In various states of perilous sobriety, one has to make quick decisions, regardless of the benefits for other members of the Society-at-large. The occasional hours spent away from the boozer, the one were not even an off-licence owned by the Hungarian mob was nearby, were painful. The daylight combined with a dry mouth were to us what mother was to us children: a source of pain and pleasure, but mostly pain. The decision we’d have to make was what to do with all those empty cordial bottles The Secretary had unloaded in our kitchen. The sweet-and-rank stench was so overpowering, our HQ had become the new favourite hangout for the local bee-colonies. As they were buzzingly fighting over the last sips of truly disgusting liquids, something had to be done. The Treasurer proposed replacing the kitchen door with a glass plate or cling film, and charging tourists to see our bee-hive. This was generally seen as an unwise move, although monies were surely needed to finance plans to visit the pub in the future. Our Secretary countered with a plan to let the bees live there and let them make honey, which we then could sell, but it was unclear as to how we would harvest the bloody sugar without being viciously stung. The Secretary boldly claimed that they would be, like every other creature on God’s Earth, desperately repelled by the stench of his balls and began to disrobe. We all ran like hell. Half an hour later he came back with a dome which was radically re-configured by the stings of many an apoideical assailant. Idiotically, he claimed that the whole thing was a victory, and that at least “forty score now lay dead”. We threw him a car wash ticket and begged him to clean himself of the myriad bodily fluids he had - probably unconsciously - leaked over himself in that last few hours. In the end, The President put all of the bees into a bin bag which he lobbed into he aforementioned off-licence, while the Society made good as the owner was distracted in our ‘2005 Sponsored Shoplift’. It was our best effort yet, and later, after consuming our fill, we happily grassed up The Secretary for committing the outrage. He was arrested filthy and bee stung, wallowing outside a bottle bank, and raving about how he could “start the jets”. We cleaned ourselves up on the day of his court appearance and testified comprehensively.