I am a Welsh man, and my name is Gwyn. Gwyn is a Welsh man’s name. It means white, blond or godlike. I am white and blond. The female versions of Gwyn are Gwyneth and Gwen. Most English people cannot comprehend this.

In 1962 I was 15, gangly, astoundingly shy, massively embarrassed by life and living. I was on holiday in France with my French exchange student friend who was four months older than me, cooler than the other side of my pillow, wildly sophisticated and rich beyond belief. We were sitting on the beach outside his villa, Jean-Loup evenly tanned, me pink and blotchy, when the three most achingly beautiful girls I have ever seen sauntered up. “Salut, Jean-Loup,” they smiled, “is this your friend from England?” (Most Europeans class Wales, Scotland and Ireland as England). I was blushing scarlet, never before having spoken to a girl who wasn’t my sister. “Oui,” answered Jean-Loup nonchalantly, “tell zem your name.”

“Je m’appelle Gwyn,” I stammered.

I have never seen such a reaction. The girls collapsed on the sand in a tangle of long bronzed limbs, screaming — no, weeping with laughter, tumbles of blonde and black hair, flashing white teeth, fists pounding the sand in an effort to catch their breath, bubbling on the verge of hysterics. Jean-Loup had joined in as well. They were all helpless with laughter. I sat there in total confusion, not knowing whether to join in, not knowing what I’d said, not knowing what was funny, but breaking the world’s blushing record.

It was explained to me later. ‘Gwyn’ sounds very like the French word ‘Gouine’. ‘Gouine’ means dyke or lesbian. Nothing could have been funnier to a fifteen-year-old girl. I didn’t know what a dyke or lesbian was.

But from that day forward I preferred to be known as ‘Bob’ in France.

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