a pork pie. Sadly, not at the fair, but at Tesco Services.


Imogen said...

My Welsh is also unforgivably rubbish- I spent the forst 14 years of my life learning it at school, and I can't say anything more that 'bore da' and 'diolch'.
But it's also spectacularly useless, so I'm not too worried about it :)

Limehouse Dan said...

One must love those topless lovelies. I've just had their love at Canary Wharf. Except my ones don't have tractors, or acres... but besides that it's sort of the same.

Isn't it?