Some years ago I fell into the arms of a dapper chap who went by the name of Paul Jones. He was a tummy-fizzing, knee-wobbling, brain-blowing gent of the highest order – sent down from the heavens by the Good Lord who understands my appreciation for all men scorchio, God bless…well himself. Sadly the whole affair came undone when he confessed he was desperate for a little suckle on my phalanges…only for me to dramatically reveal my hooves with their significant and somewhat unsightly toe-webbing. To say he was not impressed would be an understatement…to say he physically retched and bolted would be a smidge more accurate.

Anyway I’ve boo-hoo’d all the tears I am likely to shed for that ‘webbed-foot-o-phobe’ so that aside, the reason I mention him is that he was a lovely welsh boy and like most welsh boys he had the obligatory accent. Mmmm delicious.

Before Mr. Jones came into my world I was neither here nor there about this particular accent, in fact, if anything, I would have said it was fairly low down on my ‘Top Ten Take Down your Pants and Show me your Winkie’ inducing voices.

But ever since he dazzled me with his glorious face and tweakable nipples I’ve gone crazy for any old idiot with even the slightest welsh lilt. Doesn’t matter whether it emerges from a man with the face of a yawning toad, somewhere deep inside, my loins twitch.

Of course this is now a downright curse. I accept dates with all manner of numpties merely because they are in ownership of a regional intonation.

That’s not to say I continue to date idiots for any length of time just because of the voice, hell no, I have (some) standards, the minute they show me their pet newt or ask if I fancy spending next Saturday afternoon at an origami convention (true story) I twizzle on my heels and leg it. But it’s accepting dates with these fools in the first place that’s the real rub.

There’s only one thing for it, I need to turn myself off these boys for good. The next welsh chappy I date I’m going to continue to see for at least a month whether he be a smasher or a smash-up. If history repeats itself I can pretty much guarantee that my lack of initial judgment will ensure he is a total tool. So the hideousness of his nature should – fingers, toes and elbows crossed – turn me right off.

One way or another, my welsh obsession is coming to an end. Boyo.

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