Don’t get me wrong, I love the Irish. Really, I love them. They’ve given great meaning to whiskey, body soap and religious conflict. But my people are Welsh. Corgi-lovin, folk-playin, taffy shepherds who can take a drink. And that ain’t no four-leaf clover.

Yeah, fine, I’ll partake in tomorrow’s Irish-American St. Patty’s traditions because it just so happens that green compliments my eyes, I enjoy soda bread and I never miss an opportunity to verbally accost coworkers about their color palette, get shit-housed during happy hour and conversation stalk every fratty assclown who thinks he can make Smith sound Irish. But on the inside I’ll be wearing my Welsh pride. Cause it’s like this:

• Catherine Zeta Jones: Spanish? Nope. Welsh. Look it up.
• You know how you can never tell whether Anthony Hopkins is supposed to sound English or Scottish? Yep. Trick of the Welsh.
• Why do so many women love Tom Jones? Well… Welsh.
• Laura Ashley: She invented floral because she’s Welsh.
• If you didn’t love Roald Dahl’s books you have no soul. Welsh.

I know you think you’d like to have the luck of the Irish tomorrow, but you’d be better off blessed with the iron sides of the Welsh.

Sincerely,

Sally B.