Kiltman Goes To Cardiff

It’s Thursday now, and it’s taken me this long to get over the trauma of Cardiff. I returned from Cardiff this past Sunday evening. I was there to watch Scotland play Wales at rugby, where we lost badly, again. Now Cardiff is a great place, with fantastic beer called Brains. I love that stuff, I could drink it all the time.

Anyway, back to the trauma. After the game, the streets of Cardiff were packed with people in various states of drunkenness. Like most of my fellow Scotsman, I was wearing a kilt. There seems to be a particular breed of female that attends the rugby in Wales. Slightly larger ladies, short dyed hair, late forties/early fifties, not very attractive. These ladies seem to think that it is okay to demand that you show them what is under your kilt. Then, when you don’t, it is okay to shout abuse at you. And then when you ignore them further they think it is okay to grab at the bottom of your kilt, and attempt to pull it up so they can see underneath it. And when I object to this, it’s all my fault, and I’m in the wrong. Turn the tables now for a moment, if I did this to a woman walking down the street, I’d be getting arrested. It’s quite a scary experience to have all these old woman trying to grope you on the street

Dublin is up next for me. I’m still debating if I should wear the kilt or not