It was the year of 1942, January the 29th when, on Albury Hill, West Mancester, the 6th Platoon of the 51st Cavalry Regiment of the 47th and a quarter British Field Battalion stood before an army of thousands armed with nothing but small and highly flexible manufactured cheese sticks. Their mounts were no more, they had been made short work of by the enemies artillery and ladels and so, with nothing to lose, their dignity long disipated, the aforementioned British Platoon held their cheese sticks high in the sky and let out a blood curdling war scream. 36 desperate men all opened their mouths and with their shrill tea-and-crumpet-flavoured breath fogging the cold morning air, they bellowed 'Tally-Ho!' All the officers in charge of the rumdrum group had been slaughtered along with the horses in the previous gruesome episode on the bloody fields below and the only person still of higher rank than private was Sgt. Perriwinkle Forsythe Sidebottom the III and it was upon his shoulders cast the arduous task of leading these brave men to their probable deaths.
Looking down upon the sea of advancing soldiers, each with a menacing glint of evil intent in their eyes, he preened his moustache keenly, so that it poked towards the heavens like a set of wild thin horns. He raised his cheese stick in his right hand and with his left tweeked an eye brow. With his manufactured cheese snack held aloft his eyes became wild and his breast grew large. His men waited in anticipation, the wind seemed to stop fast as if in the throat of an anxious God. Somewhere in the ranks stood the photographer, Mr. Johnson J. Johnson, a war journalist famed for his extensive study of international quiche portraits, along with other quality egg based pastry goods. In that epic moment he captured one of the greatest portraits of all time, one that would post-humously win him the Pulitzer Prize. There against a foreboding sky of orange and yellow, Sgt Perriwinkle Forsythe Sidebottom the III glared down at his enemy and fate with a pair of eyeballs bereft of sanity and fear; his moustache pointing proudly at the clouds, his eyebrows raised in pride. Only the briefest moment later he announced the charge, gloriously sweeping his cheese stick down like a battle axe, and the fated Platoon roared down the hill towards the oncoming bullets of the enemy.
This clan is about that kind of courage. We stand together and vow never to forget the fear and pain that that brave man and his fearless troops endured that fated day in the British countryside. We band strongly together as Sgt. Perriwinkle's Clan of Cheese Warriors, proudly knowing that we keep alive a tradition that is rich in courage and manufactured cheese goodies.
Long live Sgt. Perriwinkle! Hoorah!
