Report on The Second Tavistock Society RetreatEdit

[The supposed events of the second retreat are well-documented in the Popular Pages, but the Gossip Columnist has unearthed new and somewhat shocking evidence of the truth behind those creative genii, the men of the Tavistock Society. Extra! Extra! Read all about it...][1]

And thus spoke the Secretary, “You broke my darling spectacle-noirs! Twas dark and yet I wore them! You coward!” and he proceeded at length to quip disdainfully. The Treasurer, impervious to such impertinence, laughed and assured K, with Kafkaesque certainty, that he would replace the over-the-top top-guns. The Secretary, in a fit of apoplectic rage, his mind forever to be distorted and much like a Belgian sense of humour, reached for his Dutch-specials, and was contented like the Bear with his sweets. The Intern professed that the show had begun, and the Gamekeeper gazed on in disbelief at the downfall of man.

What was next? Crème Brule pots would never be enough to calm a pair of savages once they smelt the stink of each other's blood. Fortunately the Porter is an idiot of irreparable status. He grabbed a bottle of car oil the Bear had been saving to lubricate his beard in the cold, forthcoming winter months, and started to drink. But that brute is common, base, brutal and instinctive. His lies forced the game to be multiplied in terms of payers and rules and other formalities, but his habitual problems remained unsatisfied. “OoooHhh, your turn” was the only issue from his filth hole, apart from the odd “ahhhhhh” when he failed to lose.

PS. The Treasurer and The Secretary were in quite a stink. The Pres. will have to sort it out tomorrow.

Meanwhile, whilst The Porter failed, despite trying (in-vain) to come to terms with his own stupidity, The Secretary sought to indulge his maternal instincts. His hands fairy-soft, he conspired with The Intern to expel the keen Propagandist from the kitchen and there was a good degree of hatred involved as the inevitable commenced amidst the suds, as the more brutal games continued next door. Only the Gamekeeper dared man up, like a lonely tree, by the fire, lest the heat of the hearth go to waste. An ecological society are we not? The Bear, doppel-capped, cements his identity as the societal underdog by confirming his inferiority to the taste of the ghastly gruelling liquor thus, “ I lose”. Ne'er a truth more truthfully told, in-truth. Nightfall only truly descended upon The Belgian's exclamation, “I'm gonna f*** you”...

Children, are you sitting comfortably? Good, then I'll begin...

With knuckles of white in Havisock HQ Their President is bull-shitting as he is want to What could I say without seeming rude After quaffing plenty of their wine and food

Ye gods, oh man, oh sadness, oh curse The Havisocks banal torrent of words Oh god their boasts get worse The Havisocks banal torrent of words

Ye gods man! In bursts our President Awoke from his sloth and smelling of gin Wielding a cruel baculum He swings, he smashes, he boldly sings I am the President, cosh cosh cosh I am the President, second only to God

and then...

I spit on their graves their libraries I raid I put them to shame the havisocks are to blame

may god destroy their hopes may god spit in their souls may god wither the rose of havisock blood on the vine

tavistocks we shall fly it high tavistocks we shall fly it high...

The Secretary cannot keep up with the pace. He is bleeding all over the floor. So much for being debonair and suave, like the Gamekeeper's white wine... Wait? I think... NO?!... surely it cannot be?! The sea-badgers! ARGH!

Much to the relief of all involved, the sea badgers laid to rest, everybody hits gin. The Intern hits a grey box. The Secretary, inquisitive as ever, seeks, Like Gaye, to find out what's going on. Oh sister, let's go down, down to the river to pray. Pray ye, pray ye listen to the awful story unfolding. Conversations bang about the room whilst the Case Worker does something. J.. sorry The Belgian threatens the snuff box. The Intern shows the curve of the thumb.

AM will never happen it seems. The propagandist, in direct reproof to the singer of sea-badger ditties, decides to make wild noises through the night in an attempt to ward away predators and vermin. Nor do his slumber-filled equivalents to a vigil go unnoticed by various members of the society. On the contrary, the clod is perceived by all society members with functioning ears. Those with noses also suffer from the stence of raw sewage from the porter. For those wise amongst us (again, few), we realised that clamping shut our eyes with paper clips at least preserved one of the five senses from this fellow's sabotage. In short – I had a rotten night.

Sub-report on the Tavistock Society Olympics, Bransdale 2008

The First round tested the Society's shooting abilities, and the Secretary, having never fired a weapon of mass deconstruction in his life, scored 5 from 5, likewise the President, Porter and the Caseworker. Our dear Treasurer was let down by his wretched physical frailty brought on by his severe case of laze, and failed the task miserably, scoring 0 from 1 squalid attempt. It was as if Odysseus was ravaged to death by Circe or Zeus simply zapping Hera into oblivion – the event may provide immediate pleasure, but the long-term implicatiuons would be devastating for simian-kind and life would indeed be Belgian... I mean, boring. The Intern was a close second from last, and the Bear a nimble third. In keeping with Mother Cliché, the Gamekeeper prevailed. For the record he would like it to be known that he is accepting nominations for Underkeeper.

Round Two was very difficult. More difficult than the act of consummation after a few ales. More perilous than sleeping in a room with the Propagandist and the Porter after a heavy night of gin rummy and then having to answer questions on the validity of Marxist economic thought whilst recounting choice passages of Kafka's Trial in French and hopping then on one leg, then the other. Round Two, was Top Trump Fantasy. The Secretary typically bent the rules in his favour and won, with maximum points. Devilish.

Round Three was the forward flip, and despite inventing the event the Porter scored very poorly. The Belgian was not much better, but can be commended for his foolishness. The Gamekeeper showed flair and performed an exquisite forward roll with barrel-pike and twist, accepting the rapturous appluase with modesty and dignitas.

Round four pertained more to golf than snooker but was still far from either sport. The secretary's distance was perfectly logical, but his accuracy unevenly matched it. Other notable events were the Belgian's reverse projectile, which alienated him from the larger group of members who acieved positive scores. The president, in this round was the most successful – he simultaneously both hooked and sliced his shot, averaging out at an impressive straight ball. We may or may not have murdered a farmer. Unfotunately the whole event was marred by the presence of intruders (men, women and boys) to our societal lodgings. A couple of members saw them off with beer cans, whisky jars and bad manners. We hope they will not return, but our society, who hate surprise above all else and who could not bare the thought that these villains may be planning an ambuscade, locked them in the toilets so that they could neither return nor leave. Sitting on the fence like this is not our societal policy you understand, it just happened to seem the only way of successfully appeasing the Belgian who was becoming noticably unable to supress his more beastly instincts. He leaves gates open.

The Gamekeeper went stalking rabbits for an hour or so, with a distinct lack of success.....

[Beyond this point the manuscript breaks off, but one can be sure from hikers' statements and the clawing marks around the door-frames that indeed there was much more drinking, a waterboarding moment, more group sing-songs and the awardig of prizes, two men in a river, one man in a patch of nettles, and a societal frenzy, excluding of course the Treasurer, who lives with a debilitating backward state of mind, and who it can be assumed slept whilst the majority of men were indulging their vulgar desires. There was also beer pong, the object of which – as the Intern and the Gamekeeper proved quite conclusively – is to lose, shout and lodge a complaint. From a letter written by the deceiving Caseworker to the disagreeable Porter, the validity of which has aroused much scholarly debate, The President can notionally be commended (not too well of course for one would hate for his ego to fill up like his belly did that weekend) for his consumption of wine. He truly led by example, or so they say. In reality, like most investment bankers, he is wholly remarkable but completely unintelligible and one should not trust him with any form of wealth, commodity or personal acknowledgement. Thus ends the report on the second Tavistock retreat...]


[1] The following account was translated from the original, inscribed on a crumpled betting stub, found in the ticket pocket of the Intern's waistcost and inked with the Porter's blood. It has not yet been ascertained whether the reference to “Wet Belgian Whistle” is linked to the bet, or the societal initiation ritual, and whether there is some fractious punctuation at play. Experts are baffled, like the Bear.