May contain nuts.
Appropriately it was a chicken Sunday lunch. Indeed, two chickens, between seven. A meal to introduce themselves as new neighbours, to break the ice. Civil, polite conversation, mainly about the wettest start to the year on record. Then eventually things went a bit cheesy with the cheese, a bit whiny with all the wine. Talk of Scottish independence inevitably led to questions of Welsh independence. Like giving the village idiot his song at the end of the village concert. It’s only fair, isn’t it. Polite.
‘I suppose you’re for a breakaway Wales?’
Chris, from Northampton, IT expert, making nationhood sound like a package holiday.
And all eyes on me, the only Welsh person present I quickly realized to my horror, though we all live on the same street, in the same capital.
‘Yes. Divan had a ‘Plaid’ poster in his window recently, local council election.’
Bill next door, from Wolverhampton.
I nod sagely, reminding myself to count to ten.
‘I can understand where Grahame’s coming from, with the oil in Scotland, and its history of scientists and entrepreneurship, but Wales?’
Alison, from Maidenhead, civil servant (Transport).
‘Even if you wanted it, could Wales afford it? There’s such a reliance on the public sector.’
Grahame, the Scot across the road, financial advisor, Alison’s husband.
‘And we’re all global citizens now, aren’t we?’
Jo, London, Chris’s partner, nurse.
‘What does that mean, exactly? Global citizen?’
Paula, Bristol, high up in marketing. Good question, Paula.
‘I suppose that governments, all governments’ hands are tied to a certain extent, with multi-national companies wielding so much power, so that people are more than ever at the mercy of the global economy, and feel disenfrachised’ Chris ventures.
‘I’ve never understood people’s obsession with places. We’re all in the same boat, aren’t we?’ says Bill, cutting a large piece of brie for himself.
‘A ship called Capitalism, heading for the rocks.’
Dyfan, Carmarthen, translator.
‘We’ll all need a boat too, in this weather’ says Jo, trying to lighten the suddenly tense atmosphere.
‘Isn’t water the new oil? I venture, ‘You know, the most important commodity for the twenty-first century?’
‘You’ve certainly got plenty of that in Wales’ says Chris.
Why ‘you’, why not ‘we’? I wonder to myself.
‘That would be a good investigation for Newsnight’ says Jo, ‘seeing how a small country like Wales could benefit from its natural resources.’
‘But is Wales responsible for its own water? Or is it London?’ asks Grahame.
‘That’s why we need a Newsnight Wales’ I say, ‘To look at these questions, and others, with rigour, in detail. And by the way, Alison, we’ve a strong history of scientists and thinkers in Wales too.’
Chris eventually breaks the awkward silence.
‘So you’re a fan of Jeremy Paxman, then Divan, old Paxo?’
‘He used to be good, but he’s past his sell by date, I think’ I answer, ‘And he’d be useless for the Welsh opt out programme anyway as he’s got no interest in Wales. We saw that when Eurfyl ap Gwilym, the Plaid Economics spokesman, ran rings round him.’
‘Eurfyl ap Gwilym? I’ve never heard of him.’
Bill, scoffing this time.
‘That’s the point. But with a Newsnight Wales opt out you will hear of him and dozens of others, robustly discussing Welsh affairs in a vibrant context. So that we could eventually do the same, with the relevant facts and figures at our fingertips. Instead of existing in this media void.’
‘I agree with you about Paxo being past his best’ says Paula.
Encouraged I take a hearty swig of my Rioja and say ‘Actually I think he’s called Paxo because he’s a perfect example of the kind of stuffing that keeps the British Establishment together.’
I have a feeling of deja vu now, a harbinger of embarrassed silences.
Idiotically I change the tone and say a joke.
‘Why did the Welsh chicken cross the road?’
The other six look at me, politely, willing the punch line.
‘We’ll never know, because we never asked it. In Wales we don’t like asking awkward questions.’
Bill’s the first. Roaring a bass laugh, quickly followed by Paula’s shriek and Graham’s guffaw. Then our hosts, Jo and Chris, smiling broadly, their shoulders bouncing up and down. Alison too, mouth wide open, laughing noiselessly, like Captain Pugwash.
‘Very funny, Divan!’ says Bill, holding his wide girth.
I want to say that a divan is something you sit on and that my name (for the umpteenth time, Bill) is Dyfan. An ‘uh’ sound, like some dumb idiot’s version of ‘What’?
But I count to ten instead. And join in the laughter.
Note: The above meal took place in January 2014. Since then Jeremy Paxman has left ‘Newsnight’. Dyfan James has recently left Wales (and now lives in Scotland).