Full disclosure: I am a bit biased when it comes to Wales. My people are Welsh. The line in my family I most strongly resemble physically and in temperament are Welsh. I have a Welsh name, Welsh coloring, Welsh features…I’ve even been accused –graciously– of having a Welsh Character because of my all-consuming love of language, mysticism and brooding.
I can also get around Welsh pronunciation fairly well. For this reason I was put in charge of any and all communication IN Wales because asking a gay man from the American South to inquire what bus goes from Aberyswyth to Machynlleth and whether we have to transfer at Llanymawddwy or Dolgellau — although highly entertaining– is considered “cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment” and thus puts you in violation of the 1975 Geneva Convention. Oops.
Back to the boyos.
Wales, at least the parts we were in, is rural. I mean really rural, and for Kirk and I –two fun-loving career girls from the big city– it meant one thing: Hot Boys On Tractors.
I don’t know WHAT they were farming and I don’t care. By the time Kirk and I got on our ferry to Dublin, we both had concussions from the repeated thwonking our heads took on the bus windows every time we passed some inevitably pouty, well-muscled farm boy, his dirt-streaked skin glistening in the sun while his shirt clung to his rippl…well, you get the picture.
Sadly, we did NOT get pictures of the hot sweatsy menssesses (yes, our vacation was pretty much a seven day version of a Men on Film sketch. don’t act like you’re surprised) so you’ll have to settle for the famous ones.
There aren’t just a ton of really famous Welshmen but don’t think a little thing like that will stop me from bringing you some A+ hotness from the land of my people.
But first, we have to get one thing out of the way:
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