In lieu of a better manner of addressing you we call you the above (1). Perhaps you will spot its insulting undertone, but expect no apologies from The Society. For all queries concerning the settling of differences, contact the Department of Dueling (re: The Treasurer).
On another note we think we have an honest complaint but we shall leave it up to your nose to sniff this out (use the carbuncle between your eyes). The official story runs thus: when the Society was visiting the nearby seaside the one towards the Continent there were some unflattering birds. Before we come to that, we don't see the use of all that undrinkable water (the Intern, who deems himself a decent private eye, tried a pintful and claimed it was no Holsten(2)). Now, about those rascals of birds. After five minutes of observation we concluded that they had no other function than to defecate on the frankly messy beach scenery - with the weeds and sand. Whilst we have no illusions about the universe and its purpose (to support Mother in her castrating mission), these feathered beasts could not be mistaken for our friends. Not only were they dropping unwanted quantities of fertiliser (we buy that stuff by the ton (locally sourced), so no thank you silly birds) and eating from the salty brine, we swear they had brought devices with which they could shout abuse in our direction. Our acousticians are working on decyphering their messages. The Treasurer ran after them with his 'precision measuring tool' (as of late he carries around a pipe etched with an imperial foot and two thumbs; he claims everything can be quantified by these hollow means) pointing at their criminal beaks - purely out of phrenological interest, of course - but eventually we had to admit defeat. It was not so much the Treasurer's lack of stealth (he seemed unwilling to address the birds other than by giving them each the name of a dead king and tried to convince them of their lack of table manners). No, Mr Greenwash, it was the ill-advised attempts of another of our members to lure them closer which doomed our endeavour: the Secretary's pleading was futile at best, or perverted in a way only a true teacher can manage - both his wheezing, wailing (there was sand in his knickers by then) and whistling did not endear him to them; we for one blame the state of his hosiery and capital nudity for their sidestepping our humane attempts at measurement. For a while, it was not clear which bird actually was pique-ing/griefing us the most. Was it the Sooty Tern, Common Guillemot or your Average Johnny Seagull? Luckily, we brought Grandfather's 26 volume German Enzyklopedei der Voegel and we eventually unmasked the heron as the main culprit. As we tried to return to the beach, we had to use most of the odd numbered volumes to keep us afloat (the rest was reserved to use as ballast for a makeshift anchor - but that is a trifling matter as float and anchor proved fatally interchangeable). In short, we lost some minor (entirely fictional (since we haven't seen them for a while now (not even as unsollicited late-night visitors to our mind's eye (lest you ask, we do not suffer from hallucinations/glue highs any longer)))) societal members.
This situation can no longer be tolerated. The state of the heron should be lambasted. If you can't put it in a normal pint glass, then it isn't decent. You may counter with the argument that we stand up for nostalgia, but that is just what a dopefiend would say. How is it that the heron is everywhere, even in that salty water of said sea?
Some of our members have held this conviction for for a long time, but these herons are no heroes. In order to restore peace on the beach, we propose a hunt for these little shitters. We understand that the use of poison on a grand scale is de facto preferred by your agency. However, after consulting the Professor's manuals for countering this type of natural insult, The Tavistock Society proposes a clean flushing out of all these unseemly beasts by the tested method of nets and gunboats; if it worked in the Congo, it will work on the Northumbrian beaches.
(1) Environmentalist; or should we call you by your true name, you: RAN OIL INVESTMENT.
(2) He craves its swee-h-eet taste so much that he tried to convince anyone he sees socially to stock it in case he visits them and needs to be offered a drink. His conspiring becomes more transparent by the canful.