A few days ago I applied for a job. Well, I applied for a few actually, but this particular application stalled at the often-tricky person specification stage. One of the desirable but not essential qualities this company wanted of their “administrative assistant� was “an ability to play the harp�.

This was a new one on me. And then I realised, it’s a trap. The latest cunning scheme by which people like me are prevented from finding the kind of happiness that only permanent but soul-destroying employment in the M4 corridor can bring.

I’ve worked it out. I’ve realised the true meaning behind my significant stretches of unemployment and I was almost right all along. It has got nothing to do with my inability to leave anywhere with a reference that struggles to go much beyond “turned up most days�. Nor, bois bach, has it got shit to do with an interview demeanour which veers from “No You Impress Me Motherfuckers� to “I Will Blow You If You Just Hire Me on a Trial Basis� depending on whether or not I have enough money for the bus back home in my pocket.

No, it has nothing to do with those particular factors, vital as they are. What it has to do with, and this is something I will be writing to my AM (or whatever they’re called) about as soon as my internet is re-connected, is not being as Welsh as I seem to be on the page.

They see the CV. They go “oooh, JENKINS.� They’re thinking, yeah he’s one of us. He watches the rugby. He likes a pint of SA. He loves his mam. He’s one of us. Not one of them. They see I went to school in Tregaron and go “Fuck he’s Welsher than me. Those bastards are hardcore. I’m amazed he can speak English. Shit, they got some big style Free Wales Army Welshness up there. Chwarae teg, we’ve found our man, mun.“

And then I walk in, bit overweight and that and then I talk. And I’ve blown it. They think I’ve lied to them. For, despite living in Wales for twenty six years*, I still speak with (sssh now) a slightly English bent. I’m like the reasonably convincing transvestite a friend** once pulled in a Rotterdam disco after seventeen Jaegermeisters. She had the clothes, the hair and she let my friend lead in the Paso doble, but she beat him in an arm-wrestle and her cover was blown. No shag for my friend, no job for me.

I put the word bent in there to cheer up people upset by the nationality that preceded it. See, I want you to like me. Give me a job you fuckers.

Anyway, I’ve realised now the error of my ways and from now on I’m going to start acting a lot more bloody Welsh. Here is a list of changes I’m going to make.

1: Start wearing red. Like Gareth Thomas’s cock, it’s not something that everyone can pull off or even try. Still, I’ve seen Cardiff on international day and it’s like being the cue ball at the start of a snooker frame. Anyway, I’m going to try to fit in a bit more around here and if that means wearing something that doesn’t go well with my wan complexion, so be it.

2: Sit around slagging off English stuff. Ok, you don’t do it all the time. But I don’t suppose it’ll hurt if, the next time I get a job interview, I turn up five minutes late and mutter something about “the bloody English train driver or that Cockney paving stone I tripped over.�

3: Make more of my obvious Welsh heritage. My granddad was Welsh. He loved nothing more than sitting me on his knee and coughing up black diamonds into a waste paper basket whilst trying to teach me the words to that beautiful Welsh hymn “There was a young lady from Rhyl�. Every time I hear someone speaking Welsh, I think of him, look up to the heavens and smile ruefully. If only I could smile rhiwffli.

4: Learn the words to that song. The one about buying the lilo.

I got a whole load of other stuff lined up too. I’m working on my Welsh accent too. Although I can only do it very quietly. That way, I can drop in a killer gag about being from Mumbles if I suspect the interview panel likes me and just can’t hear me very well.

Anyway, wish me luck. I’ve got a job interview this afternoon. I’ve been listening to a homemade tape in my sleep of little colloquialisms I can drop in to my chatter to make me seem the real McCoy. Or the real Jones. Tidy darts. Fair play. Cowing lush. Etc.

As long as they don’t ask me if I can play the harp.

* Which is two years longer than Charlotte Church has. And she’s rich.
** Honestly, wasn’t me. I’d have shagged them.