Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Awr y Blaidd

Nefyn TV provided Wales with 24-hour sports, and sometimes the best of it - coracle races, slateboarding, the grudge-bearing sprint.

Despite its adherence to the state's offical policy of ruthless egalitarianism, Nefyn TV had spawned a star. Rhowter Hers presented the Sabbath afternoon Sport Ffantâstig programme, filled with top billing Hillman Imp rallies, cliff-face soccer and women's custard slicing.

The lads liked his lively bratiaith splicing of North and South dialects, the ladies keened for his slack shawl. The station managers booked their caravans in Mwnt months in advance on his account alone.

Everyone loved him, except the staff. "I's had enough of them," Hers told his boss Aelwyd Hongian one sweet and windy afternoon. "You can see them on the big screen behind me when I'm ap-dressing the nation. Are they hard at work filing reports on Caersws Giant-Killers? Are they ffyc! They's slobbing in Big Leaves t-shirts, eating half pies, skulling Brains, smoking Embassies and reading the papers. Tell them to shape up or I's off to Al-Jazeera, mun."

So the word went out to the newsroom: "Look tidy, boys. No messing about. He may be a Kinnock, but he's our Kinnock, like Eisenhower used to say."

The crew smartened up and lagered down. They pretended to type on their computers and answer phones while Hers flashed his anthracite crowns at the housewives of Carmarthen. The studio floor was a tent of understanding. Then along came Iago.

Iago Anffawd, fab Sieffre Siomedig, fab Gwil Goll. That's what his staff card said. No one remembers hiring him, he just turned up one afternoon in a wolf mask and mitts.

"Bit of a Bergman boy, are you?" laughed Lol Fach, the literary editor.

"Hrhaïng!" replied Iago, which no one understood but simply took as a Solva accent.

Iago spent a few hours dragging planks around the Management Suite, hammering nails into fire alarms and generally being handy. Then he decided to take a short cut through the newsroom.

The nation held chip to lip in bewilderment then mirth as Rhowter Hers read out the Bethesda League Friendly Fight results while a bloke in a wolf mask and "Bollocks to the Poll Tax" t-shirt stood in the newsroom right behind him, waving hairy mitts at the camera before settling down with a can and The Daily Post.

The newsroom high-fived, the people as one pressed "record" on their dvd players, and Rhowter's career blanched in the flash of two million mobile phone cameras.

He was very upset.

"I wants Scooby-ffycinn-Doo out, and out today!" he yelled at the editor.

"Right, Rowter, I'll give him his cards this evening," soothed the foam-flecked hack.

Iago was tannoyed to come to the editor's office at six, when his shift ended. Aelwyd Hongian stood by his window, watching the sun set over the moors. A shadow blocked the glass door, followed by a soft but heavy knock.


Inspector Pumsaint of the Tangnefeddwyr Murder Squad looked around the office in horror. "Pardon my English, but what the cock happened here?"

The forensics officer pointed to the slick of blood that coated the wrecked room. "That's all that's left of the victim. Journalist he was."

"Still, it's not right," muttered Pumsaint. "OK, motive? Theft - anything missing?"

"It's been badly turned over, but there's nothing missing apart from the solid parts of the late Mr Hongian," said the forensics man, pushing his glasses back up his nose. "Oh, and this." He picked up a sodden card index.

"It's where the station kept all the staff details - national insurance, home addresses, that sort of thing. There's one card missing. It belongs to Rhowter Hers."


Gorilla Bananas said...

I googled Nefyn TV and this very blog post came top of the list, confirming that you are the foremost expert on that ill-omened channel, as I suspected. Are we supposed to guess who the murderer is, or is this the first part of a serial?

No Good Boyo said...

I was thinking of it as a one-off bagatelle, but the idea of (yet another No Good Boyo) serial is intriguing, GB. I'll mull it over port and cockles tonight.

Alistair Coleman said...

Will this great mystery feature senior Nefyn TV editorial staff, known only to colleagues as "Domeh...


Anonymous said...

This reads wonderfully, but I feel out of my depth here. I once visited a lady in Abertillery who endured and explained a whole episode of Pobol y Cwm for me, but I'm still simply not Welsh enough to understand (or even, perhaps, to deserve the gift of language itself). Write some more though!

No Good Boyo said...

Gadjo, if you need any guidance I'll happily produce a subtitled version for the hard of Welshing.

Scaryduck, I admit I'm baffled. What you on about?

M C Ward said...

Whilst I clearly admire your stab at a Welsh Twin Peaks, I trust Anti Danube hasn't been mothballed? If so, I'll have to start sniffing Tippex thinner again.

No Good Boyo said...

Don't worry, mc, Anti-Danube is fermenting deep down in my sweetbreads. I might work out a TV treatment and send it to the BBC. The One They Call Kodoba and Agent Kafka could easily become cult figures, like Ashes To Ashes's Gene Hunt. The scope for Welsh werewolf fiction is extensive, though, as they could easily blend into the crowds in Rachub after committing lycanthropic excesses.

Anonymous said...

Kodoba? Gene Hunt? Rachub?? It's not getting any clearer for me..... But I'm interpretting it freely inside my own head; so far it's working on about 14 levels of symbolism, but mainly it's like a Welsh version of Vic 'n' Bob's Catterick, and none the worse for that.

Mrs Boyo said...

I thought this might happen, and reluctantly don the pointed hat of No Good Boyo's official interpreter for those wise souls who do not devote their entire lives to reading his blog and being Welsh.

(Slavislav) Kodoba: Ruthenian hypernationalist poet, founder of the Socialist Intentionalist Party, and arch-rival of Yizhak Zhatko, author of the sense-eroding saga Anti-Danube:

Gene Hunt: archaic imaginary police officer, much admired by the Cymru Rouge Tangnefeddwyr law-enforcement service:

Rachub: Regular winner of Wales's Most Inbred Hamlet competition. This young man writes about it's many delights with a minimum of vowel-based fuss:

Gadjo Dilo said...

Thanks Mrs. B., that sort of helps, though I am hampered by not having seen regular British television for about 10 years! It is admirable (and very wifely) of you to act as Boyo's translator and amanuensis. And your grammar is so wonderfully precise. I was enthralled by what I read of Anti-Danube, but, without all the bits of the story in place in my head, my understanding of it is a bit like Moby Dick without the fish.

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