The Tavistock Society once witnessed a gratuitous dog beating in the alley behind an unnamed Waitrose. As we presented the pros and cons to the manager the next day our eyes wandered out of his window to the produce. We demanded immediate satisfaction. It was forthcoming. Such was the case.
A Letter to Waitrose[]
“A hunting we will go” was the societal cry in 1996, and it is still resounding across the molten lava fjords/fiords/frauds/ffion – what’s his name wife). Initially our fodder being goslings – this was our quarry – they had been ever since they rather selfishly) snaffled up what we considered to have been an abundance of bread which a fairy (inexplicably) had left floating on the surface of the local pond. Sensing they were trained by the Havisock Society (mainly based on estimation of their density), we gave chase (made chase – which ever on is der rigoure) with the full intention of using our sword sticks as “thwackers”. When we finally realised that their altitude was becoming problematic, we vowed never to fight them on their own turf. Since that momentous occasion we have confined our hunts and ambuscades to confined spaces (we feel a stately home works best).
It was with this in mind (and trouser as usual) that we, at our own expense, had shipped a gazebo to that icy isle)).
We had a bloody smashing time but as we were painstakingly reviewing the photographic records (and magneto optical discs) of our expedition, the lady behind the counter at boots…we were shocked to hear her [and we think these are filled out) claims that we were obviously in an estate car in Milton Keynes. Either way we know we are right, but at least one quarter of the society have fairly sound recollections of the moment we opened the gazebo’s glove compartment and found twenty sheets (twenty pound (bar))) note.
Newly enriched with our findings we caught the ferry (A1(M) to Hexham) where we intended to parade our improved socio-economic status to that jerk of a doctor who refused to sign our blank prescription sheets ever since we tip-exed one out, made it payable to cash and redeemed it in the local charcouterie (?) (to you – meat shop).
One thing led to another as is usually the case when governed by the laws of causality, we had not used currency as a medium of exchange since 2002 – in happier times, but the lady at the shelter had a assured us she was spending the charity’s budget on our nightly meal – a single potato (fried). We had high hopes that the £20 would suffice for a round of potatoes (we had missed them since her detention (although our imprisoned colleague will often regale us with tales of two potatoes in the prison canteen.
To cut a long story short we bought loads of stuff (mainly veg), it was great and we filled the gazebo and drove off.
Another letter to Waitrose[]
To Waitrose,
Oh darling, back when I wrote that beautiful letter which said I favoured you above all others, that you were the shiniest of all jewels, the sweetest and most beautiful in creation, back then I thought nothing could go wrong.
But what happened this cold, quasi-autumnal Sunday? What perspired? What transpired? Which one of the former is most relevant for this mode of questioning?
Listen up: they were in clay tubs, and this reminded me of the thicket of herbs which mother kept in the old rock-garden. Those herbs would regularly ensconce me as I ran out into the breezy New England air with stinging thighs and sought out the easiest patch of cover to secrete myself. These were the Lego bricks of my childhood, and the hours I would spend re-arranging them so as to best protect uncle from being able to track me down were some of the happiest of my life.
I thought I could, if only momentarily, re-live these delightful times on that Sunday by arraying the clay around myself like the beautiful points of a constellation (Aires is the official one of the Tavistocks ever since the kindly Gypsy woman cursed us under it) find some kind of satisfaction and, goddam it even, a little redemption given what took place around those cursed urns. The fact that the earthenwares were filled with food was more than a slight bonus: having not eaten since giro day, and having been temporarily expelled by the force majure of the Tavistocks – and consequentially prohibited from accessing the stash of tinned tuna which I had carefully spent our electricity money on – and consequentially this was the reason for my expulsion – and consequentially I was very hungry – and consequently weakened… you can imagine (I hope).
Nevertheless, I considered myself to be the vanguard of a movement which is revolutionary in its brilliance. I concluded the possibility of failure in my culinary enterprise was less than 0 (the exact amount of money I was left my mother and her ‘second husband’ (apparently it is illegal to profit from a crime (it should have been mine (by rights)))) so you can only imagine the nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach as I shovelled down the first forkful only to be confronted by an effronterous goo both unappealing and unpalatable. The meal was rapidly over. All seemed lost.
A little later I took the Tavistocks down to the riverbank and relayed them a fantastic story as to what a ‘submarine’ might be - we do not know for sure, but upon this occasion the muses inspired my to conjecture that it might have been a type of Greek pancake – with such effect that, upon our finally ceasing the tearful flow, I was readmitted to the general corpus, in quite the opposite of your tapas, which was barred from entering my person on purely aesthetic grounds.
Dammit, I had some bulbs to plant, but have been distracted here now.
Well shall I Still?
A TAVISTOCK