Meriwether & Isaac pose for the camera while waiting the swift to fly by!
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The Real Story of the founding of the GBC and not as told on the Other Channel
Let me tell you a tale of when men sat in their great halls by their log fires and whispered stories of an age long ago when there was great turmoil in Land of Morgannwg.
This age, now long past, was an age of the Chivalric Country Codes, when fellow birders, once friends, threw down bins and offered combat, not through the force of arms, but through the medium of the pen, then through of the new science of computers for the right to govern and control the hearts and minds of that troubled county.
Let me start at the beginning. Long, long ago the county of Morgannwg, numbered 41 in the great Doomsday Book of Field Recording, was a happy county with lots of contented birdwatchers residing therein. Although there was only a few good birds to be found, all rejoiced when seen and ticked and a bad word was never said. However this was only a paper thin veneer, there was a sinister move afoot by the men of Jackland, in the western region beyond the river Castell Nedd. This move was to secede from the governing body, who’s home was in the great city of Metropolis in the east. Jacklanders, although seemingly friendly, hated Metropolis and its gang, lead by Morrey the Great.
So it was that Harold Greyhair and Robert Earl of Blackpill led Jackland out of the union and called themselves GOS of the Western Empire beyond the Nedd. And so with great sadness did the split occur. Morrey the Great passed on to those reedbeds in the sky, as did many from Metropolis, broken hearted by events in the west.
This then triggered a new movement in Metropolis. Young, noble birders, now greatly disaffected with the old, gnarled and out of date Ornithological section, voted for disbandment and formed a new association of gallant birdwatchers of the east, and called it the Glamorgan Bird Club. A new club with a new start, Phoenix from the ashes. Its coffers were empty but its heart was strong and its will steadfast in the belief that it could survive and prosper and continue the great work of the Annual Bird Report, started by Morrey the Great and Lady Amy the Good.
Twitchers they were and great birders too. A club for Birders by Birders was their motto. The first report, though numbered XXVII, was produced and great merriment greeted it. Although not grand in appearance, it was in itself a testament to the fortitude and will of the young men of Metropolis and their resolve to get the job done.
Years followed and the reports got better as more joined the club and the coffers filled. The young passed into middle age and with that came contentment and through contentment came complacency and through complacency came the dude usurpers. Suddenly before the founding fathers knew what had happened they were out. Out of their own club. Driven out by faceless lackeys, who had joined the club, got on the committee and were now in charge.
Left only as a rump, they still met in the old tavern down in the borough of Cathays, called Gower. Ironic really the name after events further west. But friends they still were, and pots were still to be tossed. In these troubled dark days came an idea, a beacon of light, what if we split again and founded of our own club here in Metropolis. We have all the established birders, most of the great and the good of Morgannwg birding still reside here in Metropolis. However years passed and still nothing was done.
Meanwhile events were gaining apace. The usurped GBC now created its own website, started by the committee, now known in Metropolis as the politburo, and masterminded by another outsider, known as the Fat Controller. He, along with Chairman Snipe, from a small hamlet just south of Metropolis and Tinman from the Morgannwg Marches pushed for outright control of the airwaves as well as producing their own now much maligned and poorly written bird reports, supplemented by a quarterly rag known as the GBC’s Bugle of Truth.
So Morgannwg now had its very own website, which is strictly controlled by the politburo and the Fat Controller. Nothing bad was to be reported. Nothing bad was to be said about the GBC committee, otherwise it was banned. Not even constructed criticism would be tolerated. Nothing could be said without rebuke from people not fit to hold your tripod.
This now led to the old Metropolis birders using the said town tavern in earnest, not only for the consumption of fine ales but for plotting revenge, a dish which is better served cold. It was time to get even with the usurpers once and for all time! The plotters: Lord Percy Pancake, his loyal esquire Secret Squirrel, Alex of the Tightwads, Slaphead from the village of the Tongii, Seymour Tweets of the Lovers Guild, the Rhiwbina Sheppard, Randal M. Snowdrop and Meriwether the Scribe. With these came their friends from the far flung corners of the shire. Although not all from Metropolis, or would-be plotters for that matter, but they could be counted on as fair players. These were St. Maurice of the Mellons, Sven Barrage and Paul the Good of the Norton Wood Friars, both Middle Earthers. Markus of Cwmbach and Hoganovich Lord of the Abercanaid both of the Kingdom of Tydful the Martyr in the far north. To the north-west there were Sidart the Black and Martyn von Bosch both of the Maestegi and in the Vale, Steve the Llancadle Wader.
The plotters, affectionately known as the ‘Cardiff Bastards‘, after an incepted email from one of the enemy, considered their strategy. A persistent challenge was effected against the website Forum, with topics to arouse tempers and get keyboards tapping. The first to taste the wraith of the Bastards was the Fat Controller, who for all his huff and puff, he was no match for the rapier wit from Metropolis and resigned.
Although this was considered a minor victory, it did not alter the fact that whatever was said, it was still the politburo and their now new webmaster Dan-Dan the nerdy man, who were pulling the strings, or threads for that matter. What was needed now was a entirely new strategy.
Heads were put together and it was decided that if Brother Slaphead could come up with the goods, we, the old establishment, would be online with our own blog. Our site for us. Well lo and behold, he did it and we were on the internet. Our very own site, where you could say what wanted without any so-called pious upstarts calling you to account.
And so it is today, as I tell you this now CBC1 & CBC2 are online and well read by all and here to stay. All can say what they feel and post their comments in good company. The politburo and their spies still try to divide and conquer, but to no avail. It won’t work because we’ve been there and done it and come out smelling of sweet Cardiff roses. Just look at our following, it only goes to show who is better. It is us here in Metropolis. It is we that set the pace. It is we who have the best ideas. It is us who love to share our thoughts with you and it is your thoughts we love to hear.
The moral of this story is quite simple, don’t fuck with the Bastards or we’ll set the End of the World Valley duo of Richy the Dark-hearted & Clive Scissor-hands after you. And you know how heartless they are - Lmok and the Spagmeister are still receiving treatment for ICS: injurious comments syndrome.
And they all lived happily ever after - or thought they did!
* All characters in this story are fictional, any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
ã CBC Writers Guild
13 comments:
Nice cap sleeve t-shirts guys.
Purple rain.....purple rain.
A rare photograph of Isaac wearing his original Leitz 10x40, which were nicked when our hire car was broken into in Eilat 1988.
Needless to say he never had them returned and the Israeli police were less than helpful.
"Judd!"
"What Jake?"
"I think the swift has flown into the hatchback!"
"Don't f*cking bother me with that sh*t, I'm too busy eyeing up that chick down the road and posing with my blow-dried locks swept back in the wind!"
Ps. that's still the only Alpine Swift I've seen in the UK!
Pps. Effing Yids!
I wouldn't stand on a roadside looking like that these days boys.
You'd be foisted off to the nearest gay bar for certain
apparently they both still stand on street corners touting for business,if the truth be known Isaac's bins were never actually stolen,they were taken by a unsatisfied punter,who threatened to look out of Isaacs mouth with them,(from the inside),the question I want answered is,which one is the dominant one? as they both look like they have just auditioned for 'Right said Fred's backing dancers.
I had to receive; I couldn't fit my Special Purpose in Jake's bottom. We did actually form a Tribute Act in the late 80's and were known on the circuit as, "Right Said Jake", after all, nobody ever argued with him!
Seymour - judging by the stretch marks on your jeans I can quite believe it
Seymour those were the days. Avalon playing and all those Holt Chinese takeaways, mixed with numerous bird ticks and breakfasts at Nancy's. Cheap petrol and weekends off.
These days its no takeaways or cooked breakfasts - for fat bastards anyway. No ticks, well only very rarely.
No weekends off, ever!
And the governments put paid to cheap travel and my lovely hair turned grey and fell out.
Getting old is a pisser!!
young man you seem to have forgotten the many nights spent in carparks,bus shelters and public bogs (ooh-eerr) in a sleeping bag,I don't think my back & knees could withstand it now!
Yes indeed Meri' 'n Slap', me old chums. I remember always seeking out the Ladies bogs; far cleaner and nicer smelling (apart from a hint of haddock). Do you remember the night (1985 I think) in the Bus Shelter outside the Dun Cow at Salthouse?? I went to sleep in my 'bag, trousers done up, right way round and when I woke up, they were done up but inside out!! "Bugger me" if I know what happened!?!
I do, you had a drinking session with our old mate Bogey from Newtown, which went on til the wee small hours. Myself & Slap were quickly eliminated, basically because I fancied a smoke before bed and Slap was just shit-faced. Whereas you and Bogey got matcho and swilled down far more than usual. You got up a few hours later and struggled violently with your jeans in an attempt to remove them before urinating behind the Hotel Autostop (Salthouse public bus shelter). After much swearing (and pissing) you calmly got back into your sleeping bag and proceeded to talk in your sleep, the content of which now eludes me, but it probably was the usually mundane sex stuff that eminated from your mouth at such times of great drinking bouts when on the twitch or on the Scillies.
Which reminds me, pity I haven't got a photo of the great sea fog that decended one night on Scilly, when you fancied a shag and made me go out for a hour while you had your wicked way and me being rather drunk went out to the Strand shelter and fell asleep for ? hours, only to wake in the middle of a peasouper, I actually thought I drank bad booze and had gone blind. When I came back, you were actually very glad because you thought I was missing and was nearly going to phone the cops. But hadn't got round to it because you didn't want to wake Mike's missus up (now ex). Thoughtful as always.
Ironic that as I'm sure I kept pooy Lynne awake for half the night due to the continual banging of the headboard!
I think my habitual sleepwalking whilst p*ssed caused a few funny moments as well!
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