or Turkomen/Turkovars

Seemingly having been “poned” by The Treasurer and The Intern – none of the other members of our Society really matter anyway – I will retaliate by denying that I have ever set foot in that part of “Britain” that has anything to do with dragons. A fellow named George killed the last one, if this foreigner is not mistaken (I never am, but I just wanted to address myself rhetorically in the third person for legal reasons (I have not tried to blackmail anyone recently, that is not my style)). Therefore, dragons are only cute, furry animals that live in zoos. And they breath country air, which is something all Belgians are disgusted by, as stated by the great Hercule [1] in one of his outings to the Lake District.

Moreover, I was far beyond the grooming stage. In fact I was stalking from the very onset. These child-friendly activities, though I understand they have recently become illegal (I curse you, health and safety-obsessed bureaucrats), are the lifeblood of any healthy Society. People disagree, especially with the more experimental undertakings (ie, the things mother did to us, which we are now doing to the children). A good stalking is always to be followed by a good fisting (short for fistfighting). A gentleman needs to use these fisticuffs if he wants to survive this valley of tears (which seems to be populated by punks, creeps, common scum; if you don’t know what these classes of subhumans consist of, check out the area around the Monument in Newcastle on any given afternoon).

Tripping over a bag of foulsmelling groceries was not an option, as we were carrying the clothes a particularly unwanted outsider had taken off in a game of strippoker. Understanding he didn’t have any other monies, we took the clothes to the pawnbrokers. Tweed had to be bought and no time was to be lost. My love for the night is only trumped by my hatred for daylight. The latter should be banned from rearing its ugly face, in the manner of the Havisocks. Bless you, O Great Turkoman.