It's difficult to write about Dai Thomas without being extraordinarily, offensively patronising. Which says as much about English superiority complexes as it does about anything else. Anyway, if you're sitting comfortably, let's give it a try:

Once upon a time, there was a small boy from Wales called David. He played for Swansea City and scored lots and lots and lots of goals.

One day, a man came to David's house. His name was Graham ("But you can call me Mr Taylor, lad"). He said that he wanted to give David huge heaps of lovely money and gold and chocolate and take him away to the city to play football for one of the biggest clubs in the land. David jumped for joy.

When he arrived in the big city, David had a super time. He scored some more goals, including one very important goal against some horrible people. Everyone said that he was a great player, even the grumpy fanzine editor who thought he was "lumbering" but had a "deceptively subtle touch".

Then it all went bad. Graham decided that he didn't want David in his team any more because he was ugly (or something). David started missing all his friends and his mum and his dad who were at home in Wales. David was very sad. David went to the pub. For six months.

In time, David became so fat that Graham was very angry ("Do I not like fat!") and told him to go back to Wales. So David did lots of running and made himself fit again, shaved all his hair off to look like a coal-miner, said that he'd always loved Cardiff City to stop their fans killing him because he used to play for Swansea and went back home.

They all lived happily ever after.