Wrexham grew from a fairly nutritious mixture of blood, iron, leather, coal and lager. In 1994, two Elements splashed into this gloopy cultural soup and combined, forming a lurching compound: equal part noise, terror and accidentally catchy choruses. This unholy compound-cum-homunculus expanded at an alarming rate until forced southwards by the united forces of education and finance. It hid in a Powys cavern for months, howling to itself and occasionally cudgelling passing tourists for their wallets and tweed jackets.
Coaxed by the smell of glitter and eyeliner, the rough and unnamed beast slouched toward Cardiff to be borne aloft on the soaring winds of cool, Welsh pop whistling through the ears of major label talent scouts. Sadly, the creature was shunned and went on a rampage that alarmed a large part of Cardiff and the surrounding areas but ultimately came to nothing.
Following unconfirmed sightings in London and the Midlands , the beast vanished again. A hopeful new century sprang from the cupboard, offering sexy wars, mp3s and new lamps for talent shows.
Reports began to filter through from the villagers of Cardiff that animals were going missing. First, a rare tawny crab vanished from a bucket left on a windowsill, and then, more alarmingly, the fabled Teflon Monkey was yanked from a joke shop in one of Cardiff's most historic arcades.
With an unexpected ferocity, the beast's nocturnal attacks suddenly resumed. It was larger now - filled with hate and confusion – and ploughed into the internet, biting off huge chunks of chewing scenery, before trampling through the airwaves, sloughing award-winning fanzines and shiny discs all over the place. Bellowing and stomping its way through South Wales and larger English cities, the beast's attacks grew in ferocity. Then - just as it seemed that nothing could stop it - the beast disappeared into the damp Welsh air, leaving only a faint squeal of feedback and a few flaps of fluttering glitter.
For ten decreasingly nervous years, the villagers went about their lives.
Slowly, the nameless beast became first a legend, and then a myth.
Recently, a young man playing in a remote section of the internet came across the mythical beast, hidden away and hibernating. Naturally, this made it pretty easy to capture.
It's our solemn duty to announce that the beast is to be taken (under high security – it might be elderly, but it can still take off your head) to Cardiff 's Clwb Ifor Bach on Friday 12th July 2013. Here - surrounded by friends, family and casual acquaintances - it will emit a final, defiant roar.
And then have its head cut off.