For what it is worth, here is the short story I once wrote about why he supposedly hated the Welsh. He found it amusing back then and told me it made him laugh a lot:
"You might have all noticed that Mayhem seems to have some inextinguishable fury against people from Wales, but you might wonder why. So, this is why:
Back in 1984, young Mayhem who was only 12 and lived, back then, in Maine (yeah, he keeps quiet about this part, that's why you didn't know) was walking towards his school, in the countryside, wearing the wonderful puffy sheep disguise that would allow him to deliver a major performance in the school celebration pastoral play. He was supposed to interprete Fluffy, the sheperdess favourite lamb, which rejoiced him to the extreme, since he secretely had a thing for young and hot Lucie, the sheperdess in question.
But fate had other dreadfull plans for him than long minutes on the lap of the school best looking girlie, as uphill, hidden behind the hedge was a cart containing four seriously drunk Welsh who had watched him approaching in the distance and mistook him for a real sheep of sizeable proportions (young Mayhem was already quite beefy for his age), just what they needed for their summer festival three days party.
Just as young Mayhem reached the hedge, day dreaming about Lucie's thighs, he heard a voice saying:"cutie cutie cutie, come here my plumpy one." Deeply in his character, poor Mayhem could only respond "Baha baha ?", and that was enough for the Welsh: with an evil grin, the biggest one leapt from the cart on to the young boy. In a few seconds, they tied up the wrists and ankles of our hero and threw him defenseless in the cart, his bahabas of supplication muffled by a stinky handkerchief.
The cart left the kidnapping scene unnoticed, in a haze of dust and "Ych a Fi" exclamations from the Welsh, as the "sheep" had a tendancy to fart in fear.
A few hours of bumping and bouncing along in the cart, and Mayhem finally arrived at the Welsh camp, where everything was ready fo the big party: enormous barrels of ale were being opened one by one with an axe, and in the middle of the clearing, women were adding wood to an already roaring fire. A fire that Mayhem would soon learn to hate.
During the first evening and the first night, the tradition was the welsh sheep dance, according to which, every man in turn would dance by the fire with the sheep on his shoulders, before finally throwing the sheep on the ground and kicking him once, in rejection of the no longer necessarry winter scarf.
As the second day began, Mayhem butt and ribs were seriously soare, but he kept on going bahh bahh, for fear those rude peasants would discover he was a boy and kill him to avoid the whole story revealed to the American villagers. The Welsh were very drunk and aggressive, and Mayhem knew he stood little chance against that primal crowd, so he kept on pretending, and had to observe the second day tradition: jump over the fire an incredible number of times, with each time a huge Welsh guy waiting for him on the other side with a pint in one hand and a leather belt in the other, ready to whip his poor buttocks in order to make him jump back in the other direction. The poor lad was exhausted and thirsty as hell when the sun finally disappeared behind the horizon. All he could think about now was how he would love to drink one of those pints, even though he never had beer before, and how he wished he would be the one with the belt.
He fell asleep like this, all huddled in his now dirty and slightly burnt sheep costume, only to be waken up by an even worse thirst and some terrible heat. He inmediately discovered with a "Bahhhhhhhaaaaba!?" of horror that he was tied to a stake and beeing turned above the fire. As conclusion to their little party, they were finally roasting him!
Mayhem knew that there was no time to lose: he gathered all his energy to force his bladder and peed on the fire, after what he fiercefully gnawd at the string around his wrists and liberated his hand in front of the mesmerised Welsh. He then untied his ankles, picked up burning potatoes from the ashes and threw them to the Welsh who, startled by this enraged sheep who could stand on his rear legs, fled. Mayhem nonetheless picked up the stake and beat up the slowest and the oldest of them with it before they could retreat, yelling for the first time (but not the last as we all know) "how d'you like that, you mother fucker from fucking Wales, hum?". After what, his thirst stroke him, and remembering the endless jumping above the fire at the mercy of that man with a pint, he headed for one of the barrels and drank it half empty before deciding in an enourmous burp that from this day on, he would certainly be the one with the pint rather than the one jumping over the flames.
The rest of the storry is uncertain, but we know for sure though, that Mayhem made it back to Lucie's house, where he generously peed on her bed and beat the shit out of her with the stake, for he was totally drunk, and Lucie's last name was Evans.
So you know everything now. Who wouldn't understand why Mayhem feels this way? I'm asking."
"I never want to go to bed if there are still beers in the fridge, but then I am always hopeful that there are beers left in there when I wake up.". Thirstydrunk.
"We all look for happiness, but without knowing where to find it: like drunkards who look for their house, knowing dimly that they have one." Voltaire
"The prince of darkness is a gentleman." Shakespeare.