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MOMENTS - A league table


An mendicant knows that life is best served my acting in the moment: the squint eyed rouge's sizing up of the curvature and gape of the pocket; the con-man reading the posture of the bystander for a flicker of susceptibility; the eyes left, eyes right which inevitably follows the observation of keys-left-in-ignition-half-eaten-sandwich-on-the-passenger-seat. The Tavistock Society knows all about the importance of the moment, and you, the lucky punter, you have been chosen to receive the munificence of our infos.


Concern for the future or shame about the past is a concern reserved exclusively for the (successful) bourgeois. The Society has no need for such pleasantries. It would be a little like teaching manners to a Belgian – a work which can only be carried out by rote. A wearisome burden to us, another convention tied around the societal neck, dragging our posture ever lower. Balls to this. Here is a league table of moments: not for your pleasure mind you, but for your benefit.



the most advantageous moment – By the Intern


the moment of realisation – By The Secretary

Due to a lack of ball(s) on the Secretary's part, this moment may never come.

the moment of perfection (OUTRUN) – By Prof. EB Wainwright


Insert coin. Turn the steering wheel to select 'Splash Wave'. This is vital. Without this the exhilaration will fail to reach the desired PEAK. Now wait. Wait until the flag descends, the green light is illuminated, wait until this perfect second; and stamp on the accelerator. Smoothly off the line, flying forward towards the vastness of the horizon. Eyes down to the rev counter. Wait until the split second that it passes into the green section and hit the switch to Hi gear. Now we are blasting forward.


We hit 270km/h before the first corner, a gentle lean to the left. Feather around, the traffic is all on the other side of the road. The next gentle right is also clear. Stay in the middle of the widening road. Blast left and left, always in the middle, avoiding the other racers. Two more corners without difficulty. Now we get to the quick. Squeeze between the truck and the Beetle. Flat out all the way, but hold! Approaching the chicane loosen the throttle by the slightest shade, and blast through the 'S'. Left, Right, Left. Practice o' my apprentice, practice this well. Lean to be bold, aggressive, even though the road raises up and obscures the exit from the complex. Learn how to be brave, determined. Learn the true meaning of speed, refracted through the eternal crystal known as OUTRUN.


Now we blast towards our goal. Take the right hand road at the fork. You may encounter lorries; never mind this minor hassle. We shall spear past them like light from the heart of supernovae, illuminating the endless voids. One final bend, right again. You can almost taste the anticipation of the line. It is time to Extend Play.


Acceptable. You have completed the first stage with over 20 seconds to spare. Now you are becoming an OUTRUNNER.


the most dangerous moment – by the Belgina

Considering all types of moments, for some it remains hard to pinpoint the most dangerous one. This can be surmised from the many requests for clarification we receive on a weekly (three to seven day period, depending on the inclusion of nap time) basis. Most queries somehow relate to relationships of the same type: of hairy men with women, of bald boys with women, and of tall men with women. Before the problem proper can be analysed, please keep in mind the following preliminary considerations:

1. Bald men should know better than to engage in any form of contract, formal or other, with women, or men for that matter (so as to exclude the homosexual loophole),

2. These relationships can be plain, or can have sesame seeds, perhaps even onion flakes,

3. Contracts, however, can be drawn up – if consideration No. 1 seems unfeasably harsh to you – by our Secretary, who has the necessary experience (of FAILURE) in these matters (he will impart this to you through a multitude of shaftings; therefore you must burn said contract as soon as you are able to escape from his office/torture chamber. He will charge such an ugly fee as to make you reconsider your desire/drive),

4. No matter how many times you reread this page, and no matter how much you secretively stare/ensnare (The Intern's day job), you will FAIL.

By now, you should have realised that the most dangerous moment is NOW, since your eyes are reading – thus failing to watch your own back. Which is what you should be doing at all times, even when she says she will look out for you too, as she ‘won’t forget that you were there to comfort her in her moments of grief’ (beware of this crying, as in fact all it really is, is frustrated ambition (or the loss of a pair of new shoes), which resolves itself often in a wetting-of-your-shoulder). If you find this misogynistic, you have FAILED, through naivete or feminism. Further, if you haven’t realised which moments are dangerous, how will you ever know when the MOST dangerous one will occur?

As we feel generous to such poor souls as yourself, let us resolve your quest with the following formula:

1. Draw up a list of your weaknesses, [delete as appropriate: find a high building, climb it, then jump], buy a newspaper, do the crossword,

2. Next, count the number of empty squares of the unfulfilled crossword, multiply them by your age and subtract the number of hairs you lost last night,

3. Finally, multiply by the number of balls you still have (or delude yourself to have).

4. [Addendum as per the Treasurer's advice]: having no balls may undermine the above formula mathematically, however, in the dirty light of day, having no balls is fatal anyway (if you didn't figure that one out, you have again FAILED)

5. This objective score represents the maximum number of days you will be dating/married to the special one in your life.

Explanatory notes to the formula:

1. If you think you can cheat by feigning crosswordly incompetence or, inversely ‘genius’ (in the manner of the Treasurer, who thinks he can beat reality by clever accountancy (in fact always aided and abetted by a machine)), or other ruses (the ‘French bargain’ comes to mind: trying to sell yourself as a Frenchman – in these isles a short-term strategy at best (what sort of man can properly keep this up for long (of course, the husk of a bald man could theoretically be this desperate (however, the formula accounts for delusion by inclusion of the count of one’s ball(s)))), then you have FAILED again,

2. The ‘special one’ may simply be Mother,

3. In the latter case, you could conceivably stick to your list of weaknesses, or better, hand it to her. She won’t help you, one way or another.

If you consider all of this to be hogwash, and you deign yourself mathematically too gifted to trust this formula at all, you most certainly lack the 'romantic' skills, which forced you to read this prophetic epistle in the first place. This naturally disqualifies you from any criticism of said formula.

Now, there is a second set of simple rules, which apply if you are neither bald nor tall, but still have an urge to find out about the most dangerous of moments. When in said relationship, you ought to constantly consider your options:

1. Perhaps the ‘French bargain’ is not what the above, seemingly clear and distinct definition claims,

2. Games which include the use of nuts are an allegory for life (a full nut is simply a nut, anything less fodder for lesser people. Ask yourself this question: do you have to insist on being a half-nut/wit? Consider the level of failure),

3. Who knows www – not the world wide web, but ‘what wenches want’ (certainly not an excuse to act out and buy a roofless, a la mode sporting motor car. That is common),

4. For those of you who have read this far, we feel guilty enough to reveal to you what you may have heard through the grapevine: beware of the moment she gets a job/changes jobs/or moves away from you to join the French Foreign Legion (she is probably a man and seeks harsher training).

5. You will be known by your remaining 'friend' (the little man inside your pulverised brain) to have lost the war once you accept to properly organise your allocated sock and underwear drawer (to put it metaphorically: it is like arranging the deck chairs on the Titanic. Better tell the ship’s orchestra to do that for you. Their playing was horrendous anyway (we listened to several recordings). The icy water of castration will eventually welcome you. Better jump than be pushed. Etc.). There is a decent chance she will break up with your personage.

In conclusion: you can’t really anticipate the Most Dangerous Moment until it hits you in the soft intestine. Therefore, one last piece of advice:

1. Stroke your moustaches,

2. Or do the decent thing, buy a wig, cover yourself up,

3. And stop running away from your problems.