Though it may appear tedious to encounter Welsh in the story, it is accurate for the location, and I felt it necessary for characterization. I did surface-level research on the language, so apologies if some of it is off-blame the internet and my poor Welsh abilities. The list of terms not to be skipped can be found at the end of the chapter. And there are some gems, though rating for Welsh cursing. Many thanks to those who return for more despite my long pauses between updates. Your reviews are fuel for writing. Feel free to PM me or leave a review with requests for future scenes or critiques. Cheers!
"Coc y gath!" Helen winced at the punishment Gruffydd gave his empty tumbler, slamming it against the bar as if it were steel and not glass. If it broke, that would be a medical emergency to take care of on top of this 'house call.' "Oi, twmffat!" Gruffydd heaved his bodyweight off his barstool and leaned into the old wooden bar, marked from previous patrons and age. "My whiskey!" He hoisted the tumbler up and thrust it into the air before him. "This glass here is fel rhech mewn pot jam without the feckin whiskey! Mewn cachiad, more, now, Afan!"
Helen watched the, thankfully wily, bartender Afan duck under Gruffydd's clumsy attempt at grabbing both his shoulder and the whiskey bottle Afan cradled against his chest. Afan sidestepped a second attempt with Gruffydd nearly toppling over the bar top, only avoiding the fall on the other side when Cecil and Derwyn leaned in to intervene, grabbing his hips and pulling him back. Her eyes traveled over the rest of the pub, and her amusement grew as she took in the details. The local band played on, completely uncaring of the brewing chaos at the bar, and the rest of the patrons either were unaware or uncaring of it. Typical Thursday evening, it seemed.
She heard her practice associate, Cecil, swear once Gruffydd was back on his stool and not half draped over the bar, "Iesu Mawr! Gruffydd, cer i grafu already, will you? You've had too many as it is."
"Drewgi, there's no such thing, Cecil." Gruffydd shook his head at Cecil then turned his steely-eyed gaze back to poor Afan, "Now pour me the damn whiskey, Afan!"
Helen hid her amusement behind a cough as she watched the men resume their verbal, and a wee bit physical, tussle.
"It was supposed to be a simple bachelor party, Helen." The barmaid who'd called her, requesting she come to intervene, heaved a heavy sigh, her voluminous bosoms momentarily distracting even Helen. Not that Lowri was a hussy, far from it. The lass was in church or the pub, and nowhere in between. It was just that the good Lord had gifted her with ample cleavage, probably taking from what should've been Helen's. Helen forced her eyes back to the woman's face and nodded when Lowri added, "But, cachu hwch, iesu mawr."
Helen mirrored the woman's sigh, "Well, that's liable to happen when Gruffydd has too many in him."
When dry and sober, their lead constable was a calm and polite man of strong character. However, when he touched a drop of spirits, he turned into a wee jabby cunt of a bastard. Lowri had told her that Derwyn and Cecil arranged for a simple evening at the pub to celebrate the upcoming nuptials. Only, Helen could now see that it'd all gone to piss, and instead of the even-keel Gruffydd she greeted every morning on her way to the office, she was watching a shipwreck of nearly unbridled angst.
She'd congratulated her mild-mannered assistant Beca on the engagement only the day before and would've been at Beca's home this very evening if Lowri's call hadn't interrupted Helen in her efforts to leave the office in time to make it to Beca's small gathering of ladies. Helen was slated to prance down the aisle come June as one of Beca's ladies—she couldn't exactly be considered a bride's maid—and had been requested to give some doctorly advice at the gathering. Only Gruffydd had broken his promise to Beca by imbibing, and now they all had to pay.
The ruckus among the men grew louder and less jovial. Probably time for her to step in. Patting Lowri's arm, Helen smiled, "Paid a chodi pais wedi pisio, Lowri." The Welsh tongue still took a bit of effort, but she thanked her years of treating patients here for her ability to understand and speak the language like a local. Albeit a rather daft local.
"Aye." Lowri shrugged before returning to her place by the pub's door to welcome patrons and take their coats.
Gruffydd was now standing, waving Derwyn's cane about as if it were a brandished rapier. "Yer all dim gwerth rhech dafad!"
"Nay," Cecil leapt back when a violent swing from Gruffydd nearly got him in the gut, "you're just fel ci a dau goc Beca is too damn blind to see how ugly ye are!" He spied Helen creeping up behind, and his smile of mischief grew as he stilled and faced Gruffydd, drawing the enraged man's full attention. "Otherwise, she'd be marrying yer goat and not you!"
"Diawl bach! Cau dy wyneb a ffwcio dy ewyrth!"
Gruffydd raised the cane over his head and would've let out a bellow as he launched himself into a murderous attack if not for Helen's well-timed chloroform covered cloth covering his mouth and anchoring his body against her chest. Cecil and Derwyn quickly closed in and secured Gruffydd's arms when he struggled against her. The ploy worked, and within moments of application, Gruffydd's relaxed body slumped in her arms, the brunt of his weight born by the men flanking her.
"Alcopwp!" Gruffydd lolled his head to the side and peered up at Helen. "Ye shinach, meddyg O'Reilly." Cecil and Derwyn hoisted Gruffydd back to his feet and dragged him over to sit at a table, the drug still at work in keeping him relaxed. "Didn't know I had cause for a quarrel with you."
Helen looked to Cecil, "Get him a tankard of warm water." Gruffydd belched, some spittle dribbling onto his beard. Helen sighed and called after Cecil's retreat, "And a damp cloth too, will ya?"
"Cer i grafu, rwyt ti'n esgys fach pathetic am dyn," Derwyn mumbled towards Gruffydd as he hobbled over to where his cane had dropped. Still quite spry for only the one leg, the older veteran claimed the cane doubled as a thrasher when his grandchildren were unruly. Having to treat the brood of hellions, Helen often wanted one of her own when they came to her office. "Damn feckin whiskey." Derwyn joined them at the table, glaring at Gruffydd. "Why do you have to be such a mad drunk, shinach?"
They were spared Gruffydd's slurred attempts at justification by Cecil's return. Helen couldn't see any physical damage from the previous tussles on any of the men. It was just a matter of sobering Gruffydd up. Instructing Cecil to force the water down his pipe if need be, Helen shoved the cloth into Gruffydd's hand and forcibly thrust his own hand against his mouth.
"Clean yourself up, man. You don't want Beca to see you like this."
His eyes grew wide, and he dropped the cloth, taking hold of the tankard with both hands and working at gulping the whole thing down, with of course most of it missing his mouth and dripping down his front. Helen sighed and shook her head.
"I'll get more water. And maybe a coffee. It's going to be a long night. Anything for you two?" She stood, straightening her plaid blazer, and waited for the men to reply.
"With this oaf here," Cecil mimicked Derwyn's glare at the drunk, "I'll have an orangeade."
Derwyn shook his head, "I'll still have me beer. This twnffat won't rob me of my nightly pint."
Helen laughed. Afan still looked disgruntled when she lifted herself onto the barstool Gruffydd had once occupied.
"One orangeade, a pint, and a-" She glanced over her shoulder and watched as Cecil slapped Gruffydd in the shoulder when the man talked shite again. Helen would've preferred something stronger as well, but considering the situation, she refrained. "I'll have a Vermont cooler if you have the makings for it." After attending an international convention across the Atlantic in New York City, she'd developed a liking for the American drink.
"You're in luck. I do." Afan set about making the drinks, keeping half an eye on Gruffydd. "He really is an arse when he drinks, isn't he?"
Helen nodded, "Liquor does strange things to us, Afan. Energizes, depresses, releases, or inhibits. Yet always helping us forget." She shrugged. "Coc y gath, but I could use a stronger drink than that cooler, but I don't want to tempt poor Gruffydd. Not when he's playing nice with us."
"Quick thinking with that chloroform, meddyg." Afan handed over the pint. "I didn't know if we were going to have to order in more chairs for replacements like last time."
Helen nodded and let her eyes wander the length of the bar as she waited for Afan to finish making the drinks. The pub was filling up as the evening grew long, more and more workers stealing away from home for a few drinks to help kill the pain their work set in their bones so they could sleep. Helen enjoyed her work here, but she wished there was a way she could improve the daily quality of life for the folk in these parts. Day and night laborers, always coming in with work-related injuries and illnesses. It was endless, and while it maintained her livelihood, she still wanted to do more than just treat the diseases. Eradicate is what she desired but had yet to do. Helen sighed. Despite the despondent feeling of "will it never end" she got on the darker nights, Helen preferred this work to being near the front lines back in France.
As if her straying thoughts alone had the power to conjure up a ghost, Helen stiffened and nearly fell off her barstool when she caught sight of him standing just inside the entryway. She hadn't seen him since two years past at the veteran's ball. He'd been with his fiancé then, and that had been a not so lovely delight. Helen shivered. Theseus looked as handsome as ever, taller if that was possible, and just as polished and put together as he had the last they'd seen each other. Helen continued to study him, surprise settling in when Leta didn't appear at his side seconds after she caught sight of him.
"You all right there, meddyg?"
Helen jerked her eyes away from the tall man of her past and looked back to Afan. He pushed the orangeade towards her. Helen forced a smile and nodded.
"Yes, quite fine. Just thought I saw someone I once knew. Must be fatigue." She took hold of the two drinks and stood. "I'll come back for the cooler."
It was as she turned to head back to the table, making eye contact with Derwyn and holding up his desired pint, that she felt a shiver of awareness shift through her body. Turning her head, Helen caught sight of Theseus again, this time much closer, and this time he was looking right at her, recognition registering on his face. A smile tugged at her lips despite herself, and she saw a mirrored movement filter across his lips as well. But then his expression abruptly changed. Instead of looking surprised and pleased as expected, he looked horrified. He started towards her, his hands stretching out as if to stop something. Helen looked away from him just in time to get smacked in the head with something hard and brown.
Helen collapsed in shock, the pint and orangeade coating her body and floor around her, shattered glass haloing out. Head pounding, she raised herself and balanced on her palms, blinking the world back to rights. She heard angry voices around her, recognizing first Cecil, then Derwyn, and Afan. And Theseus. They seemed to all be speaking at once. Her head stopped spinning just in time to look up and see Gruffydd grab hold of Theseus' jacket. Her confusion mounting, Helen looked over and Cecil and Derwyn holding between them a svelte redheaded man, looking just as bewildered as Helen.
"Are you alright, Helen?" Lowri was suddenly at her side, knocking away shards of glass and dabbing liquid from Helen's face.
Helen quickly assessed herself. Aside from the pounding head and sore arse, she didn't seem any worse for wear, "What happened?"
"This feckin shinach hit you in the head with his bloody suitcase!" Derwyn shook the redhead.
Helen noticed the discarded weapon then, lying open and empty on the floor between her and the apprehended stranger.
"He meant no harm." Theseus pushed Gruffydd's hands away and stood to his full height, glaring down at the drunk Welshman. "It was a simple mistake."
"Oh, sugno fy nhi'n i cachwr, Englishman. Hitting our meddyg in the feckin head with a feckin suitcase is not a simple mistake!" Gruffydd made to grab at Theseus again. Theseus merely sidestepped and Gruffydd slammed into the table behind him, rolling to the side and crumpling to the floor. He still wasn't sober enough, nor drunk enough, to be of much use.
"It's fine," Afan called over to the band who had, surprisingly, paused in their set to observe the events. "Just a few drinks too much. Keep on playing."
While Afan convinced the band to resume, Theseus shifted closer and for a moment it looked like he was about to offer her a hand, but Lowri hoisted Helen up before he could. He quickly pulled his hand back and fisted it at his side.
"I don't know what the hell this is about," turning back to their disheveled group, Afan picked up the suitcase and shoved it into Cecil's waiting arms, "but if Helen wants it, I'll have the heddlu on your arses."
Events were finally catching up to Helen enough for her to do more than react to stimuli, and she registered precisely what had happened and was happening:
1. Theseus Scamander was here, in this pub, standing and staring at her with a mixture of confusion and regret.
2. His associate had hit her in the head with an open suitcase. For what purpose: yet to be determined.
3. Theseus was playing off the head-hitting with luggage as if it were a trivial thing.
Helen looked towards the ceiling, half expecting Gertrude to come swooping down with another of Theseus' weird letters. Satisfied there was no circling owl, Helen nodded to Lowri and stood on her own two feet unassisted. Turning her attention to the bartender, she attempted a reassuring smile.
"Afan," Helen's head was pounding worse now.
"Helen," Lowri pointed, interrupting her. "Your nose is bleeding."
That explained the warm leaky feeling and throbbing coming from her face. Theseus was quick to offer her a handkerchief. Helen eyed it, half expecting it to explode in her hands, but took it anyway. Best to stave off the blood flow quickly than be choosy.
"Afan, could you put some ice in a cloth for my head," she resumed speaking as if standing in a pub with a bloody nose, covered in beer and orangeade, with a possible concussion from a valise to the head was an average Thursday evening for her. "And could we," she indicated the redhead and Theseus, "perhaps have use of your backroom for a wee bit?"
"You mean to be alone with them?" Lowri pressed a hand to her heart, and though, in pain, Helen nearly laughed when all men's eyes fleetingly strayed to the woman's voluptuous chest.
"I know this one," she pointed to Theseus, "He's Theseus Scamander. We served together in the War." The admission relaxed at least Derwyn and Afan. Cecil still didn't look convinced, and Gruffydd was only just getting back to his feet. Lowri quickly turned to engage him before he could reenter a fight that was no longer happening.
"He is my brother, Newt." Theseus shifted on his feet. "You have my word, no ill was intended. This has all been a terrible mistake." Helen denoted anger in Theseus' voice, but she saw that the anger was pointed towards Newt and no one else.
"Paid a mallu cachau, Englishman!" Gruffydd growled, barely restrained by Lowri, "Danfonwch y sbwriel i Loegr!"
"Indeed," Newt spoke for the first time, only barely above a whisper.
Afan frowned, "I don't rightly like the idea of you alone back there with these two."
"I will pay for the damages," Theseus reached into his jacket and withdrew a billfold.
"Feckin bribe." Gruffydd pushed against Lowri.
Helen looked to Cecil, "Give me that." She pointed to the suitcase and waited till he handed it over before she added, "And help Lowri get Gruffydd home, will you?" Cecil hesitated, but Helen repeated her reassurances, "I still have the chloroform in my case," she looked around with a frown before spying it by the chair she'd been seated in earlier, "go on. I'll be fine."
Cecil muttered a few colorful euphemisms to the Englishmen as he passed by, purposefully shoving, hard, against Theseus before grabbing hold of Gruffydd and half dragging the drunk away with Lowri in tow. Derwyn retrieved her medical case. She indicated he hand it to Theseus, which he did so with a few growled curses of his own. Afan opened the bar and led the way into the backroom. Mostly just storage, there was a table with four chairs situated around it. Helen dropped the suitcase onto the table before collapsing into the closest chair. She heard Theseus place her case near her left elbow on the table.
"I'll keep the door cracked a bit, Helen." Afan spoke near her shoulder, "just let me know when I need to call the constables for them."
Helen grunted her response, closing her eyes as she waited for the throbbing to subside. She heard Theseus and Newt sit, but didn't open her eyes again until Afan returned with her ice. She watched him back out of the room, staying true to his word and keeping the door ajar enough for him to peek in as he felt the need. Helen let silence control the space, figuring that she really shouldn't have to interrogate to get an explanation since she was the injured party. She watched as both men took turns twitching in their seats, looking like they were fiddling with something under the table, then barely heard them uttering words that didn't sound English. Had Theseus gone mad? And did he come from a family of insanity?
"What are you doing?" Helen reached out and grabbed hold of Theseus' forearm, jerking his hand up from under the table before he could resist. She frowned when she saw a scraggly-looking stick clutched in his hand. She turned her gaze from the stick to Theseus' face, watching as regret mixed with sadness in the lines of his face. "What the hell is this, Theseus?"
Newt stood to his feet and waved an equally odd-looking stick at her, chanting an odd stream of words, then stood staring at her in shock when whatever he expected to happen didn't. Newt looked from her to Theseus, then sat back down, shock still on his face.
"No wonder it didn't work," Newt mumbled.
Helen let go of Theseus' forearm, readjusted the ice pack against her head, then spoke, "If you were hoping for a possible concussion, that worked just fine, Mr. Scamander."
"Helen," Theseus drew her attention back when he sighed out her name, "oh, Helen. There's so much." He rubbed his hands over his face before looking back at her. "I don't know what to tell you or what not to tell you." He tucked his scraggly twig away inside his jacket. "Most likely, you think we're both crazed lunatics, and what I have to tell you, especially considering current circumstances, won't aid in justifying our claims to sanity."
Helen held up a hand to stop him before he launched into his tale, "Am I going to want a drink for this?"
"Undoubtedly."
Helen looked to Newt, "Could you be a dear and ask Afan for a bottle of scotch?"
Newt looked nearly frightened at the prospect of talking to Afan, but the dolt had hit her in the head with his bloody suitcase, served him right to face down the walking door that was Afan. She waited until Newt left to do her bidding before she looked back to Theseus.
"Where's Leta?"
Pain erupted across his face, and she knew without his saying that Leta was dead. Helen reached out and laid a hand over his, "I'm so sorry, Theseus." He hesitated before placing a hand over top hers. "Is that connected to whatever it is you're about to tell me?"
Theseus nodded, "Yes."
Newt returned, looking a little more rattled than when he'd left, carrying the scotch and three tumblers. Helen poured enough scotch for two, ignoring Newt for the time being, and pushed one tumbler towards Theseus. It seemed he'd need it as much as she.
"Before you begin," Helen sipped at the scotch, "were you here looking for me tonight? Or was this just a happy coincidence?"
"We didn't know what the creature would look like." Newt spoke up, his voice clinical, and it struck Helen as strange that he'd refer to her as a 'creature.'
"Newt." Theseus silenced his brother. Newt pulled the suitcase into his lap and hugged it to his chest, looking dejected.
Helen continued to sip at the scotch, waiting for Theseus to unload whatever burden lay on his shoulder. When he finally turned tired eyes towards her and began his tale, Helen found herself unprepared for the immensity of his account. As he explained, or rather tried to explain, a reality that she'd only read about in books, Helen felt little bits of their shared past return, but viewed from a new light. All the way back to his mysterious survival and injuries in the War, to when they'd fallen into one another at the pub in London, and his strange behavior at the veteran's ball. And Gertrude and the invisible ink. His whispered words and looks of confusion, much like Newt's this very evening. It all made sense if any of this could make sense of what he was saying was true. But then there was the question of just where in the hell did she fit in with all this? She knew there was no way she was anything but a…Muggle.
"How are you doing so far with all this?" Theseus paused in his explanation to observe Helen, staring at her as if waiting for her to implode.
Helen shrugged, "My head hurts from that damned suitcase, not what you're saying, Theseus. I'm Irish, we like the wee people and a bit of magic." She lifted her second glass of scotch. "And you were right, this helps." After sipping, she glared at the leather suitcase still gripped in Newt's lap. "So what were you trying to do with that thing, if not hit me with it?"
Newt perked up, and before either Theseus or Helen could stop him, he launched into a long-winded and somewhat erratic explanation of fantastical creatures and how he used his suitcase to capture them and…well he said a lot more after that, but Helen stopped listening after a while and returned her attention to Theseus. A wizard. Theseus Scamander was a wizard. Not only that, but he was now in league with a group of wizards who were trying to save both the magical world and the Muggle world from a megalomaniac. It seemed absolute power corrupting absolutely had its trends, regardless if magic was involved.
Finally finishing his explanation, Theseus spoke before Newt found his second wind, "Dumbledore sent us here to track down the negator before Grindelwald could. We didn't know what to expect, considering there hasn't been a known negator in centuries." He shook his head and looked defeated. "I didn't know you would be the negator. But it makes sense now," it looked like he blushed, "Years ago I tried to use a spell on you to help you forget seeing Gertrude when she delivered the letters in France, but it didn't work."
"That's what that was," Helen shook her head, amused, "and here I thought all this time you'd been so blown away by my kiss you'd forgotten how to speak properly. And instead, you'd been trying to magic drug me into forgetting. Shame, shame, Theseus." His blush deepened momentarily before he visibly shook himself and sat up straighter. "We need you to come with us, Helen."
She laughed, "I've been fairly reasonable up till now, listening to your explanations of magical creatures and enchanted suitcases," she spared a look at Newt and felt satisfaction when the man looked sheepish, "and all the history lesson of magic versus muggle and the world's colliding in a coming war. But if you expect me to drop my entire life here and go off on a wild goose chase with you, after all that just happened out there?" She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "You're dafter than I thought."
"We can obliviate them," Newt chimed in.
"You may NOT erase them from existence."
"No," Theseus smiled, "it is a forgetting charm. It doesn't do any harm. Like what I tried to do to you in France. I never would've hurt you," he added, "I still won't do anything to harm you. We use the obliviate charm when Muggles witness magical events better not seen. In this case, we could help them forget we were ever here."
Helen frowned, "That still doesn't explain my sudden disappearance." Leaning forward, she pushed aside the wet cloth that had once held ice and her empty tumbler beside it. "Also, if you say I'm a negator, that means you can't cast spells when I'm around. Nor use your special suitcase."
Theseus looked across to Newt before answering, "Give us their addresses or places of work, and we will visit those who aren't here now to cast the charm. And if you leave before us, we can cast it once you are gone." He shook his head when she made to interject. "Plan for a vacation or a convention you have to attend. Something urgent and that will keep you away for some time. How long would you need to make arrangements at your practice for a possibly long absence?"
"How long are we talking, Theseus?" Helen didn't like how easily this duplicity was coming to Theseus.
"There's no telling, Helen. We barely know where Grindelwald is before he moves to a new location, wreaking more havoc. At least with you secured, we know he has one less potential weapon to use against us."
"But," Helen eyed the scotch bottle, half tempted to have a third glass, "if I negate all magic, be they magical creations or spells, wouldn't that put you all in a vulnerable position having me with you?" Theseus shifted in his seat as if uncomfortable. It all came together then, and Helen glared. "But you aren't intending upon keeping me with you, are you?"
"We need to secure you in a safe place so Grindelwald can't find you." Newt offered in as kind a voice as possible, most likely trying to avoid her ire.
"By secure," Helen narrowed her gaze at Theseus, "just what are we talking about, Theseus?"
Theseus downed the last of his scotch, "There is a safe house in Scotland we can take you to where you'll-"
"Be sitting on my arse, isolated from everything and everyone, not knowing a bloody thing." Helen shook her head. "I'm not keen on the idea of aiding you two in my kidnapping. Unless I can be given some sort of task or mission to accomplish on this grand adventure, I have no intention of willingly walking into prison."
"Helen, that's not-"
"Being locked up without visitation in a strange area without a sign of when I can leave? How is that NOT prison, Theseus?" Helen stood up. "Unless you can guarantee me a task in this great war you speak of, I'll not budge, and you must resort to physical means to get me to go with you."
She glared at both Theseus then Newt, daring them to act. When neither man budged nor attempted to cave to her demands, Helen snorted and picked up her case. Just her bloody luck Theseus would come back into her life a bloody wizard and expect she bloody dance off into the unknown as if her mere Muggle life was somehow inferior to his magical one.
"Good luck in your wizard hunt, boys. And I mean that truly." She turned to leave but stopped to catch Theseus' eyes. "If I never see you again, Theseus," they shared a memory of the last time she'd said goodbye, "I wish you well."
Helen nearly made it to the door before her earlier ploy was played against her. The cloth was over her mouth before she could get out a wheezed cry, and Theseus' arms pinned her against his chest so she couldn't wring herself away. Newt grabbed her case before it dropped to the floor. Helen turned her head to dislodge Theseus' grip, but it was no use. She felt the drug take effect with each gasped breath she heaved. Her limbs were growing numb and relaxed.
"Take her out the back," Next whispered to Theseus, "there's a car there you can use. I'll take care of others and will meet you at the safe house."
Helen could no longer stand, her legs too wobbly to bear her weight. But it mattered not. Theseus scooped her into his arms and moved silently through the backroom towards the exit. She watched over his shoulder as Newt drew out his wand and moved back into the pub.
"I'm sorry, Helen." Theseus was speaking to her, but he sounded so far away now. "I really didn't want to have to do this, but we have no choice."
He put her on her feet long enough to open the car door, but caught her when she slid down the side of the vehicle. She was completely useless as a human being aside from merely existing.
"Shinach," Helen mumbled through her numb lips as Theseus situated her in the car's backseat.
"What?" His face hovered over hers, concern and regret equal in his eyes. "What did you say, Helen?"
Helen blinked, trying to keep it together long enough to make her sentiments clear, "I called you," she licked her lips—they were so dry—and concentrated on one of his faces weaving over her, "a sly bastard." Helen reached up with the last of her strength and grabbed hold of his coat collar to pull him close. "Damn you, Theseus…Sca…mand…er…"
Then there was nothing.
I couldn't help but use them because my relatives across the pond know how to creatively and colorfully swear!
· Fel rhech mewn pot jam: Like a fart in a jam jar = useless
· Coc y gath: The cat's willy = expression of dismay
· Cachu hwch: pig's poo = it's all gone wrong
· Cer i grafu: go and scratch = go away (fuck off)
· Drewgi: smelly dog = insult to folks ye donna like
· Dim gwerth rhech dafad: not worth a sheep's fart = worthless
· Alcopwp: alco-poo = noise to make after getting smashed
· Mewn cachiad: in a poo = quickly
· Paid a chodi pais wedi pisio: don't lift your petticoat after you've peed = don't cry over spilt milk
· Fel ci a dau goc: like a dog with two willies = being beside yourself with excitement
· Iesu Mawr!: Great Jesus = explitive of surprise
· Twmffat: idiot = idiot
· Diawl bach: little devil = strong insult
· Cau dy wyneb a ffwcio dy ewyrth: shut your fucking face, uncle fucker
· Rwyt ti'n esgys fach pathetic am dyn: you're a pathetic little excuse for a man
· Sugno fy nhi'n i cachwr: go and scratch your mother's fanny
· Paid a mallu cachau: stop stalking shit
· Danfonwch y sbwriel i Loegr!: Leave your rubbish in England!
· Shinach: sly bastard
· Meddyg: doctor
· Heddlu: poli