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On a recent societal excursion to Brighton, where we hoped to sample some of the local cuisine, the society was evicted from no less than four boarding houses, for wearing our special holiday outfits (known amongst members as our ‘birthday suits’) after curfew. It was after a particularly unpleasant skirmish with one particularly fully clothed landlord that we were left crying in the street, lamenting the perishing cold. Although the societal holiday garb is boasted by The Secretary (who designed our costumes) to be cool in the summer and warm in the winter, this was of little help in fighting those mid-autumnal chills. We attempted to wander from ale-house to ale-house begging the owners of each establishment for asylum, but on each time we were met with the same appallingly small-minded bigotry from men, only slightly less scantily clad than ourselves.

After three days of this torturous treatment from both natives and holiday-makers alike we eventually found a man who was kind enough to take us under his wing, in exchange for photographing us in various poses for advertising purposes. The society, not being gullible fools of any sort, bartered and haggled for hours. Eventually we sent The Secretary into our host's private chamber for some more in-depth discussion, and fortunately this brave fellow emerged with a satisfied smile on his face which was followed-up by a boast that he had managed to elicit sufficient hard payment for our labours. He then produced a pair of Scotch eggs.

Naturally, the division of two Scotch eggs amongst ten men caused great debate. Of course we are all allergic to eggs, so we broke them into small pieces and used them as projectiles with which to embarrass each and every local (whose names we had guessed and then noted) who had refused us entry into their home in the previous days (a fair tally). The whole debarcle left one man in tears and bereft of hope – the Secretary (enough reasons for him to leave the country for a while).