The Tavistock Societal Accident Logbook
Feb 4th 2013 - Late evening.
The Belgian was under considerable distress having caught his cock in-between the matted hairs blocking the societal shower's plug hole. When questioned, he claimed that he was in the final throes of washing his hands, when the splashes he caused created a discombobulation of the inner-ear, leading him to mistake the plug hole for a potential recipient of 'forward thrusts'. It is of some concern that his immediate response was to decry that he was, in fact, Pierre, the 'other Belgian'. It is not yet known if there are other Belgians. A quick scan of the Wheatsheaf in Bish returned no true-positives (though one particularly bicuspid gentleman set off the spidery sense (weak bladder)). There is certainly no CCTV footage of any other Belgians in the shower with him at the time. In fact there is certainly no CCTV footage. There is however footage of him on the society's disposable camera, resting his fat arse on the societal poof (president). It broke.
Feb 4th 2013.
Societal cricket matches are rarely eventful.
Feb 4th 2013.
Societal cricket matches are rarely eventful, unless someone has their 'middle wicket' raised. Such was the case this afternoon. In The President's defence, he was in defence, and there is little to think about other than the lady that mops his bathroom. She has become conditioned to a certain indolence in her working life: his unwillingness to use the taps, the soap or the towelling means that things are largely undisturbed one day to another. She uses a small tissue to signal to passing motorists and has developed a rather ungallant series of exaggerated gestures. With such a bearing, it is not wonder that she is not allowed out. His aphoristic excuse is emblematically gilded onto his cricket bat: "if you can't wash the whole thing in a single day, then use the time for alternative pursuits."
Feb 5th Bedtime.
The Treasurer's chisel marks have returned. The search for the implement itself has proved fruitless in the past, and thus today's search began with a hunt for the cricket bat which must have undoubtedly been used for the etching. The marks are brown in colour this time and line the gusset of his y-line pants. The more hysterical amongst us fear the stirrings of another attempt to disrobe them, though proper consideration of their indomitable cladding leaves the prospect unlikely for the foreseeable future (geological time is beyond the remit of this report). Either way The Treasurer doesn't even care; he says the smell of the artwork blends nicely with his manly musk, that he calls his 'fortune'.
In unguarded moments, The Porter has been proudly flashing views of a small turquoise funnel which he, with wavering voice, proclaims has been 'in and out of his arse'. It is unspeakable.
In an attempt to unsee the funnel, the society travelled back in time. Their plans were somewhat 'in the air' but ranged from meal-substitution to exactions of capital punishment. The latter course was The President's sole prerogative, a window, he claimed, into those halcyon days of his youth in the 50s. In the end, democracy was crushed and the noose was hung from the nearest washing line (next to a tantalising cake). Sadly The Porter managed to have his cake and shit it, before the washing had even dried. The President wouldn't let his tales of yore rest: 'back then, we did it with rope' he proudly claimed to The Porter... 'that way, the sensation lasts longer'. These words were heeded by all (how could we do otherwise); The porter skipped himself into a coma, and the funnel remains in The President's ? (to be confirmed)
Small lesions were found in The Treasurers armpits, masked heavily by three or four layers of tape, glue and stitching. We are thankful that his weekly inspection by the prostitute is starting to help him to help himself. We are not sure what to do about the lesions. But until his next review meeting (his bi-monthly black-balling) we are just going to monitor the situation. We have locked him in a room of randomly positioned eggs: his quest to rationalise their distribution has engaged him for the last four days. In order to make doubly sure that isn't leprous, we will send him only leper-hookers for a few days - see how well he integrates. Should it prove positive - he can have some of what The Porter should have had (subject to a total of 10 black balls being pulled out of the bag ((we ran out of white-balls years ago, tee-hee (harmless fun))).
The secretary complains of 'tweaking of the left nipple' and 'dislocation of the right'. The props in his latest Barbara Windsor impression were a couple of stray alley cats, and, as he was sure to give everyone 'full feel' (circa six hours worth), their restiveness had implications for his higer-chest. His manly locks are now full of feathers, fishbones, 'dirt'/'mess'. (They always are anyway, but at least it's explained away this time.) He has been staring at a leaf-pile in which he knows two hedgehogs to be currently nesting for a number of hours now, occasionally turning round to animatedly tell any passer by (public park!) that his 'Billy Big knackers' impression will be 'class'. Persuading him that this character does not - has not - never will exist has proved fruitless.
The President reports that he has spent twelve hours wrestling a crocodile (a low crawler) to the ground, suffering numerous bites, scratches and psychologically debilitating humiliations. CCTV footage shows only him slipping on some dog shite - a fact he well knows, as he was sniffing around it for long enough, desperately enquiring 'who's been here?' over and over.
Mad as a March hare, the Celio set off on an Arctic expedition to Canterbury to rediscover The President's 'lost years'. As so many choir boys were willing to testify, he remains there to this day, compiling a doomsday book length annual of these infamies. The most frequent compliant is that he is said to have insisted upon the fertility of his victims, and informed them that they would bear the gift of his tryst. It is a strange way to conceptualise AIDS.