The Brian Blessed Appreciation Society

They would sit around the oak table, magnificent in their fake beards and paunches – twelve of them, a mug of ale in front of every man. From the chest of each a the man himself grinned or shouted heroically from a picture cut out and mounted on cardboard. Brian Blessed – how apt the name, for he was indeed their god. For some, it was Brian’s role in Flash Gordon which had won their hearts, for others, Brian’s King Richard in the first series of Black Adder. For one man, even, it was his role as the evil priest in a single episode of Blake’s Seven, long ago, which had first sparked the flame.

Each of them held Brian in awe. Each of them wanted so dearly to be him – roaring and quaffing, so timelessly English, yet so true and just and bold – the epitome of an England lost forever, that had perhaps never existed. And so they came together, all in false beards, some, if too slim, with padded paunches, to roar and to quaff, to emulate and adore their master. To pretend they were him.

A Brian called Bob was their unacknowledged leader – a small but determined man who had come fairly late to the cult of Brian, having admired him as Yrcanos in Doctor Who, but who had the fierce enthusiasm of the convert. He had been invited to join by another Brian called Malcolm after the two met during the dregs of a minor real ale festival in Islington. Malcolm, small also, but older and actually bearded, had until then done much the organisational work of the society, but he lacked energy, and until Bob’s arrival the group was in danger of stagnating. Bob flung himself into planning and administration, and the others hungrily consumed the fruits of his efforts. The society hummed with purpose and bearded excitement as the Brians attacked Brian-related activities. Some weekends they would form an archery tournament with much singing and ale to celebrate the winner; other times they would join in with medieval battle reenactments – there were several welcoming societies within driving distance. For these they would dress up in costume like everyone else, of which their false beards formed a part, but would not wear their Brian badges, for fear that the others would not understand, or worse, would mock.

For some time they continued this happy life, singing and shouting their way through the varied and interesting activities that Bob managed to arrange for them. And fun though the days were, after a few years Bob noticed that some of the older members in particular were seeming to show less gusto than previously – a small group of them would sit slightly back from the others, their singing less hearty, their quaffing less fulsome than before. Bob redoubled his efforts, arranging Morris dancing, hilltop striding and a tug-o-war competition with a minature hogshead of porter for the victor, all celebrated with a genuine pig roasting on a spit. And for a while these revels rekindled the flame, but a month or two later Bob noticed that more of the group were muttering rather than shouting at the weekly meetings, sipping rather than quaffing. One Sunday, angry at the muted reception to his suggestion of a grand expedition to the summit of Scafell Pike, Bob could take no more. To gasps, he pulled off his beard and Brian badge and flung them dramatically to the table. “Come on then,” he shouted, his voice an octave higher than his usual Brian voice, “what the bloody hell’s the matter with you all? Don’t you want to be like Brian anymore? Don’t you?”

There was a pause, heavy with tension. Then Malcolm, whose keenness had been among the first to wane, stood up and began to speak. To Bob’s surprise, he spoke not in his normal voice, which Bob knew to be rather Brummie, but in the usual deep rolling tones of their hero.
“It’s just not enough!” Malcolm boomed. “We do all these things, we act like him, dress like him, all because we… well, we… you know!” The others all nodded sadly into their beards. They knew! “You see,” Malcolm roared, his hand gripping his mug of ale until his knuckles whitened, “When we feel this… close to Brian, it’s not enough just copying him – we want to be his friends! We want him to like us!” His anguished bellow echoed round the back room of the pub, and glancing left and right for reassurance, Malcolm was heartened to see the beards of his comrades waggling as they nodded furiously to a Brian.

“I see…” Said Bob quietly, almost to himself. “This won’t be easy, you know? There will have to be sacrifices, it’ll take preparation… planning… Are you all sure?” As one, nine Brians nodded their solemn agreement.

And so began the great befriending of Brian Blessed. The initial preparations were expensive and tiring, but progress was encouragingly swift. The ten Brians all moved to the area of Surrey where the ‘real’ Brian had made his home, and soon found a country pub where they could re-establish their society, their dedication redoubled by the thrill of closeness to the hero. With Brian literally round the corner, surely it would not be long before he became their friend! What happy days would follow, the ten of them spending time with him, striding across the Surrey countryside together!

Of course, these heady dreams were not as simple to achieve as most of the Brians first thought. Brian never seemed to come to any of the small cheeful country pubs which seemed likely to be his haunts, and he was never spotted out marching across the fields, though they spent hours looking. Some of the Brians began to entertain doubts – could it be that Brian was to elude them, when seeming so nearly in their grasp? But Bob was planning carefully. He knew that things would not be as easy as some had naively thought, and he had been carefully preparing a plan of attack. One Sunday he called the Brians together earlier than usual, and, once every man had his ale, Bob told them his plan.

“Fellow Brians. If we are to succeed in our goal, we must abandon our beards, and forever discard our badges.” Nine pairs of eyes widened in shock. With shaking hands, Bob pulled off his magnificent false beard and huge badge. “My friends. Do we want to become friends of Brian?” Vigourous agreement from his still-bearded companions. “Then we must stop trying to be Brian ourselves. We can no longer wear these costumes, we must make Brian like us for who we are…”

It was true, of course. Though there was strenuous dissent and much debate, each knew in his heart that Brian could not be expected to accept the companionship of ten replicas of himself. How painful, though, to give up what they loved so much, to gain their greater dream! It was not a decision made easily, but with Bob’s urging and the thought of the reward in prospect, they did what they had to do. Each regretfully discarded his false beard and put away his badge. They looked awkward at the next meeting,