For years they’ve defended their lifestyle from ridicule. They’ve been ostracised for their “perverted desires” , whether that’s ramming Welsh down the throat or being involved in a passionate tryst with a digraph.
Now, with the internet breaking barriers down further, abusing the Welsh language for sexual pleasure has become more accepted than ever before thanks to the sterling efforts of brave campaigners.
It’s the hipster Guardian columnist using “boyo” ironically. It’s the right-on, metropolitan intelligentsia writing for The New Statesman – a champion of minorities with a blind spot to one. It’s the pioneers : the witty “ap” pseudonyms on Twitter and Wales Online, the ex-special forces commandos and the letter writers, oh the letter writers. Heroes every one.
Terry Nappies, from Aberavon, bravely came out on Twitter a few months ago. “My parents were shocked,” he explained.“‘What about your English O-Level?’ they asked. ‘Your command of the global lingua franca will lead to wealth beyond description, like the people of South Sudan and Liberia.'”
With that, he gave me an insight into the sado-cymrosexual underground. “At my age, you need to make sure everything’s working”, Terry said. “So I spit into my palm, and scroll through the filthiest Cymraeg I can find.
“It’s good to know I can go online and participate without being judged, so we can talk about….you know….freely. It’s the usual places – comments sections, social media, forums etc.”
“‘You know’?” I asked.
“VSO – verb-subject-object. A bit kinky, but fun if you’re open-minded.
“Next, there’s ‘The Roger’ – hurling verbal excrement at Welsh-speakers, like a monkey. The ‘Serbian Prostate Tickler’ – roll up a copy of the Daily Mail, insert it into the back passage, and march bow-legged down country lanes to the local Welsh school. Really wakes you up in the morning.
“For the more adventurous there’s the ‘Dic Jones’ – you don’t want to know.
“Once, I even stumbled across some hardcore Iolo Goch. I ranted about Cymraegification to justify it to the missus, but she’ll never realise why the mouse sticks. I spend hours going bareback. I don’t care about the dangers. It’s about instant pleasure.”
That danger is a disease that for the moment is confined to small groups, but it’s spreading – Internet Acquired Intestinal Disappearance Syndrome. I asked expert on stuff Prof. Yogi Plopp about it.
“Sado-cymrosexuals want to screw a 1,500 year old language,” he said. “To those with an affinity for Welsh, every time sado-cymrosexuals attack the language, it’s a bit like they’re describing doing things to a treasured great-grandmother that only Misfits would sing about.
“So, it’s not about the language – it’s the reaction. What we call ‘freedom to spout shit’, one of the most treasured rights on social media. It’s about other people caring too much that sado-cymrosexuals want to fist their language, pull out, and bud an Anglocentric rose.
“For someone with the illness, their shit needs to be spouted at a target. The worst thing possible is for nobody else to care, as it impairs the sado-cymrosexual’s freedom to spout shit. Their body’s natural response is to go looking for it the only place it can – their own rectum.
“It’s impossible to remove the head once in there.”
Terry rejects the notion. “It’s just scare stories,” he shrugs his shoulders. “They’ve told us to shove it up our arse for years, but nothing happens. They’re just trying to put us off.”
His eyes light up. An article from someone with a Welsh-sounding name has just appeared on Click on Wales. “S4C? Duw! Gonna be classic hand to gland combat tonight! Where’s my Ffleshlight?”
“These are the days of our lives,” Terry reflects on his freedom to be whatever he wants to be. “I am what I am – sado-cymrosexual and proud. I love Welsh so much, I’m willing to go down for crimes against it. Internet disease? Pah! It won’t happen to me…e….e….e….”
Less than three weeks later, after being banned from commenting on the site and while his wife was on holiday with the girls from the bingo, neighbours complained to Neath Port Talbot’s environmental health department about a strange smell emanating from Terry’s house.
After being denied a chance to rant against Welsh, Terry had crawled up his own arse and died, becoming the fifth victim in as many weeks.
Terry required a hurriedly-assembled cube-shaped custom coffin – with “This Side Up” and “Caution : Wild Animal” stamped on the side. It was brought in to the theme tune from his favourite show, ITV’s It’ll Be Alright on the Night.
The pallbearers dropped it, smashing it open. A public health crisis was declared after everyone within a three mile radius was hospitalised with laughter, putting strain on Morriston Hospital’s Comedy department. Even Terry’s elderly mother wet herself.
Although there’s compassion, the response to the spread of the disease hasn’t been entirely sympathetic. Pwllheli-based death metal band Ghost Maggot drew criticism for their controversial 30-second epic “Sphincter Suffocation” :
Everyone has an arsehole, everyone has an opinion.
There’s no Welsh spoken in your rectal tomb.
If we never should find you it’ll be too soon.
Climb! Into! Your a-nus! Live there! Die there!
Word reached me that one of Wales’ most beloved authors and plagiarists hadn’t been seen outside his home for weeks. We asked regulars from the local Carmarthenshire pub what they thought.“Yeah, he was alright,” said one. “Bit strange. He seemed obsessed with both the Taffia and bowel functions. I suppose he was hinting at his illness, but we thought it was because he confused James Joyce’s interpretation of Bakhtin’s grotesque body with Brazilian fart porn.”Another body was soon discovered on Anglesey, sending shock waves through the sado-cymrosexual community. A police officer was quoted as saying, “The smell of rotting flesh and KY hit us as soon as we broke down the door. He’d spent so much time internalising his hatred of Welsh that even the flies had Gog accents.
“The head was so far in there, whoever pulled it out would’ve become King of England.”
Since sado-cymrosexuality was recategorised from illness to sexual orientation, WEFO funding for the Wind Street Technique ended. We were given a lead by Prof. Plopp, and caught up with one of his former patients, who’s hit hard times.
Cledwyn denied himself the basics to feed his habit, cutting a skeletal figure. He sits in his Swansea bedsit surrounded by crusty tissues, abused copies of Barn and angry draft letters to The Western Mail.
“Can’t stop myself, mun!” he says, hands shaking. “You see a cheeky bit of circumflex, I see frilly knickers. People still wonder why there’s a load of old blokes tugging off furiously at a road sign whilst shouting at it. Sposed to be allowed to do it now, aren’t we?”
He had his own brush with the disease, describing the latter stages.“Each time I ranted about Welsh, I contorted like a Romanian gymnast with brittle bone disease, my head moving slowly towards my own arse. If even a single consonant mutated seductively in front of me, that would’ve been it. Whoom! Right up the jacksie!”
Fortunately, Cledwyn received help just in time. However, he tells us of his “butty”, who we agreed we wouldn’t name.
“He’d just finished Brut y Tywysogion – the poor sod. Afer he’d cleaned himself up, he went straight to the computer to make witty puns about aftershaves and to mock dead languages. They didn’t want to know, mun! Bloody cruel, that is! After a few days, he was on his hands and knees begging anyone who’d listen to ram an -io onto the end of his verb!
“His backside had more backed up traffic than the Brynglas Tunnels. In the end, he was so full of his own shite, only the council’s highways department could give him an enema. Too late, see.”
Tears glisten in his eyes, “Instead arguing about how other people communicate, I should be thinking about grandchildren, life insurance adverts and cruise ships.”
Cledwyn wipes his face with a tissue, “There are times I think I should just shove my head up my arse and be done with it!”
If you’ve been affected by any of the issues raised in today’s blog….