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It is too easy to denounce the Havisocks under this title, too low a blow even for the lowest members of our Society (The Historian), simplistic, without much imagination, or courage. But we will do it anyway. It is also too easy in this country for an individual of a mendacious disposition to get a job that leaves him in charge of the 'vulnerable' (c.f. the caseworker (always lower-case for this slimy coward)), but hell, a man needs to make a living and a man needs to have a hobby.

In wards all over the North-East (and other, foreign lands, I.e. Yorkshire) he is feared for his soft hands and hard methods. A common scenario finds him entering a supermarket (he mistakes the bright lights and cool, conditioned air for a hospital). He usually starts by gently grabbing a woman (any size or age will do), then leads her away from the more busy isles to a location where he can 'investigate' her specific condition. The interaction usually ends in acrimony before the 'internal' investigation can begin.

On a level much more devious and completely lacking in the true naivete of the fool we just mentioned, the Havisocks always scream blue murder when they are confronted with a deconstruction of their Father-worship (a common trait in perverts). Another deep-seated cause for anger is the occasional confrontation with aspects of their total ignorance viz-a-viz any type of food they revere or think so highly of (the identity between food and man is another common sign of a condition the Handbook of Psychology refers to as 'bed-wetter').

After lecturing this idiot about the nuances of Grana (to him, parmesan) for over an hour I hoped that he could pass himself off as something less than a monster at the annual Societe Fromage et Peche meeting in the Merchant Adventurers Guildhall. How wrong I was. After mispronouncing Bel Paese and likening Gorgonzola to a Roquefort – no matter how many times we told him it was a cocking cow-milk cheese, it turned to whey in his miserable mind – I was fearful that I had committed a misdeed worthy of sanction. The club is, while not my favourite (the framing club), an invigorating way to pass an hour of a rainy Tuesday. However, I am delighted to say that my brethren in the club merely made the appropriate gesture about his lack of collar, cuff, and other shirt componentry, the shortness of his sleeve and the small matter of a brown staining on the tails. After the dinner was over he confided in me that he thought he had been 'quite the hit' and that he expected to become a full member 'presently'. The secret of his success he put down to the aforementioned brown stains which he claimed were foie gras of the highest distinction, and that said foodstuff had given him and edge. It was at this point that I shewed him the door.