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Wales, land of my fathers. By Griff Rhys Jones

Regulars | By Griff Rhys Jones

We’ll keep a welcome in the hillsides: Welsh football fan at Wales v Slovakia, Bordeaux, 2016

Griff Rhys Jones, brought up in Essex, is still completely Welsh – though lots of Welshmen refuse to believe him

I don’t want to over-glamorise myself, but I need to explain that I was once nominated for that singular honour, a Welsh BAFTA. (And, before anybody starts, I am very much aware that it should really be a WAFTA. Not a Welsh British Film and Television Award. Ridiculous. And, certainly, never a TAFTA.) But the point is that I was called upon to brave the Cardiff Media Circus. I hate red carpets. I am the celeb they lower the cameras for. All five members of the Welsh fourth estate outside the handsome Millennium Centre completely ignored me, until – as is often the case – I had already got one foot in the foyer. At that point a hearty, traditional Welsh greeting rang out. ‘Oy!’ I turned. ‘Oy, Griff. We had better have a few words.’ It was the walk of shame. I had to retrace my red-carpet footsteps, to...

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