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 Young, noble birders, now greatly disaffected with the old, gnarled and out of date Ornithological section, voted for disbandment and formed a new association of gallant birdwatchers of the east, and called it the Glamorgan Bird Club.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
5 comments:
Fuck me it's a fat John Travolta.....
Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk,
I'm a woman's man, no time to talk.
Music loud and women warm.
I've been kicked around since I was born.
And now it's all right, it's O.K.
And you may look the other way.
We can try to understand
The New York Times' effect on man.
Whether you're a brother
Or whether you're a mother,
You're stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Feel the city breakin'
And ev'rybody shakin'
And we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Ah, ha, ha, ha,
Stayin' alive.
Stayin' alive.
Ah, ha, ha, ha,
Stayin' alive.
Well now, I get low and I get high
And if I can't get either I really try.
Got the wings of heaven on my shoes
I'm a dancin' man and I just can't lose.
Whether you're a brother
Or whether you're a mother,
You're stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Feel the city breakin'
And ev'rybody shakin'
And we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Ah, ha, ha, ha,
Stayin' alive.
Stayin' alive.
Ah, ha, ha, ha,
Stayin' alive.
Life goin' nowhere.
Somebody help me.
Somebody help me, yeah.
Life goin' nowhere.
Somebody help me, yeah.
Stayin' alive
Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk,
I'm a woman's man, no time to talk.
Music loud and women warm.
I've been kicked around since I was born.
And now it's all right, it's O.K.
And you may look the other way.
We can try to understand
The New York Times' effect on man.
Whether you're a brother
Or whether you're a mother,
You're stayin' alive.......
Its Mikes Sir Bobby Moore impression,holding the Jules rimet CD player aloft for the world to appreciate.
Or if you're a Dean Martin fan.. When the bird hits the sky and it just wants to fly..that's a Mamora's.........
Who dressed him that morning?
I'll have you know young Misty that the satorial elegance clearly demonstrated here is by the finest tailors on Saville Row....Greggs.
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