You will never be a real Celt. You have No woolen coat, you have no high starch meal, you have no horrible instrument. You are an Englishman/Spaniard twisted by delusions into a crude mockery of nature’s imperfection.

All the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back people mock you. Your fellow countrymen are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “friends” laugh at your pitiful coping behind closed doors.

Celts are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed Celts to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency.

You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning and tell yourself it’s going to be ok, but deep inside you feel the depression creeping up like a weed, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight.

Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll buy a rope, tie a noose, put it around your neck, and plunge into the cold abyss. Your countrymen will find you, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to live with the unbearable disgust and disappointment. They’ll bury you with a headstone not acknowledging your fake Celtic identity, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know an Englishman/Spaniard is buried there. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a skeleton that is unmistakably English/Spanish.

This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.