Baby Taffy Does King Arthur.

Taffy, Truth & The Tragedy of a Lost Lineage.

There’s a peculiar moment in conversation when someone invites you to “tell them something about themselves they don’t already know.” It can be a doorway to insight — or a trap disguised as curiosity.

That’s what happened with Taffy — a brash YouTube personality, self-proclaimed proud Welshman, and loudmouth from the Valleys. He extended that invitation to me in what appeared to be a moment of genuine curiosity. And I answered honestly, respectfully, and with goodwill:

“You could be descended from King Arthur II. You may have royal blood in your veins.”

A gift. A thought. A profound possibility rooted in real research. But what did Taffy do.

He laughed.
He mocked.
He dismissed one of Britain’s — Wales’s — greatest ever kings as “a mongo,” and described the possibility of Arthur’s historical reality as “rubbish,” “myth,” and “bullshit.”

Pride with No Roots.

This is where the cognitive dissonance becomes staggering. Taffy parades as a proud Welshman, yet when presented with one of the most powerful legacies of Welsh identity — King Arthur II — he spits on it like a drunken lout mocking his own grandfather’s war medals.

Let’s be clear: Alan Wilson, Baram Blackett, and Ross Broadstock have spent decades researching Arthurian history. Their work connects dots the mainstream won’t touch — because to embrace it would be to rewrite everything. It would be to reclaim Britain from the Saxon lie.

And Taffy? He’s too busy chasing YouTube clicks and ego stroking to even look at the evidence.

When Conversation Turns to Clown Show.

After discarding history with all the grace of a pub toilet flush, Taffy decided to test me again. This time?
“Guess my favourite number.

He gave a clue: it wasn’t 666, but it started with a 6.

I was bewildered. Perplexed. What kind of question is that? What insight was he expecting?
How could I possibly know his favourite number?

But then it dawned on me — it was never about the number. It was about control.

It was about undermining me after I had offered something noble. He couldn’t counter my Arthurian insight — so he reduced the exchange to childish games and arbitrary riddles. It’s a classic power play: when some people feel threatened by depth, they retreat to absurdity. It’s easier to laugh than to learn. Easier to mock than to reflect.

Humour as a Shield, Not a Sword.

This wasn’t a debate. It wasn’t even a discussion. It was a case study in how insecurity cloaks itself in ridicule, and how modern men — afraid of their own legacy — would rather piss on their heritage than risk appearing vulnerable or intrigued.
I offered Taffy a story.

He gave me a punchline.

And what’s most tragic? He didn’t just mock me — he mocked himself. He rejected the possibility that he might be more than just a lad from the Valleys. That he could be the descendant of kings, not just the producer of chaos.

Final Reflection.

History doesn’t need Taffy’s approval. King Arthur II doesn’t need his endorsement. But what Taffy has done is highlight something far more important:

When a man forgets where he comes from, he loses who he could become.
Mocking King Arthur doesn’t erase him. But it might erase the connection that Taffy — and millions like him — have to something greater than themselves. Culture. Courage. Bloodline. Legacy.

And that? That’s the real tragedy. Because you can play games all you want, but you can’t cancel a king.