We are told that hipster scum like to ride on cycles of a fixed gearing. Tavistock Society has no such predilections. Tavistock Society favour the riding of an old bicycle, a matter which can be dealt with in several stratgico-tactical variations. Let me explain, o excited reader: take the case of Secretary, wretch of lowest order, tramp, groveller, beast and perpetrator of the most base of acts. This man, who survives on nothing more than the small amounts of human kindness which the uncertain are foolish enough to offer him, this man relied on the donation of a bicycle to come to him. Upon acquiring such an item, totally unsure as to its specifications, use, instructions or even dimensions, he took it to the President for instruction, a favour which our leader managed only in the negative sense by spectacularly dismounting the vehicle in the fallowing manner: a fall. Said bike, being beyond the ken of this brute (oh yes, I laughed long and crisp at that pun) is now in a state of disrepair, broken by time and the baldness of its tyres in a sick simulacrum of its owner.
Take on other hand the ravings of Treasurer, a desperate man for whom ‘the gamble’ has become common coinage. Not wishing to deviate from Societal practice, but unable to find anyone willing to offer him even the slightest kindness he opted, after all attempts at a usury failed, to purchase with clandestine secrecy a bicycle (or as he calls it, an auto-b-cycle) which he has prematurely aged by submitting it to the ravages of the elements which whip through the aggregate pit he calls home. A ruse. Did you enjoy that reader, a little tale of cunning and industry? If so you will enjoy the actions of this next clown, the Bookmaker, a man who twists and turns with the instinctual sliminess of an eel, but has never managed to negotiate his way out of an arboretum, never mind a tight corner. Unable to sit on his hands and wait for time to age his precious cycle (though always willing to sit on his hands to other ends) he took it to a nearby forest where he could follow our most precious of maxims and ‘accelerate the process’. Unfortunately for this doofus (a word which I believe to mean ‘very tip of the cock’) he failed to make the impact he craved, and slunk away like a rat in a bad drainpipe; a rodent in a useless conduit, denied that third dimension which world free him.
Here is a little chuckle offered at the expense of the Intern – this guy thought he was flash, collecting bikes like a Secretary might collect ice-cream (a conversation starter and a secret vice of the most horrible kind, each fuelling the other in a vicious cycle (again, I laugh)). The final Jewel in his crown was the bike of an adolescent girl. I offer three readings of this act for the amusement of the reader. 1) The Intern wishes he was a 14 year old girl, and perversely enjoys this fantastic whim as he rides the cycle. 2) The Intern wishes to attract the attention of said type, making up for the fact that mummy didn’t compliment him on his ability to pull a bunny hop as a youth. 3) The Intern, a man with no control over anything which transpires upon him, numbed by his spectacular failings, takes consolation that the ‘enjoyment’ he gains from riding the bike is stolen from a female, in who’s place he rides the machine. This affords him, in part, revenge for his disappointment in all matters with regards to this aforesaid gender.
All that is tragic, but not a sickening as Belgian, a man who had the worst of all problems, his wishes actually came true. Originally wearing his knackered old cycle as proof of his dubious nationality – wannabe Dutchman – this soon turned into the emerald jewel in his ‘green credentials’, a disguise he was compelled to (cowed into) wearing for a period. Long thinking himself to be a gentleman, this mild mannered but ineffectual brute dreamed of living the life of the squire in the countryside, conjecturing the crisp morning air over the verdant fields he imagined himself to be dancing on. When he actually managed to set himself up in the sub-residence of a farm unit his dream all too quickly turned to shit: nothing but a pile of putrefied snails, a cess pit always creeping up to its brim and a cold, wet cycle into town up a hill he could never mount like a man. Despite his flawed credit and inability to find secure backing, he did what is perhaps the only manly action I have ever seen him take up, and immediately bought a motorcar- the action of an old man that is. After all, who the fuck buys a saloon car?